In the Vier Marchi the French flag was flying, French troops occupied
it, French sentries guarded the five streets entering into it.
Rullecour, the French adventurer, held the Lieutenant-Governor of the
isle captive in the Cohue Royale; and by threats of fire and pillage
thought to force capitulation. For his final argument he took the
Governor to the doorway, and showed him two hundred soldiers with
lighted torches ready to fire the town.
When the French soldiers first entered the Vier Marchi there was Dormy
Jamais on the roof of the Cohue Royale, calmly munching his bread. When
he saw Rullecour and the Governor appear, he chuckled to himself, and
said, in Jersey patois: “I vaut mux alouonyi l’bras que l’co,” which
is to say: It is better to stretch the arm than the neck. The Governor
would have done more wisely, he thought, to believe the poor beganne,
and to have risen earlier. Dormy Jamais had a poor opinion of a governor
who slept. He himself was not a governor, yet was he not always awake?
He had gone before dawn to the Governor’s house, had knocked, had given
Ranulph Delagarde’s message, had been called a dirty buzard, and been
sent away by the crusty, incredulous servant. Then he had gone to the
Hospital Barracks, was there iniquitously called a lousy toad, and had
been driven off with his quartern loaf, muttering through the dough the
island proverb “While the mariner swigs the tide rises.”
Had the Governor remained as cool as the poor vagrant, he would not have
shrunk at the sight of the incendiaries, yielded to threats, and signed
the capitulation of the island. But that capitulation being signed, and
notice of it sent to the British troops, with orders to surrender and
bring their arms to the Cohue Royale, it was not cordially received by
the officers in command.
“Je ne comprends pas le francais,” said Captain Mulcaster, at Elizabeth
Castle, as he put the letter into his pocket unread.
“The English Governor will be hanged, and the French will burn the
town,” responded the envoy. “Let them begin to hang and burn and be
damned, for I’ll not surrender the castle or the British flag so long as
I’ve a man to defend it, to please anybody!” answered Mulcaster.
“We shall return in numbers,” said the Frenchman, threateningly.
“I shall be delighted: we shall have the more to kill,” Mulcaster
replied.
Then the captive Lieutenant-Governor was sent to Major Peirson at the
head of his troops on the Mont es Pendus, with counsel to surrender.
“Sir,” said he, “this has been a very sudden surprise, for I was made
prisoner before I was out of my bed this morning.”
“Sir,” replied Peirson, the young hero of twenty-four, who achieved
death and glory between a sunrise and a noontide, “give me leave to tell
you that the 78th Regiment has not yet been the least surprised.”
From Elizabeth Castle came defiance and cannonade, driving back
Rullecour and his filibusters to the Cohue Royale: from Mont Orgueil,
from the Hospital, from St. Peter’s came the English regiments; from the
other parishes swarmed the militia, all eager to recover their beloved
Vier Marchi. Two companies of light infantry, leaving the Mont es
Pendus, stole round the town and placed themselves behind the invaders
on the Town Hill; the rest marched direct upon the enemy. Part went by
the Grande Rue, and part by the Rue d’Driere, converging to the point of
attack; and as the light infantry came down from the hill by the Rue des
Tres Pigeons, Peirson entered the Vier Marchi by the Route es Couochons.
On one side of the square, where the Cohue Royale made a wall to fight
against, were the French. Radiating from this were five streets and
passages like the spokes of a wheel, and from these now poured the
defenders of the isle.
A volley came from the Cohue Royale, then another, and another. The
place was small: friend and foe were crowded upon each other. The
fighting became at once a hand-to-hand encounter. Cannon were useless,
gun-carriages overturned. Here a drummer fell wounded, but continued
beating his drum to the last; there a Glasgow soldier struggled with
a French officer for the flag of the invaders; yonder a handful of
Malouins doggedly held the foot of La Pyramide, until every one was cut
down by overpowering numbers of British and Jersiais. The British
leader was conspicuous upon his horse. Shot after shot was fired at
him. Suddenly he gave a cry, reeled in his saddle, and sank, mortally
wounded, into the arms of a brother officer.
For a moment his men fell back.
In the midst of the deadly turmoil a youth ran forward from a group
of combatants, caught the bridle of the horse from which Peirson
had fallen, mounted, and, brandishing a short sword, called upon his
dismayed and wavering followers to advance; which they instantly did
with fury and courage. It was Midshipman Philip d’Avranche. Twenty
muskets were discharged at him. One bullet cut the coat on his shoulder,
another grazed the back of his hand, a third scarred the pommel of the
saddle, and still another wounded his horse. Again and again the English
called upon him to dismount, for he was made a target, but he refused,
until at last the horse was shot under him. Then once more he joined in
the hand-to-hand encounter.
Windows near the ground, such as were not shattered, were broken by
bullets. Cannon-balls embedded themselves in the masonry and the heavy
doorways. The upper windows were safe, however: the shots did not range
so high. At one of these, over a watchmaker’s shop, a little girl was to
be seen, looking down with eager interest. Presently an old man came in
view and led her away. A few minutes of fierce struggle passed, and then
at another window on the floor below the child appeared again. She saw a
youth with a sword hurrying towards the Cohue Royale from a tangled mass
of combatants. As he ran, a British soldier fell in front of him. The
youth dropped the sword and grasped the dead man’s musket.
The child clapped her hands on the window.
“It’s Ro--it’s Ro!” she cried, and disappeared again.
“Ro,” with white face, hatless, coatless, pushed on through the melee.
Rullecour, the now disheartened French general, stood on the steps of
the Cohue Royale. With a vulgar cruelty and cowardice he was holding the
Governor by the arm, hoping thereby to protect his own person from the
British fire.
Here was what the lad had been trying for--the sight of this man
Rullecour. There was one small clear space between the English and the
French, where stood a gun-carriage. He ran to it, leaned the musket on
the gun, and, regardless of the shots fired at him, took aim steadily.
A French bullet struck the wooden wheel of the carriage, and a splinter
gashed his cheek. He did not move, but took sight again, and fired.
Rullecour fell, shot through the jaw. A cry of fury and dismay went up
from the French at the loss of their leader, a shout of triumph from the
British.
The Frenchmen had had enough. They broke and ran. Some rushed for
doorways and threw themselves within, many scurried into the Rue des
Tres Pigeons, others madly fought their way into Morier Lane.
At this moment the door of the watchmaker’s shop opened and the little
girl who had been seen at the window ran into the square, calling out:
“Ro! Ro!” It was Guida Landresse.
Among the French flying for refuge was the garish Turk, Rullecour’s
ally. Suddenly the now frightened, crying child got into his path and
tripped him up. Wild with rage he made a stroke at her, but at that
instant his scimitar was struck aside by a youth covered with the smoke
and grime of battle. He caught up the child to his arms, and hurried
with her through the melee to the watchmaker’s doorway. There stood a
terror-stricken woman--Madame Landresse, who had just made her way into
the square. Placing the child, in her arms, Philip d’Avranche staggered
inside the house, faint and bleeding from a wound in the shoulder. The
battle of Jersey was over.
“Ah bah!” said Dormy Jamais from the roof of the Cohue Royale; “now
I’ll toll the bell for that achocre of a Frenchman. Then I’ll finish my
supper.”
Poising a half-loaf of bread on the ledge of the roof, he began to
slowly toll the cracked bell at his hand for Rullecour the filibuster.
The bell clanged out: Chicane-chicane! Chicane-chicane!
Another bell answered from the church by the square, a deep, mournful
note. It was tolling for Peirson and his dead comrades.
Against the statue in the Vier Marchi leaned Ranulph Delagarde. An
officer came up and held out a hand to him. “Your shot ended the
business,” said he. “You’re a brave fellow. What is your name?”
“Ranulph Delagarde, sir.”
“Delagarde--eh? Then well done, Delagardes! They say your father was the
first man killed. We won’t forget that, my lad.”
Sinking down upon the base of the statue, Ranulph did not stir or reply,
and the officer, thinking he was grieving for his father, left him
alone.
ELEVEN YEARS AFTER