Gregory had left the Rathelot barracks in the spring after returning his uniform and service weapon, a beautiful 12th-century sword that had once belonged to a French knight. As he explained to his superiors, the tragic events he had endured had taken too great a toll on him. This difficult decision had been carefully considered many months earlier. However, he had waited for the return of warmer weather before departing and continued to fulfill his duties until then.
After saying goodbye to all his friends and comrades, he gathered his few personal belongings and began walking. To reach the nearest port, he followed the course of the Seine River until he arrived at its mouth, where the city of Le Havre stood.
Before the blackout, it was a major French port, but now it was a dying, almost deserted town. There, he learned that a week after the power outage, the nuclear plant located fifty kilometers to the northeast had exploded, causing residents to flee en masse inland. Despite this unspeakable catastrophe, many inhabitants chose to stay, believing that the distance was sufficient and that moving a few dozen additional kilometers wouldn't make much of a difference.
The marina, located north of the entrance to the vast commercial port, once filled with magnificent ships competing with each other, was now empty. Indeed, many people had attempted to leave the city by sea. The owners of these boats often found out too late that their vessels had disappeared in their absence. Some had failed to leave the port due to the pilot's incompetence, and their boats lay at the bottom of the Joinville cove, with only their masts protruding from the water.
Despite this, Greg managed to find a vessel in the city to cross the Atlantic Ocean. It was a small, elegant sailboat, a two-mast ship named La Merveilleuse. Its sleek and dynamic profile made the ship resemble a sharp knife. It was as white as snow, except for a thin green line on the hull running from bow to stern, about two meters above the waterline.
Since the power outage, Greg had mostly traveled around Europe, gathering information on the situation in neighboring countries to report back to the authorities, particularly to General Giraud. Fortunately, this ship was set to depart soon, as the general had entrusted its captain with the perilous mission of sailing to America with a significant quantity of gold and jewels painstakingly collected to be used as currency. This cargo was all the general had been able to gather after these items were scattered to the winds following the looting in the early days.
The captain, a second-generation Frenchman of British descent named James Orwell, had agreed to the mission in exchange for a handsome reward upon his return. However, he had struggled to complete his crew. He realized that those who had accompanied him to Norway, Russia, Spain, Italy, and even Turkey were not keen on venturing across the vast Atlantic Ocean for many months.
Fortunately, there were a few people, like Greg, who were looking to travel to America. Although Greg had clearly expressed his desire to go to the Caribbean and stay there, the captain did not refuse to have him on board. Captain Orwell thought that he would likely find someone there who wanted to return to Europe.
They had set out on a day when the weather wasn't too bad, heading west. The English Channel was gray and as deserted as the port of Le Havre. All the ships that had broken down there had long since run aground under the influence of the winds and tides.
La Merveilleuse sailed past Normandy, bypassed Brittany, and headed south. Unlike in the days before the blackout, one couldn't simply take the shortest route and ignore the ocean currents. You had to work with them and play with the winds to move faster. The worst thing that could happen at sea, when you didn't have an engine, was to be immobilized for days on end. There were several zones on the globe to avoid for this reason, particularly the Gulf of Guinea.
To reach America, there were two options: either head south to the Moroccan coast before turning west, as the vast majority of sailors did during the age of sail; or head north, passing south of Iceland before heading west.
Captain Orwell had chosen the first option, deeming it safer and faster. He was an experienced man between fifty and sixty years old, with roughly cut white hair and a matching beard. His faded blue eyes were as calm as a mountain lake, and his lips as dry as rocky soil deep in an African desert. He wore a white cotton shirt, the top button of which was open, revealing a thick tuft of white chest hair.
Though he might appear cold and stern, he harbored a warm soul. He paid close attention to what was happening around him, especially to the moods of his men. As he had once explained to Greg just a few days after their departure, there was no room for mistakes on a ship, and if any were made, they had to be corrected quickly for the good of all. They were all literally in the same boat, which meant their fate depended on their mutual understanding and cooperation.
Despite mentally preparing himself for the long voyage, Greg Toussaint had not expected it to be so challenging. Morale began to deteriorate two weeks after the coastline had disappeared, even with binoculars. They were surrounded by nothing but saltwater, with nothing to do but maintain the ship.
The sailors, though few in number, had to share a very limited space, which strained their nerves to the breaking point.
Greg, who was not just a mere passenger, took part in the maneuvers and had become quite skilled over the weeks. He learned how to tie knots, how to furl and unfurl sails, and he even got to steer the ship.
Despite the tension and complications among the crew members, as Captain Orwell had told him, once at sea, they formed a strange family. Origin, religion, and skin color had no importance here.
Together, they had faced trials, shared moments of camaraderie, and laughed out loud.
But now they were finally nearing their destination. Land was in sight! Even from a distance, it looked so beautiful and comforting, like a lover long separated. Like a mirage, it stood there, barely perceptible on the horizon.
Unfortunately, a very violent storm was sweeping through the area. The sky had turned as black as coal, and the sea was more turbulent than ever.
Damn! What is this storm? We're so far away, and yet the sea is raging! We can barely stand!
Despite the presence of this monster so close to their goal, tears of joy streamed down all their faces, marked by deprivation. Three months at sea. It was hard to imagine the amount of water and food needed for a crew to survive such a long journey. Almost the entire hold was filled with provisions. Thanks to lessons from the past, they had stocked up on a large amount of fresh fruit, thus avoiding one of the most terrible afflictions for sailors: scurvy. However, they could not prevent the food from spoiling over time. In such cases, there was no choice but to look away to avoid vomiting up the precious sustenance.
They followed the storm while making sure not to get too close and took advantage of the winds to gain speed. A few hours later, a port city came into view. It was very modest, limited to a few hundred buildings oriented towards tourism. In front of it, a long stretch of white sand spread out like a carpet.
The water was so clear that you could see the seabed and all the life that had developed there. A small group of dolphins appeared, swimming alongside the little sailboat, occasionally jumping out of the water.
I've missed these landscapes so much! I'm coming home, I can feel it!
"Captain, where exactly are we?" Greg asked the old man with the now-thick white beard.
"Who knows? I've tried to keep track of our course throughout the journey, but without any way to calculate distances, longitudes, or latitudes, we could be anywhere in the Caribbean."
"Are we... Are we really in the Caribbean?" Greg insisted, his voice trembling with emotion.
"Probably, yes. Hey, how does it feel to make the same journey as Christopher Columbus?"
"How does it feel? I guess I'm pretty proud. But mostly, I'm just happy to see land and birds again."
Captain Orwell smiled and looked up at the rigging of his ship. A few seagulls were joyfully circling around it, something they hadn't seen in a long time. These birds never left the coast because they needed somewhere to land. As soon as they saw them, the sailors knew they were close to their destination.
"If I'm not too mistaken, we should be near Cuba."
"I see," Greg said thoughtfully, mentally placing his island in relation to Cuba. "I need to get to Guadeloupe. It's to the south."
"Well, if we're close, I can drop you off there, but if we're closer to Florida, you'll have to wait or manage on your own. I have my orders."
"I... understand," Greg sighed helplessly.
The schooner headed straight for the nearest island, which looked beautiful from a distance, but as they approached, signs of destruction became visible. Trees were twisted or broken, houses were down, and boats had sunk or pathetically run aground.
On the beach, people of all ages were working hard to repair the boats that provided many families with fresh fish every day and a small income.
Captain Orwell brought his ship close to a small boat that looked like a pygmy next to the schooner and spoke to a fisherman preparing to cast his net.
"Hello! It looks like you didn't escape the storm, huh? Say, could you tell us where we are?"
The fisherman looked at the sailboat for a moment before responding in French.
"Yeah, it was a big storm. We took some heavy damage, but we were lucky—we didn't get hit head-on. You're in Saint Martin. Where are you guys coming from?"
"From France, my friend."
"France?! You crossed the ocean in that little boat?!"
"Yep!"
The fisherman's eyes widened in surprise, and he looked at these rugged sailors with a newfound respect and admiration.
"You're brave! Where are you headed?"
"To the United States," the captain replied, scratching his beard. "Tell me, and I ask without much hope… do you have electricity on your island?"
"Not for over a year now. Everything went down all at once."
"Damn. That's what I thought. Just in case… oh well."
"Tell me, what's it like in France?" the fisherman asked with a sliver of hope. "Are they going to help us rebuild?"
"Uh… I don't think that's possible, my friend. We don't have electricity either. Seems like it's the same everywhere. We're doing the best we can with what we've got."
While the captain was talking to the fisherman, Greg was studying the map intently.
Saint Martin… this is it, he thought, placing his finger on a tiny island between Puerto Rico and Guadeloupe. It's over two hundred kilometers north of Guadeloupe… It's not that far!
"Captain?" Greg interrupted, moving closer to the old man who had just finished his conversation with the fisherman. "Saint Martin isn't far from my destination. The United States is nearly two thousand kilometers away."
"Hmm, Guadeloupe. It'll take us at least twenty-four hours to get there and the same to return. We took three to get here. We can afford to lose two days. We can go. The General will be happy to know what it's like over there."
"Thank you, Captain!"
Greg let out a deep sigh of relief, having feared he would be refused and forced to find his own way to the island. Without Captain Orwell's help, he wasn't sure he could make it on his own.
Guadeloupe was one of the most important islands in the French overseas territories. Like all the islands in the region, the population was concentrated along the coast, for both historical and geographical reasons. The interior was difficult to develop due to the topography. The mountains were breathtaking and full of life, home to a rich fauna and flora, but they couldn't be turned into agricultural or urban areas. This was especially true in the west, which was much more mountainous. The coasts, on the other hand, were flatter.
When the great European empires fought each other to claim and exploit these territories, they had no choice but to build ports to buy and sell goods. Despite technological advancements and the invention of aviation, little had changed. Islands remained islands.
Guadeloupe, one of France's jewels, was roughly shaped like a butterfly. The western wing was Basse-Terre, while the eastern one was called Grande-Terre. Half of the population lived near the junction of these two wings, spread across a handful of communes, the most well-known (though not the most populous) being Pointe-à-Pitre.
Before the blackout, it had nearly fifteen thousand inhabitants, but after such a catastrophic year, Greg feared he would find a ghost town.
With any luck, the colleagues have managed to maintain order!