out of the mist about the dockyard, distant spires catching the first
of the sun. Home!
The Light Cruiser came slowly up harbour in tow of her attendant
tugs, like a victor being escorted to his dressing-room by seconds.
On all sides syrens hooted vociferously, ships in harbour manned and
cheered, and all about the old weather-beaten brick houses by the
water's edge was the flutter of flags and handkerchiefs: the
welcoming cries of women came faintly across the stream.
By the afternoon the ship was in dock, and neither in the Wardroom
nor on the mess deck did men stand upon the order of their going.
"Leave!" was in the air: it was echoed in hammer blows on
packing-cases, in the bumping of portmanteaux as they were dragged
from store-rooms: epitomised perhaps by the Engineer Commander, who
danced mid plaudits, solemnly and without grace, on the Wardroom
hearthrug.
Entered the Lieutenant, Royal Naval Reserve, and laid his suit case,
rug, and gloves upon the settee.
"Weel," he observed, "I'm awa'." The revolving figure stopped in the
midst of a gyration; the onlookers stared: smiles somehow evaporated.
"Going, Jock?" said one blankly. "Going!" echoed the rest. It
sounded absurd. The Mess without Jock! The Navy without Jock!
"Aye." The speaker shook hands gravely with the First Lieutenant.
"The war's over.... Ye'll no' want the R.N.R. any longer...." His
smile was a forced one, and a chorus of protests and farewells
drowned his next words. They crowded round him, wringing his hand,
buffeting his shoulders, recalling in allusions and catchwords the
familiar intimacy of all these years of war. By comparison the
emotions of yesterday's farewells in the North seemed superficial.
They would all meet again, somewhere under the White Ensign.... But
Jock was going; their Jock: dour, tough seaman: incomparable
messmate. This was the parting of the ways.
"Back to the Mer-r-chant Service--coals an' bananas.... Maybe we'll
meet again, though." He made for the door, and there turned as if to
survey the mess for the last time. "Eh! But I've had a guid time!"
He appeared to search his vocabulary for adequate emphasis.
"A bluidy guid time," he said, and was gone.
XI
UNTO THE HILLS
(1913)
For two hours the train from Nice had crossed and recrossed the River
Var, as if uncertain which bank it should pursue. The journey had
been punctuated by stoppages at innumerable small stations,
apparently to enable the engine-driver to discuss politics with the
proprietors of adjacent sawmills. The guard took no part in these
discussions, but remained aloof--albeit within earshot--until his
_confrère_ on the engine had scored his point. Then he blew a
discordant blast on his horn, the driver climbed triumphantly back on
to his engine, and we jolted on to the next political tourney-place.
Where the valley widens the line appeared to make up its mind and to
decide definitely for the right bank. The sawmills and patches of
Indian corn gave place to orchards and pretty farms; the mountains on
either flank of the valley towered to more majestic altitudes. For
perhaps the tenth time the brakes screeched, and we came to a
standstill beside a deserted platform.
"Touet de Beuil!" said the guard gruffly, coming round to the
carriage window. He was a man of few words, who appeared content to
rely on the trumpet for any expression of his views or feelings.
"_Oui, oui!_" he confirmed irritably as I climbed out, slightly
incredulous. "_C'est ça_--Touet de Beuil--_V'là_!" He jerked his
thumb over his shoulder at the mountains which frowned above us; the
horn blared forth a shrill note of defiance, and he swung himself on
to the departing train.
I looked up to where he had indicated, and there, sure enough,
perched crazily among pinnacles and buttresses of rock, was what
appeared to be the stronghold of some medieval outlaw. I detected
the brown roofs and quaint gables of a hamlet, apparently accessible
to none but the eagles, yet boasting in this land of equality and
fraternity a railway station of its own.
Footsteps approached me as I stood adjusting the straps of my
knapsack, and one of the inhabitants hurried down the lane on to the
platform. Childish though it may seem, I was frankly disappointed.
The new arrival was a meek-looking little man dressed in black,
wearing a bowler hat. In one hand he carried a gingham umbrella, and
under his arm a buff-coloured hen of singular imperturbability. Now
a brigand may wear a bowler hat; moreover, he may carry a chicken
under his arm, and yet preserve an air of outlawry. But to descend
from a mountain fastness that belonged by rights to the sixteenth
century and brandish an umbrella at a departing train was carrying
the incongruous a shade too far.
True, he swore roundly, as every good brigand should, at having
missed the train. But I could not forgive him his gingham gamp.
A narrow gorge struck off into the mountains, and the path, skirting
the torrent that thundered below, wound its way upwards. Limestone
cliffs with ferns clinging to precarious footholds rose precipitously
on either side, and high up, a thousand feet or more, the tops of
trees showed up stark against the blue sky. To the brawling
accompaniment of the stream I walked for an hour, when the gorge
widened into a rock-strewn valley and I came in sight of an inn. In
a rubbish-littered courtyard the proprietress was ministering to a
stricken pony that lay buried beneath straw in the shelter of an
outhouse: she turned at my approach.
I could lunch there--assuredly. She would prepare an omelette
forthwith, and François could wait. François had broken his back
somehow, and was, as far as I could gather from the lady's patois and
the patient's appearance, in a baddish way.
The sound of our voices brought a travelling bag-man to the door. My
arrival had evidently interrupted his _déjeûner_, and he courteously
postponed its completion to stay in the sun and gossip while mine was
being got ready. He was an Italian, and had come from somewhere
across the frontier--I forget where--on foot. It was a long way, I
remember.
He glanced at my discarded knapsack: "And monsieur is also on the
road?" I explained that it was for pleasure, and his eye lit. "Just
so--_che comprende_. And so a man may walk many a long mile, with
the sun in his eyes and the wind on his cheek and the noise of
running water at his side for company--is it not?" Something of a
poet--or at all events a kindred soul, for all he ate garlic "to" his
_déjeûner_ and his visit to a barber was sadly over-due.
"And monsieur goes to Beuil? It is but fourteen kilometres: I have
myself descended from there this morning. To climb Mounier? A brave
adventure"--he flourished his wooden toothpick--"when one is strong,
and young. Yes, the snow lies _au sommet_ and the nights are cold
_là haut_."
We parted after lunch and I resumed my journey along the slope of the
valley. Half an hour later the road forsook the more cultivated
ground, and, turning sharp to the left, commenced a series of zigzags
up the steep side of the cliff. Here the limestone ceased suddenly,
and the red rock proper of the Gorge du Cians commenced. It was a
dull, deep red, the shade of Egyptian porphyry, and the line of
demarcation between it and the limestone of the valley curiously
distinct. At the final turn of the path I entered the gorge, and
there, where an ancient Roman watch-tower still stood, I turned for a
last look down the valley. The sun was gilding the russet autumn
foliage, and the poplars along the river-bed stood up like slender
golden spires. The fig and cypress still held to their brave, hard
green, but elsewhere the vegetation rioted through every shade of
brown and yellow. The white road wound away like a thread to the
southward, and far off among the trees a curl of smoke showed the inn
where I had lunched. It was the second stage of the journey
accomplished, and already I had experienced the regrets of a parting,
for the Italian bagman with his vile French and muddy gaiters, the
companion of a moment, was one who understood the call of
"A shadowy highway cool and brown,
Alluring up and enticing down."
The Gorge du Cians is a great cleft in the rock, with precipitous
sides. The road is cut out of the rock itself and climbs bravely,
with the river thundering along three or four hundred feet below it,
and the cliffs towering a thousand feet above. It is a versatile
road, too: no two hundred yards are straight, and occasionally it
goes to earth and tunnels beneath an outflung buttress. In places
the gorge is so steep that no vegetation but moss and lichen can
cling to its sides. At others it leans back to make a lap, as
children say, for a wilderness of trees and some copper-coloured
shrub like a Canadian maple. Once it narrowed overhead to a few
feet, a mere crevice in the mountains.
Tiny streams trickled down to join the parent stream below, and
presently I came to a spot where a veritable cascade poured on to the
road from an overhanging ledge. I ran the gauntlet of this crystal
shower, and sat awhile to listen to the voices of the gorge. The
scent of damp earth and wet greenery, the murmur of the stream below,
and a thousand tricklings and plashings, played their part in the
sylvan melody. Somewhere surely along this path I should turn a
corner and encounter Pan, or view him afar off among the tree-boles
where the sunbeams wheeled to mark the passing hours! But I only
met, as the afternoon wore on, an old man driving a donkey laden with
faggots; though once (I admit with a momentary quickening of the
heart) I did see a goat, horned and venerable of aspect, silhouetted
against the pale sky.
The afternoon shadows crept higher up the wooded slopes; the air got
cooler as I progressed, and when I emerged from the gorge a chilly
wind sprang up. The sun dipped out of sight and the broad valley
took on a more sombre tint. Here for the first time I encountered
the pines, and in place of the red rock of the gorge, sad-coloured
limestone appeared between the foliage. Then it was I realised that
the wine-red earth and rock had all the while been reminding me of my
own Devon, and felt suddenly homesick.
An occasional woodcutter's hut appeared in a clearing among the
trees, and once or twice I overtook workers returning to the village;
but it was not until an hour later that I turned a shoulder of the
mountains and saw my destination. It was the quaintest jumble of
brown roofs and gables, clinging for all the world like a colony of
swallows' nests to the end of a sort of promontory that projected
into the valley. No two lines about ii were parallel, and behind,
where the ground rose steeply towards the encircling mountains,
towered Mount Mounier, snow-capped and ghostly in the twilight. The
road wound round to the base of the promontory and entered the
village at the farther end. But by following a rocky path I scaled
the steeper side, and reached the main street through a labyrinth of
steps and alleys as the vesper-bell of the little church stopped
ringing. An inn, a wineshop, the church, and a general dealer's were
the outstanding features of the hamlet. The rest of the buildings
(to the number of perhaps a couple of score) were grouped haphazard
around them. Few lights were showing, and I only saw one person, a
woman, who was singing some plaintive lullaby at her doorstep.
An old man at the inn showed me to my room, and while he prepared
dinner I strolled out towards a knoll of ground behind the village
where a crucifix stood. The woman who had been singing had gone
indoors, leaving the night curiously silent. The wind had dropped: a
full moon struggled above the fringe of firs, and the shadow of the
crucifix took a more definite outline across the tint, where the
hoar-frost was already glimmering. In the utter stillness I heard
one sound, the tinkle of a sheep bell far off across the valley, and
holding my breath to listen better, was aware of the ticking of the
watch upon my wrist.
Here it was the village priest joined me. He had concluded vespers,
and was taking his evening stroll.
"And monsieur has come all this way to climb Mounier? If the
question is permitted, whom has he selected as a guide?"
I explained that I proposed going alone, and he shrugged his
shoulders, nodding his head a little. Presently he lit the cigarette
I had proffered, and in the flare of the match considered me with
grave brown eyes.
"You are young, my son, and when one is young one must needs climb
alone, _n'est ce pas_? One seeks the adventure--the brave
adventure...." He sighed. "Then the heart of monsieur must be sound
and his sinews strong. But once there, I am told the view is superb,
and there is a hunter living near the top who will give you a meal at
a moderate charge. The path is not difficult--when one is young and
the heart sound...."
* * * * *
"_Cinq heures du matin, monsieur!_" The old man, who combined the
duties of cook, waiter, chambermaid, and _maître-d'hôtel_, hammered
at my door, and I awoke. A thin coating of ice had spread over the
water in my jug, and through the open window the stars still shone
with frosty brilliance. By the time I had finished a bowl of
chocolate and stood outside in football "shorts," nailed boots, and
sweater, the first hint of dawn was creeping over the edge of the
hills.
Early as it was, a sleepy teamster was yoking up his horses outside
and stamping on the road to warm his feet. I could see the summit of
Mount Mounier, 9,000 feet above the level of the sea I had left but
the day before. But there remained another 5,000 feet to climb, and
9,000 to descend ere I earned my bed that night. So with a "Good
morning!" to the carter (who regarded it out of place and
superfluous) I set forth.
The going was easy enough, and I simply steered for the snow-cap.
For the first hour or so I crossed cultivated ground, which gave
place to turf, cropped like an English lawn by sheep and goats, and
finally to rough shale and boulders. The sun rose before I was high
enough to see more than the sudden flush on a few isolated
snow-capped peaks, but as I climbed steadily the whole panorama
unfolded, and the rounded foothills, with their fir-clad slopes and
glens, the village of Beuil, the valley up which I had come the day
before, all dropped back into insignificance. By eight o'clock I had
reached the snow, and could detect far above me a tiny speck where
the huntsman's dwelling was. An hour later, and I heard the
unmistakable bark of a dog.
A few wearisome zigzag paths, a struggle up some steps cut in the
frozen snow, and I was greeted by a gaunt deer-hound, who sniffed
round me and slobbered at my hands. A man came out of a two-roomed
shanty of pine-logs and turf. He was cleaning a muzzle-loading gun,
and put it down to meet me with extended hand.
"_Tu as bien grimpé, m'n ami!_" As we shook hands he placed his
disengaged one over my heart with the air of a Harley Street
specialist and nodded, smiling. "_Je t'ai vu, depuis sept heures....
Oui, tu as bien grimpé. C'est un cœur fort._" He was a wiry
little man of about fifty, with a wrinkled face, burnt madder-brown
by exposure to the sun and wind, a pair of hawk-like eyes, and an
aquiline nose. In fact, altogether he looked very like a hawk.
"_Mais il faut monter juste au sommet, et après cela le déjeûner,
n'est ce pas?_" I had not in fact reached the top. A saddle of rock
stretched away up another 300 feet to the actual peak, and after a
drink of ice-cold water I commenced the final ascent.
A cairn of stones marks the summit of Mount Mounier--a feature not
uncommon to the tops of mountains. I sat there, as it were, on a
pinnacle, in a stupendous amphitheatre of mountains. The horizon was
mountains, the foreground mountains, range upon range, peak after
snow-clad peak, stabbing the cloudless sky. The valleys were full of
shadows, violet in the depths, claret-coloured--the very tint of lees
of wine--as they neared the sunlight. And as the sun rose higher a
distant peak would flush rose-pink and pale again. A little wind
came from over the edge of the world, the scented messenger of
far-distant pine-trees, and passed whispering to another peak ten
miles away.
I sat for quite a while musing, as might the gods upon Olympus, over
the littleness of man and his affairs; and in truth, with my chin on
a level with this majestic array of Nature's grandeur, some aloofness
of spirit was pardonable. In the middle of my Jove-like meditations,
however, I saw the figure of my host, 300 feet below, gesticulating.
"But, the omelette..." he protested, when I descended. As I ate and
drank he bustled about the hut, voluble in a queer clipped patois; a
gossip, removed by choice or destiny 5,000 feet above his fellows, to
live in company with his dog in this hut. I looked round it for some
clue to his pursuits: a couple of ice-axes and some coils of rope
behind the door; a pair of skis in a corner; a shelf for crockery,
with a powder-flask and a rosary hanging from a nail. A bed, a table
and chair, a charcoal stove, and a few cooking implements: that was
all.
After I had finished eating he led me outside, and, pointing with a
gnarled forefinger, named one by one the peaks in view. He spoke of
them familiarly--as one who refers to constant and intimate
companions, but once or twice I had to shake my head in despair.
There might have been a wedge-shaped opal-tinted shadow on the
far-off haze, but I could not confess to more. The little hawk-eyed
man chuckled indulgently.
"_Peut-être bien, peut-être bien. Mais j'ai l'habitude, moi._"
Generously put, but I felt that I had failed in this supreme test,
and it was significant that he no longer _tutoyait_ as at his first
rapturous greeting.
An hour and a half later, as I was nearing the expanse of turf on my
downward journey, I encountered an ancient of days leading a
charcoal-laden donkey: to be more exact, the donkey appeared to be
leading him. The three of us halted to exchange amenities, and I
proffered the old man a cigar which remained in the bottom of my
wallet. The ancient took it readily enough, then looked searchingly
round as if we were a pair of conspirators in a drama. I was about
to inquire the reason for these precautions when he laid a forefinger
to his nose, and half-closing one rheumy eye, whispered huskily:
"_Vous êtes contrebandier--oui?_"
Twenty-four hours earlier I should have repudiated the suggestion.
But after my communing with mountains, and the great solitude of the
snows, one man's occupation seemed as good as another's. After all,
it is not easy to give pleasure to one's fellows, and if it added
flavour to the tobacco to suggest it had been smuggled from over the
frontier, then a smuggler I would be.
I nodded darkly, and we shook hands. With very little encouragement
I think he would have embraced me. "An adventurous life!" wheezed
the hoary sinner as we parted; "ah, but one of brave adventure!"
It was curious how the phrase recurred. First the bagman, then the
village priest at Beuil, and now this withered charbonnier. I
reached the village (the clock was striking noon) inclined to wonder
whether, after all, I was the dull dog I had hitherto decided myself
to be. But be it here recorded that this transient doubt I have
since ascribed to the mountain air.
Already the hours were forging afresh the links that bound me to the
sea, and soon after six I climbed wearily into the train for Nice.
The compartment was crowded: nevertheless, at a little station lower
down the Var valley, the door opened to admit four new-comers.
Votaries of "_La Chasse_" returning from a day's shooting. They
combined a varied taste in sporting attire with a fine disregard for
the precautions usually observed by bearers of lethal weapons. One
in particular, who had omitted to uncock his gun, held it so that the
muzzle wavered between the pit of my stomach and his companion's ear.
It may not have been loaded, but I was too tired to investigate or
expostulate. Shot by shot, mile by mile, they lived through their
day again, while the carriage applauded, commiserated, and hung
breathless over the tale of prowess. The bag contained one
greenfinch. Yet it needed but a glance at the principal narrator's
flashing eye and vivid gestures to realise that none but the most
exacting will judge the day by its material result.
I had not even a greenfinch to show, yet I doubt not that the five of
us went to bed that night equally aglow with a sense of "the brave
adventure." And when all is said and done, life would smack of the
heroic often enough were but our audience a little more appreciative
and the stage less cramped.
Printed By
Cassell & Company, Limited, La Belle Sauvage.
London, E.C.4
F.120.819