The corvette, instead of sailing south, in the direction of St.
Catherine, headed to the north, then, veering towards the west, had
boldly entered that arm of the sea between Sark and Jersey called the
Passage of the Deroute. There was then no lighthouse at any point on
either coast. It had been a clear sunset; the night was darker than
summer nights usually are; it was moonlight, but large clouds, rather
of the equinox than of the solstice overspread the sky, and, judging by
appearances, the moon would not be visible until she reached the
horizon at the moment of setting. A few clouds hung low near the
surface of the sea and covered it with vapor.
All this darkness was favorable. Gacquoil, the pilot, intended to
leave Jersey on the left, Guernsey on the right, and by boldly sailing
between Hanois and Dover, to reach some bay on the coast near St. Malo,
a longer but safer route than the one through Minqulers; for the French
coaster had standing orders to keep an unusually sharp lookout between
St. Hélier and Granville.
If the wind were favorable, and nothing happened, by dint of setting
all sail Gacquoil hoped to reach the coast of France at daybreak.
All went well. The corvette had just passed Gros Nez. Towards nine
o'clock the weather looked sullen, as the sailors express it, both wind
and sea rising; but the wind was favorable, and the sea was rough, yet
not heavy, the waves now and then dashing over the bow of the corvette.
"The peasant" whom Lord Balcarras had called general, and whom the
Prince de La Tour d'Auvergne had addressed as cousin, was a good
sailor, and paced the deck of the corvette with calm dignity. He did
not seem to notice that she rocked considerably. From time to time he
took out of his waistcoat pocket a cake of chocolate, and breaking off
a piece, munched it. Though his hair was gray, his teeth were sound.
He spoke to no one, except that from time to time he made a few concise
remarks in an undertone to the captain, who listened to him
deferentially, apparently regarding his passenger as the commander,
rather than himself. Unobserved in the fog, and skilfully piloted, the
_Claymore_ coasted along the steep shore to the north of Jersey,
hugging the land to avoid the formidable reef of Pierres-de-Leeq, which
lies in the middle of the strait between Jersey and Sark. Gacquoil, at
the helm, sighting in turn Grève de Leeq, Gros Nez, and Plérmont,
making the corvette glide in among those chains of reefs, felt his way
along to a certain extent but with the self-confidence of one familiar
with the ways of the sea.
The corvette had no light forward, fearing to betray its passage
through these guarded waters. They congratulated themselves on the
fog. The Grande Etape was reached; the mist was so dense that the
lofty outlines of the Pinnacle were scarcely visible. They heard it
strike ten from the belfry of Saint-Ouen,--a sign that the wind was
still aft. All was going well; the sea grew rougher, because they were
drawing near La Corbière.
A little after ten, the Count Boisberthelot and the Chevalier de la
Vieuville escorted the man in the peasant garb to the door of his
cabin, which was the captain's own room. As he was about to enter, he
remarked, lowering his voice:--
"You understand the importance of keeping the secret, gentlemen.
Silence up to the moment of explosion. You are the only ones here who
know my name."
"We will carry it to the grave," replied Boisberthelot.
"And for my part, I would not reveal it were I face to face with
death," remarked the old man.
And he entered his stateroom.
The commander and the first officer returned on deck, and began to pace
up and down side by side, talking as they walked. The theme was
evidently their passenger; and this was the substance of the
conversation which the wind wafted through the darkness. Boisberthelot
grumbled half audibly to La Vieuville,--
"It remains to be seen whether or no he is a leader."