At eight o’clock the next morning, Guida and her fellow-voyagers, bound
for the Ecrehos Rocks, had caught the first ebb of the tide, and with a
fair wind from the sou’-west had skirted the coast, ridden lightly over
the Banc des Violets, and shaped their course nor’-east. Guida kept the
helm all the way, as she had been promised by Ranulph. It was still
more than half tide when they approached the rocks, and with a fair wind
there should be ease in landing.
No more desolate spot might be imagined. To the left, as you faced
towards Jersey, was a long sand-bank. Between the rocks and the
sand-bank shot up a tall, lonely shaft of granite with an evil history.
It had been chosen as the last refuge of safety for the women and
children of a shipwrecked vessel, in the belief that high tide would
not reach them. But the wave rose up maliciously, foot by foot, till
it drowned their cries for ever in the storm. The sand-bank was called
“Ecriviere,” and the rock was afterwards known as the “Pierre des
Femmes.”
Other rocks less prominent, but no less treacherous, flanked it--the
Noir Sabloniere and the Grande Galere. To the right of the main island
were a group of others, all reef and shingle, intersected by treacherous
channels; in calm lapped by water with the colours of a prism of
crystal, in storm by a leaden surf and flying foam. These were known as
the Colombiere, the Grosse Tete, Tas de Pois, and the Marmotiers; each
with its retinue of sunken reefs and needles of granitic gneiss lying
low in menace. Happy the sailor caught in a storm and making for the
shelter the little curves in the island afford, who escapes a twist
of the current, a sweep of the tide, and the impaling fingers of the
submarine palisades.
Beyond these rocks lay Maitre Ile, all gneiss and shingle, a desert in
the sea. The holy men of the early Church, beholding it from the shore
of Normandy, had marked it for a refuge from the storms of war and the
follies of the world. So it came to pass, for the honour of God and the
Virgin Mary, the Abbe of Val Richer builded a priory there: and there
now lie in peace the bones of the monks of Val Richer beside
the skeletons of unfortunate gentlemen of the sea of later
centuries--pirates from France, buccaneers from England, and smugglers
from Jersey, who kept their trysts in the precincts of the ancient
chapel.
The brisk air of early autumn made the blood tingle in Guida’s cheeks.
Her eyes were big with light and enjoyment. Her hair was caught close
by a gay cap of her own knitting, but a little of it escaped, making a
pretty setting to her face.
The boat rode under all her courses, until, as Jean said, they had put
the last lace on her bonnet. Guida’s hands were on the tiller firmly,
doing Jean’s bidding promptly. In all they were five. Besides Guida and
Ranulph, Jean and Jean’s wife, there was a young English clergyman of
the parish of St. Michael’s, who had come from England to fill the place
of the rector for a few months. Word had been brought to him that a man
was dying on the Ecrehos. He had heard that the boat was going, he had
found Jean Touzel, and here he was with a biscuit in his hand and a
black-jack of French wine within easy reach. Not always in secret the
Reverend Lorenzo Dow loved the good things of this world.
The most notable characteristic of the young clergyman’s appearance was
his outer guilelessness and the oddness of his face. His head was rather
big for his body; he had a large mouth which laughed easily, a noble
forehead, and big, short-sighted eyes. He knew French well, but could
speak almost no Jersey patois, so, in compliment to him, Jean Touzel,
Ranulph, and Guida spoke in English. This ability to speak English--his
own English--was the pride of Jean’s life. He babbled it all the way,
and chiefly about a mythical Uncle Elias, who was the text for many a
sermon.
“Times past,” said he, as they neared Maitre Ile, “mon onc’ ‘Lias he
knows these Ecrehoses better as all the peoples of the world--respe d’la
compagnie. Mon onc’ ‘Lias he was a fine man. Once when there is a fight
between de Henglish and de hopping Johnnies,” he pointed towards France,
“dere is seven French ship, dere is two Henglish ship--gentlemen-of-war
dey are call. Eh ben, one of de Henglish ships he is not a
gentleman-of-war, he is what you call go-on-your-own-hook--privator. But
it is all de same--tres-ba, all right! What you t’ink coum to pass? De
big Henglish ship she is hit ver’ bad, she is all break-up. Efin,
dat leetle privator he stan’ round on de fighting side of de
gentleman-of-war and take de fire by her loneliness. Say, then, wherever
dere is troub’ mon onc’ ‘Lias he is there, he stan’ outside de troub’
an’ look on--dat is his hobby. You call it hombog? Oh, nannin-gia!
Suppose two peoples goes to fight, ah bah, somebody must pick up de
pieces--dat is mon onc’ ‘Lias! He have his boat full of hoysters; so he
sit dere all alone and watch dat great fight, an’ heat de hoyster an’
drink de cider vine.
“Ah, bah! mon onc’ ‘Lias he is standin’ hin de door dat day. Dat is what
we say on Jersey--when a man have some ver’ great luck we say he stan’
hin de door. I t’ink it is from de Bible or from de helmanac--sacre moi,
I not know.... If I talk too much you give me dat black-jack.”
They gave him the black-jack. After he had drunk and wiped his mouth on
his sleeve, he went on:
“O my good-ma’m’selle, a leetle more to de wind. Ah, dat is
right--trejous!... Dat fight it go like two bulls on a vergee--respe
d’la compagnie. Mon onc’ ‘Lias he have been to Hengland, he have sing
‘God save our greshus King’; so he t’ink a leetle--Ef he go to de
French, likely dey will hang him. Mon onc’ ‘Lias, he is what you call
patreeteesm. He say, ‘Hengland, she is mine--trejous.’ Efin, he sail
straight for de Henglish ships. Dat is de greates’ man, mon onc’
‘Lias--respe d’la compagnie! he coum on de side which is not fighting.
Ah bah, he tell dem dat he go to save de gentleman-of-war. He see a
hofficier all bloodiness and he call hup: ‘Es-tu gentiment?’ he say.
‘Gentiment,’ say de hofficier; ‘han’ you?’ ‘Naicely, yank you!’ mon onc’
‘Lias he say. ‘I will save you,’ say mon onc’ ‘Lias--‘I will save de
ship of God save our greshus King.’ De hofficier wipe de tears out of
his face. ‘De King will reward you, man alive,’ he say. Mon onc’
‘Lias he touch his breast and speak out. ‘Mon hofficier, my reward is
here--trejous. I will take you into de Ecrehoses.’ ‘Coum up and save de
King’s ships,’ says de hofficier. ‘I will take no reward,’ say mon onc’
‘Lias, ‘but, for a leetle pourboire, you will give me de privator--eh?’
‘Milles sacres’--say de hofficier, ‘mines saeres--de privator!’ he
say, ver’ surprise’. ‘Man doux d’la vie--I am damned!’ ‘You are damned
trulee, if you do not get into de Ecrehoses,’ say mon onc’ ‘Lias--‘A
bi’tot, good-bye!’ he say. De hofficier call down to him: ‘Is dere
nosing else you will take?’ ‘Nannin, do not tempt me,’ say mon onc’
‘Lias. ‘I am not a gourman’. I will take de privator--dat is my hobby.’
All de time de cannons grand--dey brow-brou! boum-boum!--what you call
discomfortable. Time is de great t’ing, so de hofficier wipe de tears
out of his face again. ‘Coum up,’ he say; ‘de privator is yours.’
“Away dey go. You see dat spot where we coum to land, Ma’m’selle
Landresse--where de shingle look white, de leetle green grass above?
Dat is where mon onc’ ‘Lias he bring in de King’s ship and de privator.
Gatd’en’ale--it is a journee awful! He twist to de right, he shape to
de left trough de teeth of de rocks--all safe--vera happee--to dis nice
leetle bay of de Maitre Ile dey coum. De Frenchies dey grind dere teeth
and spit de fire. But de Henglish laugh at demdey are safe. ‘Frien’ of
my heart,’ say de hofficier to mon onc’ ‘Lias, ‘pilot of pilots,’ he
say, ‘in de name of our greshus King I t’ank you--A bi’tot, good-bye!’
he say. ‘Tres-ba,’ mon onc’ ‘Lias he say den, ‘I will go to my
privator.’ ‘You will go to de shore,’ say de hofficier. ‘You will wait
on de shore till de captain and his men of de privator coum to you. When
dey coum, de ship is yours--de privator is for you.’ Mon onc’ ‘Lias he
is like a child--he believe. He ‘bout ship and go shore. Misery me,
he sit on dat rocking-stone you see tipping on de wind. But if he wait
until de men of de privator coum to him, he will wait till we see him
sitting there now. Gache-a-penn, you say patriote? Mon onc’ ‘Lias he has
de patreeteesm, and what happen? He save de ship of de greshus King God
save--and dey eat up his hoysters! He get nosing. Gad’rabotin--respe
d’la compagnie--if dere is a ship of de King coum to de Ecrehoses, and
de hofficier say to me”--he tapped his breast--“‘Jean Touzel, tak de
ships of de King trough de rocks,’--ah bah, I would rememb’ mon onc’
‘Lias. I would say, ‘A bi’tot-good-bye.’... Slowlee--slowlee! We are at
de place. Bear wif de land, ma’m’selle! Steadee! As you go! V’la! hitch
now, Maitre Ranulph.”
The keel of the boat grated on the shingle.
The air of the morning, the sport of using the elements for one’s
pleasure, had given Guida an elfish sprightliness of spirits. Twenty
times during Jean’s recital she had laughed gaily, and never sat a laugh
better on any one’s countenance than on hers. Her teeth were strong,
white, and regular; in themselves they gave off a sort of shining mirth.
At first the lugubrious wife of the happy Jean was inclined to resent
Guida’s gaiety as unseemly, for Jean’s story sounded to her as serious
statement of fact; which incapacity for humour probably accounted for
Jean’s occasional lapses from domestic grace. If Jean had said that he
had met a periwinkle dancing a hornpipe with an oyster she would have
muttered heavily “Think of that!” The most she could say to any one
was: “I believe you, ma couzaine.” Some time in her life her voice had
dropped into that great well she called her body, and it came up only
now and then like an echo. There never was anything quite so fat as she.
She was found weeping one day on the veille because she was no longer
able to get her shoulders out of the window to use the clothes-lines
stretching to her neighbour’s over the way. If she sat down in your
presence, it was impossible to do aught but speculate as to whether she
could get up alone. Yet she went abroad on the water a great deal with
Jean. At first the neighbours gave out sinister suspicions as to Jean’s
intentions, for sea-going with your own wife was uncommon among the
sailors of the coast. But at last these dark suggestions settled down
into a belief that Jean took her chiefly for ballast; and thereafter she
was familiarly called “Femme de Ballast.”
Talking was no virtue in her eyes. What was going on in her mind no one
ever knew. She was more phlegmatic than an Indian; but the tails of the
sheep on the Town Hill did not better show the quarter of the wind than
the changing colour of Aimable’s face indicated Jean’s coming or going.
For Mattresse Aimable had one eternal secret, an unwavering passion for
Jean Touzel. If he patted her on the back on a day when the fishing was
extra fine, her heart pumped so hard she had to sit down; if, passing
her lonely bed of a morning, he shook her great toe to wake her, she
blushed, and turned her face to the wall in placid happiness. She was so
credulous and matter-of-fact that if Jean had told her she must die on
the spot, she would have said “Think of that!” or “Je te crais,” and
died. If in the vague dusk of her brain the thought glimmered that she
was ballast for Jean on sea and anchor on land, she still was content.
For twenty years the massive, straight-limbed Jean had stood to her for
all things since the heavens and the earth were created. Once, when she
had burnt her hand in cooking supper for him, his arm made a trial of
her girth, and he kissed her. The kiss was nearer her ear than her lips,
but to her mind it was the most solemn proof of her connubial happiness
and of Jean’s devotion. She was a Catholic, unlike Jean and most people
of her class in Jersey, and ever since that night he kissed her she had
told an extra bead on her rosary and said another prayer.
These were the reasons why at first she was inclined to resent Guida’s
laughter. But when she saw that Maitre Ranulph and the curate and Jean
himself laughed, she settled down to a grave content until they landed.
They had scarce reached the deserted chapel where their dinner was to be
cooked by Maitresse Aimable, when Ranulph called them to note a vessel
bearing in their direction.
“She’s not a coasting craft,” said Jean.
“She doesn’t look like a merchant vessel,” said Ranulph, eyeing her
through his telescope. “Why, she’s a warship!” he added.
Jean thought she was not, but Maitre Ranulph said “Pardi, I ought to
know, Jean. Ship-building is my trade, to say nothing of guns--I wasn’t
two years in the artillery for nothing. See the low bowsprit and the
high poop. She’s bearing this way. She’ll be Narcissus!” he said slowly.
That was Philip d’Avranche’s ship.
Guida’s face lighted, her heart beat faster. Ranulph turned on his heel.
“Where are you going, Ro?” Guida said, taking a step after him.
“On the other side, to my men and the wreck,” he said, pointing.
Guida glanced once more towards the man-o’-war: and then, with mischief
in her eye, turned towards Jean. “Suppose,” she said to him archly,
“suppose the ship should want to come in, of course you’d remember your
onc’ ‘Lias, and say, ‘A bi’tot, good-bye!”’
An evasive “Ah bah!” was the only reply Jean vouchsafed.
Ranulph joined his men at the wreck, and the Reverend Lorenzo Dow went
about the Lord’s business in the little lean-to of sail-cloth and ship’s
lumber which had been set up near to the toil of the carpenters. When
the curate entered the but the sick man was in a doze. He turned his
head from side to side restlessly and mumbled to himself. The curate,
sitting on the ground beside the man, took from his pocket a book, and
began writing in a strange, cramped hand. This book was his journal.
When a youth he had been a stutterer, and had taken refuge from talk
in writing, and the habit stayed even as his affliction grew less. The
important events of the day or the week, the weather, the wind, the
tides, were recorded, together with sundry meditations of the Reverend
Lorenzo Dow. The pages were not large, and brevity was Mr. Dow’s
journalistic virtue. Beyond the diligent keeping of this record, he
had no habits, certainly no precision, no remembrance, no system: the
business of his life ended there. He had quietly vacated two curacies
because there had been bitter complaints that the records of certain
baptisms, marriages, and burials might only be found in the chequered
journal of his life, sandwiched between fantastic reflections and
remarks upon the rubric. The records had been exact enough, but the
system was not canonical, and it rested too largely upon the personal
ubiquity of the itinerary priest, and the safety of his journal--and of
his life.
Guida, after the instincts of her nature, had at once sought the highest
point on the rocky islet, and there she drank in the joy of sight and
sound and feeling. She could see--so perfect was the day--the line
marking the Minquiers far on the southern horizon, the dark and perfect
green of the Jersey slopes, and the white flags of foam which beat
against the Dirouilles and the far-off Paternosters, dissolving as
they flew, their place taken by others, succeeding and succeeding, as
a soldier steps into a gap in the line of battle. Something in these
rocks, something in the Paternosters--perhaps their distance, perhaps
their remoteness from all other rocks--fascinated her. As she looked
at them, she suddenly felt a chill, a premonition, a half-spiritual,
half-material telegraphy of the inanimate to the animate: not from
off cold stone to sentient life; but from that atmosphere about the
inanimate thing, where the life of man has spent itself and been
dissolved, leaving--who can tell what? Something which speaks but yet
has no sound.
The feeling which possessed Guida as she looked at the Paternosters was
almost like blank fear. Yet physical fear she had never felt, not since
that day when the battle raged in the Vier Marchi, and Philip d’Avranche
had saved her from the destroying scimitar of the Turk. Now that scene
all came back to her in a flash, as it were; and she saw again the dark
snarling face of the Mussulman, the blue-and-white silk of his turban,
the black and white of his waistcoat, the red of the long robe, and the
glint of his uplifted sword. Then in contrast, the warmth, brightness,
and bravery on the face of the lad in blue and gold who struck aside
the descending blade and caught her up in his arms; and she had nestled
there--in those arms of Philip d’Avranche. She remembered how he had
kissed her, and how she had kissed him--he a lad and she a little
child--as he left her with her mother in the watchmaker’s shop in
the Vier Marchi that day.... And she had never seen him again until
yesterday.
She looked from the rocks to the approaching frigate. Was it the
Narcissus coming--coming to this very island? She recalled Philip--how
gallant he was yesterday, how cool, with what an air of command! How
light he had made of the riot! Ranulph’s strength and courage she
accepted as a matter of course, and was glad that he was brave,
generous, and good; but the glamour of distance and mystery were
around d’Avranche. Remembrance, like a comet, went circling through the
firmament of eleven years, from the Vier Marchi to the Place du Vier
Prison.
She watched the ship slowly bearing with the land. The Jack was flying
from the mizzen. They were now taking in her topsails. She was so near
that Guida could see the anchor a-cockbell, and the poop lanthorns.
She could count the guns like long black horns shooting out from a
rhinoceros hide: she could discern the figurehead lion snarling into the
spritsail. Presently the ship came up to the wind and lay to. Then she
signalled for a pilot, and Guida ran towards the ruined chapel, calling
for Jean Touzel.
In spite of Jean’s late protests as to piloting a “gentleman-of-war,”
this was one of the joyful moments of his life. He could not loosen his
rowboat quick enough; he was away almost before you could have spoken
his name. Excited as Guida was, she could not resist calling after him:
“‘God save our greshus King! A bi’tot--goodbye!’”