The Battle Of The Strong: Chapter 29

Chapter 29

IN JERSEY FIVE YEARS LATER

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.

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