The night came down with leisurely gloom. A dim starlight pervaded
rather than shone in the sky; Nature seemed somnolent and gravely
meditative. It brooded as broods a man who is seeking his way through
a labyrinth of ideas to a conclusion still evading him. This sense of
cogitation enveloped land and sea, and was as tangible to feeling as
human presence.
At last the night seemed to wake from reverie. A movement, a thrill, ran
through the spangled vault of dusk and sleep, and seemed to pass over
the world, rousing the sea and the earth. There was no wind, apparently
no breath of air, yet the leaves of the trees moved, the weather-vanes
turned slightly, the animals in the byres roused themselves, and
slumbering folk opening their eyes, turned over in their beds, and
dropped into a troubled doze again.
Presently there came a long moaning sound from the tide, not loud but
rather mysterious and distant--a plaint, a threatening, a warning, a
prelude?
A dull labourer, returning from late toil, felt it, and raised his head
in a perturbed way, as though some one had brought him news of a far-off
disaster. A midwife, hurrying to a lowly birth-chamber, shivered and
gathered her mantle more closely about her. She looked up at the sky,
she looked out over the sea, then she bent her head and said to herself
that this would not be a good night, that ill-luck was in the air. “The
mother or the child will die,” she said to herself. A ‘longshoreman,
reeling home from deep potations, was conscious of it, and, turning
round to the sea, snarled at it and said yah! in swaggering defiance.
A young lad, wandering along the deserted street, heard it, began
to tremble, and sat down on a block of stone beside the doorway of a
baker’s shop. He dropped his head on his arms and his chin on his knees,
shutting out the sound and sobbing quietly.
Yesterday his mother had been buried; to-night his father’s door had
been closed in his face. He scarcely knew whether his being locked out
was an accident or whether it was intended. He thought of the time when
his father had ill-treated his mother and himself. That, however, had
stopped at last, for the woman had threatened the Royal Court, and
the man, having no wish to face its summary convictions, thereafter
conducted himself towards them both with a morose indifference.
The boy was called Ranulph, a name which had passed to him through
several generations of Jersey forebears--Ranulph Delagarde. He was being
taught the trade of ship-building in St. Aubin’s Bay. He was not beyond
fourteen years of age, though he looked more, so tall and straight and
self-possessed was he.
His tears having ceased soon, he began to think of what he was to do
in the future. He would never go back to his father’s house, or be
dependent on him for aught. Many plans came to his mind. He would learn
his trade of ship-building, he would become a master-builder, then a
shipowner, with fishing-vessels like the great company sending fleets to
Gaspe.
At the moment when these ambitious plans had reached the highest point
of imagination, the upper half of the door beside him opened suddenly,
and he heard men’s voices. He was about to rise and disappear, but the
words of the men arrested him, and he cowered down beside the stone. One
of the men was leaning on the half-door, speaking in French.
“I tell you it can’t go wrong. The pilot knows every crack in the coast.
I left Granville at three; Rulle cour left Chaussey at nine. If he lands
safe, and the English troops ain’t roused, he’ll take the town and hold
the island easy enough.”
“But the pilot, is he certain safe?” asked another voice. Ranulph
recognised it as that of the baker Carcaud, who owned the shop. “Olivier
Delagarde isn’t so sure of him.”
Olivier Delagarde! The lad started. That was his father’s name. He
shrank as from a blow--his father was betraying Jersey to the French!
“Of course, the pilot, he’s all right,” the Frenchman answered the
baker. “He was to have been hung here for murder. He got away, and
now he’s having his turn by fetching Rullecour’s wolves to eat up your
green-bellies. By to-morrow at seven Jersey ‘ll belong to King Louis.”
“I’ve done my promise,” rejoined Carcaud the baker; “I’ve been to three
of the guard-houses on St. Clement’s and Grouville. In two the men are
drunk as donkeys; in another they sleep like squids. Rullecour he can
march straight to the town and seize it--if he land safe. But will he
stand by ‘s word to we? You know the saying: ‘Cadet Roussel has
two sons; one’s a thief, t’other’s a rogue.’ There’s two
Rullecours--Rullecour before the catch and Rullecour after!”
“He’ll be honest to us, man, or he’ll be dead inside a week, that’s
all.”
“I’m to be Connetable of St. Heliers, and you’re to be
harbour-master--eh?”
“Naught else: you don’t catch flies with vinegar. Give us your
hand--why, man, it’s doggish cold.”
“Cold hand, healthy heart. How many men will Rullecour bring?”
“Two thousand; mostly conscripts and devil’s beauties from Granville and
St. Malo gaols.”
“Any signals yet?”
“Two--from Chaussey at five o’clock. Rullecour ‘ll try to land at Gorey.
Come, let’s be off. Delagarde’s there now.”
The boy stiffened with horror--his father was a traitor! The thought
pierced his brain like a hot iron. He must prevent this crime, and warn
the Governor. He prepared to steal away. Fortunately the back of the
man’s head was towards him.
Carcaud laughed a low, malicious laugh as he replied to the Frenchman.
“Trust the quiet Delagarde! There’s nothing worse nor still waters.
He’ll do his trick, and he’ll have his share if the rest suck their
thumbs. He doesn’t wait for roasted larks to drop into his mouth--what’s
that!” It was Ranulph stealing away.
In an instant the two men were on him, and a hand was clapped to his
mouth. In another minute he was bound, thrown onto the stone floor of
the bakehouse, his head striking, and he lost consciousness.
When he came to himself, there was absolute silence round him-deathly,
oppressive silence. At first he was dazed, but at length all that had
happened came back to him.
Where was he now? His feet were free; he began to move them about. He
remembered that he had been flung on the stone floor of the bakeroom.
This place sounded hollow underneath--it certainly was not the bakeroom.
He rolled over and over. Presently he touched a wall--it was stone. He
drew himself up to a sitting posture, but his head struck a curved
stone ceiling. Then he swung round and moved his foot along the wall--it
touched iron. He felt farther with his foot-something clicked. Now he
understood; he was in the oven of the bakehouse, with his hands bound.
He began to think of means of escape. The iron door had no inside latch.
There was a small damper covering a barred hole, through which perhaps
he might be able to get a hand, if only it were free. He turned round so
that his fingers might feel the grated opening. The edge of the little
bars was sharp. He placed the strap binding his wrists against these
sharp edges, and drew his arms up and down, a difficult and painful
business. The iron cut his hands and wrists at first, so awkward was the
movement. But, steeling himself, he kept on steadily.
At last the straps fell apart, and his hands were free. With difficulty
he thrust one through the bars. His fingers could just lift the latch.
Now the door creaked on its hinges, and in a moment he was out on the
stone flags of the bakeroom. Hurrying through an unlocked passage
into the shop, he felt his way to the street door, but it was securely
fastened. The windows? He tried them both, one on either side, but while
he could free the stout wooden shutters on the inside, a heavy iron bar
secured them without, and it was impossible to open them.
Feverish with anxiety, he sat down on the low counter, with his
hands between his knees, and tried to think what to do. In the numb
hopelessness of the moment he became very quiet. His mind was confused,
but his senses were alert; he was in a kind of dream, yet he was acutely
conscious of the smell of new-made bread. It pervaded the air of the
place; it somehow crept into his brain and his being, so that, as long
as he might live, the smell of new-made bread would fetch back upon him
the nervous shiver and numbness of this hour of danger.
As he waited, he heard a noise outside, a clac-clac! clac-clac! which
seemed to be echoed back from the wood and stone of the houses in the
street, and then to be lifted up and carried away over the roofs and
out to sea---clac-clac! clac-clac! It was not the tap of a blind man’s
staff--at first he thought it might be; it was not a donkey’s foot on
the cobbles; it was not the broom-sticks of the witches of St. Clement’s
Bay, for the rattle was below in the street, and the broom-stick rattle
is heard only on the roofs as the witches fly across country from
Rocbert to Bonne Nuit Bay.
This clac-clac came from the sabots of some nightfarer. Should he make a
noise and attract the attention of the passer-by? No, that would not
do. It might be some one who would wish to know whys and wherefores. He
must, of course, do his duty to his country, but he must save his
father too. Bad as the man was, he must save him, though, no matter what
happened, he must give the alarm. His reflections tortured him. Why had
he not stopped the nightfarer?
Even as these thoughts passed through the lad’s mind, the clac-clac had
faded away into the murmur of the stream flowing by the Rue d’Egypte
to the sea, and almost beneath his feet. There flashed on him at that
instant what little Guida Landresse had said a few days before as she
lay down beside this very stream, and watched the water wimpling by.
Trailing her fingers through it dreamily, the child had said to him:
“Ro, won’t it never come back?” She always called him “Ro,” because when
beginning to talk she could not say Ranulph.
Ro, won’t it never come back? But while yet he recalled the words,
another sound mingled again with the stream-clac-clac! clac-clac!
Suddenly it came to him who was the wearer of the sabots making this
peculiar clatter in the night. It was Dormy Jamais, the man who never
slept. For two years the clac-clac of Dormy Jamais’s sabots had not been
heard in the streets of St. Heliers--he had been wandering in France,
a daft pilgrim. Ranulph remembered how these sabots used to pass and
repass the doorway of his own home. It was said that while Dormy Jamais
paced the streets there was no need of guard or watchman. Many a time
had Ranulph shared his supper with the poor beganne whose origin no one
knew, whose real name had long since dropped into oblivion.
The rattle of the sabots came nearer, the footsteps were now in front
of the window. Even as Ranulph was about to knock and call the poor
vagrant’s name, the clac-clac stopped, and then there came a sniffing
at the shutters as a dog sniffs at the door of a larder. Following the
sniffing came a guttural noise of emptiness and desire. Now there was
no mistake; it was the half-witted fellow beyond all doubt, and he
could help him--Dormy Jamais should help him: he should go and warn the
Governor and the soldiers at the Hospital, while he himself would speed
to Gorey in search of his father. He would alarm the regiment there at
the same time.
He knocked and shouted. Dormy Jamais, frightened, jumped back into
the street. Ranulph called again, and yet again, and now at last Dormy
recognised the voice.
With a growl of mingled reassurance and hunger, he lifted down the iron
bar from the shutters. In a moment Ranulph was outside with two loaves
of bread, which he put into Dormy Jamais’s arms. The daft one whinnied
with delight.
“What’s o’clock, bread-man?” he asked with a chuckle.
Ranulph gripped his shoulders. “See, Dormy Jamais, I want you to go
to the Governor’s house at La Motte, and tell them that the French are
coming, that they’re landing at Gorey now. Then to the Hospital and tell
the sentry there. Go, Dormy--allez kedainne!”
Dormy Jamais tore at a loaf with his teeth, and crammed a huge crust
into his mouth.
“Come, tell me, will you go, Dormy?” the lad asked impatiently.
Dormy Jamais nodded his head, grunted, and, turning on his heel with
Ranulph, clattered up the street. The lad sprang ahead of him, and ran
swiftly up the Rue d’Egypte, into the Vier Marchi, and on over the Town
Hill along the road to Grouville.