On a map the Isle of Jersey has the shape and form of a tiger on the
prowl.
The fore-claws of this tiger are the lacerating pinnacles of the
Corbiere and the impaling rocks of Portelet Bay and Noirmont; the
hind-claws are the devastating diorite reefs of La Motte and the Banc
des Violets. The head and neck, terrible and beautiful, are stretched
out towards the west, as it were to scan the wild waste and jungle of
the Atlantic seas. The nose is L’Etacq, the forehead Grosnez, the ear
Plemont, the mouth the dark cavern by L’Etacq, and the teeth are the
serried ledges of the Foret de la Brequette. At a discreet distance from
the head and the tail hover the jackals of La Manche: the Paternosters,
the Dirouilles, and the Ecrehos, themselves destroying where they may,
or filching the remains of the tiger’s feast of shipwreck and ruin.
In truth, the sleek beast, with its feet planted in fearsome rocks and
tides, and its ravening head set to defy the onslaught of the main,
might, but for its ensnaring beauty, seem some monstrous foot-pad of the
deep.
To this day the tiger’s head is the lonely part of Jersey; a hundred
years ago it was as distant from the Vier Marchi as is Penzance from
Covent Garden. It would almost seem as if the people of Jersey, like the
hangers-on of the king of the jungle, care not to approach too near the
devourer’s head. Even now there is but a dwelling here and there upon
the lofty plateau, and none at all near the dark and menacing
headland. But as if the ancient Royal Court was determined to prove its
sovereignty even over the tiger’s head, it stretched out its arms from
the Vier Marchi to the bare neck of the beast, putting upon it a belt of
defensive war; at the nape, a martello tower and barracks; underneath,
two other martello towers like the teeth of a buckle.
The rest of the island was bristling with armament. Tall platforms were
erected at almost speaking distance from each other, where sentinels
kept watch for French frigates or privateers. Redoubts and towers were
within musket-shot of each other, with watch-houses between, and at
intervals every able-bodied man in the country was obliged to leave his
trade to act as sentinel, or go into camp or barracks with the militia
for months at a time. British cruisers sailed the Channel: now a
squadron under Barrington, again under Bridport, hovered upon the coast,
hoping that a French fleet might venture near.
But little of this was to be seen in the western limits of the parish
of St. Ouen’s. Plemont, Grosnez, L’Etacq, all that giant headland could
well take care of itself--the precipitous cliffs were their own defence.
A watch-house here and there sufficed. No one lived at L’Etacq, no one
at Grosnez; they were too bleak, too distant and solitary. There were no
houses, no huts.
If you had approached Plemont from Vinchelez-le-Haut, making for the
sea, you would have said that it also had no habitation. But when at
last you came to a hillock near Plemont point, looking to find nothing
but sky and sea and distant islands, suddenly at your very feet you saw
a small stone dwelling. Its door faced the west, looking towards the
Isles of Guernsey and Sark. Fronting the north was a window like an eye,
ever watching the tireless Paternosters. To the east was another tiny
window like a deep loop-hole or embrasure set towards the Dirouilles and
the Ecrehos.
The hut had but one room, of moderate size, with a vast chimney. Between
the chimney and the western wall was a veille, which was both lounge
and bed. The eastern side was given over to a few well-polished kitchen
utensils, a churn, and a bread-trough. The floor was of mother
earth alone, but a strip of handmade carpet was laid down before the
fireplace, and there was another at the opposite end. There were also a
table, a spinning-wheel, and a shelf of books.
It was not the hut of a fisherman, though upon the wall opposite the
books there hung fishing-tackle, nets, and cords, while outside, on
staples driven in the jutting chimney, were some lobster-pots. Upon two
shelves were arranged a carpenter’s and a cooper’s tools, polished and
in good order. And yet you would have said that neither a cooper nor
a carpenter kept them in use. Everywhere there were signs of man’s
handicraft as well as of woman’s work, but upon all was the touch of
a woman. Moreover, apart from the tools there was no sign of a man’s
presence in the hut. There was no coat hanging behind the door, no
sabots for the fields or oilskins for the sands, no pipe laid upon a
ledge, no fisherman’s needle holding a calendar to the wall. Whatever
was the trade of the occupant, the tastes were above those of the
ordinary dweller in the land. That was to be seen in a print of
Raphael’s “Madonna and Child” taking the place of the usual sampler upon
the walls of Jersey homes; in the old clock nicely bestowed between a
narrow cupboard and the tool shelves; in a few pieces of rare old china
and a gold-handled sword hanging above a huge, well-carved oak chair.
The chair relieved the room of anything like commonness, and somehow was
in sympathy with the simple surroundings, making for dignity and sweet
quiet. It was clear that only a woman could have arranged so perfectly
this room and all therein. It was also clear that no man lived here.
Looking in at the doorway of this hut on a certain autumn day of the
year 1797, the first thing to strike your attention was a dog lying
asleep on the hearth. Then a suit of child’s clothes on a chair
before the fire of vraic would have caught the eye. The only thing to
distinguish this particular child’s dress from that of a thousand others
in the island was the fineness of the material. Every thread of it had
been delicately and firmly knitted, till it was like perfect soft blue
cloth, relieved by a little red silk ribbon at the collar.
The hut contained as well a child’s chair, just so high that when placed
by the windows commanding the Paternosters its occupant might see the
waves, like panthers, beating white paws against the ragged granite
pinnacles; the currents writhing below at the foot of the cliffs, or at
half-tide rushing up to cover the sands of the Greve aux Langons, and
like animals in pain, howling through the caverns in the cliffs; the
great nor’wester of November come battering the rocks, shrieking to the
witches who boiled their caldrons by the ruins of Grosnez Castle that
the hunt of the seas was up.
Just high enough was the little chair that of a certain day in the
year its owner might look out and see mystic fires burning round the
Paternosters, and lighting up the sea with awful radiance. Scarce a
rock to be seen from the hut but had some legend like this: the burning
Russian ship at the Paternosters, the fleet of boats with tall prows and
long oars drifting upon the Dirouilles and going down to the cry of the
Crusaders’ Dahindahin! the Roche des Femmes at the Ecrehos, where still
you may hear the cries of women in terror of the engulfing sea.
On this particular day, if you had entered the hut, no one would
have welcomed you; but had you tired of waiting, and followed the
indentations of the coast for a mile or more by a deep bay under tall
cliffs, you would have seen a woman and a child coming quickly up the
sands. Slung upon the woman’s shoulders was a small fisherman’s basket.
The child ran before, eager to climb the hill and take the homeward
path.
A man above was watching them. He had ridden along the cliff, had seen
the woman in her boat making for the shore, had tethered his horse in
the quarries near by, and now awaited her. He chuckled as she came on,
for he had ready a surprise for her. To make it more complete he hid
himself behind some boulders, and as she reached the top sprang out with
an ugly grinning.
The woman looked at him calmly and waited for him to speak. There was
no fear on her face, not even surprise; nothing but steady inquiry and
quiet self-possession. With an air of bluster the man said:
“Aha, my lady, I’m nearer than you thought--me!” The child drew in to
its mother’s side and clasped her hand. There was no fear in the little
fellow’s look, however; he had something of the same self-possession as
the woman, and his eyes were like hers, clear, unwavering, and with a
frankness that consumed you. They were wells of sincerity; open-eyed,
you would have called the child, wanting a more subtle description.
“I’m not to be fooled-me! Come now, let’s have the count,” said the man,
as he whipped a greasy leather-covered book from his pocket. “Sapristi,
I’m waiting. Stay yourself!” he added roughly as she moved on, and his
greyish-yellow face had an evil joy at thought of the brutal work in
hand.
“Who are you?” she asked, but taking her time to speak.
“Dame! you know who I am.”
“I know what you are,” she answered quietly.
He did not quite grasp her meaning, but the tone sounded contemptuous,
and that sorted little with his self-importance.
“I’m the Seigneur’s bailiff--that’s who I am. Gad’rabotin, don’t you put
on airs with me! I’m for the tribute, so off with the bag and let’s see
your catch.”
“I have never yet paid tribute to the seigneur of the manor.”
“Well, you’ll begin now. I’m the new bailiff, and if you don’t pay your
tale, up you come to the court of the fief to-morrow.”
She looked him clearly in the eyes. “If I were a man, I should not pay
the tribute, and I should go to the court of the fief to-morrow, but
being a woman--”
She clasped the hand of the child tightly to her for an instant, then
with a sigh she took the basket from her shoulders and, opening it,
added:
“But being a woman, the fish I caught in the sea that belongs to God and
to all men I must divide with the Seigneur whose bailiff spies on poor
fisher-folk.”
The man growled an oath and made a motion as though he would catch her
by the shoulder in anger, but the look in her eyes stopped him. Counting
out the fish, and giving him three out of the eight she had caught, she
said:
“It matters not so much to me, but there are others poorer than I, they
suffer.”
With a leer the fellow stooped, and, taking up the fish, put them in the
pockets of his queminzolle, all slimy from the sea as they were.
“Ba su, you haven’t got much to take care of, have you? It don’t take
much to feed two mouths--not so much as it does three, Ma’m’selle.”
Before he had ended, the woman, without reply to the insult, took the
child by the hand and moved along her homeward path towards Plemont.
“A bi’tot, good-bye!” the bailiff laughed brutally. Standing with his
legs apart and his hands fastened on the fish in the pockets of his long
queminzolle, he called after her in sneering comment: “Ma fistre, your
pride didn’t fall--ba su!” Then he turned on his heel.
“Eh ben, here’s mackerel for supper,” he added as he mounted his horse.
The woman was Guida Landresse, the child was her child, and they lived
in the little house upon the cliff at Plemont. They were hastening
thither now.