France might have to fight for her life.
Meanwhile Norman and Breton fishermen went scudding across the North
Atlantic every year, like so many petrels. Honfleur, Saint Malo, La
Rochelle and Dieppe owed their modest prosperity to the cod. Baccalao,
codfish or stockfish, all its names referred to the beating of the fish
while drying, with a stick, to make it more tender; it was cheaper and
more plentiful than any other fish for the Lenten tables and fast-days
of Europe. The daring French captains found the fishing trade a hard
life but a clean one.
From the fishermen Aubert and Verrazzano had learned something of the
nature of the country. Bears would come down to steal fish from under
the noses of the men. Walrus and seal and myriads of screaming sea-gulls
greeted them every season. The natives were barbarous and unfriendly.
North of Newfoundland were two small islands known as the Isles of
Demons, where nobody ever went. Veteran pilots told of hearing the
unseen devils howling and shrieking in the air. "Saint Michael!
tintamarre terrible!" they said, crossing themselves. The young
Florentine listened and kept his thoughts to himself. He had never seen
any devils, but he had seen men go mad in the hot fever-mist of African
swamps, thinking they saw them.
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