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Toilers Of The Sea
By
Victor Hugo
Contents
BOOK I - THE HISTORY =
OF A BAD
REPUTATION
I - A WORD WRITTEN ON=
A WHITE
PAGE
III - FOR YOUR WIFE: =
WHEN YOU
MARRY
V - MORE SUSPICIOUS F=
ACTS
ABOUT GILLIATT
VII - A FIT TENANT FO=
R A
HAUNTED HOUSE
VIII - THE GILD-HOLM-=
'UR SEAT
I - A TROUBLED LIFE, =
BUT A
QUIET CONSCIENCE
IV - ONE IS VULNERABL=
E WHERE
ONE LOVES
BOOK III - DURANDE AND
DÉRUCHETTE
IV - CONTINUATION OF =
THE
STORY OF UTOPIA
VII - THE SAME GODFAT=
HER AND
THE SAME PATRON SAINT
IX - THE MAN WHO DISC=
OVERED
RANTAINE'S CHARACTER
XII - AN ANOMALY IN T=
HE
CHARACTER OF LETHIERRY
XIII - THOUGHTLESSNES=
S ADDS A
GRACE TO BEAUTY
I - STREAKS OF FIRE O=
N THE
HORIZON
II - THE UNKNOWN UNFO=
LDS
ITSELF BY DEGREES
III - THE AIR "B=
ONNIE
DUNDEE" FINDS AN ECHO ON THE HILL.
V - A DESERVED SUCCES=
S HAS
ALWAYS ITS DETRACTORS
VI - THE SLOOP "=
CASHMERE"
SAVES A SHIPWRECKED CREW
VII - HOW AN IDLER HA=
D THE
GOOD FORTUNE TO BE SEEN BY A FISHERMAN..
I - CONVERSATIONS AT =
THE JEAN
AUBERGE
III - CLUBIN CARRIES =
AWAY
SOMETHING AND BRINGS BACK NOTHING..
VII - NOCTURNAL BUYER=
S AND
MYSTERIOUS SELLERS
VIII - A "CANNON=
"
OFF THE RED BALL AND THE BLACK
IX - USEFUL INFORMATI=
ON FOR
PERSONS WHO EXPECT OR FEAR THE ARRIVAL OF LETTERS FROM BEYOND SEA
BOOK VI - THE DRUNKEN
STEERSMAN AND THE SOBER CAPTAIN
II - AN UNEXPECTED FL=
ASK OF
BRANDY
III - CONVERSATIONS
INTERRUPTED
IV - CAPTAIN CLUBIN D=
ISPLAYS
ALL HIS GREAT QUALITIES
V =3D CLUBIN REACHES =
THE
CROWNING-POINT OF GLORY
VI - THE INTERIOR OF =
AN ABYSS
SUDDENLY REVEALED
VII - AN UNEXPECTED
DENOUEMENT
BOOK VII - THE DANGER=
OF
OPENING A BOOK AT RANDOM
I - THE PEARL AT THE =
FOOT OF
THE PRECIPICE
II - MUCH ASTONISHMEN=
T ON THE
WESTERN COAST
III - A QUOTATION FRO=
M THE
BIBLE
PART II.--MALICIOUS G=
ILLIATT
I - THE PLACE WHICH IS
DIFFICULT TO REACH, AND DIFFICULT TO LEAVE.
II - A CATALOGUE OF D=
ISASTERS
V - A WORD UPON THE S=
ECRET
CO-OPERATIONS OF THE ELEMENTS
VII - A CHAMBER FOR T=
HE
VOYAGER
VIII - IMPORTUNÆ=
;QUE
VOLUCRES
IX - THE ROCK, AND HOW
GILLIATT USED IT
XII - THE INTERIOR OF=
AN
EDIFICE UNDER THE SEA
XIII - WHAT WAS SEEN =
THERE;
AND WHAT PERCEIVED DIMLY
I - THE RESOURCES OF =
ONE WHO
HAS NOTHING
II - WHEREIN SHAKESPE=
ARE AND
ÆSCHYLUS MEET
III - GILLIATT'S MAST=
ERPIECE
COMES TO THE RESCUE OF THAT OF LETHIERRY.
VI - GILLIATT PLACES =
THE
SLOOP IN READINESS
VIII - MOVEMENT RATHE=
R THAN
PROGRESS
IX - A SLIP BETWEEN C=
UP AND
LIP
XI - A WORD TO THE WI=
SE IS
ENOUGH
BOOK IV - PITFALLS IN=
THE WAY
I - HE WHO IS HUNGRY =
IS NOT
ALONE
III - ANOTHER KIND OF
SEA-COMBAT
IV - NOTHING IS HIDDE=
N,
NOTHING LOST
V - THE FATAL DIFFERE=
NCE
BETWEEN SIX INCHES AND TWO FEET
BOOK II - GRATITUDE A=
ND
DESPOTISM
I - JOY SURROUNDED BY
TORTURES
BOOK III - THE DEPART=
URE OF
THE CASHMERE
I - THE HAVELET NEAR =
THE
CHURCH
II - DESPAIR CONFRONTS
DESPAIR
III - THE FORETHOUGHT=
OF
SELF-SACRIFICE
IV - FOR YOUR WIFE: W=
HEN YOU
MARRY
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%'>INTRO=
DUCTION
=
Victor
Hugo was thinking much of Æschylus and his Prometheus at the time he
conceived the figure of Gilliatt, heroic warrer with the elements. But it i=
s to
a creature of the Gothic mind like Byron's Manfred, and not to any earlier,=
or
classic, type of the eternal rebellion against fate or time or circumstance,
that Hugo's readers will be tempted to turn for the fellow to his Guernsey
hero:
&=
nbsp;
"My joy was in the wilderness--to breathe The difficult air=
of
the iced mountain's top, Where the birds d=
are
not build--nor insects wing Flit o'er the her=
bless
granite; or to plunge Into the torrent,=
and
to roll along On
the swift whirl of the new-breaking wave Of river-stream, =
or
ocean, in their flow."
The island of Guernsey was Gilliatt's Alp and
sea-solitude, where he, too, had his avalanches waiting to fall "like =
foam
from the round ocean of old Hell." And as Byron figured his own revolt
against the bonds in Manfred, so Hugo, being in exile, put himself with lyr=
ical
and rhetorical impetuosity into the island marcou and child of destiny that=
he
concocted with "a little sand and a little blood and a deal of fantasy=
"
in the years 1864 and 1865. There is a familiar glimpse of the Hugo househo=
ld
to be had in the first winter of its transference to the Channel Islands, y=
ears
before Les Travailleurs was written, which betrays the mood from which fina=
lly
sprang this concrete fable of the man-at-odds. It was the end of November 1=
852,
and a father and his younger son sat in a room of a house of Marine Terrace,
Jersey--a plain, unpicturesque house; square, hard in outline, and newly wh=
itewashed,--Methodism,
said Hugo, in stones and mortar. Outside its windows the rain fell and the =
wind
blew: the house was like a thing benumbed by the angry noise. The two inmat=
es
sat plunged in thought, possibly thinking of the sad significance of these
beginnings of winter and of exile which had arrived together. At length the=
son
(François Hugo) asked the father what he meant to do during their ex=
ile,
which he had already predicted would be long? The father said, "I shall
look at the sea." Then came a silence, broken by a question as to what=
the
son would do? To which he replied that he would translate Shakespeare.
Victor Hugo's own study or eulogy of Shakespea=
re
was written as a preamble to his son's translation of the plays. It is not =
too
much to connect the new and ample creative work that followed, including hi=
s great
novel of Revolution, Les Misérables, and his poems in La Lége=
nde
des Siècles (first series) with the double artistic stimulus gained =
from
this conditioned solitude and his closer acquaintance with the dramatic min=
d of
that "giant of the great art of the ages," as he termed our Engli=
sh
poet in the book already quoted from.
The Shakespeare book is dated from Hauteville
House, 1864. Les Travailleurs from the same quarters, March 1866. The Hugos=
had
perforce suddenly left Jersey for Guernsey in 1855, owing to the gibes and
flouts of an unlucky revolutionary Jersey journal, L'Homme, at the two gove=
rnments:
Victor Hugo being already a marked man for his pains. The Guernsey house he
inhabited for so many years had a spacious study in its upper story, with a
large window, free to the sun and to the sea. Here he wrote, tirelessly,
tremendously, as his custom was: beginning betimes in the early morning, and
writing on till the time for his déjeuner: standing at a tall desk to
write in his sea-tower. You must turn to certain of his poems and to the pa=
ges
of Les Misérables and Les Travailleurs for the mental colours and
phantasmagoria of those days and years.
It would be easy to point out, resuming an imm=
ense
amount of criticism of his romances and of this story in particular, the
defects on the side of dramatic and true life-likeness to be found in Hugo'=
s prose-narrative.
But it is more helpful in turning to a story-book to know what has been said
unreservedly in its favour. Hugo's greatest appreciator was superlative in =
his
praise, and it need hardly be explained that it was Swinburne who brought h=
is
tribute to the romance of Gilliatt also, after positing the parallel claims=
of
Hugo's five chief romances. Of the five, they were not, he said, to be
comparatively classified in order of merit. "But I may perhaps be
permitted to say without fear of deserved rebuke that none is to me persona=
lly
a treasure of greater price than Les Travailleurs de la Mer. The splendid
energy of the book makes the superhuman energy of the hero seem not only po=
ssible
but natural, and his triumph over all physical impossibilities not only nat=
ural
but inevitable." Swinburne's love for the Channel Islands, and his poe=
ms
inspired by them, were mainly due as we know to Hugo's life and his books l=
ived
and written there.
&=
nbsp;
E.R.
The following is a list of the chief publicati=
ons
of Victor Hugo:--
&=
nbsp;
POETICAL WORKS:--Nouvelles Odes, 1824; Odes et Poésies Divers=
es, 1822; Odes et Bal=
lades,
1826; Les Orientales, 1829; Feuilles d'Automne, 1831; =
Les
Chants du Crépuscule, 1835; Les Voix Intérieure=
s,
1837; Les Rayons et les Ombres, 1840; Odes sur Napoléon, =
1840;
Les Châtiments, 1853; Les Contemplations, 1856; La Légende des
Siècles (1st part), 1859; Les Chansons des Rues et des Bois, 1865; L'Ann=
ée
Terrible, 1872; La Légende des Siècles (2nd part), 1877; L'Art
d'être Grand-père, 1877; Le Pape, 1878; La Pitié Suprême, 18=
79;
L'Âne, 1880; Religion et Religions, 1880; Les Quatre Vents de l'Esprit,
1881; La Légende des Siècles (3rd part), 1883.
&=
nbsp;
DRAMATIC WORKS:--Cromwell, 1827; Amy Robsart, 1828; Hernani, 1830; <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Marion Delorme, 1=
831;
Le Roi s'amuse, 1832; Lucrèce Borgia, 1833; Marie Tudor, 1833;
Angelo, Tyran de Padoue, 1835; La Esmeralda (libretto for Ope=
ra),
1836; Ruy Blas, 1838; Burgraves, 1843; Torquemada, 1882.=
&=
nbsp;
NOVELS AND OTHER PROSE WORKS:--Hans d'Islande, 1823; Bug-Jargal (enlarged for book
form), 1826; Le Dernier Jour d'un Condamné, 1829; Notre-Dame de Par=
is,
1831; Étude sur Mirabeau, 1834; Claude Gueux, 1834; Le Rhin, 18=
42;
Napoléon le Petit, 1852; Les Misérables, 1862; Littératur=
e et
Philosophie mélées, 1864; William Shakespeare, 1864; Les Travailleurs =
de la
Mer, 1866; L'Homme qui rit, 1869; Actes et Paroles, 1872;
Quatre-Vingt-Treize, 1873; Histoire d'un Crime, 1877; Discours pour Vol=
taire,
1878; Le Domaine public payant, 1878; L'Archipel de la
Manche, 1883.
&=
nbsp;
Hugo left a mass of manuscripts, of which some have been published <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> since his death:-=
-Le
Théatre en Liberté, La Fin de Satan, Dieu, Choses Vues, Tont=
e la
Lyre, Océan, En Voyage, Postscriptum de ma Vie.
&=
nbsp;
An Edition Définitive of his works in 48 volumes was publishe=
d 1880-5.
&=
nbsp;
TRANSLATIONS:--Of novels, 28 vols., 1895, 1899, etc.; of dramas, by =
I.G. Burnham, 189=
5.
Separate translations of prose and poetical works.
&=
nbsp;
LIFE:--Among the biographies and appreciations are:--Sainte-Beuve, <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Biographie des
Contemporains, vol. iv., 1831; Portraits Contemporains, vo=
l. i.,
1846; Victor Hugo raconté par un témoin de sa vie (Madame Hu=
go),
1863; A. Barbou, 1880 (trans. 1881); E. Biré, Victor Hugo avant=
1830,
1883; après 1830, 1891; après 1852, 1894; F.W.H. Myers, Ess=
ays,
1883; Paul de Saint Victor, 1885, 1892; Alfred Asseline, Victor =
Hugo
intime, 1885; G.B. Smith, 1885; J. Cappon, A Memoir and a Stud=
y,
1885; A.C. Swinburne, A Study of Victor Hugo, 1886; E. Dupuy, V=
ictor
Hugo, l'homme et le poète, 1886; F.T. Marzials (Great
Writers), 1888; Charles Renouvier, Victor Hugo le Poète, 1892; L.
Mabilleau, 1893; J.P. Nichol, 1893; C. Renouvier, Victor Hugo le
Philosophe, 1900; E. Rigal, 1900; G.V. Hugo, Mon Grand-père,
1902; Juana Lesclide, Victor Hugo intime, 1902; Theophile Gautier,
1902; F. Gregh, Étude sur Victor Hugo, 1905; P. Stapfers, Victor =
Hugo
à Guernsey, 1905.
=
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%'>PREFA=
CE
=
Religion,
Society, and Nature! these are the three struggles of man. They constitute =
at
the same time his three needs. He has need of a faith; hence the temple. He
must create; hence the city. He must live; hence the plough and the ship. B=
ut
these three solutions comprise three perpetual conflicts. The mysterious
difficulty of life results from all three. Man strives with obstacles under=
the
form of superstition, under the form of prejudice, and under the form of the
elements. A triple [Greek: anagkê] weighs upon us. There is the fatal=
ity
of dogmas, the oppression of human laws, the inexorability of nature. In No=
tre
Dame de Paris the author denounced the first; in the Misérables he e=
xemplified
the second; in this book he indicates the third. With these three fatalities
mingles that inward fatality--the supreme [Greek: anagkê], the human
heart.
&=
nbsp;
HAUTEVILLE HOUSE, March, 1866.
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO THE ROCK OF HOSPITALITY
AND LIBERTY TO THAT PORTION OF OLD NORMAN GROUND INHABITED BY THE NOBLE LITTLE NATION OF THE SEA TO T=
HE
ISLAND OF GUERNSEY SEVERE YET KIND, MY PRESENT ASYLUM PERHAPS MY TOMB
&=
nbsp;
V.H.
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%'>PART
I.--SIEUR CLUBIN
=
Christmas
Day in the year 182- was somewhat remarkable in the island of Guernsey. Snow
fell on that day. In the Channel Islands a frosty winter is uncommon, and a
fall of snow is an event.
On that Christmas morning, the road which skir=
ts
the seashore from St. Peter's Port to the Vale was clothed in white. From
midnight till the break of day the snow had been falling. Towards nine o'cl=
ock,
a little after the rising of the wintry sun, as it was too early yet for th=
e Church
of England folks to go to St. Sampson's, or for the Wesleyans to repair to
Eldad Chapel, the road was almost deserted. Throughout that portion of the
highway which separates the first from the second tower, only three
foot-passengers could be seen. These were a child, a man, and a woman. Walk=
ing
at a distance from each other, these wayfarers had no visible connection. T=
he
child, a boy of about eight years old, had stopped, and was looking curious=
ly
at the wintry scene. The man walked behind the woman, at a distance of abou=
t a
hundred paces. Like her he was coming from the direction of the church of S=
t.
Sampson. The appearance of the man, who was still young, was something betw=
een
that of a workman and a sailor. He wore his working-day clothes--a kind of =
Guernsey
shirt of coarse brown stuff, and trousers partly concealed by tarpaulin
leggings--a costume which seemed to indicate that, notwithstanding the holy
day, he was going to no place of worship. His heavy shoes of rough leather,
with their soles covered with large nails, left upon the snow, as he walked=
, a
print more like that of a prison lock than the foot of a man. The woman, on=
the
contrary, was evidently dressed for church. She wore a large mantle of black
silk, wadded, under which she had coquettishly adjusted a dress of Irish po=
plin,
trimmed alternately with white and pink; but for her red stockings, she mig=
ht
have been taken for a Parisian. She walked on with a light and free step, so
little suggestive of the burden of life that it might easily be seen that s=
he
was young. Her movements possessed that subtle grace which indicates the mo=
st
delicate of all transitions--that soft intermingling, as it were, of two
twilights--the passage from the condition of a child to that of womanhood. =
The
man seemed to take no heed of her.
Suddenly, near a group of oaks at the corner o=
f a
field, and at the spot called the Basses Maisons, she turned, and the movem=
ent
seemed to attract the attention of the man. She stopped, seemed to reflect =
a moment,
then stooped, and the man fancied that he could discern that she was tracing
with her finger some letters in the snow. Then she rose again, went on her =
way
at a quicker pace, turned once more, this time smiling, and disappeared to =
the
left of the roadway, by the footpath under the hedges which leads to the Ivy
Castle. When she had turned for the second time, the man had recognised her=
as
Déruchette, a charming girl of that neighbourhood.
The man felt no need of quickening his pace; a=
nd
some minutes later he found himself near the group of oaks. Already he had
ceased to think of the vanished Déruchette; and if, at that moment, a
porpoise had appeared above the water, or a robin had caught his eye in the
hedges, it is probable that he would have passed on his way. But it happened
that his eyes were fixed upon the ground; his gaze fell mechanically upon t=
he spot
where the girl had stopped. Two little footprints were there plainly visibl=
e;
and beside them he read this word, evidently written by her in the snow--
&=
nbsp;
"GILLIATT."
It was his own name.
He lingered for awhile motionless, looking at =
the
letters, the little footprints, and the snow; and then walked on, evidently=
in
a thoughtful mood.
=
Gilliatt
lived in the parish of St. Sampson. He was not liked by his neighbours; and
there were reasons for that fact.
To begin with, he lived in a queer kind of
"haunted" dwelling. In the islands of Jersey and Guernsey, someti=
mes
in the country, but often in streets with many inhabitants, you will come u=
pon
a house the entrance to which is completely barricaded. Holly bushes obstru=
ct
the doorway, hideous boards, with nails, conceal the windows below; while t=
he casements
of the upper stories are neither closed nor open: for all the window-frames=
are
barred, but the glass is broken. If there is a little yard, grass grows bet=
ween
its stones; and the parapet of its wall is crumbling away. If there is a
garden, it is choked with nettles, brambles, and hemlock, and strange insec=
ts
abound in it. The chimneys are cracked, the roof is falling in; so much as =
can
be seen from without of the rooms presents a dismantled appearance. The
woodwork is rotten; the stone mildewed. The paper of the walls has dropped =
away
and hangs loose, until it presents a history of the bygone fashions of pape=
r-hangings--the
scrawling patterns of the time of the Empire, the crescent-shaped draperies=
of
the Directory, the balustrades and pillars of the days of Louis XVI. The th=
ick
draperies of cobwebs, filled with flies, indicate the quiet reign long enjo=
yed
by innumerable spiders. Sometimes a broken jug may be noticed on a shelf. S=
uch
houses are considered to be haunted. Satan is popularly believed to visit t=
hem
by night. Houses are like the human beings who inhabit them. They become to=
their
former selves what the corpse is to the living body. A superstitious belief
among the people is sufficient to reduce them to this state of death. Then
their aspect is terrible. These ghostly houses are common in the Channel
Islands.
The rural and maritime populations are easily moved with notions of the active agency of the powers of evil. Among the Channel Isles, and on the neighbouring coast of France, the ideas of the pe= ople on this subject are deeply rooted. In their view, Beelzebub has his ministe= rs in all parts of the earth. It is certain that Belphegor is the ambassador f= rom the infernal regions in France, Hutgin in Italy, Belial in Turkey, Thamuz in Sp= ain, Martinet in Switzerland, and Mammon in England. Satan is an Emperor just li= ke any other: a sort of Satan Cæsar. His establishment is well organised. Dagon is grand almoner, Succor Benoth chief of the Eunuchs; Asmodeus, banke= r at the gaming-table; Kobal, manager of the theatre, and Verdelet, grand-master= of the ceremonies. Nybbas is the court-fool; Wierus, a savant, a good strygolo= gue, and a man of much learning in demonology, calls Nybbas the great parodist.<= o:p>
The Norman fishermen, who frequent the Channel,
have many precautions to take at sea, by reason of the illusions with which
Satan environs them. It has long been an article of popular faith, that Sai=
nt
Maclou inhabited the great square rock called Ortach, in the sea between Au=
rigny
and the Casquets; and many old sailors used to declare that they had often =
seen
him there, seated and reading in a book. Accordingly the sailors, as they
passed, were in the habit of kneeling many times before the Ortach rock, un=
til
the day when the fable was destroyed, and the truth took its place. For it =
has
been discovered, and is now well established, that the lonely inhabitant of=
the
rock is not a saint, but a devil. This evil spirit, whose name is Jochmus, =
had
the impudence to pass himself off, for many centuries, as Saint Maclou. Even
the Church herself is not proof against snares of this kind. The demons
Raguhel, Oribel, and Tobiel, were regarded as saints until the year 745; wh=
en Pope
Zachary, having at length exposed them, turned them out of saintly company.
This sort of weeding of the saintly calendar is certainly very useful; but =
it
can only be practised by very accomplished judges of devils and their ways.=
The old inhabitants of these parts relate--tho=
ugh
all this refers to bygone times--that the Catholic population of the Norman
Archipelago was once, though quite involuntarily, even in more intimate
correspondence with the powers of darkness than the Huguenots themselves. H=
ow
this happened, however, we do not pretend to say; but it is certain that th=
e people
suffered considerable annoyance from this cause. It appears that Satan had
taken a fancy to the Catholics, and sought their company a good deal; a
circumstance which has given rise to the belief that the devil is more Cath=
olic
than Protestant. One of his most insufferable familiarities consisted in pa=
ying
nocturnal visits to married Catholics in bed, just at the moment when the
husband had fallen fast asleep, and the wife had begun to doze; a fruitful
source of domestic trouble. Patouillet was of opinion that a faithful biogr=
aphy
of Voltaire ought not to be without some allusion to this practice of the e=
vil
one. The truth of all this is perfectly well known, and described in the fo=
rms of
excommunication in the rubric de erroribus nocturnis et de semine diaboloru=
m.
The practice was raging particularly at St. Helier's towards the end of the
last century, probably as a punishment for the Revolution; for the evil
consequences of revolutionary excesses are incalculable. However this may h=
ave
been, it is certain that this possibility of a visit from the demon at nigh=
t,
when it is impossible to see distinctly, or even in slumber, caused much
embarrassment among orthodox dames. The idea of giving to the world a Volta=
ire
was by no means a pleasant one. One of these, in some anxiety, consulted he=
r confessor
on this extremely difficult subject, and the best mode for timely discovery=
of
the cheat. The confessor replied, "In order to be sure that it is your
husband by your side, and not a demon, place your hand upon his head. If you
find horns, you may be sure there is something wrong." But this test w=
as
far from satisfactory to the worthy dame.
Gilliatt's house had been haunted, but it was =
no
longer in that condition; it was for that reason, however, only regarded wi=
th
more suspicion. No one learned in demonology can be unaware of the fact tha=
t, when
a sorcerer has installed himself in a haunted dwelling, the devil considers=
the
house sufficiently occupied, and is polite enough to abstain from visiting
there, unless called in, like the doctor, on some special occasion.
This house was known by the name of the B&ucir=
c;
de la Rue. It was situated at the extremity of a little promontory, rather =
of
rock than of land, forming a small harbourage apart in the creek of Houmet
Paradis. The water at this spot is deep. The house stood quite alone upon t=
he
point, almost separated from the island, and with just sufficient ground ab=
out it
for a small garden, which was sometimes inundated by the high tides. Between
the port of St. Sampson and the creek of Houmet Paradis, rises a steep hill,
surmounted by the block of towers covered with ivy, and known as Vale Castl=
e,
or the Château de l'Archange; so that, at St. Sampson, the Bû d=
e la
Rue was shut out from sight.
Nothing is commoner than sorcerers in Guernsey.
They exercise their profession in certain parishes, in profound indifferenc=
e to
the enlightenment of the nineteenth century. Some of their practices are do=
wnright
criminal. They set gold boiling, they gather herbs at midnight, they cast
sinister looks upon the people's cattle. When the people consult them they =
send
for bottles containing "water of the sick," and they are heard to
mutter mysteriously, "the water has a sad look." In March, 1857, =
one
of them discovered, in water of this kind, seven demons. They are universal=
ly
feared. Another only lately bewitched a baker "as well as his oven.&qu=
ot;
Another had the diabolical wickedness to wafer and seal up envelopes
"containing nothing inside." Another went so far as to have on a
shelf three bottles labelled "B." These monstrous facts are well
authenticated. Some of these sorcerers are obliging, and for two or three g=
uineas
will take on themselves the complaint from which you are suffering. Then th=
ey
are seen to roll upon their beds, and to groan with pain; and while they ar=
e in
these agonies the believer exclaims, "There! I am well again." Ot=
hers
cure all kinds of diseases, by merely tying a handkerchief round the patien=
t's
loins, a remedy so simple that it is astonishing that no one had yet though=
t of
it. In the last century, the Cour Royale of Guernsey bound such folks upon a
heap of fagots and burnt them alive. In these days it condemns them to eigh=
t weeks'
imprisonment; four weeks on bread and water, and the remainder of the term =
in
solitary confinement. Amant alterna catenæ.
The last instance of burning sorcerers in Guer=
nsey
took place in 1747. The city authorities devoted one of its squares, the
Carrefour du Bordage, to that ceremony. Between 1565 and 1700, eleven sorce=
rers
thus suffered at this spot. As a rule the criminals made confession of thei=
r guilt.
Torture was used to assist their confession. The Carrefour du Bordage has
indeed rendered many other services to society and religion. It was here th=
at
heretics were brought to the stake. Under Queen Mary, among other Huguenots
burnt here, were a mother and two daughters. The name of this mother was
Perrotine Massy. One of the daughters was enceinte, and was delivered of a
child even in the midst of the flames. As the old chronicle expresses it,
"Son ventre éclata." The new-born infant rolled out of the
fiery furnace. A man named House took it in his arms; but Helier Gosselin t=
he
bailli, like a good Catholic as he was, sternly commanded the child to be c=
ast
again into the fire.
=
=
We
must return to Gilliatt.
The country people told how, towards the close=
of
the great Revolution, a woman, bringing with her a little child, came to li=
ve
in Guernsey. She was English, or perhaps French. She had a name which the
Guernsey pronunciation and the country folks' bad spelling had finally
converted into "Gilliatt." She lived alone with the child, which,
according to some, was a nephew; according to others, a son or grandson;
according to others, again, a strange child whom she was protecting. She had
some means; enough to struggle on in a poor way. She had purchased a small =
plot
of ground at La Sergentée, and another at La Roque Crespel, near Roc=
quaine.
The house of the Bû de la Rue was haunted at this period. For more th=
an
thirty years no one had inhabited it. It was falling into ruins. The garden=
, so
often invaded by the sea, could produce nothing. Besides noises and lights =
seen
there at night-time, the house had this mysterious peculiarity: any one who
should leave there in the evening, upon the mantelpiece, a ball of worsted,=
a
few needles, and a plate filled with soup, would assuredly find, in the
morning, the soup consumed, the plate empty, and a pair of mittens ready
knitted. The house, demon included, was offered for sale for a few pounds
sterling. The stranger woman became the purchaser, evidently tempted by the
devil, or by the advantageous bargain.
She did more than purchase the house; she took=
up
her abode there with the child; and from that moment peace reigned within i=
ts
walls. The Bû de la Rue has found a fit tenant, said the country peop=
le.
The haunting ceased. There was no longer any light seen there, save that of=
the
tallow candle of the new comer. "Witch's candle is as good as devil's =
torch."
The proverb satisfied the gossips of the neighbourhood.
The woman cultivated some acres of land which
belonged to her. She had a good cow, of the sort which produces yellow butt=
er.
She gathered her white beans, cauliflowers, and "Golden drop"
potatoes. She sold, like other people, her parsnips by the tonneau, her oni=
ons
by the hundred, and her beans by the denerel. She did not go herself to mar=
ket,
but disposed of her crops through the agency of Guilbert Falliot, at the si=
gn
of the Abreveurs of St. Sampson. The register of Falliot bears evidence that
Falliot sold for her, on one occasion, as much as twelve bushels of rare ea=
rly
potatoes.
The house had been meanly repaired; but
sufficiently to make it habitable. It was only in very bad weather that the
rain-drops found their way through the ceilings of the rooms. The interior
consisted of a ground-floor suite of rooms, and a granary overhead. The
ground-floor was divided into three rooms; two for sleeping, and one for me=
als.
A ladder connected it with the granary above. The woman attended to the kit=
chen
and taught the child to read. She did not go to church or chapel, which, all
things considered, led to the conclusion that she must be French not to go =
to a
place of worship. The circumstance was grave. In short, the new comers were=
a
puzzle to the neighbourhood.
That the woman was French seemed probable.
Volcanoes cast forth stones, and revolutions men, so families are removed to
distant places; human beings come to pass their lives far from their native
homes; groups of relatives and friends disperse and decay; strange people f=
all,
as it were, from the clouds--some in Germany, some in England, some in Amer=
ica.
The people of the country view them with surprise and curiosity. Whence come
these strange faces? Yonder mountain, smoking with revolutionary fires, cas=
ts
them out. These barren aërolites, these famished and ruined people, th=
ese
footballs of destiny, are known as refugees, émigrés,
adventurers. If they sojourn among strangers, they are tolerated; if they
depart, there is a feeling of relief. Sometimes these wanderers are harmles=
s,
inoffensive people, strangers--at least, as regards the women--to the events
which have led to their exile, objects of persecution, helpless and astonis=
hed
at their fate. They take root again somewhere as they can. They have done no
harm to any one, and scarcely comprehend the destiny that has befallen them=
. So
thus I have seen a poor tuft of grass uprooted and carried away by the
explosion of a mine. No great explosion was ever followed by more of such
strays than the first French Revolution.
The strange woman whom the Guernsey folks call=
ed
"Gilliatt" was, possibly, one of these human strays.
The woman grew older; the child became a youth.
They lived alone and avoided by all; but they were sufficient for each othe=
r.
Louve et louveteau se pourlèchent. This was another of the generous
proverbs which the neighbourhood applied to them. Meanwhile, the youth grew=
to manhood;
and then, as the old and withered bark falls from the tree, the mother died.
She left to her son the little field of Sergentée, the small property
called La Roque Crespel, and the house known as the Bû de la Rue; with
the addition, as the official inventory said, of "one hundred guineas =
in
gold in the pid d'une cauche," that is to say, in the foot of a stocki=
ng.
The house was already sufficiently furnished with two oaken chests, two bed=
s,
six chairs and a table, besides necessary household utensils. Upon a shelf =
were
some books, and in the corner a trunk, by no means of a mysterious characte=
r,
which had to be opened for the inventory. This trunk was of drab leather,
ornamented with brass nails and little stars of white metal, and it contain=
ed a
bride's outfit, new and complete, of beautiful Dunkirk linen--chemises and
petticoats, and some silk dresses--with a paper on which was written, in the
handwriting of the deceased,--
"For your wife: when you marry."
The loss of his mother was a terrible blow for=
the
young man. His disposition had always been unsociable; he became now moody =
and
sullen. The solitude around him was complete. Hitherto it had been mere iso=
lation;
now his life was a blank. While we have only one companion, life is endurab=
le;
left alone, it seems as if it is impossible to struggle on, and we fall bac=
k in
the race, which is the first sign of despair. As time rolls on, however, we
discover that duty is a series of compromises; we contemplate life, regard =
its
end, and submit; but it is a submission which makes the heart bleed.
Gilliatt was young; and his wound healed with
time. At that age sorrows cannot be lasting. His sadness, disappearing by s=
low
degrees, seemed to mingle itself with the scenes around him, to draw him mo=
re
and more towards the face of nature, and further and further from the need =
of social
converse; and, finally, to assimilate his spirit more completely to the
solitude in which he lived.
=
Gilliatt,
as we have said, was not popular in the parish. Nothing could be more natur=
al
than that antipathy among his neighbours. The reasons for it were abundant.=
To
begin with, as we have already explained, there was the strange house he li=
ved
in; then there was his mysterious origin. Who could that woman have been? a=
nd
what was the meaning of this child? Country people do not like mysteries, w=
hen
they relate to strange sojourners among them. Then his clothes were the clo=
thes
of a workman, while he had, although certainly not rich, sufficient to live
without labour. Then there was his garden, which he succeeded in cultivatin=
g, and
from which he produced crops of potatoes, in spite of the stormy equinoxes;=
and
then there were the big books which he kept upon a shelf, and read from tim=
e to
time.
More reasons: why did he live that solitary li=
fe?
The Bû de la Rue was a kind of lazaretto, in which Gilliatt was kept =
in a
sort of moral quarantine. This, in the popular judgment, made it quite simp=
le
that people should be astonished at his isolation, and should hold him resp=
onsible
for the solitude which society had made around his home.
He never went to chapel. He often went out at
night-time. He held converse with sorcerers. He had been seen, on one occas=
ion,
sitting on the grass with an expression of astonishment on his features. He
haunted the druidical stones of the Ancresse, and the fairy caverns which a=
re scattered
about in that part. It was generally believed that he had been seen politely
saluting the Roque qui Chante, or Crowing Rock. He bought all birds which
people brought to him, and having bought them, set them at liberty. He was
civil to the worthy folks in the streets of St. Sampson, but willingly turn=
ed
out of his way to avoid them if he could. He often went out on fishing
expeditions, and always returned with fish. He trimmed his garden on Sunday=
s.
He had a bagpipe which he had bought from one of the Highland soldiers who =
are
sometimes in Guernsey, and on which he played occasionally at twilight, on =
the rocks
by the seashore. He had been seen to make strange gestures, like those of o=
ne
sowing seeds. What kind of treatment could be expected for a man like that?=
As regards the books left by the deceased woma=
n,
which he was in the habit of reading, the neighbours were particularly
suspicious. The Reverend Jaquemin Hérode, rector of St. Sampson, whe=
n he
visited the house at the time of the woman's funeral, had read on the backs=
of
these books the titles Rosier's Dictionary, Candide, by Voltaire, Advice to=
the
People on Health, by Tissot. A French noble, an émigré, who h=
ad retired
to St. Sampson, remarked that this Tissot, "must have been the Tissot =
who
carried the head of the Princess de Lamballe upon a pike."
The Reverend gentleman had also remarked upon =
one
of these books, the highly fantastic and terribly significant title, De
Rhubarbaro.
In justice to Gilliatt, however, it must be ad=
ded
that this volume being in Latin--a language which it is doubtful if he
understood--the young man had possibly never read it.
But it is just those books which a man possess=
es,
but does not read, which constitute the most suspicious evidence against hi=
m.
The Spanish Inquisition have deliberated on that point, and have come to a =
conclusion
which places the matter beyond further doubt.
The book in question, however, was no other th=
an
the treatise of Doctor Tilingius upon the rhubarb plant, published in Germa=
ny
in 1679.
It was by no means certain that Gilliatt did n=
ot
prepare philters and unholy decoctions. He was undoubtedly in possession of
certain phials.
Why did he walk abroad at evening, and sometim=
es
even at midnight, on the cliffs? Evidently to hold converse with the evil
spirits who, by night, frequent the seashores, enveloped in smoke.
On one occasion he had aided a witch at Tortev=
al
to clean her chaise: this was an old woman named Moutonne Gahy.
When a census was taken in the island, in answ=
er
to a question about his calling, he replied, "Fisherman; when there are
fish to catch." Imagine yourself in the place of Gilliatt's neighbours,
and admit that there is something unpleasant in answers like this.
Poverty and wealth are comparative terms. Gill=
iatt
had some fields and a house, his own property; compared with those who had
nothing, he was not poor. One day, to test this, and perhaps, also as a step
towards a correspondence--for there are base women who would marry a demon =
for
the sake of riches--a young girl of the neighbourhood said to Gilliatt, &qu=
ot;When
are you going to take a wife, neighbour?" He answered, "I will ta=
ke a
wife when the Roque qui Chante takes a husband."
This Roque qui Chante is a great stone, standi=
ng
in a field near Mons. Lemézurier de Fry's. It is a stone of a highly
suspicious character. No one knows what deeds are done around it. At times =
you
may hear there a cock crowing, when no cock is near--an extremely disagreea=
ble circumstance.
Then it is commonly asserted that this stone was originally placed in the f=
ield
by the elfin people known as Sarregousets, who are the same as the Sins.
At night, when it thunders, if you should happ=
en
to see men flying in the lurid light of the clouds, or on the rolling waves=
of
the air, these are no other than the Sarregousets. A woman who lives at the
Grand Mielles knows them well. One evening, when some Sarregousets happened=
to be
assembled at a crossroad, this woman cried out to a man with a cart, who did
not know which route to take, "Ask them your way. They are civil folks,
and always ready to direct a stranger." There can be little doubt that
this woman was a sorceress.
The learned and judicious King James I. had wo=
men
of this kind boiled, and then tasting the water of the cauldron, was able to
say from its flavour, "That was a sorceress;" or "That was n=
ot
one."
It is to be regretted that the kings of these =
latter
days no longer possess a talent which placed in so strong a light the utili=
ty
of monarchical institutions.
It was not without substantial grounds that
Gilliatt lived in this odour of sorcery. One midnight, during a storm, Gill=
iatt
being at sea alone in a bark, on the coast by La Sommeilleuse, he was heard=
to
ask--
"Is there a passage sufficient for me?&qu=
ot;
And a voice cried from the heights above:
"Passage enough: steer boldly."
To whom could he have been speaking, if not to
those who replied to him? This seems something like evidence.
Another time, one stormy evening, when it was =
so
dark that nothing could be distinguished, Gilliatt was near the Catiau Roqu=
e--a
double row of rocks where witches, goats, and other diabolical creatures
assemble and dance on Fridays--and here, it is firmly believed, that the vo=
ice
of Gilliatt was heard mingling in the following terrible conversation:--
"How is Vesin Brovard?" (This was a
mason who had fallen from the roof of a house.)
"He is getting better."
"Ver dia! he fell from a greater height t=
han
that of yonder peak. It is delightful to think that he was not dashed to
pieces."
"Our folks had a fine time for the seaweed
gathering last week."
"Ay, finer than to-day."
"I believe you. There will be little fish=
at the
market to-day."
"It blows too hard."
"They can't lower their nets."
"How is Catherine?"
"She is charming."
Catherine was evidently the name of a Sarregou=
set.
According to all appearance, Gilliatt had busi=
ness
on hand at night: at least none doubted it.
Sometimes he was seen with a pitcher in his ha=
nd,
pouring water on the ground. Now water, cast upon the ground, is known to m=
ake
a shape like that of devils.
On the road to St. Sampson, opposite the Marte=
llo
tower, number 1, stand three stones, arranged in the form of steps. Upon the
platform of those stones, now empty, stood anciently a cross, or perhaps a
gallows. These stones are full of evil influences.
Staid and worthy people, and perfectly credible witnesses, testified to having seen Gilliatt at this spot conversing with a toad. Now there are no toads at Guernsey. The share of Guernsey in the rept= iles of the Channel Isles consisting exclusively of the snakes. It is Jersey tha= t has all the toads. This toad, then, must have swum from the neighbouring island= , in order to hold converse with Gilliatt. The converse was of a friendly kind.<= o:p>
These facts were clearly established; and the
proof is that the three stones are there to this day. Those who doubt it ma=
y go
and see them; and at a little distance, there is also a house on which the
passer-by may read this inscription:--
"DEALER IN CATTLE, ALIVE AND DEAD, OLD
CORDAGE, IRON, BONES, AND TOBACCO FOR CHEWING, PROMPT PAYMENT FOR GOODS, AND
EVERY ATTENTION GIVEN TO ORDERS."
A man must be sceptical indeed to contest the
existence of those stones, and of the house in question. Now both these
circumstances were injurious to the reputation of Gilliatt.
Only the most ignorant are unaware of the fact
that the greatest danger of the coasts of the Channel Islands is the King of
the Auxcriniers. No inhabitant of the seas is more redoubtable. Whoever has
seen him is certain to be wrecked between one St. Michel and the other. He =
is little,
being in fact a dwarf; and is deaf, in his quality of king. He knows the na=
mes
of all those who have been drowned in the seas, and the spots where they li=
e.
He has a profound knowledge of that great graveyard which stretches far and
wide beneath the waters of the ocean. A head, massive in the lower part and
narrow in the forehead; a squat and corpulent figure; a skull, covered with
warty excrescences; long legs, long arms, fins for feet, claws for hands, a=
nd a
sea-green countenance; such are the chief characteristics of this king of t=
he waves.
His claws have palms like hands; his fins human nails. Imagine a spectral f=
ish
with the face of a human being. No power could check his career unless he c=
ould
be exorcised, or mayhap, fished up from the sea. Meanwhile he continues his
sinister operations. Nothing is more unpleasant than an interview with this
monster: amid the rolling waves and breakers, or in the thick of the mist, =
the
sailor perceives, sometimes, a strange creature with a beetle brow, wide
nostrils, flattened ears, an enormous mouth, gap-toothed jaws, peaked eyebr=
ows,
and great grinning eyes. When the lightning is livid, he appears red; when =
it
is purple, he looks wan. He has a stiff spreading beard, running with water,
and overlapping a sort of pelerine, ornamented with fourteen shells, seven
before and seven behind. These shells are curious to those who are learned =
in
conchology. The King of the Auxcriniers is only seen in stormy seas. He is =
the
terrible harbinger of the tempest. His hideous form traces itself in the fo=
g,
in the squall, in the tempest of rain. His breast is hideous. A coat of sca=
les
covers his sides like a vest. He rises above the waves which fly before the
wind, twisting and curling like thin shavings of wood beneath the carpenter=
's
plane. Then his entire form issues out of the foam, and if there should hap=
pen
to be in the horizon any vessels in distress, pale in the twilight, or his =
face
lighted up with a sinister smile, he dances terrible and uncouth to behold.=
It
is an evil omen indeed to meet him on a voyage.
At the period when the people of St. Sampson w=
ere
particularly excited on the subject of Gilliatt, the last persons who had s=
een
the King of the Auxcriniers declared that his pelerine was now ornamented w=
ith
only thirteen shells. Thirteen! He was only the more dangerous. But what ha=
d become
of the fourteenth? Had he given it to some one? No one would say positively;
and folks confined themselves to conjecture. But it was an undoubted fact t=
hat
a certain Mons. Lupin Mabier, of Godaines, a man of property, paying a good=
sum
to the land tax, was ready to depose on oath, that he had once seen in the
hands of Gilliatt a very remarkable kind of shell.
It was not uncommon to hear dialogues like the
following among the country people:--
"I have a fine bull here, neighbour, what=
do
you say?"
"Very fine, neighbour?"
"It is a fact, tho' 'tis I who say it; he=
is
better though for tallow than for meat."
"Ver dia!"
"Are you sure that Gilliatt hasn't cast h=
is
eye upon it?"
Gilliatt would stop sometimes beside a field w=
here
some labourers were assembled, or near gardens in which gardeners were enga=
ged,
and would perhaps hear these mysterious words:
"When the mors du diable flourishes, reap=
the
winter rye."
(The mors du diable is the scabwort plant.)
"The ash tree is coming out in leaf. There
will be no more frost."
"Summer solstice, thistle in flower."=
;
"If it rain not in June, the wheat will t=
urn
white. Look out for mildew."
"When the wild cherry appears, beware of =
the
full moon."
"If the weather on the sixth day of the n=
ew
moon is like that of the fourth, or like that of the fifth day, it will be =
the
same nine times out of twelve, in the first case, and eleven times out of
twelve in the second, during the whole month."
"Keep your eye on neighbours who go to law
with you. Beware of malicious influences. A pig which has had warm milk giv=
en
to it will die. A cow which has had its teeth rubbed with leeks will eat no
more."
"Spawning time with the smelts; beware of
fevers."
"When frogs begin to appear, sow your
melons."
"When the liverwort flowers, sow your
barley."
"When the limes are in bloom, mow the
meadows."
"When the elm-tree flowers, open the hot-=
bed
frames."
"When tobacco fields are in blossom, close
your greenhouses."
And, fearful to relate, these occult precepts =
were
not without truth. Those who put faith in them could vouch for the fact.
One night, in the month of June, when Gilliatt=
was
playing upon his bagpipe, upon the sand-hills on the shore of the Demie de
Fontenelle, it had happened that the mackerel fishing had failed.
One evening, at low water, it came to pass tha=
t a
cart filled with seaweed for manure overturned on the beach, in front of
Gilliatt's house. It is most probable that he was afraid of being brought
before the magistrates, for he took considerable trouble in helping to rais=
e the
cart, and he filled it again himself.
A little neglected child of the neighbourhood
being troubled with vermin, he had gone himself to St. Peter's Port, and had
returned with an ointment, with which he rubbed the child's head. Thus Gill=
iatt
had removed the pest from the poor child, which was an evidence that Gillia=
tt
himself had originally given it; for everybody knows that there is a certain
charm for giving vermin to people.
Gilliatt was suspected of looking into wells--a
dangerous practice with those who have an evil eye; and, in fact, at Arculo=
ns,
near St. Peter's Port, the water of a well became unwholesome. The good wom=
an
to whom this well belonged said to Gilliatt:
"Look here, at this water;" and she
showed him a glassful. Gilliatt acknowledged it.
"The water is thick," he said;
"that is true."
The good woman, who dreaded him in her heart,
said, "Make it sweet again for me."
Gilliatt asked her some questions: whether she=
had
a stable? whether the stable had a drain? whether the gutter of the drain d=
id
not pass near the well? The good woman replied "Yes." Gilliatt we=
nt
into the stable; worked at the drain; turned the gutter in another directio=
n;
and the water became pure again. People in the country round might think wh=
at they
pleased. A well does not become foul one moment and sweet the next without =
good
cause; the bottom of the affair was involved in obscurity; and, in short, it
was difficult to escape the conclusion that Gilliatt himself had bewitched =
the
water.
On one occasion, when he went to Jersey, it was
remarked that he had taken a lodging in the street called the Rue des Alleu=
rs.
Now the word alleurs signifies spirits from the other world.
In villages it is the custom to gather together
all these little hints and indications of a man's career; and when they are
gathered together, the total constitutes his reputation among the inhabitan=
ts.
It happened that Gilliatt was once caught with
blood issuing from his nose. The circumstances appeared grave. The master o=
f a
barque who had sailed almost entirely round the world, affirmed that among =
the Tongusians
all sorcerers were subject to bleeding at the nose. In fact, when you see a=
man
in those parts bleeding at the nose, you know at once what is in the wind.
Moderate reasoners, however, remarked that the characteristics of sorcerers
among the Tongusians may possibly not apply in the same degree to the sorce=
rers
of Guernsey.
In the environs of one of the St. Michels, he =
had
been seen to stop in a close belonging to the Huriaux, skirting the highway
from the Videclins. He whistled in the field, and a moment afterwards a crow
alighted there; a moment later, a magpie. The fact was attested by a worthy=
man
who has since been appointed to the office of Douzenier of the Douzaine, as=
those
are called who are authorised to make a new survey and register of the fief=
of
the king.
At Hamel, in the Vingtaine of L'Epine, there l=
ived
some old women who were positive of having heard one morning a number of
swallows distinctly calling "Gilliatt."
Add to all this that he was of a malicious tem=
per.
One day, a poor man was beating an ass. The ass
was obstinate. The poor man gave him a few kicks in the belly with his wood=
en
shoe, and the ass fell. Gilliatt ran to raise the unlucky beast, but he was
dead. Upon this Gilliatt administered to the poor man a sound thrashing.
Another day, Gilliatt seeing a boy come down f=
rom
a tree with a brood of little birds, newly hatched and unfledged, he took t=
he
brood away from the boy, and carried his malevolence so far as even to take
them back and replace them in the tree.
Some passers-by took up the boy's complaint; b=
ut
Gilliatt made no reply, except to point to the old birds, who were hovering=
and
crying plaintively over the tree, as they looked for their nest. He had a w=
eakness
for birds--another sign by which the people recognise a magician.
Children take a pleasure in robbing the nests =
of
birds along the cliff. They bring home quantities of yellow, blue, and green
eggs, with which they make rosaries for mantelpiece ornaments. As the cliffs
are peaked, they sometimes slip and are killed. Nothing is prettier than
shutters decorated with sea-birds' eggs. Gilliatt's mischievous ingenuity h=
ad
no end. He would climb, at the peril of his own life, into the steep places=
of
the sea rocks, and hang up bundles of hay, old hats, and all kinds of scare=
crows,
to deter the birds from building there, and, as a consequence, to prevent t=
he
children from visiting those spots.
These are some of the reasons why Gilliatt was
disliked throughout the country. Perhaps nothing less could have been expec=
ted.
=
Public
opinion was not yet quite settled with regard to Gilliatt.
In general he was regarded as a Marcou: some w=
ent
so far as to believe him to be a Cambion. A cambion is the child of a woman
begotten by a devil.
When a woman bears to her husband seven male
children consecutively, the seventh is a marcou. But the series must not be
broken by the birth of any female child.
The marcou has a natural fleur-de-lys imprinted
upon some part of his body; for which reason he has the power of curing
scrofula, exactly the same as the King of France. Marcous are found in all
parts of France, but particularly in the Orléanais. Every village of
Gâtinais has its marcou. It is sufficient for the cure of the sick th=
at
the marcou should breathe upon their wounds, or let them touch his
fleur-de-lys. The night of Good Friday is particularly favourable to these
ceremonies. Ten years ago there lived, at Ormes in Gâtinais, one of t=
hese
creatures who was nicknamed the Beau Marcou, and consulted by all the count=
ry
of Beauce. He was a cooper, named Foulon, who kept a horse and vehicle. To =
put
a stop to his miracles, it was found necessary to call in the assistance of=
the
gendarmes. His fleur-de-lys was on the left breast; other marcous have it in
different parts.
There are marcous at Jersey, Auvigny, and at
Guernsey. This fact is doubtless in some way connected with the rights
possessed by France over Normandy: or why the fleur-de-lys?
There are also, in the Channel Islands, people
afflicted with scrofula; which of course necessitates a due supply of these
marcous.
Some people, who happened to be present one day
when Gilliatt was bathing in the sea, had fancied that they could perceive =
upon
him a fleur-de-lys. Interrogated on that subject he made no reply, but mere=
ly burst
into laughter. For he laughed sometimes like other men. From that time,
however, no one ever saw him bathe: he bathed thenceforth only in perilous =
and
solitary places; probably by moonlight: a thing in itself somewhat suspicio=
us.
Those who obstinately regarded him as a cambio= n, or son of the devil, were evidently in error. They ought to have known that cambions scarcely exist out of Germany. But The Vale and St. Sampson were, fifty years ago, places remarkable for the ignorance of their inhabitants.<= o:p>
To fancy that a resident of the island of Guer=
nsey
could be the son of a devil was evidently absurd.
Gilliatt, for the very reason that he caused
disquietude among the people, was sought for and consulted. The peasants ca=
me
in fear, to talk to him of their diseases. That fear itself had in it somet=
hing
of faith in his powers; for in the country, the more the doctor is suspecte=
d of
magic, the more certain is the cure. Gilliatt had certain remedies of his o=
wn,
which he had inherited from the deceased woman. He communicated them to all=
who
had need of them, and would never receive money for them. He cured whitlows
with applications of herbs. A liquor in one of his phials allayed fever. The
chemist of St. Sampson, or pharmacien, as they would call him in France,
thought that this was probably a decoction of Jesuits' bark. The more gener=
ous
among his censors admitted that Gilliatt was not so bad a demon in his deal=
ings
with the sick, so far as regarded his ordinary remedies. But in his charact=
er
of a marcou, he would do nothing. If persons afflicted with scrofula came to
him to ask to touch the fleur-de-lys on his skin, he made no other answer t=
han that
of shutting the door in their faces. He persistently refused to perform any
miracles--a ridiculous position for a sorcerer. No one is bound to be a
sorcerer; but when a man is one, he ought not to shirk the duties of his
position.
One or two exceptions might be found to this
almost universal antipathy. Sieur Landoys, of the Clos-Landés, was c=
lerk
and registrar of St. Peter's Port, custodian of the documents, and keeper of
the register of births, marriages, and deaths. This Landoys was vain of his
descent from Peter Landoys, treasurer of the province of Brittany, who was
hanged in 1485. One day, when Sieur Landoys was bathing in the sea, he vent=
ured
to swim out too far, and was on the point of drowning: Gilliatt plunged into
the water, narrowly escaping drowning himself, and succeeded in saving him.
From that day Landoys never spoke an evil word of Gilliatt. To those who
expressed surprise at this change, he replied, "Why should I detest a =
man
who never did me any harm, and who has rendered me a service?" The par=
ish
clerk and registrar even came at last to feel a sort of friendship for
Gilliatt. This public functionary was a man without prejudices. He had no f=
aith
in sorcerers. He laughed at people who went in fear of ghostly visitors. As=
for
him, he had a boat in which he amused himself by making fishing excursions =
in
his leisure hours; but he had never seen anything extraordinary, unless it =
was
on one occasion--a woman clothed in white, who rose about the waters in the
light of the moon--and even of this circumstance he was not quite sure.
Moutonne Gahy, the old witch of Torteval, had given him a little bag to be =
worn
under the cravat, as a protection against evil spirits: he ridiculed the ba=
g,
and knew not what it contained, though, to be sure, he carried it about him,
feeling more security with this charm hanging on his neck.
Some courageous persons, emboldened by the exa=
mple
of Landoys, ventured to cite, in Gilliatt's favour, certain extenuating
circumstances; a few signs of good qualities, as his sobriety, his abstinen=
ce from
spirits and tobacco; and sometimes they went so far as to pass this elegant=
eulogium
upon him: "He neither smokes, drinks, chews tobacco, or takes snuff.&q=
uot;
Sobriety, however, can only count as a virtue =
when
there are other virtues to support it.
The ban of public opinion lay heavily upon
Gilliatt.
In any case, as a marcou, Gilliatt had it in h=
is
power to render great services. On a certain Good Friday, at midnight, a day
and an hour propitious to this kind of cure, all the scrofulous people of t=
he island,
either by sudden inspiration, or by concerted action, presented themselves =
in a
crowd at the Bû de la Rue, and with pitiable sores and imploring
gestures, called on Gilliatt to make them clean. But he refused; and herein=
the
people found another proof of his malevolence.
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%'>VI - =
THE
DUTCH SLOOP
=
Such
was the character of Gilliatt.
The young women considered him ugly.
Ugly he was not. He might, perhaps, have been
called handsome. There was something in his profile of rude but antique gra=
ce.
In repose it had some resemblance to that of a sculptured Dacian on the Tra=
jan
column. His ears were small, delicate, without lobes, and of an admirable f=
orm for
hearing. Between his eyes he had that proud vertical line which indicates i=
n a
man boldness and perseverance. The corners of his mouth were depressed, giv=
ing
a slight expression of bitterness. His forehead had a calm and noble roundn=
ess.
The clear pupils of his eyes possessed a steadfast look, although troubled a
little with that involuntary movement of the eyelids which fishermen contra=
ct
from the glitter of the waves. His laugh was boyish and pleasing. No ivory
could be of a finer white than his teeth; but exposure to the sun had made =
him
swarthy as a moor. The ocean, the tempest, and the darkness cannot be braved
with impunity. At thirty he looked already like a man of forty-five. He wor=
e the
sombre mask of the wind and the sea.
The people had nicknamed him "Malicious
Gilliatt."
There is an Indian fable to the effect that one
day the god Brahma inquired of the Spirit of Power, "Who is stronger t=
han
thee?" and the spirit replied "Cunning." A Chinese proverb s=
ays,
"What could not the lion do, if he was the monkey also?" Gilliatt=
was
neither the lion nor the monkey; but his actions gave some evidence of the =
truth
of the Chinese proverb, and of the Hindoo fable. Although only of ordinary =
height
and strength, he was enabled, so inventive and powerful was his dexterity, =
to
lift burdens that might have taxed a giant, and to accomplish feats which w=
ould
have done credit to an athlete.
He had in him something of the power of the
gymnast. He used, with equal address, his left hand and his right.
He never carried a gun; but was often seen with
his net. He spared the birds, but not the fish. Ill-luck to these dumb crea=
tures!
He was an excellent swimmer.
Solitude either develops the mental powers, or
renders men dull and vicious. Gilliatt sometimes presented himself under bo=
th
these aspects. At times, when his features wore that air of strange surprise
already mentioned, he might have been taken for a man of mental powers scar=
cely
superior to the savage. At other moments an indescribable air of penetration
lighted up his face. Ancient Chaldea possessed some men of this stamp. At
certain times the dullness of the shepherd mind became transparent, and
revealed the inspired sage.
After all, he was but a poor man; uninstructed,
save to the extent of reading and writing. It is probable that the conditio=
n of
his mind was at that limit which separates the dreamer from the thinker. The
thinker wills, the dreamer is a passive instrument. Solitude sinks deeply i=
nto pure
natures, and modifies them in a certain degree. They become, unconsciously,
penetrated with a kind of sacred awe. The shadow in which the mind of Gilli=
att
constantly dwelt was composed in almost equal degrees of two elements, both
obscure, but very different. Within himself all was ignorance and weakness;
without, infinity and mysterious power.
By dint of frequent climbing on the rocks, of
escalading the rugged cliffs, of going to and fro among the islands in all
weathers, of navigating any sort of craft which came to hand, of venturing
night and day in difficult channels, he had become, without taking count of=
his
other advantages, and merely in following his fancy and pleasure, a seaman =
of
extraordinary skill.
He was a born pilot. The true pilot is the man=
who
navigates the bed of the ocean even more than its surface. The waves of the=
sea
are an external problem, continually modified by the submarine conditions o=
f the
waters in which the vessel is making her way. To see Gilliatt guiding his c=
raft
among the reefs and shallows of the Norman Archipelago, one might have fanc=
ied
that he carried in his head a plan of the bottom of the sea. He was familiar
with it all, and feared nothing.
He was better acquainted with the buoys in the
channels than the cormorants who make them their resting-places. The almost
imperceptible differences which distinguish the four upright buoys of the
Creux, Alligande, the Trémies, and the Sardrette, were perfectly vis=
ible
and clear to him, even in misty weather. He hesitated neither at the oval, =
apple-headed
buoy of Anfré, nor at the triple iron point of the Rousse, nor at the
white ball of the Corbette, nor at the black ball of Longue Pierre; and the=
re
was no fear of his confounding the cross of Goubeau with the sword planted =
in
earth at La Platte, nor the hammer-shaped buoy of the Barbées with t=
he
curled-tail buoy of the Moulinet.
His rare skill in seamanship showed itself in a
striking manner one day at Guernsey, on the occasion of one of those sea
tournaments which are called regattas. The feat to be performed was to navi=
gate
alone a boat with four sails from St. Sampson to the Isle of Herm, at one
league distance, and to bring the boat back from Herm to St. Sampson. To ma=
nage,
without assistance, a boat with four sails, is a feat which every fisherman=
is
equal to, and the difficulty seemed little; but there was a condition which
rendered it far from simple. The boat, to begin with, was one of those large
and heavy sloops of bygone times which the sailors of the last century knew=
by
the name of "Dutch Belly Boats." This ancient style of flat,
pot-bellied craft, carrying on the larboard and starboard sides, in
compensation for the want of a keel, two wings, which lowered themselves,
sometimes the one, sometimes the other, according to the wind, may occasion=
ally
be met with still at sea. In the second place, there was the return from He=
rm,
a journey which was rendered more difficult by a heavy ballasting of stones.
The conditions were to go empty, but to return loaded. The sloop was the pr=
ize
of the contest. It was dedicated beforehand to the winner. This "Dutch
Belly Boat" had been employed as a pilot-boat. The pilot who had rigged
and worked it for twenty years was the most robust of all the sailors of th=
e channel.
When he died no one had been found capable of managing the sloop; and it wa=
s,
in consequence, determined to make it the prize of the regatta. The sloop,
though not decked, had some sea qualities, and was a tempting prize for a
skilful sailor. Her mast was somewhat forward, which increased the motive-p=
ower
of her sails; besides having the advantage of not being in the way of her
pilot. It was a strong-built vessel, heavy, but roomy, and taking the open =
sea
well; in fact, a good, serviceable craft. There was eager anxiety for the
prize; the task was a rough one, but the reward of success was worth having=
. Seven
or eight fishermen, among the most vigorous of the island, presented themse=
lves.
One by one they essayed; but not one could succeed in reaching Herm. The la=
st
one who tried his skill was known for having crossed, in a rowing-boat, the
terrible narrow sea between Sark and Brecq-Hou. Sweating with his exertions=
, he
brought back the sloop, and said, "It is impossible." Gilliatt th=
en
entered the bark, seized first of all the oar, then the mainsail, and pushed
out to sea. Then, without either making fast the boom, which would have been
imprudent, or letting it go, which kept the sail under his direction, and
leaving the boom to move with the wind without drifting, he held the tiller
with his left hand. In three quarters of an hour he was at Herm. Three hours
later, although a strong breeze had sprung up and was blowing across the ro=
ads,
the sloop, guided by Gilliatt, returned to St. Sampson with its load of sto=
nes.
He had, with an extravagant display of his resources, even added to the car=
go
the little bronze cannon at Herm, which the people were in the habit of fir=
ing
off on the 5th of November, by way of rejoicing over the death of Guy Fawke=
s.
Guy Fawkes, by the way, has been dead two hund=
red
and sixty years; a remarkably long period of rejoicing.
Gilliatt, thus burdened and encumbered, althou=
gh
he had the Guy Fawkes'-day cannon in the boat and the south wind in his sai=
ls, steered,
or rather brought back, the heavy craft to St. Sampson.
Seeing which, Mess Lethierry exclaimed,
"There's a bold sailor for you!"
And he held out his hand to Gilliatt.
We shall have occasion to speak again of Mess
Lethierry.
The sloop was awarded to Gilliatt.
This adventure detracted nothing from his evil
reputation.
Several persons declared that the feat was not=
at
all astonishing, for that Gilliatt had concealed in the boat a branch of wi=
ld
medlar. But this could not be proved.
From that day forward, Gilliatt navigated no b=
oat
except the old sloop. In this heavy craft he went on his fishing avocation.=
He
kept it at anchor in the excellent little shelter which he had all to himse=
lf, under
the very wall of his house of the Bû de la Rue. At nightfall, he cast=
his
nets over his shoulder, traversed his little garden, climbed over the parap=
et
of dry stones, stepped lightly from rock to rock, and jumping into the sloo=
p,
pushed out to sea.
He brought home heavy takes of fish; but people
said that his medlar branch was always hanging up in the boat. No one had e=
ver
seen this branch, but every one believed in its existence.
When he had more fish than he wanted, he did n=
ot
sell it, but gave it away.
The poor people took his gift, but were little
grateful, for they knew the secret of his medlar branch. Such devices canno=
t be
permitted. It is unlawful to trick the sea out of its treasures.
He was a fisherman; but he was something more.=
He
had, by instinct, or for amusement, acquired a knowledge of three or four
trades. He was a carpenter, worker in iron, wheelwright, boat-caulker, and,=
to
some extent, an engineer. No one could mend a broken wheel better than he c=
ould.
He manufactured, in a fashion of his own, all the things which fishermen us=
e.
In a corner of the Bû de la Rue he had a small forge and an anvil; and
the sloop having but one anchor, he had succeeded, without help, in making
another. The anchor was excellent. The ring had the necessary strength; and=
Gilliatt,
though entirely uninstructed in this branch of the smith's art, had found t=
he
exact dimensions of the stock for preventing the over-balancing of the fluke
ends.
He had patiently replaced all the nails in the
planks by rivets; which rendered rust in the holes impossible.
In this way he had much improved the sea-going
qualities of the sloop. He employed it sometimes when he took a fancy to sp=
end
a month or two in some solitary islet, like Chousey or the Casquets. People
said, "Ay! ay! Gilliatt is away;" but this was a circumstance whi=
ch
nobody regretted.
=
Gilliatt
was a man of dreams, hence his daring, hence also his timidity. He had idea=
s on
many things which were peculiarly his own.
There was in his character, perhaps, something=
of
the visionary and the transcendentalist. Hallucinations may haunt the poor
peasant like Martin, no less than the king like Henry IV. There are times w=
hen
the unknown reveals itself in a mysterious way to the spirit of man. A sudd=
en
rent in the veil of darkness will make manifest things hitherto unseen, and
then close again upon the mysteries within. Such visions have occasionally =
the
power to effect a transfiguration in those whom they visit. They convert a =
poor
camel-driver into a Mahomet; a peasant girl tending her goats into a Joan of
Arc. Solitude generates a certain amount of sublime exaltation. It is like =
the
smoke arising from the burning bush. A mysterious lucidity of mind results,
which converts the student into a seer, and the poet into a prophet: herein=
we
find a key to the mysteries of Horeb, Kedron, Ombos; to the intoxication of=
Castilian
laurels, the revelations of the month Busion. Hence, too, we have Peleia at
Dodona, Phemonoe at Delphos, Trophonius in Lebadea, Ezekiel on the Chebar, =
and
Jerome in the Thetais.
More frequently this visionary state overwhelms and stupefies its victim. There is such a thing as a divine besottedness. T= he Hindoo fakir bears about with him the burden of his vision, as the Cretin h= is goître. Luther holding converse with devils in his garret at Wittenbu= rg; Pascal shutting out the view of the infernal regions with the screen of his= cabinet; the African Obi conversing with the white-faced god Bossum; are each and all the same phenomenon, diversely interpreted by the minds in which they manif= est themselves, according to their capacity and power. Luther and Pascal were grand, and are grand still; the Obi is simply a poor half-witted creature.<= o:p>
Gilliatt was neither so exalted nor so low. He=
was
a dreamer: nothing more.
Nature presented itself to him under a somewhat
strange aspect.
Just as he had often found in the perfectly li=
mpid
water of the sea strange creatures of considerable size and of various shap=
es,
of the Medusa genus, which out of the water bore a resemblance to soft crys=
tal,
and which, cast again into the sea, became lost to sight in that medium by
reason of their identity in transparency and colour, so he imagined that ot=
her
transparencies, similar to these almost invisible denizens of the ocean, mi=
ght
probably inhabit the air around us. The birds are scarcely inhabitants of t=
he
air, but rather amphibious creatures passing much of their lives upon the
earth. Gilliatt could not believe the air a mere desert. He used to say,
"Since the water is filled with life, why not the atmosphere?"
Creatures colourless and transparent like the air would escape from our
observation. What proof have we that there are no such creatures? Analogy
indicates that the liquid fields of air must have their swimming habitants,
even as the waters of the deep. These aerial fish would, of course, be
diaphanous; a provision of their wise Creator for our sakes as well as their
own. Allowing the light to pass through their forms, casting no shadow, hav=
ing
no defined outline, they would necessarily remain unknown to us, and beyond=
the
grasp of human sense. Gilliatt indulged the wild fancy that if it were poss=
ible
to exhaust the earth of its atmosphere, or if we could fish the air as we f=
ish
the depths of the sea, we should discover the existence of a multitude of
strange animals. And then, he would add in his reverie, many things would be
made clear.
Reverie, which is thought in its nebulous stat=
e,
borders closely upon the land of sleep, by which it is bounded as by a natu=
ral
frontier. The discovery of a new world, in the form of an atmosphere filled
with transparent creatures, would be the beginning of a knowledge of the va=
st unknown.
But beyond opens up the illimitable domain of the possible, teeming with yet
other beings, and characterised by other phenomena. All this would be nothi=
ng
supernatural, but merely the occult continuation of the infinite variety of
creation. In the midst of that laborious idleness, which was the chief feat=
ure
in his existence, Gilliatt was singularly observant. He even carried his
observations into the domain of sleep. Sleep has a close relation with the
possible, which we call also the invraisemblable. The world of sleep has an
existence of its own. Night-time, regarded as a separate sphere of creation=
, is
a universe in itself. The material nature of man, upon which philosophers t=
ell
us that a column of air forty-five miles in height continually presses, is
wearied out at night, sinks into lassitude, lies down, and finds repose. The
eyes of the flesh are closed; but in that drooping head, less inactive than=
is
supposed, other eyes are opened. The unknown reveals itself. The shadowy
existences of the invisible world become more akin to man; whether it be th=
at
there is a real communication, or whether things far off in the unfathomable
abyss are mysteriously brought nearer, it seems as if the impalpable creatu=
res
inhabiting space come then to contemplate our natures, curious to comprehend
the denizens of the earth. Some phantom creation ascends or descends to walk
beside us in the dim twilight: some existence altogether different from our=
own,
composed partly of human consciousness, partly of something else, quits his
fellows and returns again, after presenting himself for a moment to our inw=
ard
sight; and the sleeper, not wholly slumbering, nor yet entirely conscious,
beholds around him strange manifestations of life--pale spectres, terrible =
or
smiling, dismal phantoms, uncouth masks, unknown faces, hydra-headed monste=
rs,
undefined shapes, reflections of moonlight where there is no moon, vague
fragments of monstrous forms. All these things which come and go in the
troubled atmosphere of sleep, and to which men give the name of dreams, are=
, in
truth, only realities invisible to those who walk about the daylight world.=
The
dream-world is the Aquarium of Night.
So, at least, thought Gilliatt.
=
The
curious visitor, in these days, would seek in vain in the little bay of Hou=
met
for the house in which Gilliatt lived, or for his garden, or the creek in w=
hich
he sheltered the Dutch sloop. The Bû de la Rue no longer exists. Even=
the
little peninsula on which his house stood has vanished, levelled by the pic=
kaxe
of the quarryman, and carried away, cart-load by cart-load, by dealers in r=
ock
and granite. It must be sought now in the churches, the palaces, and the qu=
ays
of a great city. All that ridge of rocks has been long ago conveyed to Lond=
on.
These long lines of broken cliffs in the sea, =
with
their frequent gaps and crevices, are like miniature chains of mountains. T=
hey
strike the eye with the impression which a giant may be supposed to have in=
contemplating
the Cordilleras. In the language of the country they are called
"Banques." These banques vary considerably in form. Some resemble=
a
long spine, of which each rock forms one of the vertebræ; others are =
like
the backbone of a fish; while some bear an odd resemblance to a crocodile in
the act of drinking.
At the extremity of the ridge on which the
Bû de la Rue was situate, was a large rock, which the fishing people =
of
Houmet called the "Beast's Horn." This rock, a sort of pyramid,
resembled, though less in height, the "Pinnacle" of Jersey. At hi=
gh
water the sea divided it from the ridge, and the Horn stood alone; at low w=
ater
it was approached by an isthmus of rocks. The remarkable feature of this
"Beast's Horn" was a sort of natural seat on the side next the se=
a,
hollowed out by the water, and polished by the rains. The seat, however, wa=
s a
treacherous one. The stranger was insensibly attracted to it by "the
beauty of the prospect," as the Guernsey folks said. Something detained
him there in spite of himself, for there is a charm in a wide view. The seat
seemed to offer itself for his convenience; it formed a sort of niche in th=
e peaked
façade of the rock. To climb up to it was easy, for the sea, which h=
ad
fashioned it out of its rocky base, had also cast beneath it, at convenient
distances, a kind of natural stairs composed of flat stones. The perilous a=
byss
is full of these snares; beware, therefore, of its proffered aids. The spot=
was
tempting: the stranger mounted and sat down. There he found himself at his
ease; for his seat he had the granite rounded and hollowed out by the foam;=
for
supports, two rocky elbows which seemed made expressly for him; against his
back, the high vertical wall of rock which he looked up to and admired, wit=
hout
thinking of the impossibility of scaling it. Nothing could be more simple t=
han
to fall into reverie in that convenient resting-place. All around spread the
wide sea; far off the ships were seen passing to and fro. It was possible to
follow a sail with the eye, till it sank in the horizon beyond the Casquets.
The stranger was entranced: he looked around, enjoying the beauty of the sc=
ene,
and the light touch of wind and wave. There is a sort of bat found at Cayen=
ne,
which has the power of fanning people to sleep in the shade with a gentle
beating of its dusky wings. Like this strange creature the wind wanders abo=
ut, alternately
ravaging or lulling into security. So the stranger would continue contempla=
ting
the sea, listening for a movement in the air, and yielding himself up to dr=
eamy
indolence. When the eyes are satiated with light and beauty, it is a luxury=
to
close them for awhile. Suddenly the loiterer would arouse; but it was too l=
ate.
The sea had crept up step by step; the waters surrounded the rock; the stra=
nger
had been lured on to his death.
A terrible rock was this in a rising sea.
The tide gathers at first insensibly, then with
violence; when it touches the rocks a sudden wrath seems to possess it, and=
it
foams. Swimming is difficult in the breakers: excellent swimmers have been =
lost
at the Horn of the Bû de la Rue.
In certain places, and at certain periods, the
aspect of the sea is dangerous--fatal; as at times is the glance of a woman=
.
Very old inhabitants of Guernsey used to call =
this
niche, fashioned in the rock by the waves, "Gild-Holm-'Ur" seat, =
or
Kidormur; a Celtic word, say some authorities, which those who understand C=
eltic
cannot interpret, and which all who understand French can--"Qui-dort-m=
eurt:"[1]
such is the country folks' translation.
The reader may choose between the translation,
Qui-dort-meurt, and that given in 1819, I believe in The Armorican, by M.
Athenas. According to this learned Celtic scholar, Gild-Holm-'Ur signifies
"The resting-place of birds."
There is, at Aurigny, another seat of this kin=
d,
called the Monk's Chair, so well sculptured by the waves, and with steps of
rock so conveniently placed, that it might be said that the sea politely se=
ts a
footstool for those who rest there.
In the open sea, at high water, the Gild-Holm-=
'Ur
was no longer visible; the water covered it entirely.
The Gild-Holm-'Ur was a neighbour of the B&uci=
rc;
de la Rue. Gilliatt knew it well, and often seated himself there. Was it his
meditating place? No. We have already said he did not meditate, but dream. =
The
sea, however, never entrapped him there.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] He who sleeps must die.
=
=
Mess
Lethierry, a conspicuous man in St. Sampson, was a redoubtable sailor. He h=
ad
voyaged a great deal. He had been a cabin-boy, seaman, topmast-man, second
mate, mate, pilot, and captain. He was at this period a ship-owner. There w=
as
not a man to compare with him for general knowledge of the sea. He was brav=
e in
putting off to ships in distress. In foul weather he would take his way alo=
ng
the beach, scanning the horizon. "What have we yonder?" he would =
say;
"some craft in trouble?" Whether it were an interloping Weymouth
fisherman, a cutter from Aurigny, a bisquine from Courseulle, the yacht of =
some
nobleman, an English craft or a French one--poor or rich, mattered little. =
He
jumped into a boat, called together two or three strong fellows, or did wit=
hout
them, as the case might be, pushed out to sea, rose and sank, and rose agai=
n on
rolling waves, plunged into the storm, and encountered the danger face to f=
ace.
Then afar off, amid the rain and lightning, and drenched with water, he was
sometimes seen upright in his boat like a lion with a foaming mane. Often he
would pass whole days in danger amidst the waves, the hail, and the wind,
making his way to the sides of foundering vessels during the tempest, and
rescuing men and merchandise. At night, after feats like these, he would re=
turn
home, and pass his time in knitting stockings.
For fifty years he led this kind of life--from=
ten
years of age to sixty--so long did he feel himself still young. At sixty, he
began to discover that he could no longer lift with one hand the great anvi=
l at
the forge of Varclin. This anvil weighed three hundredweight. At length rhe=
umatic
pains compelled him to be a prisoner; he was forced to give up his old stru=
ggle
with the sea, to pass from the heroic into the patriarchal stage, to sink i=
nto
the condition of a harmless, worthy old fellow.
Happily his rheumatism attacks happened at the
period when he had secured a comfortable competency. These two consequences=
of
labour are natural companions. At the moment when men become rich, how often
comes paralysis--the sorrowful crowning of a laborious life!
Old and weary men say among themselves, "=
Let
us rest and enjoy life."
The population of islands like Guernsey is
composed of men who have passed their lives in going about their little fie=
lds
or in sailing round the world. These are the two classes of the labouring
people; the labourers on the land, and the toilers of the sea. Mess Lethier=
ry
was of the latter class; he had had a life of hard work. He had been upon t=
he continent;
was for some time a ship carpenter at Rochefort, and afterwards at Cette. We
have just spoken of sailing round the world; he had made the circuit of all
France, getting work as a journeyman carpenter; and had been employed at the
great salt works of Franche-Comte. Though a humble man, he had led a life of
adventure. In France he had learned to read, to think, to have a will of his
own. He had had a hand in many things, and in all he had done had kept a ch=
aracter
for probity. At bottom, however, he was simply a sailor. The water was his
element; he used to say that he lived with the fish when really at home. In
short, his whole existence, except two or three years, had been devoted to =
the
ocean. Flung into the water, as he said, he had navigated the great oceans =
both
of the Atlantic and the Pacific, but he preferred the Channel. He used to
exclaim enthusiastically, "That is the sea for a rough time of it!&quo=
t;
He was born at sea, and at sea would have preferred to end his days. After
sailing several times round the world, and seeing most countries, he had
returned to Guernsey, and never permanently left the island again. Hencefor=
th
his great voyages were to Granville and St. Malo.
Mess Lethierry was a Guernsey man--that peculi=
ar
amalgamation of Frenchman and Norman, or rather English. He had within hims=
elf
this quadruple extraction, merged and almost lost in that far wider country=
, the
ocean. Throughout his life and wheresoever he went, he had preserved the ha=
bits
of a Norman fisherman.
All this, however, did not prevent his looking=
now
and then into some old book; of taking pleasure in reading, in knowing the
names of philosophers and poets, and in talking a little now and then in al=
l languages.
=
=
Gilliatt
was a child of Nature. Mess Lethierry was the same.
Lethierry's uncultivated nature, however, was =
not
without certain refinements.
He was fastidious upon the subject of women's
hands. In his early years, while still a lad, passing from the stage of
cabin-boy to that of sailor, he had heard the Admiral de Suffren say,
"There goes a pretty girl; but what horrible great red hands." An
observation from an admiral on any subject is a command, a law, an authority
far above that of an oracle. The exclamation of Admiral de Suffren had rend=
ered
Lethierry fastidious and exacting in the matter of small and white hands. H=
is
own hand, a large club fist of the colour of mahogany, was like a mallet or=
a
pair of pincers for a friendly grasp, and, tightly closed, would almost bre=
ak a
paving-stone.
He had never married; he had either no inclina=
tion
for matrimony, or had never found a suitable match. That, perhaps, was due =
to
his being a stickler for hands like those of a duchess. Such hands are, ind=
eed,
somewhat rare among the fishermen's daughters at Portbail.
It was whispered, however, that at Rochefort, = on the Charente, he had, once upon a time, made the acquaintance of a certain grisette, realising his ideal. She was a pretty girl with graceful hands; b= ut she was a vixen, and had also a habit of scratching. Woe betide any one who= attacked her! yet her nails, though capable at a pinch of being turned into claws, w= ere of a cleanliness which left nothing to be desired. It was these peculiarly bewitching nails which had first enchanted and then disturbed the peace of Lethierry, who, fearing that he might one day become no longer master of his mistress, had decided not to conduct that young lady to the nuptial altar.<= o:p>
Another time he met at Aurigny a country girl =
who
pleased him. He thought of marriage, when one of the inhabitants of the pla=
ce
said to him, "I congratulate you; you will have for your wife a good f=
uel maker."
Lethierry asked the meaning of this. It appeared that the country people at
Aurigny have a certain custom of collecting manure from their cow-houses, w=
hich
they throw against a wall, where it is left to dry and fall to the ground.
Cakes of dried manure of this kind are used for fuel, and are called coipia=
ux.
A country girl of Aurigny has no chance of getting a husband if she is not a
good fuel maker; but the young lady's especial talent only inspired disgust=
in
Lethierry.
Besides, he had in his love matters a kind of
rough country folks' philosophy, a sailor-like sort of habit of mind. Always
smitten but never enslaved, he boasted of having been in his youth easily
conquered by a petticoat, or rather a cotillon; for what is now-a-days call=
ed a
crinoline, was in his time called a cotillon; a term which, in his use of i=
t,
signifies both something more and something less than a wife.
These rude seafaring men of the Norman
Archipelago, have a certain amount of shrewdness. Almost all can read and
write. On Sundays, little cabin-boys may be seen in those parts, seated upo=
n a
coil of ropes, reading, with book in hand. From all time these Norman sailo=
rs
have had a peculiar satirical vein, and have been famous for clever sayings=
. It
was one of these men, the bold pilot Quéripel, who said to Montgomer=
y, when
he sought refuge in Jersey after the unfortunate accident in killing Henry =
II.
at a tournament, with a blow of his lance, "Tête folle a
cassé tête vide." Another one, Touzeau, a sea-captain at =
St. Brélade,
was the author of that philosophical pun, erroneously attributed to Camus,
"Après la mort, les papes deviennent papillons, et les sires
deviennent cirons."
=
The
mariners of the Channel are the true ancient Gauls. The islands, which in t=
hese
days become rapidly more and more English--preserved for many ages their old
French character. The peasant in Sark speaks the language of Louis XIV. For=
ty
years ago, the old classical nautical language was to be found in the mouth=
s of
the sailors of Jersey and Aurigny. When amongst them, it was possible to
imagine oneself carried back to the sea life of the seventeenth century. Fr=
om
that speaking trumpet which terrified Admiral Hidde, a philologist might ha=
ve
learnt the ancient technicalities of manoeuvring and giving orders at sea, =
in the
very words which were roared out to his sailors by Jean Bart. The old French
maritime vocabulary is now almost entirely changed, but was still in use in
Jersey in 1820. A ship that was a good plyer was bon boulinier; one that
carried a weather-helm in spite of her foresails and rudder was un vaisseau
ardent; to get under way was prendre aire; to lie to in a storm, capeyer; to
make fast running rigging was faire dormant; to get to windward, faire
chapelle; to keep the cable tight, faire teste; to be out of trim, êt=
re
en pantenne; to keep the sails full, porter plain. These expressions have
fallen out of use. To-day we say louvoyer for to beat to windward, they said
leauvoyer; for naviguer, sail, they said naviger; for virer vent devant, to=
tack,
donner vent devant; for aller de l'avant, to make headway, tailler de l'ava=
nt;
for tirez d'accord, haul together, halez d'accord; for dérapez, to w=
eigh
anchor, deplantez; for embraquez, to haul tight, abraquez; for taquets, cle=
ats,
bittons; for burins, toggles, tappes; for balancine, fore-lift, main-lift, =
etc.,
valancine; for tribord, starboard, stribord; for les hommes de quart &agrav=
e;
bâbord, men of the larboard watch, les basbourdis. Tourville wrote to
Hocquincourt: nous avons singlét (sailed), for cinglé. Instea=
d of
la rafale, squall, le raffal; instead of bossoir, cat-head, boussoir; inste=
ad
of drosse, truss, drousse; instead of loffer, to luff, faire une olof&eacut=
e;e;
instead of elonger, to lay alongside, alonger; instead of forte brise, stiff
breeze, survent; instead of jouail, stock of an anchor, jas; instead of sou=
te,
store-room, fosse.
Such, at the beginning of this century, was the
maritime dialect of the Channel Islands. Ango would have been startled had =
he
heard the speech of a Jersey pilot. Whilst everywhere else the sails faseya=
ient
(shivered), in these islands they barbeyaient. A saute de vent, sudden shif=
t of
wind, was a folle-vente. The old methods of mooring known as la valture and=
la
portugaise were alone used, and such commands as jour-et-chaque! and bosse =
et
vilte! might still be heard. While a sailor of Granville was already employ=
ing
the word clan for sheave-hold, one of St. Aubin or of St. Sampson still stu=
ck
to his canal de pouliot. What was called bout d'alonge (upper fultock) at S=
t.
Malo, was oreille d'âne at St. Helier. Mess Lethierry, as did the Duk=
e de
Vibonne, called the sheer of the decks la tonture, and the caulker's chisel=
la
patarasse.
It was with this uncouth sea dialect in his mo=
uth
that Duquesne beat De Ruyter, that Duguay Trouin defeated Wasnaer, and that
Tourville, in 1681, poured a broadside into the first galley which bombarded
Algiers. It is now a dead language. The idiom of the sea is altogether
different. Duperré would not be able to understand Suffren.
The language of French naval signals is not le=
ss
transformed; there is a long distance between the four pennants, red, white,
yellow, and blue, of Labourdonnaye, and the eighteen flags of these days,
which, hoisted two and two, three and three, or four and four, furnish, for
distant communication, sixty-six thousand combinations, are never deficient=
, and,
so to speak, foresee the unforeseen.
=
=
Mess
Lethierry's heart and hand were always ready--a large heart and a large han=
d.
His failing was that admirable one, self-confidence. He had a certain fashi=
on
of his own of undertaking to do a thing. It was a solemn fashion. He said,
"I give my word of honour to do it, with God's help." That said, =
he
went through with his duty. He put his faith in God--nothing more. His rare
churchgoing was merely formal. At sea he was superstitious.
Nevertheless, the storm had never yet arisen w=
hich
could daunt him. One reason of this was his impatience of opposition. He co=
uld
tolerate it neither from the ocean nor anything else. He meant to have his =
way;
so much the worse for the sea if it thwarted him. It might try, if it would,
but Mess Lethierry would not give in. A refractory wave could no more stop =
him
than an angry neighbour. What he had said was said; what he planned out was
done. He bent neither before an objection nor before the tempest. The word
"no" had no existence for him, whether it was in the mouth of a m=
an
or in the angry muttering of a thunder-cloud. In the teeth of all he went o=
n in
his way. He would take no refusals. Hence his obstinacy in life, and his
intrepidity on the ocean.
He seasoned his simple meal of fish soup for
himself, knowing the quantities of pepper, salt, and herbs which it require=
d,
and was as well pleased with the cooking as with the meal. To complete the
sketch of Lethierry's peculiarities, the reader must conjure a being to whom
the putting on of a surtout would amount to a transfiguration; whom a lands=
man's
greatcoat would convert into a strange animal; one who, standing with his l=
ocks
blown about by the wind, might have represented old Jean Bart, but who, in =
the
landsman's round hat, would have looked an idiot; awkward in cities, wild a=
nd
redoubtable at sea; a man with broad shoulders, fit for a porter; one who
indulged in no oaths, was rarely in anger, whose voice had a soft accent, w=
hich
became like thunder in a speaking-trumpet; a peasant who had read something=
of
the philosophy of Diderot and D'Alembert; a Guernsey man who had seen the g=
reat
Revolution; a learned ignoramus, free from bigotry, but indulging in vision=
s,
with more faith in the White Lady than in the Holy Virgin; possessing the
strength of Polyphemus, the perseverance of Columbus, with a little of the =
bull
in his nature, and a little of the child. Add to these physical and mental
peculiarities a somewhat flat nose, large cheeks, a set of teeth still perf=
ect,
a face filled with wrinkles, and which seemed to have been buffeted by the
waves and subjected to the beating of the winds of forty years, a brow in w=
hich
the storm and tempest were plainly written--an incarnation of a rock in the
open sea. Add to this, too, a good-tempered smile always ready to light up =
his weather-beaten
countenance, and you have before you Mess Lethierry.
Mess Lethierry had two special objects of
affection only. Their names were Durande and Déruchette.
=
The
human body might well be regarded as a mere simulacrum; but it envelopes our
reality, it darkens our light, and broadens the shadow in which we live. The
soul is the reality of our existence. Strictly speaking, the human visage i=
s a
mask. The true man is that which exists under what is called man. If that
being, which thus exists sheltered and secreted behind that illusion which =
we
call the flesh, could be approached, more than one strange revelation would=
be
made. The vulgar error is to mistake the outward husk for the living spirit.
Yonder maiden, for example, if we could see her as she really is, might she=
not
figure as some bird of the air?
A bird transmuted into a young maiden, what co=
uld
be more exquisite? Picture it in your own home, and call it Déruchet=
te.
Delicious creature! One might be almost tempted to say, "Good-morning,
Mademoiselle Goldfinch." The wings are invisible, but the chirping may
still be heard. Sometimes, too, she pipes a clear, loud song. In her childl=
ike prattle,
the creature is, perhaps, inferior; but in her song, how superior to humani=
ty!
When womanhood dawns, this angel flies away; but sometimes returns, bringing
back a little one to a mother. Meanwhile, she who is one day to be a mother=
is
for a long while a child; the girl becomes a maiden, fresh and joyous as the
lark. Noting her movements, we feel as if it was good of her not to fly awa=
y.
The dear familiar companion moves at her own sweet will about the house; fl=
its
from branch to branch, or rather from room to room; goes to and fro; approa=
ches
and retires; plumes her wings, or rather combs her hair, and makes all kind=
s of
gentle noises--murmurings of unspeakable delight to certain ears. She asks a
question, and is answered; is asked something in return, and chirps a reply=
. It
is delightful to chat with her when tired of serious talk; for this creature
carries with her something of her skyey element. She is, as it were, a thre=
ad
of gold interwoven with your sombre thoughts; you feel almost grateful to h=
er
for her kindness in not making herself invisible, when it would be so easy =
for
her to be even impalpable; for the beautiful is a necessary of life. There =
is,
in this world, no function more important than that of being charming. The =
forest-glade
would be incomplete without the humming-bird. To shed joy around, to radiate
happiness, to cast light upon dark days, to be the golden thread of our
destiny, and the very spirit of grace and harmony, is not this to render a
service? Does not beauty confer a benefit upon us, even by the simple fact =
of
being beautiful? Here and there we meet with one who possesses that fairy-l=
ike
power of enchanting all about her; sometimes she is ignorant herself of this
magical influence, which is, however, for that reason, only the more perfec=
t.
Her presence lights up the home; her approach is like a cheerful warmth; she
passes by; and we are content; she stays awhile, and we are happy. To behold
her is to live: she is the Aurora with a human face. She has no need to do =
more
than simply to be: she makes an Eden of the house; Paradise breathes from h=
er;
and she communicates this delight to all, without taking any greater trouble
than that of existing beside them. Is it not a thing divine to have a smile
which, none know how, has the power to lighten the weight of that enormous
chain which all the living, in common, drag behind them? Déruchette
possessed this smile: we may even say that this smile was Déruchette
herself. There is one thing which has more resemblance to ourselves than ev=
en
our face, and that is our expression: but there is yet another thing which =
more
resembles us than this, and that is our smile. Déruchette smiling was
simply Déruchette.
There is something peculiarly attractive in the
Jersey and Guernsey race. The women, particularly the young, are remarkable=
for
a pure and exquisite beauty. Their complexion is a combination of the Saxon=
fairness,
with the proverbial ruddiness of the Norman people--rosy cheeks and blue ey=
es;
but the eyes want brilliancy. The English training dulls them. Their liquid
glances will be irresistible whenever the secret is found of giving them th=
at
depth which is the glory of the Parisienne. Happily Englishwomen are not yet
quite transformed into the Parisian type. Déruchette was not a Paris=
ian;
yet she was certainly not a Guernesiaise. Lethierry had brought her up to be
neat and delicate and pretty; and so she was.
Déruchette had, at times, an air of
bewitching langour, and a certain mischief in the eye, which were altogether
involuntary. She scarcely knew, perhaps, the meaning of the word love, and =
yet
not unwillingly ensnared those about her in the toils. But all this in her =
was
innocent. She never thought of marrying.
Déruchette had the prettiest little han=
ds
in the world, and little feet to match them. Sweetness and goodness reigned
throughout her person; her family and fortune were her uncle Mess Lethierry;
her occupation was only to live her daily life; her accomplishments were the
knowledge of a few songs; her intellectual gifts were summed up in her simp=
le innocence;
she had the graceful repose of the West Indian woman, mingled at times with
giddiness and vivacity, with the teasing playfulness of a child, yet with a
dash of melancholy. Her dress was somewhat rustic, and like that peculiar to
her country--elegant, though not in accordance with the fashions of great
cities; for she wore flowers in her bonnet all the year round. Add to all t=
his
an open brow, a neck supple and graceful, chestnut hair, a fair skin slight=
ly
freckled with exposure to the sun, a mouth somewhat large, but well-defined,
and visited from time to time by a dangerous smile. This was Déruche=
tte.
Sometimes in the evening, a little after sunse=
t,
at the moment when the dusk of the sky mingles with the dusk of the sea, and
twilight invests the waves with a mysterious awe, the people beheld, enteri=
ng
the harbour of St. Sampson, upon the dark rolling waters, a strange, undefi=
ned thing,
a monstrous form which puffed and blew; a horrid machine which roared like a
wild beast, and smoked like a volcano; a species of Hydra foaming among the
breakers, and leaving behind it a dense cloud, as it rushed on towards the =
town
with a frightful beating of its fins, and a throat belching forth flame. Th=
is
was Durande.
A
steamboat was a prodigious novelty in the waters of the Channel in 182-. The
whole coast of Normandy was long strangely excited by it. Now-a-days, ten o=
r a
dozen steam vessels, crossing and recrossing within the bounds of the horiz=
on,
scarcely attract a glance from loiterers on the shore. At the most, some
persons, whose interest or business it is to note such things, will observe=
the
indications in their smoke of whether they burn Welsh or Newcastle coal. Th=
ey
pass, and that is all. "Welcome," if coming home; "a pleasant
passage," if outward bound.
Folks were less calm on the subject of these
wonderful inventions in the first quarter of the present century; and the n=
ew
and strange machines, and their long lines of smoke regarded with no good-w=
ill
by the Channel Islanders. In that Puritanical Archipelago, where the Queen =
of
England has been censured for violating the Scriptures[2] by using chlorofo=
rm during
her accouchments, the first steam-vessel which made its appearance received=
the
name of the "Devil Boat." In the eyes of these worthy fishermen, =
once
Catholics, now Calvinists, but always bigots, it seemed to be a portion of =
the
infernal regions which had been somehow set afloat. A local preacher select=
ed
for his discourse the question of "Whether man has the right to make f=
ire
and water work together when God had divided them.[3] This beast, composed =
of
iron and fire, did it not resemble Leviathan? Was it not an attempt to bring
chaos again into the universe? This is not the only occasion on which the
progress of civilisation has been stigmatised as a return to chaos.
"A mad notion--a gross delusion--an
absurdity!" Such was the verdict of the Academy of Sciences when consu=
lted
by Napoleon on the subject of steamboats, early in the present century. The
poor fishermen of St. Sampson may be excused for not being, in scientific
matters, any wiser than the mathematicians of Paris; and in religious matte=
rs,
a little island like Guernsey is not bound to be more enlightened than a gr=
eat continent
like America. In the year 1807, when the first steamboat of Fulton, command=
ed
by Livingston, furnished with one of Watt's engines, sent from England, and
manoeuvred, besides her ordinary crew, by two Frenchmen only, André
Michaux and another, made her first voyage from New York to Albany, it happ=
ened
that she set sail on the 17th of August. The Methodists took up this import=
ant
fact, and in numberless chapels, preachers were heard calling down a
malediction on the machine, and declaring that this number 17 was no other =
than
the total of the ten horns and seven heads of the beast of the Apocalypse. =
In
America, they invoked against the steamboats the beast from the book of
Revelation; in Europe, the reptile of the book of Genesis. This was the sim=
ple difference.
The savants had rejected steamboats as impossi=
ble;
the priests had anathematised them as impious. Science had condemned, and
religion consigned them to perdition. Fulton was a new incarnation of Lucif=
er. The
simple people on the coasts and in the villages were confirmed in their
prejudice by the uneasiness which they felt at the outlandish sight. The
religious view of steamboats may be summed up as follows: Water and fire we=
re
divorced at the creation. This divorce was enjoined by God himself. Man has=
no
right to join what his Maker has put asunder; to reunite what he has disuni=
ted.
The peasants' view was simply, "I don't like the look of this thing.&q=
uot;
No one but Mess Lethierry, perhaps, could have
been found at that early period daring enough to dream of such an enterpris=
e as
the establishment of a steam-vessel between Guernsey and St. Malo. He, alon=
e,
as an independent thinker, was capable of conceiving such an idea, or, as a=
hardy
mariner, of carrying it out. The French part of his nature, probably, conce=
ived
the idea; the English part supplied the energy to put it in execution.
How and when this was, we are about to inform =
the
reader.
FOOTNOTES:
[2] Genesis, chap. iii. v. 16.
[3] Genesis, chap. i. v. 4.
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%'>III -=
RANTAINE
=
About
forty years before the period of the commencement of our narrative, there s=
tood
in the suburbs of Paris, near the city wall, between the Fosse-aux-Loups and
the Tombe-Issoire, a house of doubtful reputation. It was a lonely, ruinous
building, evidently a place for dark deeds on an occasion. Here lived, with=
his
wife and child, a species of town bandit; a man who had been clerk to an
attorney practising at the Châtelet--he figured somewhat later at the
Assize Court; the name of this family was Rantaine. On a mahogany chest of =
drawers
in the old house were two china cups, ornamented with flowers, on one of wh=
ich
appeared, in gilt letters, the words, "A souvenir of friendship;"=
on
the other, "A token of esteem." The child lived in an atmosphere =
of
vice in this miserable home. The father and mother having belonged to the l=
ower
middle class, the boy had learnt to read, and they brought it up in a fashi=
on.
The mother, pale and almost in rags, gave "instruction," as she
called it, mechanically, to the little one, heard it spell a few words to h=
er,
and interrupted the lesson to accompany her husband on some criminal
expedition, or to earn the wages of prostitution. Meanwhile, the book remai=
ned
open on the table as she had left it, and the boy sat beside it, meditating=
in
his way.
The father and mother, detected one day in one=
of
their criminal enterprises, suddenly vanished into that obscurity in which =
the
penal laws envelop convicted malefactors. The child, too, disappeared.
Lethierry, in his wanderings about the world,
stumbled, one day, on an adventurer like himself; helped him out of some
scrape; rendered him a kindly service, and was apparently repaid with
gratitude. He took a fancy to the stranger, picked him up, and brought him =
to
Guernsey, where, finding him intelligent in learning the duties of a sailor
aboard a coasting vessel, he made him a companion. This stranger was the li=
ttle
Rantaine, now grown up to manhood.
Rantaine, like Lethierry, had a bull neck, a l=
arge
and powerful breadth of shoulders for carrying burdens, and loins like thos=
e of
the Farnese Hercules. Lethierry and he had a remarkable similarity of
appearance: Rantaine was the taller. People who saw their forms behind as t=
hey
were walking side by side along the port, exclaimed, "There are two br=
others."
On looking them in the face the effect was different: all that was open in =
the
countenance of Lethierry was reserved and cautious in that of Rantaine.
Rantaine was an expert swordsman, played on the harmonica, could snuff a ca=
ndle
at twenty paces with a pistol-ball, could strike a tremendous blow with the
fist, recite verses from Voltaire's Henriade, and interpret dreams; he knew=
by
heart Les Tombeaux de Saint Denis, by Treneuil. He talked sometimes of havi=
ng
had relations with the Sultan of Calicut, "whom the Portuguese call th=
e Zamorin."
If any one had seen the little memorandum-book which he carried about with =
him,
he would have found notes and jottings of this kind: "At Lyons in a
fissure of the wall of one of the cells in the prison of St. Joseph, a
file." He spoke always with a grave deliberation; he called himself the
son of a Chevalier de Saint Louis. His linen was of a miscellaneous kind, a=
nd
marked with different initials. Nobody was ever more tender than he was on =
the
point of honour; he fought and killed his man. The mother of a pretty actre=
ss could
not have an eye more watchful for an insult.
He might have stood for the personification of
subtlety under an outer garb of enormous strength.
It was the power of his fist, applied one day =
at a
fair, upon a cabeza de moro, which had originally taken the fancy of Lethie=
rry.
No one in Guernsey knew anything of his adventures. They were of a chequered
kind. If the great theatre of destiny had a special wardrobe, Rantaine ough=
t to
have taken the dress of harlequin. He had lived, and had seen the world. He=
had
run through the gamut of possible trades and qualities; had been a cook at
Madagascar, trainer of birds at Honolulu, a religious journalist at the
Galapagos Islands, a poet at Oomrawuttee, a freeman at Haiti. In this latter
character he had delivered at Grand Goave a funeral oration, of which the l=
ocal
journals have preserved this fragment: "Farewell, then, noble spirit. =
In
the azure vault of the heavens, where thou wingest now thy flight, thou wil=
t,
no doubt, rejoin the good Abbé Leander Crameau, of Little Goave. Tell
him that, thanks to ten years of glorious efforts, thou hast completed the
church of the Ansa-à-Veau. Adieu! transcendent genius, model
mason!" His freemason's mask did not prevent him, as we see, wearing a
little of the Roman Catholic. The former won to his side the men of progres=
s,
and the latter the men of order. He declared himself a white of pure caste,=
and
hated the negroes; though, for all that, he would certainly have been an ad=
mirer
of the Emperor Soulouque. In 1815, at Bordeaux, the glow of his royalist
enthusiasm broke forth in the shape of a huge white feather in his cap. His
life had been a series of eclipses--of appearances, disappearances, and
reappearances. He was a sort of revolving light upon the coasts of scampdom=
. He
knew a little Turkish: instead of "guillotined," would say
"néboïssé." He had been a slave in Tripoli, in=
the
house of a Thaleb, and had learnt Turkish by dint of blows with a stick. His
employment had been to stand at evenings at the doors of the mosque, there =
to
read aloud to the faithful the Koran inscribed upon slips of wood, or piece=
s of
camel leather. It is not improbable that he was a renegade.
He was capable of everything, and something wo=
rse.
He had a trick of laughing loud and knitting h=
is
brows at the same time. He used to say, "In politics, I esteem only men
inaccessible to influences;" or, "I am for decency and good
morals;" or, "The pyramid must be replaced upon its base." H=
is
manner was rather cheerful and cordial than otherwise. The expression of his
mouth contradicted the sense of his words. His nostrils had an odd way of
distending themselves. In the corners of his eyes he had a little network o=
f wrinkles,
in which all sorts of dark thoughts seemed to meet together. It was here al=
one
that the secret of his physiognomy could be thoroughly studied. His flat fo=
ot
was a vulture's claw. His skull was low at the top and large about the temp=
les.
His ill-shapen ear, bristled with hair, seemed to say, "Beware of spea=
king
to the animal in this cave."
One fine day, in Guernsey, Rantaine was sudden=
ly
missing.
Lethierry's partner had absconded, leaving the
treasury of their partnership empty.
In this treasury there was some money of
Rantaine's, no doubt, but there were also fifty thousand francs belonging to
Lethierry.
By forty years of industry and probity as a
coaster and ship carpenter, Lethierry had saved one hundred thousand francs.
Rantaine robbed him of half the sum.
Half ruined, Lethierry did not lose heart, but
began at once to think how to repair his misfortune. A stout heart may be
ruined in fortune, but not in spirit. It was just about that time that peop=
le
began to talk of the new kind of boat to be moved by steam-engines. Lethier=
ry conceived
the idea of trying Fulton's invention, so much disputed about; and by one of
these fire-boats to connect the Channel Islands with the French coast. He
staked his all upon this idea; he devoted to it the wreck of his savings.
Accordingly, six months after Rantaine's flight, the astonished people of S=
t.
Sampson beheld, issuing from the port, a vessel discharging huge volumes of
smoke, and looking like a ship a-fire at sea. This was the first steam-vess=
el
to navigate the Channel.
This vessel, to which the people in their disl=
ike
and contempt for novelty immediately gave the nickname of "Lethierry's
Galley," was announced as intended to maintain a constant communication
between Guernsey and St. Malo.
=
It may
be well imagined that the new enterprise did not prosper much at first. The
owners of cutters passing between the Island of Guernsey and the French coa=
st
were loud in their outcries. They denounced this attack upon the Holy
Scriptures and their monopoly. The chapels began to fulminate against it. O=
ne
reverend gentleman, named Elihu, stigmatised the new steam-vessel as an
"atheistical construction," and the sailing-boat was declared the
only orthodox craft. The people saw the horns of the devil among the beasts
which the fireship carried to and fro. This storm of protest continued a
considerable time. At last, however, it began to be perceived that these
animals arrived less tired and sold better, their meat being superior; that=
the
sea risk was less also for passengers; that this mode of travelling was less
expensive, shorter, and more sure; that they started at a fixed time, and
arrived at a fixed time; that consignments of fish travelling faster arrive=
d fresher,
and that it was now possible to find a sale in the French markets for the
surplus of great takes of fish so common in Guernsey. The butter, too, from=
the
far-famed Guernsey cows, made the passage quicker in the "Devil Boat&q=
uot;
than in the old sailing vessels, and lost nothing of its good quality, inso=
much
that Dinan, in Brittany, began to become a customer for it, as well as St.
Brieuc and Rennes. In short, thanks to what they called "Lethierry's
Galley," the people enjoyed safe travelling, regular communication, pr=
ompt
and easy passages to and fro, an increase of circulation, an extension of
markets and of commerce, and, finally, it was felt that it was necessary to
patronise this "Devil Boat," which flew in the face of the Holy
Scriptures, and brought wealth to the island. Some daring spirits even went=
so
far as to express a positive satisfaction at it. Sieur Landoys, the registr=
ar,
bestowed his approval upon the vessel--an undoubted piece of impartiality on
his part, as he did not like Lethierry. For, first of all, Lethierry was en=
titled
to the dignity of "Mess," while Landoys was merely "Sieur La=
ndoys."
Then, although registrar of St. Peter's Port, Landoys was a parishioner of =
St.
Sampson. Now, there was not in the entire parish another man besides them
devoid of prejudices. It seemed little enough, therefore, to indulge themse=
lves
with a detestation of each other. Two of a trade, says the proverb, rarely
agree.
Sieur Landoys, however, had the honesty to sup=
port
the steamboat. Others followed Landoys. By little and little, these facts
multiplied. The growth of opinion is like the rising tide. Time and the
continued and increasing success of the venture, with the evidence of real
service rendered and the improvement in the general welfare, gradually
converted the people; and the day at length arrived when, with the exceptio=
n of
a few wiseacres, every one admired "Lethierry's Galley."
It would probably win less admiration now-a-da=
ys.
This steamboat of forty years since would doubtless provoke a smile among o=
ur
modern boat-builders; for this marvel was ill-shaped; this prodigy was clum=
sy and
infirm.
The distance between our grand Atlantic
steam-vessels of the present day and the boats with wheel-paddles which Den=
is
Papin floated on the Fulda in 1707, is not greater than that between a
three-decker, like the Montebello, 200 feet long, having a mainyard of 115
feet, carrying a weight of 3000 tons, 1100 men, 120 guns, 10,000 cannon-bal=
ls,
and 160 packages of canister, belching forth at every broadside, when in
action, 3300 pounds of iron, and spreading to the wind, when it moves, 5600=
square
mètres of canvas, and the old Danish galley of the second century,
discovered, full of stone hatchets, and bows and clubs, in the mud of the
seashore, at Wester-Satrup, and preserved at the Hotel de Ville at Flensbur=
g.
Exactly one hundred years--from 1707 to
1807--separate the first paddle-boat of Papin from the first steamboat of
Fulton. "Lethierry's Galley" was assuredly a great improvement up=
on
those two rough sketches; but it was itself only a sketch. For all that, it=
was
a masterpiece in its way. Every scientific discovery in embryo presents that
double aspect--a monster in the foetus, a marvel in the germ.
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%'>V - T=
HE
DEVIL BOAT
=
"Lethierry's
Galley" was not masted with a view to sailing well; a fact which was n=
ot a
defect; it is, indeed, one of the laws of naval construction. Besides, her
motive power being steam, her sails were only accessory. A paddle steamboat,
moreover, is almost insensible to sails. The new steam-vessel was too short,
round, and thick-set. She had too much bow, and too great a breadth of quar=
ter.
The daring of inventors had not yet reached the point of making a steam-ves=
sel
light; Lethierry's boat had some of the defects of Gilliatt's Dutch sloop. =
She pitched
very little, but she rolled a good deal. Her paddle-boxes were too high. She
had too much beam for her length. The massive machinery encumbered her, and=
to
make her capable of carrying a heavy cargo, her constructors had raised her
bulwarks to an unusual height, giving to the vessel the defects of old
seventy-fours, a bastard model which would have to be cut down to render th=
em
really seaworthy, or fit to go into action. Being short, she ought to have =
been
able to veer quickly--the time employed in a manoeuvre of that kind being in
proportion to the length of the vessel--but her weight deprived her of the
advantage of her shortness. Her midship-frame was too broad, a fact which
retarded her; the resistance of the sea being proportioned to the largest
section below the water-line, and to the square of the speed. Her prow was =
vertical,
which would not be regarded as a fault at the present day, but at that peri=
od
this portion of the construction was invariably sloped at an angle of
forty-five degrees. All the curving lines of the hull agreed well together,=
but
it was not long enough for oblique sailing, or for lying parallel with the
water displaced, which should always be thrown off laterally. In rough weat=
her
she drew too much water, sometimes fore, sometimes aft, which showed that h=
er
centre of gravity was not rightly adjusted. Owing to the weight of the engi=
ne,
the cargo shifted, so that the centre of gravity was often aft of the mainm=
ast,
and then steam power had to be resorted to, for at such times the mainsail =
had
to be furled as it only made the vessel fall off. If close to the wind, ver=
y careful
manoeuvring was required. The rudder was the old-fashioned bar-rudder, not =
the
wheeled one of the present time. Two skiffs, a species of you-yous, were
suspended to the davits. The vessel had four anchors; the sheet-anchor, the
second or working anchor, and two bower-anchors. These four anchors, slung =
by
chains, were moved, according to the occasion, by the great capstan of the
poop, or by the small capstan at the prow. At that period the pump windlass=
had
not superseded the intermitting efforts of the old handspike. Having only t=
wo
bower-anchors, one on the starboard and the other on the larboard side, the
vessel could not move conveniently in certain winds, though she could aid
herself at such times with the second anchor. Her buoys were normal, and so
constructed that they carried the weight of the buoy-ropes without dipping.=
The
launch was of a useful size, of service in all cases of need, and able to r=
aise
the main anchor. A novelty about her was that she was rigged with chains, w=
hich
in no way detracted, however, from the mobility of the running rigging, or =
from
the firmness of the standing rigging. The masts, yards, etc., although not =
of first-rate
quality, were not in any way amiss, and the rigging at the mast-head was not
very noticeable. The ribs were solid, but coarse, less delicacy of wood bei=
ng
required for steam than for sail. Her speed was six knots an hour. When
lying-to she rode well. Take her as she was, "Lethierry's Galley"=
was
a good sea boat; but people felt, that in moments of danger from reefs or
waterspouts, she would be hardly manageable. Unhappily her build made her r=
oll
about on the waves, with a perpetual creaking like that of a new shoe.
She was, above all, a merchandise boat, and, l=
ike
all ships built more for commerce than for fighting, was constructed
exclusively with a view to stowage. She carried few passengers. The transpo=
rt
of cattle rendered stowage difficult and very peculiar. Vessels carried
bullocks at that time in the hold, which was a complication of the difficul=
ty.
At the present day they are stowed on the fore-deck. The paddle-boxes of Le=
thierry's
"Devil Boat" were painted white, the hull, down to the water-line,
red, and all the rest of the vessel black, according to the somewhat ugly
fashion of this century. When empty she drew seven feet of water, and when
laden fourteen.
With regard to the engine, it was of considera=
ble
power. To speak exactly, its power was equal to that of one horse to every
three tons burden, which is almost equal to that of a tugboat. The paddles =
were
well placed, a little in advance of the centre of gravity of the vessel. The
maximum pressure of the engine was equal to two atmospheres. It consumed a
great deal of coal, although it was constructed on the condensation and
expansion principles. It had no fly-wheel on account of the instability of =
the
point of support, but this was then, as now, compensated for by two cranks =
at
the extremities of the revolving shaft, so arranged that one was always at
right angles when the other was at dead-point. The whole rested on a single
sheet of cast-iron, so that even in case of any serious damage, no shock of=
the
waves could upset its equilibrium, and even if the hull were injured the en=
gine
would remain intact. To render it stronger still, the connecting-rod had be=
en placed
near the steam-cylinders, so that the centre of oscillation of the working-=
beam
was transferred from the middle to the end. Since then oscillating cylinders
have been invented which do away with the necessity of connecting-rods, but=
in
those days the placing of the connecting-rod near the cylinder was thought a
triumph of engineering. The boiler was in sections and provided with a
salt-water pump. The wheels were very large, which lessened the loss of pow=
er;
the smoke-stack was lofty, which increased the draught. On the other hand, =
the
size of the wheels exposed them to the force of the waves, and the height of
the smoke-stack to the violence of the wind. Wooden paddle-floats, iron cla=
mps,
bosses of cast-iron--such were the wheels, which, well constructed, could,
strange though it may seem, be taken to pieces. Three floats were always un=
der
water. The speed of the centre of the floats only exceeded by a sixth the s=
peed
of the vessel itself; this was the chief defect of the wheels. Moreover, the
cranks were too long, and the slide-valve caused too much friction in the
admission of steam into the cylinder. For that period the engine seemed, and
indeed was, admirable. It had been constructed in France, at the works at
Bercy. Mess Lethierry had roughly sketched it: the engineer who had constru=
cted
it in accordance with his diagram was dead, so that the engine was unique, =
and
probably could not have been replaced. The designer still lived, but the co=
nstructor
was no more.
The engine had cost forty thousand francs.
Lethierry had himself constructed the "De=
vil
Boat" upon the great covered stocks by the side of the first tower bet=
ween
St. Peter's Port and St. Sampson. He had been to Brême to buy the woo=
d.
All his skill as a shipwright was exhausted in its construction; his ingenu=
ity
might be seen in the planks, the seams of which were straight and even, and=
covered
with sarangousti, an Indian mastic, better than resin. The sheathing was we=
ll
beaten. To remedy the roundness of the hull, Lethierry had fitted out a boo=
m at
the bowsprit, which allowed him to add a false spritsail to the regular one=
. On
the day of the launch, he cried aloud, "At last I am afloat!" The
vessel was successful, in fact, as the reader has already learnt.
Either by chance or design she had been launch=
ed
on the 14th of July, the anniversary of the taking of the Bastille. On that
day, mounted upon the bridge between the two paddle-boxes, looked Lethierry
upon the sea, and exclaimed, "It is your turn now! The Parisians took =
the
Bastille, now science takes the sea."
Lethierry's boat made the voyage from Guernsey=
to
St. Malo once a week. She started on the Tuesday morning, and returned on t=
he
Friday evening, in time for the Saturday market. She was a stronger craft t=
han
any of the largest coasting sloops in all the Archipelago, and her capacity=
being
in proportion to her dimensions, one of her voyages was equal to four voyag=
es
of an ordinary boat in the same trade; hence they were very profitable. The
reputation of a vessel depends on its stowage, and Lethierry was an admirab=
le
stower of cargo. When he was no longer able to work himself, he trained up a
sailor to undertake this duty. At the end of two years, the steamboat broug=
ht
in a clear seven hundred and fifty pounds sterling a year, or eighteen thou=
sand
francs. The pound sterling of Guernsey is worth twenty-four francs only, th=
at
of England twenty-five, and that of Jersey twenty-six. These differences are
less unimportant than they seem: the banks, at all events, know how to turn=
them
to advantage.
=
=
The
"Devil Boat" prospered. Mess Lethierry began to look forward to t=
he time
when he should be called "Monsieur." At Guernsey, people do not b=
ecome
"Monsieurs" at one bound. Between the plain man and the gentleman,
there is quite a scale to climb. To begin with, we have the simple name, pl=
ain
"Peter," let us suppose; the second step is "Neighbour
Peter;" the third, "Father Peter;" the fourth, "Sieur
Peter;" the fifth, "Mess Peter;" and then we reach the summi=
t in
"Monsieur Peter."
This scale ascending thus from the ground is
carried to still greater heights. All the upper classes of England join on =
and
continue it. Here are the various steps, becoming more and more glorious. A=
bove
the Monsieur, or "Mr.," there is the "Esquire;" above t=
he
squire, the knight; above the knight, still rising, we have the baronet, the
Scotch laird, the baron, the viscount, the earl (called count in France, an=
d jarl
in Norway); the marquis, the duke, the prince of the blood royal, and the k=
ing:
so, by degrees, we ascend from the people to the middle class, from the mid=
dle
class to the baronetage, from the baronetage to the peerage, from the peera=
ge
to royalty.
Thanks to his successful ingenuity, thanks to
steam, and his engines, and the "Devil Boat," Mess Lethierry was =
fast
becoming an important personage. When building his vessel he had been compe=
lled
to borrow money. He had become indebted at Brême, he had become indeb=
ted
at St. Malo; but every year he diminished his obligations.
He had, moreover, purchased on credit, at the =
very
entrance to the port of St. Sampson, a pretty stone-built house, entirely n=
ew,
situate between the sea and a garden. On the corner of this house was inscr=
ibed
the name of the "Bravées." Its front formed a part of the =
wall
of the port itself, and it was remarkable for a double row of windows: on t=
he north,
alongside a little enclosure filled with flowers, and on the south commandi=
ng a
view of the ocean. It had thus two façades, one open to the tempest =
and
the sea, the other looking into a garden filled with roses.
These two frontages seemed made for the two
inmates of the house--Mess Lethierry and Déruchette.
The "Bravées" was popular at =
St.
Sampson, for Mess Lethierry had at length become a popular man. This popula=
rity
was due partly to his good nature, his devotedness, and his courage; partly=
to
the number of lives he had saved; and a great deal to his success, and to t=
he
fact that he had awarded to St. Sampson the honour of being the port of the
departure and arrival of the new steamboat. Having made the discovery that =
the "Devil
Boat" was decidedly a success, St. Peter's, the capital, desired to ob=
tain
it for that port, but Lethierry held fast to St. Sampson. It was his native
town. "It was there that I was first pitched into the water," he =
used
to say; hence his great local popularity. His position as a small landed
proprietor paying land-tax, made him, what they call in Guernsey, an
unhabitant. He was chosen douzenier. The poor sailor had mounted five out of
six steps of the Guernsey social scale; he had attained the dignity of
"Mess"; he was rapidly approaching the Monsieur; and who could
predict whether he might not even rise higher than that? who could say that
they might not one day find in the almanack of Guernsey, under the heading =
of
"Nobility and Gentry," the astonishing and superb
inscription,--Lethierry, Esq.?
But Mess Lethierry had nothing of vanity in his
nature, or he had no sense of it; or if he had, disdained it: to know that =
he
was useful was his greatest pleasure; to be popular touched him less than b=
eing
necessary; he had, as we have already said, only two objects of delight, and
consequently only two ambitions: the Durande and Déruchette.
However this may have been, he had embarked in=
the
lottery of the sea, and had gained the chief prize.
This chief prize was the Durande steaming away=
in
all her pride.
=
Having
created his steamboat, Lethierry had christened it: he had called it
Durande--"La Durande." We will speak of her henceforth by no othe=
r name;
we will claim the liberty, also, in spite of typographical usage, of not
italicising this name Durande; conforming in this to the notion of Mess
Lethierry, in whose eyes La Durande was almost a living person.
Durande and Déruchette are the same nam=
e.
Déruchette is the diminutive.
This diminutive is very common in France.
In the country the names of saints are endowed
with all these diminutives as well as all their augmentatives. One might
suppose there were several persons when there is, in fact, only one. This
system of patrons and patronesses under different names is by no means rare.
Lise, Lisette, Lisa, Elisa, Isabelle, Lisbeth, Betsy, all these are simply =
Elizabeth.
It is probable that Mahout, Maclou, Malo, and Magloire are the same saint:
this, however, we do not vouch for.
Saint Durande is a saint of l'Angoumois, and of
the Charente; whether she is an orthodox member of the calendar is a questi=
on
for the Bollandists: orthodox or not, she has been made the patron saint of=
numerous
chapels.
It was while Lethierry was a young sailor at
Rochefort that he had made the acquaintance of this saint, probably in the
person of some pretty Charantaise, perhaps in that of the grisette with the
white nails. The saint had remained sufficiently in his memory for him to g=
ive
the name to the two things which he loved most--Durande to the steamboat, D=
éruchette
to the girl.
Of one he was the father, of the other the unc=
le.
Déruchette was the daughter of a brother
who had died: she was an orphan child: he had adopted her, and had taken the
place both of father and mother.
Déruchette was not only his niece, she =
was
his godchild; he had held her in his arms at the baptismal font; it was he =
who
had chosen her patron saint, Durande, and her Christian name,
Déruchette.
Déruchette, as we have said, was born at
St. Peter's Port. Her name was inscribed at its date on the register of the
parish.
As long as the niece was a child, and the uncle
poor, nobody took heed of her appellation of Déruchette; but when the
little girl became a miss, and the sailor a gentleman, the name of
Déruchette shocked the feelings of Guernsey society. The uncouthness=
of
the sound astonished every one. Folks asked Mess Lethierry "why
Déruchette?" He answered, "It is a very good name in its
way." Several attempts were made to get him to obtain a change in the
baptismal name, but he would be no party to them. One day, a fine lady of t=
he upper
circle of society in St. Sampson, the wife of a rich retired ironfounder, s=
aid
to Mess Lethierry, "In future, I shall call your daughter Nancy."=
"If names of country towns are in
fashion," said he, "why not Lons le Saulnier?" The fine lady=
did
not yield her point, and on the morrow said, "We are determined not to
have it Déruchette; I have found for your daughter a pretty
name--Marianne." "A very pretty name, indeed," replied Mess
Lethierry, "composed of two words which signify--a husband and an ass.=
"[4]
He held fast to Déruchette.
It would be a mistake to infer from Lethierry's
pun that he had no wish to see his niece married. He desired to see her
married, certainly; but in his own way: he intended her to have a husband a=
fter
his own heart, one who would work hard, and whose wife would have little to=
do.
He liked rough hands in a man, and delicate ones in a woman. To prevent D&e=
acute;ruchette
spoiling her pretty hands he had always brought her up like a young lady; he
had provided her with a music-master, a piano, a little library, and a few
needles and threads in a pretty work-basket. She was, indeed, more often
reading than stitching; more often playing than reading. This was as Mess
Lethierry wished it. To be charming was all that he expected of her. He had
reared the young girl like a flower. Whoever has studied the character of
sailors will understand this: rude and hard in their nature, they have an o=
dd
partiality for grace and delicacy. To realise the idea of the uncle, the ni=
ece
ought to have been rich; so indeed felt Mess Lethierry. His steamboat voyag=
ed
for this end. The mission of Durande was to provide a marriage portion for
Déruchette.
FOOTNOTES:
[4] A play upon the French words, mari and ane=
.
=
=
Déruchette
occupied the prettiest room at the Bravées. It had two windows, was
furnished with various articles made of fine-grained mahogany, had a bed wi=
th
four curtains, green and white, and looked out upon the garden, and beyond =
it
towards the high hill, on which stands the Vale Castle. Gilliatt's house, t=
he
Bû de la Rue, was on the other side of this hill.
Déruchette had her music and piano in t=
his
chamber; she accompanied herself on the instrument when singing the melody
which she preferred--the melancholy Scottish air of "Bonnie Dundee.&qu=
ot;
The very spirit of night breathes in this melody; but her voice was full of=
the
freshness of dawn. The contrast was quaint and pleasing; people said, "=
;Miss
Déruchette is at her piano."
The passers-by at the foot of the hill stopped
sometimes before the wall of the garden of the Bravées to listen to =
that
sweet voice and plaintive song.
Déruchette was the very embodiment of j=
oy
as she went to and fro in the house. She brought with her a perpetual sprin=
g.
She was beautiful, but more pretty than beautiful; and still more graceful =
than
pretty. She reminded the good old pilots, friends of Mess Lethierry, of tha=
t princess
in the song which the soldiers and sailors sing, who was so beautiful:
&=
nbsp;
"Qu'elle passait pour telle dans le regiment."
Mess Lethierry used to say, "She has a he=
ad
of hair like a ship's cable."
From her infancy she had been remarkable for
beauty. The learned in such matters had grave doubts about her nose, but the
little one having probably determined to be pretty, had finally satisfied t=
heir
requirements. She grew to girlhood without any serious loss of beauty; her =
nose
became neither too long nor too short; and when grown up, her critics admit=
ted
her to be charming.
She never addressed her uncle otherwise than as
father.
Lethierry allowed her to soil her fingers a li=
ttle
in gardening, and even in some kind of household duties: she watered her be=
ds
of pink hollyhocks, purple foxgloves, perennial phloxes, and scarlet herb b=
ennets.
She took good advantage of the climate of Guernsey, so favourable to flower=
s.
She had, like many other persons there, aloes in the open ground, and, what=
is
more difficult, she succeeded in cultivating the Nepaulese cinquefoil. Her
little kitchen-garden was scientifically arranged; she was able to produce =
from
it several kinds of rare vegetables. She sowed Dutch cauliflower and Brusse=
ls
cabbages, which she thinned out in July, turnips for August, endive for
September, short parsnip for the autumn, and rampions for winter. Mess
Lethierry did not interfere with her in this, so long as she did not handle=
the
spade and rake too much, or meddle with the coarser kinds of garden labour.=
He
had provided her with two servants, one named Grace, and the other Douce, w=
hich
are favourite names in Guernsey. Grace and Douce did the hard work of the h=
ouse
and garden, and they had the right to have red hands.
With regard to Mess Lethierry, his room was a
little retreat with a view over the harbour, and communicating with the gre=
at
lower room of the ground floor, on which was situated the door of the house,
near which the various staircases met.
His room was furnished with his hammock, his
chronometer, and his pipe: there were also a table and a chair. The ceiling=
had
been whitewashed, as well as the four walls. A fine marine map, bearing the
inscription W. Faden, 5 Charing Cross, Geographer to His Majesty, and
representing the Channel Islands, was nailed up at the side of the door, an=
d on
the left, stretched out and fastened with other nails, appeared one of thos=
e large
cotton handkerchiefs on which are printed, in colours, the signals of all
countries in the world, having at the four corners the standards of France,
Russia, Spain, and the United States, and in the centre the union-jack of
England.
Douce and Grace were two faithful creatures wi=
thin
certain limits. Douce was good-natured enough, and Grace was probably
good-looking. Douce was unmarried, and had secretly "a gallant." =
In
the Channel Islands the word is common, as indeed is the fact itself. The t=
wo
girl's regarded as servants had something of the Creole in their character,=
a
sort of slowness in their movements, not out of keeping with the Norman spi=
rit pervading
the relations of servant and master in the Channel Islands. Grace, coquetti=
sh
and good-looking, was always scanning the future with a nervous anxiety. Th=
is
arose from the fact of her not only having, like Douce, "a gallant,&qu=
ot;
but also, as the scandal-loving averred, a sailor husband, whose return one=
day
was a thing she dreaded. This, however, does not concern us. In a household
less austere and less innocent, Douce would have continued to be the servan=
t,
but Grace would have become the soubrette. The dangerous talents of Grace w=
ere
lost upon a young mistress so pure and good as Déruchette. For the r=
est,
the intrigues of Douce and Grace were cautiously concealed. Mess Lethierry =
knew
nothing of such matters, and no token of them had ever reached Déruc=
hette.
The lower room of the ground floor, a hall wit=
h a
large fireplace and surrounded with benches and tables, had served in the l=
ast
century as a meeting-place for a conventicle of French Protestant refugees.=
The
sole ornament of the bare stone wall was a sheet of parchment, set in a fra=
me of
black wood, on which were represented some of the charitable deeds of the g=
reat
Bossuet, Bishop of Meaux. Some poor diocesans of this famous orator, surnam=
ed
the "Eagle," persecuted by him at the time of the Revocation of t=
he
Edict of Nantes, and driven to take shelter at Guernsey, had hung this pict=
ure
on the wall to preserve the remembrance of those facts. The spectator who h=
ad
the patience to decipher a rude handwriting in faded ink might have learnt =
the
following facts, which are but little known:--"29th October, 1685,
Monsieur the Bishop of Meaux, appeals to the king to destroy the temples of
Morcef and Nanteuil"--"2nd April, 1686, Arrest of Cochard, father=
and
son, for their religious opinions, at the request of Monsieur the Bishop of=
Meaux.
Released: the Cochards having recanted."--"28th October, 1699, Mo=
nsieur
the Bishop of Meaux sent to Mde. Pontchartrain a petition of remonstrance,
pointing out that it will be necessary to place the young ladies named
Chalandes and de Neuville, who are of the reformed religion, in the House of
the 'New Catholics' at Paris."--"7th July, 1703, the king's order
executed as requested by Monsieur the Bishop of Meaux, for shutting up in an
asylum Baudouin and his wife, two bad Catholics of Fublaines."
At the end of the hall, near the door of Mess
Lethierry's room, was a little corner with a wooden partition, which had be=
en
the Huguenot's sanctum, and had become, thanks to its row of rails and a sm=
all
hole to pass paper or money through, the steamboat office; that is to say, =
the office
of the Durande, kept by Mess Lethierry in person. Upon the old oaken
reading-desk, where once rested the Holy Bible, lay a great ledger with its
alternate pages headed Dr. and Cr.
=
As
long as Mess Lethierry had been able to do duty, he had commanded the Duran=
de,
and had had no other pilot or captain but himself; but a time had come, as =
we
have said, when he had been compelled to find a successor. He had chosen for
that purpose Sieur Clubin, of Torteval, a taciturn man. Sieur Clubin had a
character upon the coast for strict probity. He became the alter ego, the
double, of Mess Lethierry.
Sieur Clubin, although he had rather the look =
of a
notary than of a sailor, was a mariner of rare skill. He had all the talents
which are required to meet dangers of every kind. He was a skilful stower, a
safe man aloft, an able and careful boatswain, a powerful steersman, an exp=
erienced
pilot, and a bold captain. He was prudent, and he carried his prudence
sometimes to the point of daring, which is a great quality at sea. His natu=
ral
apprehensiveness of danger was tempered by a strong instinct of what was
possible in an emergency. He was one of those mariners who will face risks =
to a
point perfectly well known to themselves, and who generally manage to come
successfully out of every peril. Every certainty which a man can command,
dealing with so fickle an element as the sea, he possessed. Sieur Clubin,
moreover, was a renowned swimmer; he was one of that race of men broken into
the buffeting of the waves, who can remain as long as they please in the wa=
ter--who
can start from the Havre-des-Pas at Jersey, double the Colettes, swim round=
the
Hermitage and Castle Elizabeth, and return in two hours to the point from w=
hich
they started. He came from Torteval, where he had the reputation of often
having swum across the passage so much dreaded, from the Hanway rocks to the
point of Pleinmont.
One circumstance which had recommended Sieur
Clubin to Mess Lethierry more than any other, was his having judged correct=
ly
the character of Rantaine. He had pointed out to Lethierry the dishonesty of
the man, and had said "Rantaine will rob you." His prediction was
verified. More than once--in matters, it is true, not very important--Mess
Lethierry had put his ever-scrupulous honesty to the proof; and he freely
communicated with him on the subject of his affairs. Mess Lethierry used to
say, "A good conscience expects to be treated with perfect
confidence."
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%'>X - L=
ONG
YARNS
=
Mess
Lethierry, for the sake of his own ease, always wore his seafaring clothes,=
and
preferred his tarpaulin overcoat to his pilot jacket. Déruchette felt
vexed, occasionally, about this peculiarity. Nothing is prettier than a pou=
ting
beauty. She laughed and scolded. "My dear father," she would say,
"what a smell of pitch!" and she would give him a gentle tap upon=
his
broad shoulders.
This good old seaman had gathered from his voy=
ages
many wonderful stories. He had seen at Madagascar birds' feathers, three of
which sufficed to make a roof of a house. He had seen in India, field sorre=
l, the
stalks of which were nine inches high. In New Holland he had seen troops of
turkeys and geese led about and guarded by a bird, like a flock by a shephe=
rd's
dog; this bird was called the Agami. He had visited elephants' cemeteries. =
In
Africa, he had encountered gorillas, a terrible species of man-monkey. He k=
new
the ways of all the ape tribe, from the wild dog-faced monkey, which he cal=
led
the Macaco-bravo, to the howling monkey or Macaco-barbado. In Chili, he had
seen a pouched monkey move the compassion of the huntsman by showing its li=
ttle
one. He had seen in California a hollow trunk of a tree fall to the ground,=
so vast
that a man on horseback could ride one hundred paces inside. In Morocco, he=
had
seen the Mozabites and the Bisskris fighting with matraks and bars of iron-=
-the
Bisskris, because they had been called kelbs, which means dogs; and the
Mozabites, because they had been treated as khamsi, which means people of t=
he
fifth sect. He had seen in China the pirate Chanh-thong-quan-larh-Quoi cut =
to
pieces for having assassinated the Ap of a village. At Thu-dan-mot, he had =
seen
a lion carry off an old woman in the open market-place. He was present at t=
he arrival
of the Great Serpent brought from Canton to Saigon to celebrate in the pago=
da
of Cho-len the fête of Quan-nam, the goddess of navigators. He had be=
held
the great Quan-Sû among the Moi. At Rio de Janeiro, he had seen the
Brazilian ladies in the evening put little balls of gauze into their hair, =
each
containing a beautiful kind of firefly; and the whole forming a head-dress =
of
little twinkling lights. He had combated in Paraguay with swarms of enormous
ants and spiders, big and downy as an infant's head, and compassing with th=
eir
long legs a third of a yard, and attacking men by pricking them with their =
bristles,
which enter the skin as sharp as arrows, and raise painful blisters. On the
river Arinos, a tributary of the Tocantins, in the virgin forests to the no=
rth
of Diamantina, he had determined the existence of the famous bat-shaped peo=
ple,
the Murcilagos, or men who are born with white hair and red eyes, who live =
in
the shady solitudes of the woods, sleep by day, awake by night, and fish and
hunt in the dark, seeing better then than by the light of the moon. He told
how, near Beyrout, once in an encampment of an expedition of which he forme=
d part,
a rain gauge belonging to one of the party happened to be stolen from a ten=
t. A
wizard, wearing two or three strips of leather only, and looking like a man
having nothing on but his braces, thereupon rang a bell at the end of a hor=
n so
violently, that a hyena finally answered the summons by bringing back the
missing instrument. The hyena was, in fact, the thief. These veritable
histories bore a strong resemblance to fictions; but they amused Dér=
uchette.
The poupée or "doll" of the
Durande, as the people of the Channel Islands call the figure-head of a shi=
p,
was the connecting link between the vessel and Lethierry's niece. In the No=
rman
Islands the figure-head of a ship, a roughly-carved wooden statue, is called
the Poupée. Hence the local saying, meaning to sail, "être
entre poupe et poupée."
The poupée of the Durande was particula=
rly
dear to Mess Lethierry. He had instructed the carver to make it resemble
Déruchette. It looked like a rude attempt to cut out a face with a
hatchet; or like a clumsy log trying hard to look like a girl.
This unshapely block produced a great effect u=
pon
Mess Lethierry's imagination. He looked upon it with an almost superstitious
admiration. His faith in it was complete. He was able to trace in it an
excellent resemblance to Déruchette. Thus the dogma resembles the tr=
uth,
and the idol the deity.
Mess Lethierry had two grand fête days in
every week; one was Tuesday, the other Friday. His first delight consisted =
in
seeing the Durande weigh anchor; his second in seeing her enter the port ag=
ain.
He leaned upon his elbows at the window contemplating his work, and was hap=
py.
On Fridays, the presence of Mess Lethierry at =
his
window was a signal. When people passing the Bravées saw him lighting
his pipe, they said, "Ay! the steamboat is in sight." One kind of
smoke was the herald of the other.
The Durande, when she entered the port, made h=
er
cable fast to a huge iron ring under Mess Lethierry's window, and fixed in =
the
basement of the house. On those nights Lethierry slept soundly in his hammo=
ck,
with a soothing consciousness of the presence of Déruchette asleep in
her room near him, and of the Durande moored opposite.
The moorings of the Durande were close to the
great bell of the port. A little strip of quay passed thence before the doo=
r of
the Bravées.
The quay, the Bravées and its house, the
garden, the alleys bordered with edges, and the greater part even of the
surrounding houses, no longer exist. The demand for Guernsey granite has
invaded these too. The whole of this part of the town is now occupied by
stone-cutters' yards.
=
=
Déruchette
was approaching womanhood, and was still unmarried.
Mess Lethierry in bringing her up to have white
hands had also rendered her somewhat fastidious. A training of that kind has
its disadvantages; but Lethierry was himself still more fastidious. He would
have liked to have provided at the same time for both his idols; to have fo=
und
in the guide and companion of the one a commander for the other. What is a =
husband
but the pilot on the voyage of matrimony? Why not then the same conductor f=
or
the vessel and for the girl? The affairs of a household have their tides, t=
heir
ebbs and flows, and he who knows how to steer a bark, ought to know how to
guide a woman's destiny, subject as both are to the influences of the moon =
and
the wind. Sieur Clubin being only fifteen years younger than Lethierry, wou=
ld
necessarily be only a provisional master for the Durande. It would be neces=
sary
to find a young captain, a permanent master, a true successor of the founde=
r, inventor,
and creator of the first channel steamboat. A captain for the Durande who
should come up to his ideal, would have been, already, almost a son-in-law =
in
Lethierry's eyes. Why not make him son-in-law in a double sense? The idea
pleased him. The husband in posse of Déruchette haunted his dreams. =
His
ideal was a powerful seaman, tanned and browned by weather, a sea athlete.
This, however, was not exactly the ideal of Déruchette. Her dreams, =
if
dreams they could even be called, were of a more ethereal character.
The uncle and the niece were at all events agr=
eed
in not being in haste to seek a solution of these problems. When
Déruchette began to be regarded as a probable heiress, a crowd of
suitors had presented themselves. Attentions under these circumstances are =
not
generally worth much. Mess Lethierry felt this. He would grumble out the old
French proverb, "A maiden of gold, a suitor of brass." He politely
showed the fortune-seekers to the door. He was content to wait, and so was =
Déruchette.
It was, perhaps, a singular fact, that he had
little inclination for the local aristocracy. In that respect Mess Lethierry
showed himself not entirely English. It will hardly be believed that he even
refused for Déruchette a Ganduel of Jersey, and a Bugnet Nicolin of
Sark. People were bold enough to affirm, although we doubt if this were
possible, that he had even declined the proposals of a member of the family=
of Edou,
which is evidently descended from "Edou-ard" (Anglicè Edwa=
rd)
the Confessor.
=
Mess
Lethierry had a failing, and a serious one. He detested a priest; though no=
t as
an individual, but as an institution. Reading one day--for he used to read-=
-in
a work of Voltaire--for he would even read Voltaire--the remark, that pries=
ts
"have something cat-like in their nature," he laid down the book =
and
was heard to mutter, "Then, I suppose, I have something dog-like in
mine."
It must be remembered that the priests--Luther=
an
and Calvinist, as well as Catholic--had vigorously combated the new "D=
evil
Boat," and had persecuted its inventor. To be a sort of revolutionist =
in
the art of navigation, to introduce a spirit of progress in the Norman
Archipelago, to disturb the peace of the poor little island of Guernsey wit=
h a
new invention, was in their eyes, as we have not concealed from the reader,=
an
abominable and most condemnable rashness. Nor had they omitted to condemn it
pretty loudly. It must not be forgotten that we are now speaking of the
Guernsey clergy of a bygone generation, very different from that of the pre=
sent
time, who in almost all the local places of worship display a laudable symp=
athy
with progress. They had embarrassed Lethierry in a hundred ways; every sort=
of
resisting force which can be found in sermons and discourses had been emplo=
yed
against him. Detested by the churchmen, he naturally came to detest them in=
his
turn. Their hatred was the extenuating circumstance to be taken into accoun=
t in
judging of his.
But it must be confessed that his dislike for
priests was, in some degree, in his very nature. It was hardly necessary for
them to hate him in order to inspire him with aversion. As he said, he moved
among them like the dog among cats. He had an antipathy to them, not only in
idea, but in what is more difficult to analyse, his instincts. He felt thei=
r secret
claws, and showed his teeth; sometimes, it must be confessed, a little at
random and out of season. It is a mistake to make no distinctions: a dislik=
e in
the mass is a prejudice. The good Savoyard curé would have found no
favour in his eyes. It is not certain that a worthy priest was even a possi=
ble
thing in Lethierry's mind. His philosophy was carried so far that his good
sense sometimes abandoned him. There is such a thing as the intolerance of
tolerants, as well as the violence of moderates. But Lethierry was at bottom
too good-natured to be a thorough hater. He did not attack so much as avoid=
. He
kept the church people at a distance. He suffered evil at their hands; but =
he confined
himself to not wishing them any good. The shade of difference, in fact, bet=
ween
his aversion and theirs, lay in the fact that they bore animosity, while he=
had
only a strong antipathy. Small as is the island of Guernsey, it has,
unfortunately, plenty of room for differences of religion; there, to take t=
he
broad distinction, is the Catholic faith and the Protestant faith; every fo=
rm
of worship has its temple or chapel. In Germany, at Heidelberg, for example,
people are not so particular; they divide a church in two, one half for St.
Peter, the other half for Calvin, and between the two is a partition to pre=
vent
religious variances terminating in fisticuffs. The shares are equal; the Ca=
tholics
have three altars, the Huguenots three altars. As the services are at the s=
ame
hours, one bell summonses both denominations to prayers; it rings, in fact,
both for God and for Satan, according as each pleases to regard it. Nothing=
can
be more simple.
The phlegmatic character of the Germans favour=
s, I
suppose, this peculiar arrangement, but in Guernsey every religion has its =
own domicile;
there is the orthodox parish and the heretic parish; the individual may cho=
ose.
"Neither one nor the other" was the choice of Mess Lethierry.
This sailor, workman, philosopher, and parvenu
trader, though a simple man in appearance, was by no means simple at bottom=
. He
had his opinions and his prejudices. On the subject of the priests he was
immovable; he would have entered the lists with Montlosier.
Occasionally he indulged in rather disrespectf=
ul
jokes upon this subject. He had certain odd expressions thereupon peculiar =
to
himself, but significant enough. Going to confession he called "combing
one's conscience." The little learning that he had--a certain amount o=
f reading
picked up here and there between the squalls at sea--did not prevent his ma=
king
blunders in spelling. He made also mistakes in pronunciation, some of which,
however, gave a double sense to his words, which might have been suspected =
of a
sly intention. After peace had been brought about by Waterloo between the
France of Louis XVIII. and the England of Wellington, Mess Lethierry was he=
ard
to say, "Bour mont a été le traître d'union entre =
les
deux camps." On one occasion he wrote pape ôté for
papauté. We do not think these puns were intentional.
Though he was a strong anti-papist, that
circumstance was far from conciliating the Anglicans. He was no more liked =
by
the Protestant rectors than by the Catholic curés. The enunciation of
the greatest dogmas did not prevent his anti-theological temper bursting fo=
rth.
Accident, for example, having once brought him to hear a sermon on eternal
punishment, by the Reverend Jaquemin Hérode--a magnificent discourse,
filled from one end to the other with sacred texts, proving the everlasting
pains, the tortures, the torments, the perditions, the inexorable
chastisements, the burnings without end, the inextinguishable maledictions,=
the
wrath of the Almighty, the celestial fury, the divine vengeance, and other
incontestable realities--he was heard to say as he was going out in the mid=
st
of the faithful flock, "You see, I have an odd notion of my own on this
matter; I imagine God as a merciful being."
This leaven of atheism was doubtless due to his
sojourn in France.
Although a Guernsey man of pure extraction, he=
was
called in the island "the Frenchman;" but chiefly on account of h=
is
"improper" manner of speaking. He did not indeed conceal the truth
from himself. He was impregnated with ideas subversive of established
institutions. His obstinacy in constructing the "Devil Boat" had
proved that. He used to say, "I was suckled by the '89"--a bad so=
rt
of nurse. These were not his only indiscretions. In France "to preserv=
e appearances,"
in England "to be respectable," is the chief condition of a quiet
life. To be respectable implies a multitude of little observances, from the
strict keeping of Sunday down to the careful tying of a cravat. "To ac=
t so
that nobody may point at you;" this is the terrible social law. To be
pointed at with the finger is almost the same thing as an anathematisation.=
Little
towns, always hotbeds of gossip, are remarkable for that isolating malignan=
cy,
which is like the tremendous malediction of the Church seen through the wro=
ng
end of the telescope. The bravest are afraid of this ordeal. They are ready=
to
confront the storm, the fire of cannon, but they shrink at the glance of
"Mrs. Grundy." Mess Lethierry was more obstinate than logical; but
under pressure even his obstinacy would bend. He put--to use another of his
phrases, eminently suggestive of latent compromises, not always pleasant to
avow--"a little water in his wine." He kept aloof from the clergy,
but he did not absolutely close his door against them. On official occasion=
s,
and at the customary epochs of pastoral visits, he received with sufficient=
ly
good grace both the Lutheran rector and the Papist chaplain. He had even,
though at distant intervals, accompanied Déruchette to the Anglican =
parish
church, to which Déruchette herself, as we have said, only went on t=
he
four great festivals of the year.
On the whole, these little concessions, which
always cost him a pang, irritated him; and far from inclining him towards t=
he
Church people, only increased his inward disinclination to them. He compens=
ated
himself by more raillery. His nature, in general so devoid of bitterness, h=
ad
no uncharitable side except this. To alter him, however, was impossible.
In fact, this was in his very temperament, and=
was
beyond his own power to control.
Every sort of priest or clergyman was distaste=
ful
to him. He had a little of the old revolutionary want of reverence. He did =
not distinguish
between one form of worship and another. He did not do justice to that grea=
t step
in the progress of ideas, the denial of the real presence. His shortsighted=
ness
in these matters even prevented his perceiving any essential difference bet=
ween
a minister and an abbé. A reverend doctor and a reverend father were
pretty nearly the same to him. He used to say, "Wesley is not more to =
my
taste than Loyola." When he saw a reverend pastor walking with his wif=
e,
he would turn to look at them, and mutter, "a married priest," in=
a
tone which brought out all the absurdity which those words had in the ears =
of
Frenchmen at that time. He used to relate how, on his last voyage to Englan=
d,
he had seen the "Bishopess" of London. His dislike for marriages =
of
that sort amounted almost to disgust. "Gown and gown do not mate
well," he would say. The sacerdotal function was to him in the nature =
of a
distinct sex. It would have been natural to him to have said, "Neither=
a
man nor a woman, only a priest;" and he had the bad taste to apply to =
the
Anglican and the Roman Catholic clergy the same disdainful epithets. He con=
founded
the two cassocks in the same phraseology. He did not take the trouble to va=
ry
in favour of Catholics or Lutherans, or whatever they might be, the figures=
of
speech common among military men of that period. He would say to
Déruchette, "Marry whom you please, provided you do not marry a
parson."
=
A word
once said, Mess Lethierry remembered it: a word once said, Déruchette
soon forgot it. Here was another difference between the uncle and the niece=
.
Brought up in the peculiar way already describ=
ed,
Déruchette was little accustomed to responsibility. There is a latent
danger in an education not sufficiently serious, which cannot be too much
insisted on. It is perhaps unwise to endeavour to make a child happy too so=
on.
So long as she was happy, Déruchette
thought all was well. She knew, too, that it was always a pleasure to her u=
ncle
to see her pleased. The religious sentiment in her nature was satisfied with
going to the parish church four times in the year. We have seen her in her
Christmas-day toilet. Of life, she was entirely ignorant. She had a disposi=
tion
which one day might lead her to love passionately. Meanwhile she was conten=
ted.
She sang by fits and starts, chatted by fits a=
nd
starts, enjoyed the hour as it passed, fulfilled some little duty, and was =
gone
again, and was delightful in all. Add to all this the English sort of liber=
ty
which she enjoyed. In England the very infants go alone, girls are their ow=
n mistresses,
and adolescence is almost wholly unrestrained. Such are the differences of
manners. Later, how many of these free maidens become female slaves? I use =
the
word in its least odious sense; I mean that they are free in the developmen=
t of
their nature, but slaves to duty.
Déruchette awoke every morning with lit=
tle
thought of her actions of the day before. It would have troubled her a good
deal to have had to give an account of how she had spent her time the previ=
ous
week. All this, however, did not prevent her having certain hours of strang=
e disquietude;
times when some dark cloud seemed to pass over the brightness of her joy. T=
hose
azure depths are subject to such shadows! But clouds like these soon passed
away. She quickly shook off such moods with a cheerful laugh, knowing neith=
er
why she had been sad, nor why she had regained her serenity. She was always=
at
play. As a child, she would take delight in teasing the passers-by. She pla=
yed
practical jokes upon the boys. If the fiend himself had passed that way, she
would hardly have spared him some ingenious trick. She was pretty and innoc=
ent;
and she could abuse the immunity accorded to such qualities. She was ready =
with
a smile, as a cat with a stroke of her claws. So much the worse for the vic=
tim
of her scratches. She thought no more of them. Yesterday had no existence f=
or
her. She lived in the fullness of to-day. Such it is to have too much happi=
ness
fall to one's lot! With Déruchette impressions vanished like the mel=
ted
snow.
=
Gilliatt
had never spoken to Déruchette; he knew her from having seen her at a
distance, as men know the morning star.
At the period when Déruchette had met
Gilliatt on the road leading from St. Peter's Port to Vale, and had surpris=
ed
him by tracing his name in the snow, she was just sixteen years of age. Only
the evening before Mess Lethierry had said to her, "Come, no more chil=
dish
tricks; you are a great girl."
That word "Gilliatt," written by the
young maiden, had sunk into an unfathomed depth.
What were women to Gilliatt? He could not have
answered that question himself. When he met one he generally inspired her w=
ith
something of the timidity which he felt himself. He never spoke to a woman
except from urgent necessity. He had never played the part of a
"gallant" to any one of the country girls. When he found himself
alone on the road, and perceived a woman coming towards him, he would climb
over a fence, or bury himself in some copse: he even avoided old women. Onc=
e in
his life he had seen a Parisian lady. A Parisienne on the wing was a strang=
e event
in Guernsey at that distant epoch; and Gilliatt had heard this gentle lady
relate her little troubles in these words: "I am very much annoyed; I =
have
got some spots of rain upon my bonnet. Pale buff is a shocking colour for
rain." Having found, some time afterwards, between the leaves of a boo=
k,
an old engraving, representing "a lady of the Chaussée
d'Antin" in full dress, he had stuck it against the wall at home as a
souvenir of this remarkable apparition.
On that Christmas morning when he had met
Déruchette, and when she had written his name and disappeared
laughing, he returned home, scarcely conscious of why he had gone out. That
night he slept little; he was dreaming of a thousand things: that it would =
be
well to cultivate black radishes in the garden; that he had not seen the bo=
at
from Sark pass by; had anything happened to it? Then he remembered that he =
had
seen the white stonecrop in flower, a rare thing at that season. He had nev=
er known
exactly who was the woman who had reared him, and he made up his mind that she must have been his mo=
ther,
and thought of her with redoubled tenderness. He called to mind the lady's
clothing in the old leathern trunk. He thought that the Reverend Jaquemin
Hérode would probably one day or other be appointed dean of St. Pete=
r's
Port and surrogate of the bishop, and that the rectory of St. Sampson would=
become
vacant. Next, he remembered that the morrow of Christmas would be the
twenty-seventh day of the moon, and that consequently high water would be at
twenty-one minutes past three, the half-ebb at a quarter past seven, low wa=
ter
at thirty-three minutes past nine, and half flood at thirty-nine minutes pa=
st
twelve. He recalled, in the most trifling details, the costume of the
Highlander who had sold him the bagpipe; his bonnet with a thistle ornament,
his claymore, his close-fitting short jacket, his philabeg ornamented with a
pocket, and his snuff-horn, his pin set with a Scottish stone, his two gird=
les,
his sash and belts, his sword, cutlass, dirk, and skene-dhu--his black-shea=
thed
knife, with its black handle ornamented with two cairngorms--and the bare k=
nees
of the soldier; his socks, gaiters, and buckled shoes. This highly-equipped=
figure
became a spectre in his imagination, which pursued him with a sense of
feverishness as he sunk into oblivion. When he awoke it was full daylight, =
and
his first thought was of Déruchette.
The next night he slept more soundly, but he w=
as
dreaming again of the Scottish soldier. In the midst of his sleep he rememb=
ered
that the after-Christmas sittings of the Chief Law Court would commence on =
the 21st
of January. He dreamed also about the Reverend Jaquemin Hérode. He t=
hought
of Déruchette, and seemed to be in violent anger with her. He wished=
he
had been a child again to throw stones at her windows. Then he thought that=
if
he were a child again he should have his mother by his side, and he began to
sob.
Gilliatt had a project at this time of going to
pass three months at Chousey, or at the Miriquiers; but he did not go.
He walked no more along the road to St. Peter's
Port.
He had an odd fancy that his name of
"Gilliatt" had remained there traced upon the ground, and that the
passers-by stopped to read it.
=
On the
other hand, Gilliatt had the satisfaction of seeing the Bravées every
day. By some accident he was continually passing that way. His business see=
med
always to lead him by the path which passed under the wall of
Déruchette's garden.
One morning, as he was walking along this path=
, he
heard a market-woman who was returning from the Bravées, say to anot=
her:
"Mess Lethierry is fond of sea-kale."
He dug in his garden of the Bû de la Rue=
a
trench for sea-kale. The sea-kale is a vegetable which has a flavour like
asparagus.
The wall of the garden of the Bravées w=
as
very low; it would have been easy to scale it. The idea of scaling it would
have appeared, to him, terrible. But there was nothing to hinder his hearin=
g,
as any one else might, the voices of persons talking as he passed, in the r=
ooms
or in the garden. He did not listen, but he heard them. Once he could disti=
nguish
the voices of the two servants, Grace and Douce, disputing. It was a sound
which belonged to the house, and their quarrel remained in his ears like a
remembrance of music.
On another occasion, he distinguished a voice
which was different, and which seemed to him to be the voice of
Déruchette. He quickened his pace, and was soon out of hearing.
The words uttered by that voice, however, rema=
ined
fixed in his memory. He repeated them at every instant. They were, "Wi=
ll
you please give me the little broom?"
By degrees he became bolder. He had the daring=
to
stay awhile. One day it happened that Déruchette was singing at her
piano, altogether invisible from without, although her window was open. The=
air
was that of "Bonnie Dundee." He grew pale, but he screwed his cou=
rage
to the point of listening.
Springtide came. One day Gilliatt enjoyed a
beatific vision. The heavens were opened, and there, before his eyes, appea=
red
Déruchette, watering lettuces in her little garden.
Soon afterwards he look to doing more than mer=
ely
listening there. He watched her habits, observed her hours, and waited to c=
atch
a glimpse of her.
In all this he was very careful not to be seen=
.
The year advanced; the time came when the
trellises were heavy with roses, and haunted by the butterflies. By little =
and
little, he had come to conceal himself for hours behind her wall, motionless
and silent, seen by no one, and holding his breath as Déruchette pas=
sed
in and out of her garden. Men grow accustomed to poison by degrees.
From his hiding-place he could often hear the
sound of Déruchette conversing with Mess Lethierry under a thick arc=
h of
leaves, in a spot where there was a garden-seat. The words came distinctly =
to
his ears.
What a change had come over him! He had even
descended to watch and listen. Alas! there is something of the character of=
a
spy in every human heart.
There was another garden-seat, visible to him,=
and
nearer Déruchette would sit there sometimes.
From the flowers that he had observed her
gathering he had guessed her taste in the matter of perfumes. The scent of =
the
bindweed was her favourite, then the pink, then the honeysuckle, then the
jasmine. The rose stood only fifth in the scale. She looked at the lilies, =
but
did not smell them.
Gilliatt figured her in his imagination from t=
his
choice of odours. With each perfume he associated some perfection.
The very idea of speaking to Déruchette
would have made his hair stand on end. A poor old rag-picker, whose wanderi=
ng
brought her, from time to time, into the little road leading under the
inclosure of the Bravées, had occasionally remarked Gilliatt's assid=
uity
beside the wall, and his devotion for this retired spot. Did she connect the
presence of a man before this wall with the possibility of a woman behind i=
t?
Did she perceive that vague, invisible thread? Was she, in her decrepit men=
dicancy,
still youthful enough to remember something of the old happier days? And co=
uld
she, in this dark night and winter of her wretched life, still recognise the
dawn? We know not: but it appears that, on one occasion, passing near Gilli=
att
at his post, she brought to bear upon him something as like a smile as she =
was
still capable of, and muttered between her teeth, "It is getting
warmer."
Gilliatt heard the words, and was struck by th=
em.
"It warms one," he muttered, with an inward note of interrogation.
"It is getting warmer." What did the old woman mean?
He repeated the phrase mechanically all day, b=
ut
he could not guess its meaning.
=
It was
in a spot behind the enclosure of the garden of the Bravées, at an a=
ngle
of the wall, half concealed with holly and ivy, and covered with nettles, w=
ild
mallow, and large white mullen growing between the blocks of stone, that he
passed the greater part of that summer. He watched there, lost in deep thou=
ght.
The lizards grew accustomed to his presence, and basked in the sun among the
same stones. The summer was bright and full of dreamy indolence: overhead t=
he
light clouds came and went. Gilliatt sat upon the grass. The air was full of
the songs of birds. He held his two hands up to his forehead, sometimes try=
ing
to recollect himself: "Why should she write my name in the snow?"
From a distance the sea breeze came up in gentle breaths, at intervals the =
horn
of the quarrymen sounded abruptly, warning the passers-by to take shelter, =
as
they shattered some mass with gunpowder. The Port of St. Sampson was not
visible from this place, but he could see the tips of masts above the trees.
The sea-gulls flew wide and afar. Gilliatt had heard his mother say that wo=
men
could love men; that such things happened sometimes. He remembered it; and =
said
within himself, "Who knows, may not Déruchette love me?" T=
hen
a feeling of sadness would come upon him; he would say, "She, too, thi=
nks
of me in her turn. It is well." He remembered that Déruchette w=
as
rich, and that he was poor: and then the new boat appeared to him an execra=
ble
invention. He could never remember what day of the month it was. He would s=
tare
listlessly at the great bees, with their yellow bodies and their short wing=
s,
as they entered with a buzzing noise into the holes in the wall.
One evening Déruchette went in-doors to
retire to bed. She approached her window to close it. The night was dark.
Suddenly, something caught her ear, and she listened. Somewhere in the dark=
ness
there was a sound of music. It was some one, perhaps, on the hill-side, or =
at
the foot of the towers of Vale Castle, or, perhaps, further still, playing =
an
air upon some instrument. Déruchette recognised her favourite melody=
, "Bonnie
Dundee," played upon the bagpipe. She thought little of it.
From that night the music might be heard again
from time to time at the same hours, particularly when the nights were very
dark.
Déruchette was not much pleased with all
this.
=
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%'>IV
&=
nbsp;
"A serenade by night may please a lady fair, But of uncle and =
of
guardian let the troubadour beware."
&=
nbsp;
Unpublished Comedy
=
Four
years passed away.
Déruchette was approaching her twenty-f=
irst
year, and was still unmarried. Some writer has said that a fixed idea is a =
sort
of gimlet; every year gives it another turn. To pull out the first year is =
like
plucking out the hair by the roots; in the second year, like tearing the sk=
in;
in the third, like breaking the bones; and in the fourth, like removing the
very brain itself.
Gilliatt had arrived at this fourth stage.
He had never yet spoken a word to
Déruchette. He lived and dreamed near that delightful vision. This w=
as
all.
It happened one day that, finding himself by
chance at St. Sampson, he had seen Déruchette talking with Mess
Lethierry at the door of the Bravées, which opens upon the roadway of
the port. Gilliatt ventured to approach very near. He fancied that at the v=
ery
moment of his passing she had smiled. There was nothing impossible in that.=
Déruchette still heard, from time to ti=
me,
the sound of the bagpipe.
Mess Lethierry had also heard this bagpipe. By
degrees he had come to remark this persevering musician under
Déruchette's window. A tender strain, too; all the more suspicious. A
nocturnal gallant was a thing not to his taste. His wish was to marry D&eac=
ute;ruchette
in his own time, when she was willing and he was willing, purely and simply,
without any romance, or music, or anything of that sort. Irritated at it, he
had at last kept a watch, and he fancied that he had detected Gilliatt. He =
passed
his fingers through his beard--a sign of anger--and grumbled out, "What
has that fellow got to pipe about? He is in love with Déruchette, th=
at
is clear. You waste your time, young man. Any one who wants Déruchet=
te
must come to me, and not loiter about playing the flute."
An event of importance, long foreseen, occurred
soon afterwards. It was announced that the Reverend Jaquemin Hérode =
was
appointed surrogate of the Bishop of Winchester, dean of the island, and re=
ctor
of St. Peter's Port, and that he would leave St. Sampson for St. Peter's
immediately after his successor should be installed.
It could not be long to the arrival of the new
rector. He was a gentleman of Norman extraction, Monsieur Ebenezer Caudray.=
Some facts were known about the new rector, wh=
ich
the benevolent and malevolent interpreted in a contrary sense. He was known=
to
be young and poor, but his youth was tempered with much learning, and his
poverty by good expectations. In the dialect specially invented for the sub=
ject
of riches and inheritances, death goes by the name of "expectations.&q=
uot;
He was the nephew and heir of the aged and opulent dean of St. Asaph. At the
death of this old gentleman he would be a rich man. M. Caudray had distingu=
ished
relations. He was almost entitled to the quality of "Honourable."=
As
regarded his doctrine, people judged differently. He was an Anglican, but,
according to the expression of Bishop Tillotson, a "libertine"--t=
hat
is, in reality, one who was very severe. He repudiated all pharisaism. He w=
as a
friend rather of the Presbytery than the Episcopacy. He dreamed of the
Primitive Church of the days when even Adam had the right to choose his Eve,
and when Frumentinus, Bishop of Hierapolis, carried off a young maiden to m=
ake
her his wife, and said to her parents, "Her will is such, and such is
mine. You are no longer her mother, and you are no longer her father. I am =
the
Bishop of Hierapolis, and this is my wife. Her father is in heaven." If
the common belief could be trusted, M. Caudray subordinated the text,
"Honour thy father and thy mother," to that other text, in his ey=
es
of higher significance, "The woman is the flesh of the man. She shall
leave her father and mother to follow her husband." This tendency,
however, to circumscribe the parental authority and to favour religiously e=
very
mode of forming the conjugal tie, is peculiar to all Protestantism,
particularly in England, and singularly so in America.
=
At
this period the affairs of Mess Lethierry were in this position:--The Duran=
de
had well fulfilled all his expectations. He had paid his debts, repaired his
misfortunes, discharged his obligations at Brême, met his acceptances=
at
St. Malo. He had paid off the mortgage upon his house at the Bravées,
and had bought up all the little local rent charges upon the property. He w=
as
also the proprietor of a great productive capital. This was the Durande
herself. The net revenue from the boat was about a thousand pounds sterling=
per
annum, and the traffic was constantly increasing. Strictly speaking, the
Durande constituted his entire fortune. She was also the fortune of the isl=
and.
The carriage of cattle being one of the most profitable portions of her tra=
de,
he had been obliged, in order to facilitate the stowage, and the embarking =
and disembarking
of animals, to do away with the luggage-boxes and the two boats. It was,
perhaps, imprudent. The Durande had but one boat--namely, her long-boat; but
this was an excellent one.
Ten years had elapsed since Rantaine's robbery=
.
This prosperity of the Durande had its weak po=
int.
It inspired no confidence. People regarded it as a risk. Lethierry's good
fortune was looked upon as exceptional. He was considered to have gained by=
a
lucky rashness. Some one in the Isle of Wight who had imitated him had not =
succeeded.
The enterprise had ruined the shareholders. The engines, in fact, were badly
constructed. But people shook their heads. Innovations have always to conte=
nd
with the difficulty that few wish them well. The least false step compromis=
es
them.
One of the commercial oracles of the Channel
Islands, a certain banker from Paris, named Jauge, being consulted upon a
steamboat speculation, was reported to have turned his back, with the remar=
k,
"An investment is it you propose to me? Exactly; an investment in
smoke."
On the other hand, the sailing vessels had no
difficulty in finding capitalists to take shares in a venture. Capital, in
fact, was obstinately in favour of sails, and as obstinately against boilers
and paddle-wheels. At Guernsey, the Durande was indeed a fact, but steam wa=
s not
yet an established principle. Such is the fanatical spirit of conservatism =
in
opposition to progress. They said of Lethierry, "It is all very well; =
but
he could not do it a second time." Far from encouraging, his example
inspired timidity. Nobody would have dared to risk another Durande.
=
The
equinoctial gales begin early in the Channel. The sea there is narrow, and =
the
winds disturb it easily. The westerly gales begin from the month of Februar=
y,
and the waves are beaten about from every quarter. Navigation becomes an
anxious matter. The people on the coasts look to the signal-post, and begin=
to
watch for vessels in distress. The sea is then like a cut-throat in ambush =
for
his victim. An invisible trumpet sounds the alarm of war with the elements,
furious blasts spring up from the horizon, and a terrible wind soon begins =
to
blow. The dark night whistles and howls. In the depth of the clouds the bla=
ck
tempest distends its cheeks, and the storm arises.
The wind is one danger; the fogs are another.<= o:p>
Fogs have from all time been the terror of
mariners. In certain fogs microscopic prisms of ice are found in suspension=
, to
which Mariotte attributes halos, mock suns, and paraselenes. Storm-fogs are=
of
a composite character; various gases of unequal specific gravity combine wi=
th
the vapour of water, and arrange themselves, layer over layer, in an order
which divides the dense mist into zones. Below ranges the iodine; above the
iodine is the sulphur; above the sulphur the brome; above the brome the
phosphorus. This, in a certain manner, and making allowance for electric and
magnetic tension, explains several phenomena, as the St. Elmo's Fire of
Columbus and Magellan, the flying stars moving about the ships, of which Se=
neca
speaks; the two flames, Castor and Pollux, mentioned by Plutarch; the Roman
legion, whose spears appeared to Cæsar to take fire; the peak of the
Chateau of Duino in Friuli which the sentinel made to sparkle by touching it
with his lance; and perhaps even those fulgurations from the earth which the
ancients called Satan's terrestrial lightnings. At the equator, an immense =
mist
seems permanently to encircle the globe. It is known as the cloud-ring. The=
function
of the cloud-ring is to temper the heat of the tropics, as that of the
Gulf-stream is to mitigate the coldness of the Pole. Under the cloud-ring f=
ogs
are fatal. These are what are called horse latitudes. It was here that
navigators of bygone ages were accustomed to cast their horses into the sea=
to
lighten the ship in stormy weather, and to economise the fresh water when
becalmed. Columbus said, "Nube abaxo ex muerte," death lurks in t=
he
low cloud. The Etruscans, who bear the same relation to meteorology which t=
he
Chaldeans did to astronomy, had two high priests--the high priest of the
thunder, and the high priest of the clouds. The "fulgurators"
observed the lightning, and the weather sages watched the mists. The colleg=
e of
Priest-Augurs was consulted by the Syrians, the Phoenicians, the Pelasgi, a=
nd
all the primitive navigators of the ancient Mare Internum. The origin of
tempests was, from that time forward, partially understood. It is intimately
connected with the generation of fogs, and is, properly speaking, the same
phenomenon. There exist upon the ocean three regions of fogs, one equatorial
and two polar. The mariners give them but one name, the pitch-pot.
In all latitudes, and particularly in the Chan=
nel,
the equinoctial fogs are dangerous. They shed a sudden darkness over the se=
a.
One of the perils of fogs, even when not very dense, arises from their
preventing the mariners perceiving the change of the bed of the sea by the =
variations
of the colour of the water. The result is a dangerous concealment of the
approach of sands and breakers. The vessel steers towards the shoals without
receiving any warning. Frequently the fogs leave a ship no resource except =
to
lie-to, or to cast anchor. There are as many shipwrecks from the fogs as fr=
om
the winds.
After a very violent squall succeeding one of
these foggy days, the mail-boat Cashmere arrived safely from England. It
entered at St. Peter's Port as the first gleam of day appeared upon the sea,
and at the very moment when the cannon of Castle Cornet announced the break=
of
day. The sky had cleared: the sloop Cashmere was anxiously expected, as she=
was
to bring the new rector of St. Sampson.
A little after the arrival of the sloop, a rum=
our
ran through the town that she had been hailed during the night at sea by a
long-boat containing a shipwrecked crew.
=
On
that very night, at the moment when the wind abated, Gilliatt had gone out =
with
his nets, without, however, taking his famous old Dutch boat too far from t=
he
coast.
As he was returning with the rising tide, towa=
rds
two o'clock in the afternoon, the sun was shining brightly, and he passed
before the Beast's Horn to reach the little bay of the Bû de la Rue. =
At
that moment he fancied that he saw, in the projection of the
"Gild-Holm-'Ur" seat a shadow, which was not that of the rock. He
steered his vessel nearer, and was able to perceive a man sitting in the
"Gild-Holm-'Ur." The sea was already very high, the rock encircle=
d by
the waves, and escape entirely cut off. Gilliatt made signs to the man. The
stranger remained motionless. Gilliatt drew nearer; the man was asleep.
He was attired in black. "He looks like a
priest," thought Gilliatt. He approached still nearer, and could disti=
nguish
the face of a young man.
The features were unknown to him.
The rock, happily, was peaked; there was a good
depth. Gilliatt wore off, and succeeded in skirting the rocky wall. The tide
raised the bark so high that Gilliatt, by standing upon the gunwale of the
sloop, could touch the man's feet. He raised himself upon the planking, and
stretched out his hands. If he had fallen at that moment, it is doubtful if=
he would
have risen again on the water; the waves were rolling in between the boat a=
nd
the rock, and destruction would have been inevitable. He pulled the foot of=
the
sleeping man. "Ho! there. What are you doing in this place?"
The man aroused, and muttered--
"I was looking about."
He was now completely awake, and continued--
"I have just arrived in this part. I came
this way on a pleasure trip. I have passed the night on the sea: the view f=
rom
here seemed beautiful. I was weary, and fell asleep."
"Ten minutes later, and you would have be=
en
drowned."
"Ha!"
"Jump into my bark."
Gilliatt kept the bark fast with his foot,
clutched the rock with one hand, and stretched out the other to the strange=
r in
black, who sprang quickly into the boat. He was a fine young man.
Gilliatt seized the tiller, and in two minutes=
his
boat entered the bay of the Bû de la Rue.
The young man wore a round hat and a white cra=
vat;
and his long black frock-coat was buttoned up to the neck. He had fair hair,
which he wore en couronne. He had a somewhat feminine cast of features, a c=
lear
eye, a grave manner.
Meanwhile the boat had touched the ground.
Gilliatt passed the cable through the mooring-ring, then turned and perceiv=
ed
the young man holding out a sovereign in a very white hand.
Gilliatt moved the hand gently away.
There was a pause. The young man was the first=
to
break the silence.
"You have saved me from death."
"Perhaps," replied Gilliatt.
The moorings were made fast, and they went ash=
ore.
The stranger continued--
"I owe you my life, sir."
"No matter."
This reply from Gilliatt was again followed by=
a
pause.
"Do you belong to this parish?"
"No," replied Gilliatt.
"To what parish, then?"
Gilliatt lifted up his right hand, pointed to =
the
sky, and said--
"To that yonder."
The young man bowed, and left him.
After walking a few paces, the stranger stoppe=
d,
felt in his pocket, drew out a book, and returning towards Gilliatt, offere=
d it
to him.
"Permit me to make you a present of
this."
Gilliatt took the volume.
It was a Bible.
An instant after, Gilliatt, leaning upon the
parapet, was following the young man with his eyes as he turned the angle of
the path which led to St. Sampson.
By little and little he lowered his gaze, forg=
ot
all about the stranger--knew no more whether the "Gild-Holm-'Ur"
existed. Everything disappeared before him in the bottomless depth of a
reverie.
There was one abyss which swallowed up all his
thought. This was Déruchette.
A voice calling him, aroused him from this dre=
am.
"Ho there, Gilliatt!"
He recognised the voice and looked up.
"What is the matter, Sieur Landoys?"=
It was, in fact, Sieur Landoys, who was passing
along the road about one hundred paces from the Bû de la Rue in his
phaeton, drawn by one little horse. He had stopped to hail Gilliatt, but he
seemed hurried.
"There is news, Gilliatt."
"Where is that?"
"At the Bravées."
"What is it?"
"I am too far off to tell you the
story."
Gilliatt shuddered.
"Is Miss Déruchette going to be
married?"
"No; but she had better look out for a
husband."
"What do you mean?"
"Go up to the house, and you will
learn."
And Sieur Landoys whipped on his horse.
=
Sieur
Clubin was a man who bided his time. He was short in stature, and his
complexion was yellow. He had the strength of a bull. His sea life had not
tanned his skin; his flesh had a sallow hue; it was the colour of a wax can=
dle,
of which his eyes, too, had something of the steady light. His memory was
peculiarly retentive. With him, to have seen a man once, was to have him li=
ke a
note in a note-book. His quiet glance took possession of you. The pupil of =
his
eye received the impression of a face, and kept it like a portrait. The face
might grow old, but Sieur Clubin never lost it; it was impossible to cheat =
that
tenacious memory. Sieur Clubin was curt in speech, grave in manner, bold in
action. No gestures were ever indulged in by him. An air of candour won
everybody to him at first; many people thought him artless. He had a wrinkl=
e in
the corner of his eye, astonishingly expressive of simplicity. As we have s=
aid,
no abler mariner existed; no one like him for reefing a sail, for keeping a
vessel's head to the wind, or the sails well set. Never did reputation for
religion and integrity stand higher than his. To have suspected him would h=
ave
been to bring yourself under suspicion. He was on terms of intimacy with
Monsieur Rébuchet, a money-changer at St. Malo, who lived in the Rue=
St.
Vincent, next door to the armourer's; and Monsieur Rébuchet would sa=
y,
"I would leave my shop in Clubin's hands."
Sieur Clubin was a widower; his wife, like
himself, had enjoyed a high reputation for probity. She had died with a fame
for incorruptible virtue. If the bailli had whispered gallant things in her
ear, she would have impeached him before the king. If a saint had made love=
to
her, she would have told it to the priest. This couple, Sieur and Dame Club=
in, had
realised in Torteval the ideal of the English epithet "respectable.&qu=
ot;
Dame Clubin's reputation was as the snowy whiteness of the swan; Sieur Club=
in's
like that of ermine itself--a spot would have been fatal to him. He could
hardly have picked up a pin without making inquiries for the owner. He would
send round the town-crier about a box of matches. One day he went into a
wine-shop at St. Servan, and said to the man who kept it, "Three years=
ago
I breakfasted here; you made a mistake in the bill;" and he returned t=
he
man thirteen sous. He was the very personification of probity, with a certa=
in
compression of the lips indicative of watchfulness.
He seemed, indeed, always on the watch--for wh=
at?
For rogues probably.
Every Tuesday he commanded the Durande on her
passage from Guernsey to St. Malo. He arrived at St. Malo on the Tuesday
evening, stayed two days there to discharge and take in a new cargo, and
started again for Guernsey on Friday morning.
There was at that period, at St. Malo, a little
tavern near the harbour, which was called the "Jean Auberge."
The construction of the modern quays swept away
this house. At this period, the sea came up as far as the St. Vincent and D=
inan
gates. St. Merlan and St. Servan communicated with each other by covered ca=
rts
and other vehicles, which passed to and fro among vessels lying high and dr=
y,
avoiding the buoys, the anchors, and cables, and running the risk now and t=
hen
of smashing their leathern hoods against the lowered yards, or the end of a
jibboom. Between the tides, the coachmen drove their horses over those sand=
s,
where, six hours afterwards, the winds would be beating the rolling waves. =
The
four-and-twenty carrying dogs of St. Malo, who tore to pieces a naval offic=
er
in 1770, were accustomed to prowl about this beach. This excess of zeal on
their part led to the destruction of the pack. Their nocturnal barkings are=
no
longer heard between the little and the great Talard.
Sieur Clubin was accustomed to stay at the Jean
Auberge. The French office of the Durande was held there.
The custom-house officers and coast-guardmen c=
ame
to take their meals and to drink at the Jean Auberge. They had their separa=
te
tables. The custom-house officers of Binic found it convenient for the serv=
ice
to meet there with their brother officers of St. Malo.
Captains of vessels came there also; but they =
ate
at another table.
Sieur Clubin sat sometimes at one, sometimes at
the other table, but preferred the table of the custom-house men to that of=
the
sea captains. He was always welcome at either.
The tables were well served. There were strange
drinks especially provided for foreign sailors. A dandy sailor from Bilboa
could have been supplied there with a helada. People drank stout there, as =
at Greenwich;
or brown gueuse, as at Antwerp.
Masters of vessels who came from long voyages =
and
privateersmen sometimes appeared at the captains' table, where they exchang=
ed
news. "How are sugars? That commission is only for small lots.--The br=
own kinds,
however, are going off. Three thousand bags of East India, and five hundred
hogsheads of Sagua.--Take my word, the opposition will end by defeating
Villèle.--What about indigo? Only seven serons of Guatemala changed
hands.--The Nanino-Julia is in the roads; a pretty three-master from
Brittany.--The two cities of La Plata are at loggerheads again.--When Monte
Video gets fat, Buenos Ayres grows lean.--It has been found necessary to
transfer the cargo of the Regina-Coeli, which has been condemned at
Callao.--Cocoas go off briskly.--Caraque bags are quoted at one hundred and
thirty-four, and Trinidad's at seventy-three.--It appears that at the revie=
w in
the Champ de Mars, the people cried, 'Down with the ministers!'--The raw sa=
lt Saladeros
hides are selling--ox-hides at sixty francs, and cows' at forty-eight.--Have
they passed the Balkan?--What is Diebitsch about?--Aniseed is in demand at =
San
Francisco. Plagniol olive oil is quiet.--Gruyère cheese, in bulk, is
thirty-two francs the quintal.--Well, is Leon XII. dead?" etc., etc.
All these things were talked about and comment=
ed
on aloud. At the table of the custom-house and coast-guard officers they sp=
oke
in a lower key.
Matters of police and revenue on the coast and=
in
the ports require, in fact, a little more privacy, and a little less clearn=
ess
in the conversation.
The sea-captains' table was presided over by an
old captain of a large vessel, M. Gertrais-Gaboureau. M. Gertrais-Gaboureau
could hardly be regarded as a man; he was rather a living barometer. His lo=
ng
life at sea had given him a surprising power of prognosticating the state of
the weather. He seemed to issue a decree for the weather to-morrow. He soun=
ded
the winds, and felt the pulse, as it were, of the tides. He might be imagin=
ed
requesting the clouds to show their tongue--that is to say, their forked
lightnings. He was the physician of the wave, the breeze, and the squall. T=
he
ocean was his patient. He had travelled round the world like a doctor going=
his
visits, examining every kind of climate in its good and bad condition. He w=
as
profoundly versed in the pathology of the seasons. Sometimes he would be he=
ard
delivering himself in this fashion--"The barometer descended in 1796 to
three degrees below tempest point." He was a sailor from real love of =
the
sea. He hated England as much as he liked the ocean. He had carefully studi=
ed
English seamanship, and considered himself to have discovered its weak poin=
t.
He would explain how the Sovereign of 1637 differed from the Royal William =
of
1670, and from the Victory of 1775. He compared their build as to their
forecastles and quarter-decks. He looked back with regret to the towers upon
the deck, and the funnel-shaped tops of the Great Harry of 1514--probably
regarding them from the point of view of convenient lodging-places for Fren=
ch
cannon-balls. In his eyes, nations only existed for their naval institution=
s.
He indulged in some odd figures of speech on this subject. He considered the
term "The Trinity House" as sufficiently indicating England. The
"Northern Commissioners" were in like manner synonymous in his mi=
nd
with Scotland; the "Ballast Board," with Ireland. He was full of
nautical information. He was, in himself, a marine alphabet and almanack, a
tariff and low-water mark, all combined. He knew by heart all the lighthouse
dues--particularly those of the English coast--one penny per ton for passing
before this; one farthing before that. He would tell you that the Small Rock
Light which once used to burn two hundred gallons of oil, now consumes fift=
een hundred.
Once, aboard ship, he was attacked by a dangerous disease, and was believed=
to
be dying. The crew assembled round his hammock, and in the midst of his gro=
ans
and agony he addressed the chief carpenter with the words, "You had be=
tter
make a mortise in each side of the main caps, and put in a bit of iron to h=
elp
pass the top ropes through." His habit of command had given to his
countenance an expression of authority.
It was rare that the subjects of conversation =
at
the captains' table and at that of the custom-house men were the same. This,
however, did happen to be the case in the first days of that month of Febru=
ary
to which the course of this history has now brought us. The three-master Ta=
maulipas,
Captain Zuela, arrived from Chili, and bound thither again, was the theme of
discussion at both tables.
At the captains' table they were talking of her
cargo; and at that of the custom-house people, of certain circumstances
connected with her recent proceedings.
Captain Zuela, of Copiapo, was partly a Chilian
and partly a Columbian. He had taken a part in the War of Independence in a
true independent fashion, adhering sometimes to Bolivar, sometimes to Moril=
lo,
according as he had found it to his interest. He had enriched himself by
serving all causes. No man in the world could have been more Bourbonist, mo=
re Bonapartist,
more absolutist, more liberal, more atheistical, or more devoutly catholic.=
He
belonged to that great and renowned party which may be called the Lucrative
party. From time to time he made his appearance in France on commercial
voyages; and if report spoke truly, he willingly gave a passage to fugitive=
s of
any kind--bankrupts or political refugees, it was all the same to him, prov=
ided
they could pay. His mode of taking them aboard was simple. The fugitive wai=
ted
upon a lonely point of the coast, and at the moment of setting sail, Zuela =
would
detach a small boat to fetch him. On his last voyage he had assisted in this
way an outlaw and fugitive from justice, named Berton; and on this occasion=
he
was suspected of being about to aid the flight of the men implicated in the
affair of the Bidassoa. The police were informed, and had their eye upon hi=
m.
This period was an epoch of flights and escape=
s.
The Restoration in France was a reactionary movement. Revolutions are fruit=
ful
of voluntary exile; and restorations of wholesale banishments. During the f=
irst
seven or eight years which followed the return of the Bourbons, panic was u=
niversal--in
finance, in industry, in commerce, men felt the ground tremble beneath them.
Bankruptcies were numerous in the commercial world; in the political, there=
was
a general rush to escape. Lavalette had taken flight, Lefebvre Desnouettes =
had
taken flight, Delon had taken flight. Special tribunals were again in
fashion--plus Treetaillon. People instinctively shunned the Pont de Saumur,=
the
Esplanade de la Réole, the wall of the Observatoire in Paris, the to=
wer
of Taurias d'Avignon--dismal landmarks in history where the period of react=
ion
has left its sign-spots, on which the marks of that blood-stained hand are =
still
visible. In London the Thistlewood affair, with its ramifications in France=
: in
Paris the Trogoff trial, with its ramifications in Belgium, Switzerland, and
Italy, had increased the motives for anxiety and flight, and given an impet=
us
to that mysterious rout which left so many gaps in the social system of that
day. To find a place of safety, this was the general care. To be implicated=
was
to be ruined. The spirit of the military tribunals had survived their
institution. Sentences were matters of favour. People fled to Texas, to the
Rocky Mountains, to Peru, to Mexico. The men of the Loire, traitors then, b=
ut
now regarded as patriots, had founded the Champ d'Asile. Béranger in=
one
of his songs says--
&=
nbsp;
"Barbarians! we are Frenchmen born; Pity us, glorious=
, yet
forlorn."
Self-banishment was the only resource left.
Nothing, perhaps, seems simpler than flight, but that monosyllable has a
terrible significance. Every obstacle is in the way of the man who slips aw=
ay.
Taking to flight necessitates disguise. Persons of importance--even illustr=
ious
characters--were reduced to these expedients, only fit for malefactors. The=
ir
independent habits rendered it difficult for them to escape through the mes=
hes
of authority. A rogue who violates the conditions of his ticket-of-leave
comports himself before the police as innocently as a saint; but imagine
innocence constrained to act a part; virtue disguising its voice; a glorious
reputation hiding under a mask. Yonder passer-by is a man of well-earned
celebrity; he is in quest of a false passport. The equivocal proceedings of=
one
absconding from the reach of the law is no proof that he is not a hero.
Ephemeral but characteristic features of the time of which our so-called
regular history takes no note, but which the true painter of the age will b=
ring
out into relief. Under cover of these flights and concealments of honest me=
n,
genuine rogues, less watched and suspected, managed often to get clear off.=
A scoundrel,
who found it convenient to disappear, would take advantage of the general
pell-mell, tack himself on to the political refugees, and, thanks to his
greater skill in the art, would contrive to appear in that dim twilight mor=
e honest
even than his honest neighbours. Nothing looks more awkward and confused
sometimes than honesty unjustly condemned. It is out of its element, and is
almost sure to commit itself.
It is a curious fact, that this voluntary
expatriation, particularly with honest folks, appeared to lead to every str=
ange
turn of fortune. The modicum of civilisation which a scamp brought with him
from London or Paris became, perhaps, a valuable stock in trade in some
primitive country, ingratiated him with the people, and enabled him to stri=
ke into
new paths. There is nothing impossible in a man's escaping thus from the la=
ws,
to reappear elsewhere as a dignitary among the priesthood. There was someth=
ing
phantasmagorial in these sudden disappearances; and more than one such flig=
ht
has led to events like the marvels of a dream. An escapade of this kind,
indeed, seemed to end naturally in the wild and wonderful; as when some bro=
ken
bankrupt suddenly decamps to turn up again twenty years later as Grand Vizi=
er
to the Mogul, or as a king in Tasmania.
Rendering assistance to these fugitives was an
established trade, and, looking to the abundance of business of that kind, =
was
a highly profitable one. It was generally carried on as a supplementary bra=
nch
of certain recognised kinds of commerce. A person, for instance, desiring to
escape to England, applied to the smugglers; one who desired to get to Amer=
ica,
had recourse to sea-captains like Zuela.
=
II
CLUBIN OBSERVES SOMEONE
=
Zuela
came sometimes to take refreshment at the Jean Auberge. Clubin knew him by
sight.
For that matter Clubin was not proud. He did n=
ot
disdain even to know scamps by sight. He went so far sometimes as to cultiv=
ate
even a closer acquaintance with them; giving his hand in the open street, or
saying good-day to them. He talked English with the smugglers, and jabbered=
Spanish
with the contrebandistas. On this subject he had at command a number of
apologetic phrases. "Good," he said, "can be extracted out o=
f the
knowledge of evil. The gamekeeper may find advantage in knowing the poacher.
The good pilot may sound the depths of a pirate, who is only a sort of hidd=
en
rock. I test the quality of a scoundrel as a doctor will test a poison.&quo=
t;
There was no answering a battery of proverbs like this. Everybody gave Club=
in credit
for his shrewdness. People praised him for not indulging in a ridiculous
delicacy. Who, then, should dare to speak scandal of him on this point?
Everything he did was evidently "for the good of the service." Wi=
th
him, all was straightforward. Nothing could stain his good fame. Crystal mi=
ght
more easily become sullied. This general confidence in him was the natural
reward of a long life of integrity, the crowning advantage of a settled
reputation. Whatever Clubin might do, or appear to do, was sure to be
interpreted favourably. He had attained almost to a state of impeccability.
Over and above this, "he is very wary," people said: and from a
situation which in others would have given rise to suspicion, his integrity
would extricate itself, with a still greater halo of reputation for ability.
This reputation for ability mingled harmoniously with his fame for perfect =
simplicity
of character. Great simplicity and great talents in conjunction are not
uncommon. The compound constitutes one of the varieties of the virtuous man,
and one of the most valuable. Sieur Clubin was one of those men who might be
found in intimate conversation with a sharper or a thief, without suffering=
any
diminution of respect in the minds of their neighbours.
The Tamaulipas had completed her loading. She =
was
ready for sea, and was preparing to sail very shortly.
One Tuesday evening the Durande arrived at St.
Malo while it was still broad daylight. Sieur Clubin, standing upon the bri=
dge
of the vessel, and superintending the manoeuvres necessary for getting her =
into
port, perceived upon the sandy beach near the Petit-Bey, two men, who were =
conversing
between the rocks, in a solitary spot. He observed them with his sea-glass,=
and
recognised one of the men. It was Captain Zuela. He seemed to recognise the
other also.
This other was a person of high stature, a lit=
tle
grey. He wore the broad-brimmed hat and the sober clothing of the Society of
Friends. He was probably a Quaker. He lowered his gaze with an air of extre=
me diffidence.
On arriving at the Jean Auberge, Sieur Clubin
learnt that the Tamaulipas was preparing to sail in about ten days.
It has since become known that he obtained
information on some other points.
That night he entered the gunsmith's shop in t=
he
St. Vincent Street, and said to the master:
"Do you know what a revolver is?"
"Yes," replied the gunsmith. "I=
t is
an American weapon."
"It is a pistol with which a man can carr=
y on
a conversation."
"Exactly: an instrument which comprises in
itself both the question and the answer."
"And the rejoinder too."
"Precisely, Monsieur Clubin. A rotatory c=
lump
of barrels."
"I shall want five or six balls."
The gunmaker twisted the corner of his lip, and
made that peculiar noise with which, when accompanied by a toss of the head,
Frenchmen express admiration.
"The weapon is a good one, Monsieur
Clubin."
"I want a revolver with six barrels."=
;
"I have not one."
"What! and you a gunmaker!"
"I do not keep such articles yet. You see=
, it
is a new thing. It is only just coming into vogue. French makers, as yet,
confine themselves to the simple pistol."
"Nonsense."
"It has not yet become an article of
commerce."
"Nonsense, I say."
"I have excellent pistols."
"I want a revolver."
"I agree that it is more useful. Stop,
Monsieur Clubin!"
"What?"
"I believe I know where there is one at t=
his
moment in St. Malo; to be had a bargain."
"A revolver?"
"Yes."
"For sale?"
"Yes."
"Where is that?"
"I believe I know; or I can find out.&quo=
t;
"When can you give me an answer?"
"A bargain; but of good quality."
"When shall I return?"
"If I procure you a revolver, remember, it
will be a good one."
"When will you give me an answer?"
"After your next voyage."
"Do not mention that it is for me," =
said
Clubin.
=
Sieur
Clubin completed the loading of the Durande, embarked a number of cattle and
some passengers, and left St. Malo for Guernsey, as usual, on the Friday
morning.
On that same Friday, when the vessel had gained
the open, which permits the captain to absent himself a moment from the pla=
ce
of command, Clubin entered his cabin, shut himself in, took a travelling bag
which he kept there, put into one of its compartments some biscuit, some bo=
xes
of preserves, a few pounds of chocolate in sticks, a chronometer, and a sea=
telescope,
and passed through the handles a cord, ready prepared to sling it if necess=
ary.
Then he descended into the hold, went into the compartment where the cables=
are
kept, and was seen to come up again with one of those knotted ropes heavy w=
ith
pieces of metal, which are used for ship caulkers at sea and by robbers ash=
ore.
Cords of this kind are useful in climbing.
Having arrived at Guernsey, Clubin repaired to
Torteval. He took with him the travelling bag and the knotted cord, but did=
not
bring them back again.
Let us repeat once for all, the Guernsey which=
we
are describing is that ancient Guernsey which no longer exists, and of whic=
h it
would be impossible to find a parallel now anywhere except in the country.
There it is still flourishing, but in the towns it has passed away. The sam=
e remarks
apply to Jersey. St. Helier's is as civilised as Dieppe, St. Peter's Port as
L'Orient. Thanks to the progress of civilisation, thanks to the admirably
enterprising spirit of that brave island people, everything has been changed
during the last forty years in the Norman Archipelago. Where there was dark=
ness
there is now light. With these premises let us proceed.
At that period, then, which is already so far
removed from us as to have become historical, smuggling was carried on very
extensively in the Channel. The smuggling vessels abounded, particularly on=
the
western coast of Guernsey. People of that peculiarly clever kind who know, =
even
in the smallest details, what went on half a century ago, will even cite you
the names of these suspicious craft, which were almost always Austrians or
Guiposeans. It is certain that a week scarcely ever passed without one or t=
wo
being seen either in Saint's Bay or at Pleinmont. Their coming and going had
almost the character of a regular service. A cavern in the cliffs at Sark w=
as
called then, and is still called, the "Shops" ("Les
Boutiques"), from its being the place where these smugglers made their
bargains with the purchasers of their merchandise. This sort of traffic had=
in
the Channel a dialect of its own, a vocabulary of contraband technicalities=
now
forgotten, and which was to the Spanish what the "Levantine" is to
the Italian.
On many parts of the English coast smuggling h=
ad a
secret but cordial understanding with legitimate and open commerce. It had
access to the house of more than one great financier, by the back-stairs it=
is
true; and its influence extended itself mysteriously through all the commer=
cial
world, and the intricate ramifications of manufacturing industry. Merchant =
on
one side, smuggler on the other; such was the key to the secret of many gre=
at
fortunes. Séguin affirmed it of Bourgain, Bourgain of Séguin.=
We
do not vouch for their accusations; it is possible that they were calumniat=
ing
each other. However this may have been, it is certain that the contraband
trade, though hunted down by the law, was flourishing enough in certain
financial circles. It had relations with "the very best society."
Thus the brigand Mandrin, in other days, found himself occasionally
tête-à-tête with the Count of Charolais; for this underh=
and
trade often contrived to put on a very respectable appearance; kept a house=
of
its own with an irreproachable exterior.
All this necessitated a host of manoeuvres and
connivances, which required impenetrable secrecy. A contrabandist was entru=
sted
with a good many things, and knew how to keep them secret. An inviolable
confidence was the condition of his existence. The first quality, in fact, =
in a
smuggler was strict honour in his own circle. No discreetness, no smuggling.
Fraud has its secrets like the priest's confessional.
These secrets were indeed, as a rule, faithful=
ly
kept. The contrabandist swore to betray nothing, and he kept his word; nobo=
dy
was more trustworthy than the genuine smuggler. The Judge Alcade of Oyarzun=
captured
a smuggler one day, and put him to torture to compel him to disclose the na=
me
of the capitalist who secretly supported him. The smuggler refused to tell.=
The
capitalist in question was the Judge Alcade himself. Of these two accomplic=
es,
the judge and the smuggler, the one had been compelled, in order to appear =
in
the eyes of the world to fulfil the law, to put the other to the torture, w=
hich
the other had patiently borne for the sake of his oath.
The two most famous smugglers who haunted
Pleinmont at that period were Blasco and Blasquito. They were Tocayos. This=
was
a sort of Spanish or Catholic relationship which consisted in having the sa=
me
patron saint in heaven; a thing, it will be admitted, not less worthy of
consideration than having the same father upon earth.
When a person was initiated into the furtive w=
ays
of the contraband business, nothing was more easy, or, from a certain point=
of
view, more troublesome. It was sufficient to have no fear of dark nights, to
repair to Pleinmont, and to consult the oracle located there.
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%'>IV - =
PLEINMONT
=
Pleinmont,
near Torteval, is one of the three corners of the island of Guernsey. At the
extremity of the cape there rises a high turfy hill, which looks over the s=
ea.
The height is a lonely place. All the more lon=
ely
from there being one solitary house there.
This house adds a sense of terror to that of
solitude.
It is popularly believed to be haunted.
Haunted or not, its aspect is singular.
Built of granite, and rising only one story hi=
gh,
it stands in the midst of the grassy solitude. It is in a perfectly good
condition as far as exterior is concerned; the walls are thick and the roof=
is
sound. Not a stone is wanting in the sides, not a tile upon the roof. A
brick-built chimney-stack forms the angle of the roof. The building turns i=
ts
back to the sea, being on that side merely a blank wall. On examining this =
wall,
however, attentively, the visitor perceives a little window bricked up. The=
two
gables have three dormer windows, one fronting the east, the others fronting
the west, but both are bricked up in like manner. The front, which looks
inland, has alone a door and windows. This door, too, is walled in, as are =
also
the two windows of the ground-floor. On the first floor--and this is the
feature which is most striking as you approach--there are two open windows;=
but
these are even more suspicious than the blind windows. Their open squares l=
ook
dark even in broad day, for they have no panes of glass, or even window-fra=
mes.
They open simply upon the dusk within. They strike the imagination like hol=
low
eye-sockets in a human face. Inside all is deserted. Through the gaping
casements you may mark the ruin within. No panellings, no woodwork; all bare
stone. It is like a windowed sepulchre, giving liberty to the spectres to l=
ook
out upon the daylight world. The rains sap the foundations on the seaward s=
ide.
A few nettles, shaken by the breeze, flourish in the lower part of the wall=
s.
Far around the horizon there is no other human habitation. The house is a v=
oid;
the abode of silence: but if you place your ear against the wall and listen,
you may distinguish a confused noise now and then, like the flutter of wing=
s.
Over the walled door, upon the stone which forms its architrave, are sculpt=
ured
these letters, "ELM-PBILG," with the date "1780."
The dark shadow of night and the mournful ligh=
t of
the moon find entrance there.
The sea completely surrounds the house. Its
situation is magnificent; but for that reason its aspect is more sinister. =
The
beauty of the spot becomes a puzzle. Why does not a human family take up its
abode here? The place is beautiful, the house well-built. Whence this negle=
ct?
To these questions, obvious to the reason, succeed others, suggested by the=
reverie
which the place inspires. Why is this cultivatable garden uncultivated? No
master for it; and the bricked-up doorway? What has happened to the place? =
Why
is it shunned by men? What business is done here? If none, why is there no =
one
here? Is it only when all the rest of the world are asleep that some one in
this spot is awake? Dark squalls, wild winds, birds of prey, strange creatu=
res,
unknown forms, present themselves to the mind, and connect themselves someh=
ow
with this deserted house. For what class of wayfarers can this be the hoste=
lry?
You imagine to yourself whirlwinds of rain and hail beating in at the open
casements, and wandering through the rooms. Tempests have left their vague
traces upon the interior walls. The chambers, though walled and covered in,=
are
visited by the hurricanes. Has the house been the scene of some great crime?
You may almost fancy that this spectral dwelling, given up to solitude and
darkness, might be heard calling aloud for succour. Does it remain silent? =
Do
voices indeed issue from it? What business has it on hand in this lonely pl=
ace?
The mystery of the dark hours rests securely here. Its aspect is disquietin=
g at
noonday; what must it be at midnight? The dreamer asks himself--for dreams =
have
their coherence--what this house may be between the dusk of evening and the
twilight of approaching dawn? Has the vast supernatural world some relation
with this deserted height, which sometimes compels it to arrest its movemen=
ts
here, and to descend and to become visible? Do the scattered elements of the
spirit world whirl around it? Does the impalpable take form and substance h=
ere?
Insoluble riddles! A holy awe is in the very stones; that dim twilight has
surely relations with the infinite Unknown. When the sun has gone down, the
song of the birds will be hushed, the goatherd behind the hills will go
homeward with his goats; reptiles, taking courage from the gathering darkne=
ss,
will creep through the fissures of rocks; the stars will begin to appear, n=
ight
will come, but yonder two blank casements will still be staring at the sky.
They open to welcome spirits and apparitions; for it is by the names of
apparitions, ghosts, phantom faces vaguely distinct, masks in the lurid lig=
ht,
mysterious movements of minds, and shadows, that the popular faith, at once
ignorant and profound, translates the sombre relations of this dwelling with
the world of darkness.
The house is "haunted;" the popular
phrase comprises everything.
Credulous minds have their explanation;
common-sense thinkers have theirs also. "Nothing is more simple,"=
say
the latter, "than the history of the house. It is an old observatory of
the time of the revolutionary wars and the days of smuggling. It was built =
for
such objects. The wars being ended, the house was abandoned; but it was not
pulled down, as it might one day again become useful. The door and windows =
have
been walled to prevent people entering, or doing injury to the interior. The
walls of the windows, on the three sides which face the sea, have been bric=
ked up
against the winds of the south and south-west. That is all."
The ignorant and the credulous, however, are n=
ot
satisfied. In the first place, the house was not built at the period of the
wars of the Revolution. It bears the date "1780," which was anter=
ior
to the Revolution. In the next place it was not built for an observatory. I=
t bears
the letters "ELM-PBILG," which are the double monogram of two fam=
ilies,
and which indicate, according to usage, that the house was built for the us=
e of
a newly-married couple. Then it has certainly been inhabited: why then shou=
ld
it be abandoned? If the door and windows were bricked up to prevent people
entering the house only, why were two windows left open? Why are there no
shutters, no window-frames, no glass? Why were the walls bricked in on one =
side
if not on the other? The wind is prevented from entering from the south; but
why is it allowed to enter from the north?
The credulous are wrong, no doubt; but it is c=
lear
that the common-sense thinkers have not discovered the key to the mystery. =
The
problem remains still unsolved.
It is certain that the house is generally beli=
eved
to have been more useful than inconvenient to the smugglers.
The growth of superstitious terror tends to
deprive facts of their true proportions. Without doubt, many of the nocturn=
al
phenomena which have, by little and little, secured to the building the
reputation of being haunted, might be explained by obscure and furtive visi=
ts,
by brief sojourns of sailors near the spot, and sometimes by the precaution=
, sometimes
by the daring, of men engaged in certain suspicious occupations concealing
themselves for their dark purposes, or allowing themselves to be seen in or=
der
to inspire dread.
At this period, already a remote one, many dar=
ing
deeds were possible. The police--particularly in small places--was by no me=
ans
as efficient as in these days.
Add to this, that if the house was really, as =
was
said, a resort of the smugglers, their meetings there must, up to a certain=
point,
have been safe from interruptions precisely because the house was dreaded by
the superstitious people of the country. Its ghostly reputation prevented i=
ts
being visited for other reasons. People do not generally apply to the polic=
e,
or officers of customs, on the subject of spectres. The superstitious rely =
on
making the sign of the cross; not on magistrates and indictments. There is
always a tacit connivance, involuntary it may be, but not the less real,
between the objects which inspire fear and their victims. The terror-strick=
en
feel a sort of culpability in having encountered their terrors; they imagine
themselves to have unveiled a secret; and they have an inward fear, unknown
even to themselves, of aggravating their guilt, and exciting the anger of t=
he
apparitions. All this makes them discreet. And over and above this reason, =
the
very instinct of the credulous is silence; dread is akin to dumbness; the t=
errified
speak little; horror seems always to whisper, "Hush!"
It must be remembered that this was a period w=
hen
the Guernsey peasants believed that the Mystery of the Holy Manger is repea=
ted
by oxen and asses every year on a fixed day; a period when no one would have
dared to enter a stable at night for fear of coming upon the animals on the=
ir knees.
If the local legends and stories of the people=
can
be credited, the popular superstition went so far as to fasten to the walls=
of
the house at Pleinmont things of which the traces are still visible--rats
without feet, bats without wings, and bodies of other dead animals. Here, t=
oo, were
seen toads crushed between the pages of a Bible, bunches of yellow lupins, =
and
other strange offerings, placed there by imprudent passers-by at night, who,
having fancied that they had seen something, hoped by these small sacrifice=
s to
obtain pardon, and to appease the ill-humours of were-wolves and evil spiri=
ts.
In all times, believers of this kind have flourished; some even in very high
places. Cæsar consulted Saganius, and Napoleon Mademoiselle Lenormand.
There are a kind of consciences so tender, that they must seek indulgences =
even
from Beelzebub. "May God do, and Satan not undo," was one of the
prayers of Charles the Fifth. They come to persuade themselves that they may
commit sins even against the Evil One; and one of their cherished objects w=
as, to
be irreproachable even in the eyes of Satan. We find here an explanation of
those adorations sometimes paid to infernal spirits. It is only one more
species of fanaticism. Sins against the devil certainly exist in certain mo=
rbid
imaginations. The fancy that they have violated the laws of the lower regio=
ns
torments certain eccentric casuists; they are haunted with scruples even ab=
out
offending the demons. A belief in the efficacy of devotions to the spirits =
of
the Brocken or Armuyr, a notion of having committed sins against hell,
visionary penances for imaginary crimes, avowals of the truth to the spirit=
of
falsehood, self-accusation before the origin of all evil, and confessions i=
n an
inverted sense--are all realities, or things at least which have existed. T=
he
annals of criminal procedure against witchcraft and magic prove this in eve=
ry
page. Human folly unhappily extends even thus far: when terror seizes upon a
man he does not stop easily. He dreams of imaginary faults, imaginary
purifications, and clears out his conscience with the old witches' broom.
Be this as it may, if the house at Pleinmont h=
ad
its secrets, it kept them to itself; except by some rare chance, no one went
there to see. It was left entirely alone. Few people, indeed, like to run t=
he
risk of an encounter with the other world.
Owing to the terror which it inspired, and whi=
ch
kept at a distance all who could observe or bear testimony on the subject, =
it
had always been easy to obtain an entrance there at night by means of a rope
ladder, or even by the use of the first ladder coming to hand in one of the=
neighbouring
fields. A consignment of goods or provisions left there might await in perf=
ect
safety the time and opportunity for a furtive embarkation. Tradition relates
that forty years ago a fugitive--for political offences as some affirm, for
commercial as others say--remained for some time concealed in the haunted h=
ouse
at Pleinmont; whence he finally succeeded in embarking in a fishing-boat for
England. From England a passage is easily obtained to America.
Tradition also avers that provisions deposited=
in
this house remain there untouched, Lucifer and the smugglers having an inte=
rest
in inducing whoever places them there to return.
From the summit of the house, there is a view =
to
the south of the Hanway Rocks, at about a mile from the shore.
These rocks are famous. They have been guilty =
of
all the evil deeds of which rocks are capable. They are the most ruthless
destroyers of the sea. They lie in a treacherous ambush for vessels in the
night. They have contributed to the enlargement of the cemeteries at Tortev=
al
and Rocquaine.
A lighthouse was erected upon these rocks in 1=
862.
At the present day, the Hanways light the way for the vessels which they on=
ce
lured to destruction; the destroyer in ambush now bears a lighted torch in =
his hand;
and mariners seek in the horizon, as a protector and a guide, the rock which
they used to fly as a pitiless enemy. It gives confidence by night in that =
vast
space where it was so long a terror--like a robber converted into a gendarm=
e.
There are three Hanways: the Great Hanway, the
Little Hanway, and the Mauve. It is upon the Little Hanway that the red lig=
ht
is placed at the present time.
This reef of rocks forms part of a group of pe=
aks,
some beneath the sea, some rising out of it. It towers above them all; like=
a
fortress, it has advanced works: on the side of the open sea, a chain of
thirteen rocks; on the north, two breakers--the High Fourquiés, the
Needles, and a sandbank called the Hérouée. On the south, thr=
ee
rocks--the Cat Rock, the Percée, and the Herpin Rock; then two
banks--the South Bank and the Muet: besides which, there is, on the side
opposite Pleinmont, the Tas de Pois d'Aval.
To swim across the channel from the Hanways to
Pleinmont is difficult, but not impossible. We have already said that this =
was
one of the achievements of Clubin. The expert swimmer who knows this channel
can find two resting-places, the Round Rock, and further on, a little out o=
f the
course, to the left, the Red Rock.
=
It was
near the period of that Saturday which was passed by Sieur Clubin at Tortev=
al
that a curious incident occurred, which was little heard of at the time, and
which did not generally transpire till a long time afterwards. For many thi=
ngs,
as we have already observed, remain undivulged, simply by reason of the ter=
ror
which they have caused in those who have witnessed them.
In the night-time between Saturday and Sunday-=
-we
are exact in the matter of the date, and we believe it to be correct--three
boys climbed up the hill at Pleinmont. The boys returned to the village: th=
ey
came from the seashore. They were what are called, in the corrupt French of=
that
part, "déniquoiseaux," or birds'-nesters. Wherever there a=
re
cliffs and cleft-rocks overhanging the sea, the young birds'-nesters abound=
. The
reader will remember that Gilliatt interfered in this matter for the sake of
the birds as well as for the sake of the children.
The "déniquoiseaux" are a sor=
t of
sea-urchins, and are not a very timid species.
The night was very dark. Dense masses of cloud
obscured the zenith. Three o'clock had sounded in the steeple of Torteval w=
hich
is round and pointed like a magician's hat.
Why did the boys return so late? Nothing more
simple. They had been searching for sea-gulls' nests in the Tas de Pois d'A=
val.
The season having been very mild, the pairing of the birds had begun very
early. The children watching the fluttering of the male and female about th=
eir nests,
and excited by the pursuit, had forgotten the time. The waters had crept up
around them; they had no time to regain the little bay in which they had mo=
ored
their boat, and they were compelled to wait upon one of the peaks of the Ta=
s de
Pois for the ebb of the tide. Hence their late return. Mothers wait on such
occasions in feverish anxiety for the return of their children, and when th=
ey
find them safe, give vent to their joy in the shape of anger, and relieve t=
heir
tears by dealing them a sound drubbing. The boys accordingly hastened their
steps, but in fear and trembling. Their haste was of that sort which is gla=
d of
an excuse for stopping, and which is not inconsistent with a reluctance to
reach their destination; for they had before them the prospect of warm embr=
aces,
to be followed with an inevitable thrashing.
One only of the boys had nothing of this to fe=
ar.
He was an orphan: a French boy, without father or mother, and perfectly con=
tent
just then with his motherless condition; for nobody taking any interest in =
him,
his back was safe from the dreaded blows. The two others were natives of Gu=
ernsey,
and belonged to the parish of Torteval.
Having climbed the grassy hill, the three
birds'-nesters reached the tableland on which was situate the haunted house=
.
They began by being in fear, which is the prop=
er
frame of mind of every passer-by; and particularly of every child at that h=
our
and in that place.
They had a strong desire to take to their heel=
s as
fast as possible, and a strong desire, also, to stay and look.
They did stop.
They looked towards the solitary building.
It was all dark and terrible.
It stood in the midst of the solitary plain--an
obscure block, a hideous but symmetrical excrescence; a high square mass wi=
th
right-angled corners, like an immense altar in the darkness.
The first thought of the boys was to run: the
second was to draw nearer. They had never seen this house before. There is =
such
a thing as a desire to be frightened arising from curiosity. They had a lit=
tle
French boy with them, which emboldened them to approach.
It is well known that the French have no fear.=
Besides, it is reassuring to have company in
danger; to be frightened in the company of two others is encouraging.
And then they were a sort of hunters accustome=
d to
peril. They were children; they were used to search, to rummage, to spy out
hidden things. They were in the habit of peeping into holes; why not into t=
his hole?
Hunting is exciting. Looking into birds' nests perhaps gives an itch for
looking a little into a nest of ghosts. A rummage in the dark regions. Why =
not?
From prey to prey, says the proverb, we come to
the devil. After the birds, the demons. The boys were on the way to learn t=
he
secret of those terrors of which their parents had told them. To be on the =
track
of hobgoblin tales--nothing could be more attractive. To have long stories =
to
tell like the good housewives. The notion was tempting.
All this mixture of ideas, in their state of
half-confusion, half-instinct, in the minds of the Guernsey birds'-nesters,
finally screwed their courage to the point. They approached the house.
The little fellow who served them as a sort of
moral support in the adventure was certainly worthy of their confidence. He=
was
a bold boy--an apprentice to a ship-caulker; one of those children who have=
already
become men. He slept on a little straw in a shed in the ship-caulker's yard,
getting his own living, having red hair, and a loud voice; climbing easily =
up
walls and trees, not encumbered with prejudices in the matter of property in
the apples within his reach; a lad who had worked in the repairing dock for
vessels of war--a child of chance, a happy orphan, born in France, no one k=
new
exactly where; ready to give a centime to a beggar; a mischievous fellow, b=
ut a
good one at heart; one who had talked to Parisians. At this time he was ear=
ning
a shilling a day by caulking the fishermen's boats under repair at the P&ec=
irc;queries.
When he felt inclined he gave himself a holiday, and went birds'-nesting. S=
uch
was the little French boy.
The solitude of the place impressed them with a
strange feeling of dread. They felt the threatening aspect of the silent ho=
use.
It was wild and savage. The naked and deserted plateau terminated in a
precipice at a short distance from its steep incline. The sea below was qui=
et.
There was no wind. Not a blade of grass stirred.
The birds'-nesters advanced by slow steps, the
French boy at their head, and looking towards the house.
One of them, afterwards relating the story, or=
as
much of it as had remained in his head, added, "It did not speak."=
;
They came nearer, holding their breath, as one
might approach a savage animal.
They had climbed the hill at the side of the h=
ouse
which descended to seaward towards a little isthmus of rocks almost
inaccessible. Thus they had come pretty near to the building; but they saw =
only
the southern side, which was all walled up. They did not dare to approach by
the other side, where the terrible windows were.
They grew bolder, however; the caulker's
apprentice whispered, "Let's veer to larboard. That's the handsome sid=
e.
Let's have a look at the black windows."
The little band accordingly "veered to
larboard," and came round to the other side of the house.
The two windows were lighted up.
The boys took to their heels.
When they had got to some distance, the French
boy, however, returned.
"Hillo!" said he, "the lights h=
ave
vanished."
The light at the windows had, indeed, disappea=
red.
The outline of the building was seen as sharply defined as if stamped out w=
ith
a punch against the livid sky.
Their fear was not abated, but their curiosity=
had
increased. The birds'-nesters approached.
Suddenly the light reappeared at both windows =
at
the same moment.
The two young urchins from Torteval took to th=
eir
heels and vanished. The daring French boy did not advance, but he kept his
ground.
He remained motionless, confronting the house =
and
watching it.
The light disappeared, and appeared again once
more. Nothing could be more horrible. The reflection made a vague streak of
light upon the grass, wet with the night dew. All of a moment the light cast
upon the walls of the house two huge dark profiles, and the shadows of enor=
mous
heads.
The house, however, being without ceilings, and
having nothing left but its four walls and roof, one window could not be
lighted without the other.
Perceiving that the caulker's apprentice kept =
his
ground, the other birds'-nesters returned, step by step, and one after the
other, trembling and curious. The caulker's apprentice whispered to them, &=
quot;There
are ghosts in the house. I have seen the nose of one." The two Torteval
boys got behind their companion, standing tiptoe against his shoulder; and =
thus
sheltered, and taking him for their shield, felt bolder and watched also.
The house on its part seemed also to be watchi=
ng
them. There it stood in the midst of that vast darkness and silence, with i=
ts
two glaring eyes. These were its upper windows. The light vanished, reappea=
red,
and vanished again, in the fashion of these unearthly illuminations. These =
sinister
intermissions had, probably, some connection with the opening and shutting =
of
the infernal regions. The air-hole of a sepulchre has thus been seen to pro=
duce
effects like those from a dark lantern.
Suddenly a dark form, like that of a human bei=
ng,
ascended to one of the windows, as if from without, and plunged into the
interior of the house.
To enter by the window is the custom with spir=
its.
The light was for a moment more brilliant, then
went out, and appeared no more. The house became dark. The noises resembled
voices. This is always the case. When there was anything to be seen it is
silent. When all became invisible again, noises were heard.
There is a silence peculiar to night-time at s=
ea.
The repose of darkness is deeper on the water than on the land. When there =
is
neither wind nor wave in that wild expanse, over which, in ordinary time, e=
ven
the flight of eagles makes no sound, the movement of a fly could be heard. =
This
sepulchral quiet gave a dismal relief to the noises which issued from the h=
ouse.
"Let us look," said the French boy.<= o:p>
And he made a step towards the house.
The others were so frightened that they resolv=
ed
to follow him. They did not dare even to run away alone.
Just as they had passed a heap of fagots, which
for some mysterious reason seemed to inspire them with a little courage in =
that
solitude, a white owl flew towards them from a bush. The owls have a suspic=
ious
sort of flight, a sidelong skim which is suggestive of mischief afloat. The=
bird
passed near the boys, fixing upon them its round eyes, bright amidst the
darkness.
A shudder ran through the group behind the Fre=
nch
boy.
He looked up at the owl and said:
"Too late, my bird; I will look."
And he advanced.
The crackling sound made by his thick-nailed b=
oots
among the furze bushes did not prevent his hearing the noise in the house,
which rose and fell with the continuousness and the calm accent of a dialog=
ue.
A moment afterwards the boy added:
"Besides, it is only fools who believe in
spirits."
Insolence in the face of danger rallies the
cowardly, and inspirits them to go on.
The two Torteval lads resumed their march,
quickening their steps behind the caulker's apprentice.
The haunted house seemed to them to grow larger
before their eyes. This optical illusion of fear is founded in reality. The
house did indeed grow larger, for they were coming nearer to it.
Meanwhile the voices in the house took a tone =
more
and more distinct. The children listened. The ear, too, has its power of
exaggerating. It was different to a murmur, more than a whispering, less th=
an
an uproar. Now and then one or two words, clearly articulated, could be cau=
ght.
These words, impossible to be understood, sounded strangely. The boys stopp=
ed
and listened; then went forward again.
"It's the ghosts talking," said the
caulker's apprentice; "but I don't believe in ghosts."
The Torteval boys were sorely tempted to shrink
behind the heap of fagots, but they had already left it far behind; and the=
ir
friend the caulker continued to advance towards the house. They trembled at=
remaining
with him; but they dared not leave him.
Step by step, and perplexed, they followed. The
caulker's apprentice turned towards them and said--
"You know it isn't true. There are no such
things."
The house grew taller and taller. The voices
became more and more distinct.
They drew nearer.
And now they could perceive within the house
something like a muffled light. It was a faint glimmer, like one of those
effects produced by dark lanterns, already referred to, and which are commo=
n at
the midnight meetings of witches.
When they were close to the house they halted.=
One of the two Torteval boys ventured on an
observation:
"It isn't spirits: it is ladies dressed in
white."
"What's that hanging from the window?&quo=
t;
asked the other.
"It looks like a rope."
"It's a snake."
"It is only a hangman's rope," said =
the
French boy, authoritatively. "That's what they use. Only I don't belie=
ve
in them."
And in three bounds, rather than steps, he fou=
nd
himself against the wall of the building.
The two others, trembling, imitated him, and c=
ame
pressing against him, one on his right side, the other on his left. The boys
applied their ears to the wall. The sounds continued.
The following was the conversation of the
phantoms:--
*
"Asi, entendido esta?"
"Entendido."
"Dicho?"
"Dicho."
"Aqui esperara un hombre, y podra marchar=
se
en Inglaterra con Blasquito."
"Pagando?"
*
"So that is understood?"
"Perfectly."
"As is arranged?"
"As is arranged."
"A man will wait here, and can accompany
Blasquito to England."
"Paying the expense?"
*
"Pagando."
"Blasquito tomara al hombre en su
barca."
"Sin buscar para conocer a su pais?"=
"No nos toca."
"Ni a su nombre del hombre?"
"No se pide el nombre, pero se pesa la
bolsa."
"Bien: esperara el hombre en esa casa.&qu=
ot;
"Tenga que comer."
"Tendra."
"Onde?"
"En este saco que he llevado."
"Muy bien."
"Puedo dexar el saco aqui?"
"Los contrabandistas no son ladrones.&quo=
t;
"Y vosotros, cuando marchais?"
"Mañana por la mañana. Si su
hombre de usted parado podria venir con nosotros."
"Parado no esta."
"Hacienda suya."
"Cuantos dias esperara alli?"
*
"Paying the expense."
"Blasquito will take the man in his
bark."
"Without seeking to know what country he
belongs to?"
"That is no business of ours."
"Without asking his name?"
"We do not ask for names; we only feel the
weight of the purse."
"Good: the man shall wait in this
house."
"He must have provisions."
"He will be furnished with them."
"How?"
"From this bag which I have brought."=
;
"Very good."
"Can I leave this bag here?"
"Smugglers are not robbers."
"And when do you go?"
"To-morrow morning. If your man was ready=
he
could come with us."
"He is not prepared."
"That is his affair."
"How many days will he have to wait in th=
is
house?"
*
"Dos, tres, quatro dias; menos o mas.&quo=
t;
"Es cierto que el Blasquito vendra?"=
"Cierto."
"En est Plainmont?"
"En est Plainmont."
"A qual semana?"
"La que viene."
"A qual dia?"
"Viernes, o sabado, o domingo."
"No peuede faltar?"
"Es mi tocayo."
"Por qualquiera tiempo viene?"
"Qualquiera. No tieme. Soy el Blasco, es =
el
Blasquito."
"Asi, no puede faltar de venir en
Guernesey?"
"Vengo a un mes, y viene al otro mes.&quo=
t;
"Entiendo."
"A cuentar del otro sabado, desde hoy en
ocho, no se parasan cinco dias sin que venga el Blasquito."
"Pero un muy malo mar?"
"Egurraldia gaiztoa."
*
"Two, three, or four days; more or
less."
"Is it certain that Blasquito will
come?"
"Certain."
"Here to Pleinmont?"
"To Pleinmont."
"When?"
"Next week."
"What day?"
"Friday, Saturday, or Sunday."
"May he not fail?"
"He is my Tocayo."
"Will he come in any weather?"
"At any time. He has no fear. My name is
Blasco, his Blasquito."
"So he cannot fail to come to Guernsey?&q=
uot;
"I come one month--he the other."
"I understand."
"Counting from Saturday last, one week fr=
om
to-day, five days cannot elapse without bringing Blasquito."
"But if there is much sea?"
"Bad weather?"
*
"Si."
"No vendria el Blasquito tan pronto, pero
vendria."
"Donde vendra?"
"De Vilvao."
"Onde ira?"
"En Portland."
"Bien."
"O en Tor Bay."
"Mejor."
"Su humbre de usted puede estarse
quieto."
"No traidor sera, el Blasquito?"
"Los cobardes son traidores. Somos valien=
tes.
El mar es la iglesia del invierno. La traicion es la iglesia del
infierno."
"No se entiende a lo que dicemos?"
"Escuchar a nosotros y mirar a nosotros es
imposible. La espanta hace alli el desierto."
"Lo sè."
"Quien se atravesaria a escuchar?"
"Es verdad."
"Y escucharian que no entiendrian. Hablam=
os a
una
*
"Yes."
"Blasquito will not come so quickly, but =
he
will come."
"Whence will he come?"
"From Bilbao."
"Where will he be going?"
"To Portland."
"Good."
"Or to Torbay."
"Better still."
"Your man may rest easy."
"Blasquito will betray nothing?"
"Cowards are the only traitors. We are me=
n of
courage. The sea is the church of winter. Treason is the church of hell.&qu=
ot;
"No one hears what we say?"
"It is impossible to be seen or overheard.
The people's fear of this spot makes it deserted."
"I know it."
"Who is there who would dare to listen
here?"
"True."
"Besides, if they listened, none would
understand. We
*
lengua fiera y nuestra que no se conoce. Despu=
es
que la sabeis, eries con nosotros."
"Soy viendo para componer las haciendas c=
on
ustedes."
"Bueno."
"Y allora me voy."
"Mucho."
"Digame usted, hombre. Si el pasagero qui=
ere
que el Blasquito le lleven en unguna otra parte que Portland o Tor Bay?&quo=
t;
"Tenga onces."
"El Blasquito hara lo que querra el
hombre?"
"El Blasquito hace lo que quieren las
onces."
"Es menester mucho tiempo para ir en Tor
Bay?"
"Como quiere el viento."
"Ocho horas?"
"Menos, o mas."
"El Blasquito obedecera al pasagero?"=
;
"Si le obedece el mar al Blasquito."=
"Bien pagado sera."
"El oro es el oro. El viento es el
viento."
"Mucho."
*
speak a wild language of our own, which nobody
knows hereabouts. As you know it, you are one of us."
"I came only to make these arrangements w=
ith
you."
"Very good."
"I must now take my leave."
"Be it so."
"Tell me; suppose the passenger should wi=
sh
Blasquito to take him anywhere else than to Portland or Torbay?"
"Let him bring some gold coins."
"Will Blasquito consult the stranger's
convenience?"
"Blasquito will do whatever the gold coins
command."
"Does it take long to go to Torbay?"=
"That is as it pleases the winds."
"Eight hours?"
"More or less."
"Will Blasquito obey the passenger?"=
"If the sea will obey Blasquito."
"He will be well rewarded."
"Gold is gold; and the sea is the sea.&qu=
ot;
"That is true."
*
"El hombre hace lo que puede con el oro. =
Dios
con el viento hace lo que quiere."
"Aqui sera viernes el que desea marcharse=
con
Blasquito."
"Pues."
"A qual momento llega Blasquito."
"A la noche. A la noche se llega, a la no=
che
se marcha. Tenemos una muger quien se llama el mar, y una quien se llama la
noche."
"La muger puede faltar, la hermana no.&qu=
ot;
"Todo dicho esta. Abour, hombres."
"Buenas tardes. Un golpe de
aquardiente?"
"Gracias."
"Es mejor que xarope."
"Tengo vuestra palabra."
"Mi nombre es Pundonor."
"Sea usted con Dios."
"Ereis gentleman, y soy caballero."<= o:p>
*
"Man with his gold does what he can. Heav=
en
with its winds does what it will."
"The man who is to accompany Blasquito wi=
ll
be here on Friday."
"Good."
"At what hour will Blasquito appear?"=
;
"In the night. We arrive by night; and sa=
il
by night. We have a wife who is called the sea, and a sister called night. =
The
wife betrays sometimes; but the sister never."
"All is settled, then. Good-night, my
men."
"Good-night. A drop of brandy first?"=
;
"Thank you."
"That is better than a syrup."
"I have your word."
"My name is Point-of-Honour."
"Adieu."
"You are a gentleman: I am a caballero.&q=
uot;
*
It was clear that only devils could talk in th=
is
way. The children did not listen long. This time they took to flight in ear=
nest;
the French boy, convinced at last, running even quicker than the others.
On the Tuesday following this Saturday, Sieur
Clubin returned to St. Malo, bringing back the Durande.
The Tamaulipas was still at anchor in the road=
s.
Sieur Clubin, between the whiffs of his pipe, =
said
to the landlord of the Jean Auberge:
"Well; and when does the Tamaulipas get u=
nder
way?"
"The day after to-morrow--Thursday,"
replied the landlord.
On that evening, Clubin supped at the coast-gu=
ard
officers' table; and, contrary to his habit, went out after his supper. The
consequence of his absence was, that he could not attend to the office of t=
he
Durande, and thus lost a little in the matter of freights. This fact was
remarked in a man ordinarily punctual.
It appeared that he had chatted a few moments =
with
his friend the money-changer.
He returned two hours after Noguette had sound=
ed
the Curfew bell. The Brazilian bell sounds at ten o'clock. It was therefore
midnight.
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%'>VI - =
THE
JACRESSADE
=
Forty
years ago, St. Malo possessed an alley known by the name of the "Ruelle
Coutanchez." This alley no longer exists, having been removed for the
improvements of the town.
It was a double row of houses, leaning one tow=
ards
the other, and leaving between them just room enough for a narrow rivulet,
which was called the street. By stretching the legs, it was possible to wal=
k on
both sides of the stream, touching with head or elbows, as you went, the ho=
uses
either on the right or the left. These old relics of mediæval Normandy
have almost a human interest. Tumbledown houses and sorcerers always go
together. Their leaning stories, their overhanging walls, their bowed
penthouses, and their old thick-set irons, seem like lips, chin, nose, and
eyebrows. The garret window is the blind eye. The walls are the wrinkled and
blotchy cheeks. The opposite houses lay their foreheads together as if they
were plotting some malicious deed. All those words of ancient villany--like
cut-throat, "slit-weazand," and the like--are closely connected w=
ith
architecture of this kind.
One of these houses in the alley--the largest =
and
the most famous, or notorious--was known by the name of the Jacressade.
The Jacressade was a lodging-house for people =
who
do not lodge. In all towns, and particularly in sea-ports, there is always
found beneath the lowest stratum of society a sort of residuum: vagabonds w=
ho
are more than a match for justice; rovers after adventures; chemists of the=
swindling
order, who are always dropping their lives into the melting-pot; people in =
rags
of every shape, and in every style of wearing them; withered fruits of rogu=
ery;
bankrupt existences; consciences that have filed their schedule; men who ha=
ve
failed in the house-breaking trade (for the great masters of burglary move =
in a
higher sphere); workmen and workwomen in the trade of wickedness; oddities,=
male
and female; men in coats out at elbows; scoundrels reduced to indigence; ro=
gues
who have missed the wages of roguery; men who have been hit in the social d=
uel;
harpies who have no longer any prey; petty larceners; queux in the double a=
nd
unhappy meaning of that word. Such are the constituents of that living mass.
Human nature is here reduced to something bestial. It is the refuse of the
social state, heaped up in an obscure corner, where from time to time desce=
nds
that dreaded broom which is known by the name of police. In St. Malo, the
Jacressade was the name of this corner.
It is not in dens of this sort that we find the
high-class criminals--the robbers, forgers, and other great products of ign=
orance
and poverty. If murder is represented here, it is generally in the person of
some coarse drunkard; in the matter of robbery, the company rarely rise hig=
her
than the mere sharper. The vagrant is there; but not the highwayman. It wou=
ld
not, however, be safe to trust this distinction. This last stage of vagabon=
dage
may have its extremes of scoundrelism. It was on an occasion, when casting
their nets into the Epi-scié--which was in Paris what the Jacressade=
was
in St. Malo--that the police captured the notorious Lacenaire.
These lurking-places refuse nobody. To fall in=
the
social scale has a tendency to bring men to one level. Sometimes honesty in
tatters found itself there. Virtue and probity have been known before now t=
o be
brought to strange passes. We must not judge always by appearances, even in=
the
palace or at the galleys. Public respect, as well as universal reprobation,
requires testing. Surprising results sometimes spring from this principle. =
An
angel may be discovered in the stews; a pearl in the dunghill. Such sad and
dazzling discoveries are not altogether unknown.
The Jacressade was rather a courtyard than a
house; and more of a well than a courtyard. It had no stories looking on the
street. Its façade was simply a high wall, with a low gateway. You
raised the latch, pushed the gate, and were at once in the courtyard.
In the midst of this yard might be perceived a
round hole, encircled with a margin of stones, and even with the ground. The
yard was small, the well large. A broken pavement surrounded it.
The courtyard was square, and built on three s=
ides
only. On the side of the street was only the wall; facing you as you entered
the gateway stood the house, the two wings of which formed the sides to rig=
ht
and left.
Any one entering there after nightfall, at his=
own
risk and peril, would have heard a confused murmur of voices; and, if there=
had
been moonlight or starlight enough to give shape to the obscure forms before
his eyes, this is what he would have seen.
The courtyard: the well. Around the courtyard,=
in
front of the gate, a lean-to or shed, in a sort of horse-shoe form, but with
square corners; a rotten gallery, with a roof of joists supported by stone
pillars at unequal distances. In the centre, the well; around the well, upo=
n a litter
of straw, a kind of circular chaplet, formed of the soles of boots and shoe=
s;
some trodden down at heel, some showing the toes of the wearers, some the n=
aked
heels. The feet of men, women, and children, all asleep.
Beyond these feet, the eye might have
distinguished, in the shadow of the shed, bodies, drooping heads, forms
stretched out lazily, bundles of rags of both sexes, a promiscuous assembla=
ge,
a strange and revolting mass of life. The accommodation of this sleeping
chamber was open to all, at the rate of two sous a week. On a stormy night =
the
rain fell upon the feet, the whirling snow settled on the bodies of those
wretched sleepers.
Who were these people? The unknown. They came
there at night, and departed in the morning. Creatures of this kind form pa=
rt
of the social fabric. Some stole in during the darkness, and paid nothing. =
The
greater part had scarcely eaten during the day. All kinds of vice and basen=
ess,
every sort of moral infection, every species of distress were there. The sa=
me
sleep settled down upon all in this bed of filth. The dreams of all these
companions in misery went on side by side. A dismal meeting-place, where mi=
sery
and weakness, half-sobered debauchery, weariness from long walking to and f=
ro,
with evil thoughts, in quest of bread, pallor with closed eyelids, remorse,
envy, lay mingled and festering in the same miasma, with faces that had the
look of death, and dishevelled hair mixed with the filth and sweepings of t=
he
streets. Such was the putrid heap of life fermenting in this dismal spot. An
unlucky turn of the wheel of fortune, a ship arrived on the day before, a
discharge from prison, a dark night, or some other chance, had cast them he=
re,
to find a miserable shelter. Every day brought some new accumulation of suc=
h misery.
Let him enter who would, sleep who could, speak who dared; for it was a pla=
ce
of whispers. The new comers hastened to bury themselves in the mass, or tri=
ed
to seek oblivion in sleep, since there was none in the darkness of the plac=
e.
They snatched what little of themselves they could from the jaws of death. =
They
closed their eyes in that confusion of horrors which every day renewed. They
were the embodiment of misery, thrown off from society, as the scum is from=
the
sea.
It was not every one who could even get a shar=
e of
the straw. More than one figure was stretched out naked upon the flags. They
lay down worn out with weariness, and awoke paralysed. The well, without li=
d or
parapet, and thirty feet in depth, gaped open night and day. Rain fell arou=
nd
it; filth accumulated about, and the gutters of the yard ran down and filte=
red
through its sides. The pail for drawing the water stood by the side. Those =
who
were thirsty drank there; some, disgusted with life, drowned themselves in
it--slipped from their slumber in the filthy shed into that profounder slee=
p.
In the year 1819, the body of a boy, of fourteen years old, was taken up ou=
t of
this well.
To be safe in this house, it was necessary to =
be
of the "right sort." The uninitiated were regarded with suspicion=
.
Did these miserable wretches, then, know each
other? No; yet they scented out the genuine guest of the Jacressade.
The mistress of the house was a young and rath=
er
pretty woman, wearing a cap trimmed with ribbons. She washed herself now and
then with water from the well. She had a wooden leg.
At break of day, the courtyard became empty. I=
ts
inmates dispersed.
An old cock and some other fowls were kept in =
the
courtyard, where they raked among the filth of the place all day long. A lo=
ng
horizontal beam, supported by posts, traversed the yard--a gibbet-shaped
erection, not out of keeping with the associations of the place. Sometimes =
on
the morrow of a rainy-day, a silk dress, mudded and wet, would be seen hang=
ing
out to dry upon this beam. It belonged to the woman with the wooden leg.
Over the shed, and like it, surrounding the ya=
rd,
was a story, and above this story a loft. A rotten wooden ladder, passing
through a hole in the roof of the shed, conducted to this story; and up this
ladder the woman would climb, sometimes staggering while its crazy rounds
creaked beneath her.
The occasional lodgers, whether by the week or=
the
night, slept in the courtyard; the regular inmates lived in the house.
Windows without a pane of glass, door-frames w=
ith
no door, fireplaces without stoves; such were the chief features of the
interior. You might pass from one room to the other, indifferently, by a lo=
ng
square aperture which had been the door, or by a triangular hole between th=
e joists
of the partitions. The fallen plaster of the ceiling lay about the floor. It
was difficult to say how the old house still stood erect. The high winds in=
deed
shook it. The lodgers ascended as they could by the worn and slippery steps=
of
the ladder. Everything was open to the air. The wintry atmosphere was absor=
bed
into the house, like water into a sponge. The multitude of spiders seemed a=
lone
to guarantee the place against falling to pieces immediately. There was no =
sign
of furniture. Two or three paillasses were in the corner, their ticking tor=
n in
parts, and showing more dust than straw within. Here and there were a water=
-pot
and an earthen pipkin. A close, disagreeable odour haunted the rooms.
The windows looked out upon the square yard. T=
he
scene was like the interior of a scavenger's cart. The things, not to speak=
of
the human beings, which lay rusting, mouldering, and putrefying there, were=
indescribable.
The fragments seemed to fraternise together. Some fell from the walls, othe=
rs
from the living tenants of the place. The débris were sown with their
tatters.
Besides the floating population which bivouack=
ed
nightly in the square yard, the Jacressade had three permanent lodgers--a
charcoal man, a rag-picker, and a "gold-maker." The charcoal man =
and
the rag-picker occupied two of the paillasses of the first story; the
"gold-maker," a chemist, lodged in the loft, which was called, no=
one
knew why, the garret. Nobody knew where the woman slept. The
"gold-maker" was a poet in a small way. He inhabited a room in the
roof, under the tiles--a chamber with a narrow window, and a large stone
fireplace forming a gulf, in which the wind howled at will. The garret wind=
ow
having no frame, he had nailed across it a piece of iron sheathing, part of=
the
wreck of a ship. This sheathing left little room for the entrance of light =
and
much for the entrance of cold. The charcoal-man paid rent from time to time=
in
the shape of a sack of charcoal; the rag-picker paid with a bowl of grain f=
or
the fowls every week; the "gold-maker" did not pay at all. Meanwh=
ile
the latter consumed the very house itself for fuel. He had pulled down the
little woodwork which remained; and every now and then he took from the wal=
l or
the roof a lath or some scantling, to heat his crucible. Upon the partition,
above the rag-picker's mattress, might have been seen two columns of figure=
s,
marked in chalk by the rag-picker himself from week to week--a column of
threes, and a column of fives--according as the bowl of grain had cost him
three liards or five centimes. The gold-pot of the "chemist" was =
an
old fragment of a bomb-shell, promoted by him to the dignity of a crucible,=
in
which he mixed his ingredients. The transmutation of metals absorbed all his
thoughts. He was determined before he died to revenge himself by breaking t=
he
windows of orthodox science with the real philosopher's stone. His furnace
consumed a good deal of wood. The hand-rail of the stairs had disappeared. =
The
house was slowly burning away. The landlady said to him, "You will lea=
ve
us nothing but the shell." He mollified her by addressing her in verse=
s.
Such was the Jacressade.
A boy of twelve, or, perhaps, sixteen--for he =
was
like a dwarf, with a large wen upon his neck, and always carrying a broom in
his hand--was the domestic of the place.
The habitués entered by the gateway of =
the
courtyard; the public entered by the shop.
In the high wall, facing the street, and to the
right of the entrance to the courtyard, was a square opening, serving at on=
ce
as a door and a window. This was the shop. The square opening had a shutter=
and
a frame--the only shutter in all the house which had hinges and bolts. Behi=
nd
this square aperture, which was open to the street, was a little room, a
compartment obtained by curtailing the sleeping shed in the courtyard. Over=
the
door, passers-by read the inscription in charcoal, "Curiosities sold
here." On three boards, forming the shop front, were several china pots
without ears, a Chinese parasol made of goldbeater's skin, and ornamented w=
ith
figures, torn here and there, and impossible to open or shut; fragments of
iron, and shapeless pieces of old pottery, and dilapidated hats and bonnets,
three or four shells, some packets of old bone and metal buttons, a tobacco=
-box
with a portrait of Marie-Antoinette, and a dog's-eared volume of Boisbertra=
nd's
Algebra. Such was the stock of the shop; this assortment completed the &quo=
t;curiosities."
The shop communicated by a back door with the yard in which was the well. It
was furnished with a table and a stool. The woman with a wooden leg preside=
d at
the counter.
=
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%'>VII -=
NOCTURNAL
BUYERS AND MYSTERIOUS SELLERS<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%'>
=
Clubin
had been absent from the Jean Auberge all the evening of Tuesday. On the
Wednesday night he was absent again.
In the dusk of that evening, two strangers
penetrated into the mazes of the Ruelle Coutanchez. They stopped in front of
the Jacressade. One of them knocked at the window; the door of the shop ope=
ned,
and they entered. The woman with the wooden leg met them with the smile whi=
ch
she reserved for respectable citizens. There was a candle on the table.
The strangers were, in fact, respectable citiz=
ens.
The one who had knocked said, "Good-day, mistress. I have come for that
affair."
The woman with the wooden leg smiled again, and
went out by the back-door leading to the courtyard, and where the well was.=
A
moment afterwards the back-door was opened again, and a man stood in the do=
orway.
He wore a cap and a blouse. It was easy to see the shape of something under=
his
blouse. He had bits of old straw in his clothes, and looked as if he had ju=
st
been aroused from sleep.
He advanced and exchanged glances with the
strangers. The man in the blouse looked puzzled, but cunning; he said--
"You are the gunsmith?"
The one who had tapped at the window replied--=
"Yes; you are the man from Paris?"
"Known as Redskin. Yes."
"Show me the thing."
The man took from under his blouse a weapon
extremely rare at that period in Europe. It was a revolver.
The weapon was new and bright. The two strange=
rs
examined it. The one who seemed to know the house, and whom the man in the
blouse had called "the gunsmith," tried the mechanism. He passed =
the
weapon to the other, who appeared less at home there, and kept his back tur=
ned
to the light.
The gunsmith continued--
"How much?"
The man in the blouse replied--
"I have just brought it from America. Some
people bring monkeys, parrots, and other animals, as if the French people w=
ere
savages. For myself I brought this. It is a useful invention."
"How much?" inquired the gunsmith ag=
ain.
"It is a pistol which turns and turns.&qu=
ot;
"How much?"
"Bang! the first fire. Bang! the second f=
ire.
Bang! the third fire. What a hailstorm of bullets! That will do some
execution."
"The price?"
"There are six barrels."
"Well, well, what do you want for it?&quo=
t;
"Six barrels; that is six Louis."
"Will you take five?"
"Impossible. One Louis a ball. That is the
price."
"Come, let us do business together. Be
reasonable."
"I have named a fair price. Examine the
weapon, Mr. Gunsmith."
"I have examined it."
"The barrel twists and turns like Talleyr=
and
himself. The weapon ought to be mentioned in the Dictionary of Weathercocks=
. It
is a gem."
"I have looked at it."
"The barrels are of Spanish make."
"I see they are."
"They are twisted. This is how this twist=
ing
is done. They empty into a forge the basket of a collector of old iron. They
fill it full of these old scraps, with old nails, and broken horseshoes swe=
pt
out of farriers' shops."
"And old sickle-blades."
"I was going to say so, Mr. Gunsmith. They
apply to all this rubbish a good sweating heat, and this makes a magnificent
material for gun-barrels."
"Yes; but it may have cracks, flaws, or
crosses."
"True; but they remedy the crosses by lit=
tle
twists, and avoid the risk of doublings by beating hard. They bring their m=
ass
of iron under the great hammer; give it two more good sweating heats. If the
iron has been heated too much, they re-temper it with dull heats, and light=
er
hammers. And then they take out their stuff and roll it well; and with this
iron they manufacture you a weapon like this."
"You are in the trade, I suppose?"
"I am of all trades."
"The barrels are pale-coloured."
"That's the beauty of them, Mr. Gunsmith.=
The
tint is obtained with antimony."
"It is settled, then, that we give you fi=
ve
Louis?"
"Allow me to observe that I had the honou=
r of
saying six."
The gunsmith lowered his voice.
"Hark you, master. Take advantage of the
opportunity. Get rid of this thing. A weapon of this kind is of no use to a=
man
like you. It will make you remarked."
"It is very true," said the Parisian.
"It is rather conspicuous. It is more suited to a gentleman."
"Will you take five Louis?"
"No, six; one for every shot."
"Come, six Napoleons."
"I will have six Louis."
"You are not a Bonapartist, then. You pre=
fer
a Louis to a Napoleon."
The Parisian nicknamed "Redskin" smi=
led.
"A Napoleon is greater," said he,
"but a Louis is worth more."
"Six Napoleons."
"Six Louis. It makes a difference to me of
four-and-twenty francs."
"The bargain is off in that case."
"Good: I keep the toy."
"Keep it."
"Beating me down! a good idea! It shall n=
ever
be said that I got rid like that of a wonderful specimen of ingenuity."=
;
"Good-night, then."
"It marks a whole stage in the progress of
making pistols, which the Chesapeake Indians call Nortay-u-Hah."
"Five Louis, ready money. Why, it is a
handful of gold."
"'Nortay-u-Hah,' that signifies 'short gu=
n.'
A good many people don't know that."
"Will you take five Louis, and just a bit=
of
silver?"
"I said six, master."
The man who kept his back to the candle, and w=
ho
had not yet spoken, was spending his time during the dialogue in turning and
testing the mechanism of the pistol. He approached the armourer's ear and w=
hispered--
"Is it a good weapon?"
"Excellent."
"I will give the six Louis."
Five minutes afterwards, while the Parisian
nicknamed "Redskin" was depositing the six Louis which he had just
received in a secret slit under the breast of his blouse, the armourer and =
his
companion carrying the revolver in his trousers pocket, stepped out into the
straggling street.
=
On the
morrow, which was a Thursday, a tragic circumstance occurred at a short
distance from St. Malo, near the peak of the "Décollé,&q=
uot;
a spot where the cliff is high and the sea deep.
A line of rocks in the form of the top of a la=
nce,
and connecting themselves with the land by a narrow isthmus, stretch out th=
ere
into the water, ending abruptly with a large peak-shaped breaker. Nothing i=
s commoner
in the architecture of the sea. In attempting to reach the plateau of the
peaked rock from the shore, it was necessary to follow an inclined plane, t=
he
ascent of which was here and there somewhat steep.
It was upon a plateau of this kind, towards fo=
ur
o'clock in the afternoon, that a man was standing, enveloped in a large
military cape, and armed; a fact easy to be perceived from certain straight=
and
angular folds in his mantle. The summit on which this man was resting was a=
rather
extensive platform, dotted with large masses of rock, like enormous
paving-stones, leaving between them narrow passages. This platform, on whic=
h a
kind of thick, short grass grew here and there, came to an end on the sea s=
ide
in an open space, leading to a perpendicular escarpment. The escarpment, ri=
sing
about sixty feet above the level of the sea, seemed cut down by the aid of a
plumb-line. Its left angle, however, was broken away, and formed one of tho=
se
natural staircases common to granite cliffs worn by the sea, the steps of w=
hich
are somewhat inconvenient, requiring sometimes the strides of a giant or the
leaps of an acrobat. These stages of rock descended perpendicularly to the =
sea,
where they were lost. It was a break-neck place. However, in case of absolu=
te
necessity, a man might succeed in embarking there, under the very wall of t=
he
cliff.
A breeze was sweeping the sea. The man wrapped=
in
his cape and standing firm, with his left hand grasping his right shoulder,
closed one eye, and applied the other to a telescope. He seemed absorbed in
anxious scrutiny. He had approached the edge of the escarpment, and stood t=
here
motionless, his gaze immovably fixed on the horizon. The tide was high; the
waves were beating below against the foot of the cliffs.
The object which the stranger was observing wa=
s a
vessel in the offing, and which was manoeuvring in a strange manner. The
vessel, which had hardly left the port of St. Malo an hour, had stopped beh=
ind
the Banquetiers. It had not cast anchor, perhaps because the bottom would o=
nly
have permitted it to bear to leeward on the edge of the cable, and because =
the
ship would have strained on her anchor under the cutwater. Her captain had
contented himself with lying-to.
The stranger, who was a coast-guardman, as was
apparent from his uniform cape, watched all the movements of the three-mast=
er,
and seemed to note them mentally. The vessel was lying-to, a little off the
wind, which was indicated by the backing of the small topsail, and the bell=
ying
of the main-topsail. She had squared the mizen, and set the topmast as clos=
e as
possible, and in such a manner as to work the sails against each other, and=
to
make little way either on or off shore. Her captain evidently did not care =
to
expose his vessel much to the wind, for he had only braced up the small
mizen-topsail. In this way, coming crossway on, he did not drift at the utm=
ost
more than half a league an hour.
It was still broad daylight, particularly on t=
he
open sea, and on the heights of the cliff. The shores below were becoming d=
ark.
The coast-guardman, still engaged in his duty,=
and
carefully scanning the offing, had not thought of observing the rocks at his
side and at his feet. He turned his back towards the difficult sort of caus=
eway
which formed the communication between his resting-place and the shore. He =
did
not, therefore, remark that something was moving in that direction. Behind a
fragment of rock, among the steps of that causeway, something like the figu=
re
of a man had been concealed, according to all appearances, since the arriva=
l of
the coast-guardman. From time to time a head issued from the shadow behind =
the
rock; looked up and watched the watcher. The head, surmounted by a wide-bri=
mmed
American hat, was that of the Quaker-looking man, who, ten days before, was
talking among the stones of the Petit-Bey to Captain Zuela.
Suddenly, the curiosity of the coast-guardman
seemed to be still more strongly awakened. He polished the glass of his
telescope quickly with his sleeve, and brought it to bear closely upon the
three-master.
A little black spot seemed to detach itself fr=
om
her side.
The black spot, looking like a small insect up=
on
the water, was a boat.
The boat seemed to be making for the shore. It=
was
manned by several sailors, who were pulling vigorously.
She pulled crosswise by little and little, and
appeared to be approaching the Pointe du Décollé.
The gaze of the coast-guardman seemed to have
reached its most intense point. No movement of the boat escaped it. He had
approached nearer still to the verge of the rock.
At that instant a man of large stature appeare=
d on
one of the rocks behind him. It was the Quaker. The officer did not see him=
.
The man paused an instant, his arms at his sid=
es,
but with his fists doubled; and with the eye of a hunter, watching for his
prey, he observed the back of the officer.
Four steps only separated them. He put one foot
forward, then stopped; took a second step, and stopped again. He made no
movement except the act of walking; all the rest of his body was motionless=
as
a statue. His foot fell upon the tufts of grass without noise. He made a th=
ird
step, and paused again. He was almost within reach of the coast-guard, who =
stood
there still motionless with his telescope. The man brought his two closed f=
ists
to a level with his collar-bone, then struck out his arms sharply, and his =
two
fists, as if thrown from a sling, struck the coast-guardman on the two
shoulders. The shock was decisive. The coast-guardman had not the time to u=
tter
a cry. He fell head first from the height of the rock into the sea. His boo=
ts
appeared in the air about the time occupied by a flash of lightning. It was
like the fall of a stone in the sea, which instantly closed over him.
Two or three circles widened out upon the dark
water.
Nothing remained but the telescope, which had
dropped from the hands of the man, and lay upon the turf.
The Quaker leaned over the edge of the escarpm=
ent
a moment, watched the circles vanishing on the water, waited a few minutes,=
and
then rose again, singing in a low voice:
&=
nbsp;
"The captain of police is dead, Through having lo=
st his
life."
He knelt down a second time. Nothing reappeare=
d.
Only at the spot where the officer had been engulfed, he observed on the
surface of the water a sort of dark spot, which became diffused with the ge=
ntle
lapping of the waves. It seemed probable that the coast-guardman had fractu=
red
his skull against some rock under water, and that his blood caused the spot=
in
the foam. The Quaker, while considering the meaning of this spot, began to =
sing
again:
&=
nbsp;
"Not very long before he died, The luckless man =
was
still alive."
He did not finish his song.
He heard an extremely soft voice behind him, w=
hich
said:
"Is that you, Rantaine? Good-day. You have
just killed a man!"
He turned. About fifteen paces behind him, in =
one
of the passages between the rocks, stood a little man holding a revolver in=
his
hand.
The Quaker answered:
"As you see. Good-day, Sieur Clubin."=
;
The little man started.
"You know me?"
"You knew me very well," replied
Rantaine.
Meanwhile they could hear a sound of oars on t=
he
sea. It was the approach of the boat which the officer had observed.
Sieur Clubin said in a low tone, as if speakin=
g to
himself:
"It was done quickly."
"What can I do to oblige you?" asked
Rantaine.
"Oh, a trifling matter! It is very nearly=
ten
years since I saw you. You must have been doing well. How are you?"
"Well enough," answered Rantaine.
"How are you?"
"Very well," replied Clubin.
Rantaine advanced a step towards Clubin.
A little sharp click caught his ear. It was Si=
eur
Clubin who was cocking his revolver.
"Rantaine, there are about fifteen paces
between us. It is a nice distance. Remain where you are."
"Very well," said Rantaine. "Wh=
at
do you want with me?"
"I! Oh, I have come to have a chat with
you."
Rantaine did not offer to move again. Sieur Cl=
ubin
continued:
"You assassinated a coast-guardman just
now."
Rantaine lifted the flap of his hat, and repli=
ed:
"You have already done me the honour to
mention it."
"Exactly; but in terms less precise. I sa=
id a
man: I say now, a coast-guardman. The man wore the number 619. He was the
father of a family; leaves a wife and five children."
"That is no doubt correct," said
Rantaine.
There was a momentary pause.
"They are picked men--those coast-guard
people," continued Clubin; "almost all old sailors."
"I have remarked," said Rantaine,
"that people generally do leave a wife and five children."
Sieur Clubin continued:
"Guess how much this revolver cost me?&qu=
ot;
"It is a pretty tool," said Rantaine=
.
"What do you guess it at?"
"I should guess it at a good deal."<= o:p>
"It cost me one hundred and forty-four
francs."
"You must have bought that," said
Rantaine, "at the shop in the Ruelle Coutanchez."
Clubin continued:
"He did not cry out. The fall stopped his
voice, no doubt."
"Sieur Clubin, there will be a breeze
to-night."
"I am the only one in the secret."
"Do you still stay at the Jean Auberge?&q=
uot;
"Yes: you are not badly served there.&quo=
t;
"I remember getting some excellent sour-k=
rout
there."
"You must be exceedingly strong, Rantaine=
. What
shoulders you have! I should be sorry to get a tap from you. I, on the other
hand, when I came into the world, looked so spare and sickly, that they
despaired of rearing me."
"They succeeded though; which was
lucky."
"Yes: I still stay at the Jean Auberge.&q=
uot;
"Do you know, Sieur Clubin, how I recogni=
sed
you? It was from your having recognised me. I said to myself, there is nobo=
dy
like Sieur Clubin for that."
And he advanced a step.
"Stand back where you were, Rantaine.&quo=
t;
Rantaine fell back, and said to himself:
"A fellow becomes like a child before one=
of
those weapons."
Sieur Clubin continued:
"The position of affairs is this: we have=
on
our right, in the direction of St. Enogat, at about three hundred paces from
here, another coast-guardman--his number is 618--who is still alive; and on=
our
left, in the direction of St. Lunaire--a customs station. That makes seven =
armed
men who could be here, if necessary, in five minutes. The rock would be
surrounded; the way hither guarded. Impossible to elude them. There is a co=
rpse
at the foot of this rock."
Rantaine took a side-way glance at the revolve=
r.
"As you say, Rantaine, it is a pretty too=
l.
Perhaps it is only loaded with powder; but what does that matter? A report
would be enough to bring an armed force--and I have six barrels here."=
The measured sound of the oars became very
distinct. The boat was not far off.
The tall man regarded the little man curiously.
Sieur Clubin spoke in a voice more and more soft and subdued.
"Rantaine, the men in the boat which is
coming, knowing what you did here just now, would lend a hand and help to
arrest you. You are to pay Captain Zuela ten thousand francs for your passa=
ge.
You would have made a better bargain, by the way, with the smugglers of
Pleinmont; but they would only have taken you to England; and besides, you
cannot risk going to Guernsey, where they have the pleasure of knowing you.=
To
return, then, to the position of affairs--if I fire, you are arrested. You =
are to
pay Zuela for your passage ten thousand francs. You have already paid him f=
ive
thousand in advance. Zuela would keep the five thousand and be gone. These =
are
the facts. Rantaine, you have managed your masquerading very well. That
hat--that queer coat--and those gaiters make a wonderful change. You forgot=
the
spectacles; but did right to let your whiskers grow."
Rantaine smiled spasmodically. Clubin continue=
d:
"Rantaine, you have on a pair of American
breeches, with a double fob. In one side you keep your watch. Take care of
it."
"Thank you, Sieur Clubin."
"In the other is a little box made of wro=
ught
iron, which opens and shuts with a spring. It is an old sailor's tobacco-bo=
x.
Take it out of your pocket, and throw it over to me."
"Why, this is robbery."
"You are at liberty to call the coast-gua=
rdman."
And Clubin fixed his eye on Rantaine.
"Stay, Mess Clubin," said Rantaine,
making a slight forward movement, and holding out his open hand.
The title "Mess" was a delicate
flattery.
"Stay where you are, Rantaine."
"Mess Clubin, let us come to terms. I off=
er
you half."
Clubin crossed his arms, still showing the bar=
rels
of his revolver.
"Rantaine, what do you take me for? I am =
an
honest man."
And he added after a pause:
"I must have the whole."
Rantaine muttered between his teeth, "Thi=
s fellow's
of a stern sort."
The eye of Clubin lighted up, his voice became
clear and sharp as steel. He cried:
"I see that you are labouring under a
mistake. Robbery is your name, not mine. My name is Restitution. Hark you,
Rantaine. Ten years ago you left Guernsey one night, taking with you the
cash-box of a certain partnership concern, containing fifty thousand francs
which belonged to you, but forgetting to leave behind you fifty thousand fr=
ancs
which were the property of another. Those fifty thousand francs, the money =
of
your partner, the excellent and worthy Mess Lethierry, make at present, at =
compound
interest, calculated for ten years, eighty thousand six hundred and sixty-s=
ix
francs. You went into a money-changer's yesterday. I'll give you his name--=
Rébuchet,
in St. Vincent Street. You counted out to him seventy-six thousand francs in
French bank-notes; in exchange for which he gave you three notes of the Ban=
k of
England for one thousand pounds sterling each, plus the exchange. You put t=
hese
bank-notes in the iron tobacco-box, and the iron tobacco-box into your doub=
le
fob on the right-hand side. On the part of Mess Lethierry, I shall be conte=
nt
with that. I start to-morrow for Guernsey, and intend to hand it to him. Ra=
ntaine,
the three-master lying-to out yonder is the Tamaulipas. You have had your
luggage put aboard there with the other things belonging to the crew. You w=
ant
to leave France. You have your reasons. You are going to Arequipa. The boat=
is
coming to fetch you. You are awaiting it. It is at hand. You can hear it. It
depends on me whether you go or stay. No more words. Fling me the
tobacco-box."
Rantaine dipped his hand in the fob, drew out a
little box, and threw it to Clubin. It was the iron tobacco-box. It fell and
rolled at Clubin's feet.
Clubin knelt without lowering his gaze; felt a=
bout
for the box with his left hand, keeping all the while his eyes and the six
barrels of the revolver fixed upon Rantaine.
Then he cried:
"Turn your back, my friend."
Rantaine turned his back.
Sieur Clubin put the revolver under one arm, a=
nd
touched the spring of the tobacco-box. The lid flew open.
It contained four bank-notes; three of a thous=
and
pounds, and one of ten pounds.
He folded up the three bank-notes of a thousand
pounds each, replaced them in the iron tobacco-box, shut the lid again, and=
put
it in his pocket.
Then he picked up a stone, wrapped it in the
ten-pound note, and said:
"You may turn round again."
Rantaine turned.
Sieur Clubin continued:
"I told you I would be contented with thr=
ee
thousand pounds. Here, I return you ten pounds."
And he threw to Rantaine the note enfolding the
stone.
Rantaine, with a movement of his foot, sent the
bank-note and the stone into the sea.
"As you please," said Clubin. "=
You
must be rich. I am satisfied."
The noise of oars, which had been continually
drawing nearer during the dialogue, ceased. They knew by this that the boat=
had
arrived at the base of the cliff.
"Your vehicle waits below. You can go,
Rantaine."
Rantaine advanced towards the steps of stones,=
and
rapidly disappeared.
Clubin moved cautiously towards the edge of the
escarpment, and watched him descending.
The boat had stopped near the last stage of the
rocks, at the very spot where the coast-guardman had fallen.
Still observing Rantaine stepping from stone to
stone, Clubin muttered:
"A good number 619. He thought himself al=
one.
Rantaine thought there were only two there. I alone knew that there were
three."
He perceived at his feet the telescope which h=
ad
dropped from the hands of the coast-guardman.
The sound of oars was heard again. Rantaine had
stepped into the boat, and the rowers had pushed out to sea.
When Rantaine was safely in the boat, and the
cliff was beginning to recede from his eyes, he arose again abruptly. His f=
eatures
were convulsed with rage; he clenched his fist and cried:
"Ha! he is the devil himself; a
villain!"
A few seconds later, Clubin, from the top of t=
he
rock, while bringing his telescope to bear upon the boat, heard distinctly =
the
following words articulated by a loud voice, and mingling with the noise of=
the
sea:
"Sieur Clubin, you are an honest man; but=
you
will not be offended if I write to Lethierry to acquaint him with this matt=
er;
and we have here in the boat a sailor from Guernsey, who is one of the crew=
of
the Tamaulipas; his name is Ahier-Tostevin, and he will return to St. Malo =
on
Zuela's next voyage, to bear testimony to the fact of my having returned to
you, on Mess Lethierry's account, the sum of three thousand pounds
sterling."
It was Rantaine's voice.
Clubin rarely did things by halves. Motionless=
as
the coast-guardman had been, and in the exact same place, his eye still at =
the
telescope, he did not lose sight of the boat for one moment. He saw it grow=
ing
less amidst the waves; watched it disappear and reappear, and approach the =
vessel,
which was lying-to; finally he recognised the tall figure of Rantaine on the
deck of the Tamaulipas.
When the boat was raised, and slung again to t=
he
davits, the Tamaulipas was in motion once more. The land-breeze was fresh, =
and
she spread all her sails. Clubin's glass continued fixed upon her outline g=
rowing
more and more indistinct; until half an hour later, when the Tamaulipas had
become only a dark shape upon the horizon, growing smaller and smaller agai=
nst
the pale twilight in the sky.
=
On
that evening, Sieur Clubin returned late.
One of the causes of his delay was, that before
going to his inn, he had paid a visit to the Dinan gate of the town, a place
where there were several wine-shops. In one of these wine-shops, where he w=
as
not known, he had bought a bottle of brandy, which he placed in the pocket =
of
his overcoat, as if he desired to conceal it. Then, as the Durande was to s=
tart
on the following morning, he had taken a turn aboard to satisfy himself that
everything was in order.
When Sieur Clubin returned to the Jean Auberge,
there was no one left in the lower room except the old sea-captain, M. Gert=
rais-Gaboureau,
who was drinking a jug of ale and smoking his pipe.
M. Gertrais-Gaboureau saluted Sieur Clubin bet=
ween
a whiff and a draught of ale.
"How d'ye do, Captain Clubin?"
"Good evening, Captain Gertrais."
"Well, the Tamaulipas is gone."
"Ah!" said Clubin, "I did not
observe."
Captain Gertrais-Gaboureau expectorated, and s=
aid:
"Zuela has decamped."
"When was that?"
"This evening."
"Where is he gone?"
"To the devil."
"No doubt; but where is that?"
"To Arequipa."
"I knew nothing of it," said Clubin.=
He added:
"I am going to bed."
He lighted his candle, walked towards the door,
and returned.
"Have you ever been at Arequipa,
Captain?"
"Yes; some years ago."
"Where do they touch on that voyage?"=
;
"A little everywhere; but the Tamaulipas =
will
touch nowhere."
M. Gertrais-Gaboureau emptied his pipe upon the
corner of a plate and continued:
"You know the lugger called the Trojan Ho=
rse,
and that fine three-master, the Trentemouzin, which are gone to Cardiff? I =
was against
their sailing on account of the weather. They have returned in a fine state.
The lugger was laden with turpentine; she sprang a leak, and in working the
pumps they pumped up with the water all her cargo. As to the three-master, =
she
has suffered most above water. Her cutwater, her headrail, the stock of her
larboard anchor are broken. Her standing jibboom is gone clean by the cap. =
As
for the jib-shrouds and bobstays, go and see what they look like. The mizen=
mast
is not injured, but has had a severe shock. All the iron of the bowsprit has
given way; and it is an extraordinary fact that, though the bowsprit itself=
is
not scratched, it is completely stripped. The larboard-bow of the vessel is=
stove
in a good three feet square. This is what comes of not taking advice."=
Clubin had placed the candle on the table, and=
had
begun to readjust a row of pins which he kept in the collar of his overcoat=
. He
continued:
"Didn't you say, Captain, that the Tamaul=
ipas
would not touch anywhere?"
"Yes; she goes direct to Chili."
"In that case, she can send no news of
herself on the voyage."
"I beg your pardon, Captain Clubin. In the
first place, she can send any letters by vessels she may meet sailing for
Europe."
"That is true."
"Then there is the ocean letter-box."=
;
"What do you mean by the ocean
letter-box?"
"Don't you know what that is, Captain
Clubin?"
"No."
"When you pass the straits of
Magellan----"
"Well."
"Snow all round you; always bad weather; =
ugly
down-easters, and bad seas."
"Well."
"When you have doubled Cape
Monmouth----"
"Well, what next?"
"Then you double Cape Valentine."
"And then?"
"Why, then you double Cape Isidore."=
"And afterwards?"
"You double Point Anne."
"Good. But what is it you call the ocean
letter-box?"
"We are coming to that. Mountains on the
right, mountains on the left. Penguins and stormy petrels all about. A terr=
ible
place. Ah! by Jove, what a howling and what cracks you get there! The hurri=
cane
wants no help. That's the place for holding on to the sheer-rails; for reef=
ing topsails.
That's where you take in the mainsail, and fly the jibsail; or take in the
jibsail and try the stormjib. Gusts upon gusts! And then, sometimes four, f=
ive,
or six days of scudding under bare poles. Often only a rag of canvas left. =
What
a dance! Squalls enough to make a three-master skip like a flea. I saw once=
a
cabin-boy hanging on to the jibboom of an English brig, the True Blue, knoc=
ked,
jibboom and all, to ten thousand nothings. Fellows are swept into the air t=
here
like butterflies. I saw the second mate of the Revenue, a pretty schooner, =
knocked
from under the forecross-tree, and killed dead. I have had my sheer-rails
smashed, and come out with all my sails in ribbons. Frigates of fifty guns =
make
water like wicker baskets. And the damnable coast! Nothing can be imagined =
more
dangerous. Rocks all jagged-edged. You come, by and by, to Port Famine. The=
re
it's worse and worse. The worst seas I ever saw in my life. The devil's own
latitudes. All of a sudden you spy the words, painted in red, 'Post
Office.'"
"What do you mean, Captain Gertrais?"=
;
"I mean, Captain Clubin, that immediately
after doubling Point Anne you see, on a rock, a hundred feet high, a great =
post
with a barrel suspended to the top. This barrel is the letter-box. The Engl=
ish
sailors must needs go and write up there 'Post Office.' What had they to do
with it? It is the ocean post-office. It isn't the property of that worthy =
gentleman,
the King of England. The box is common to all. It belongs to every flag. Po=
st
Office! there's a crack-jaw word for you. It produces an effect on me as if=
the
devil had suddenly offered me a cup of tea. I will tell you now how the pos=
tal
arrangements are carried out. Every vessel which passes sends to the post a
boat with despatches. A vessel coming from the Atlantic, for instance, sends
there its letters for Europe; and a ship coming from the Pacific, its lette=
rs
for New Zealand or California. The officer in command of the boat puts his
packet into the barrel, and takes away any packet he finds there. You take
charge of these letters, and the ship which comes after you takes charge of
yours. As ships are always going to and fro, the continent whence you come =
is that
to which I am going. I carry your letters; you carry mine. The barrel is ma=
de
fast to the post with a chain. And it rains, snows and hails! A pretty sea.=
The
imps of Satan fly about on every side. The Tamaulipas will pass there. The
barrel has a good lid with a hinge, but no padlock. You see, a fellow can w=
rite
to his friends this way. The letters come safely."
"It is very curious," muttered Clubin
thoughtfully.
Captain Gertrais-Gaboureau returned to his bot=
tle
of ale.
"If that vagabond Zuela should write
(continued Clubin aside), the scoundrel puts his scrawl into the barrel at
Magellan, and in four months I have his letter."
"Well, Captain Clubin, do you start
to-morrow?"
Clubin, absorbed in a sort of somnambulism, did
not notice the question; and Captain Gertrais repeated it.
Clubin woke up.
"Of course, Captain Gertrais. It is my da=
y. I
must start to-morrow morning."
"If it was my case, I shouldn't, Captain
Clubin. The hair of the dog's coat feels damp. For two nights past, the
sea-birds have been flying wildly round the lanthorn of the lighthouse. A b=
ad
sign. I have a storm-glass, too, which gives me a warning. The moon is at h=
er
second quarter; it is the maximum of humidity. I noticed to-day some pimper=
nels
with their leaves shut, and a field of clover with its stalks all stiff. The
worms come out of the ground to-day; the flies sting; the bees keep close t=
o their
hives; the sparrows chatter together. You can hear the sound of bells from =
far
off. I heard to-night the Angelus at St. Lunaire. And then the sun set angr=
y.
There will be a good fog to-morrow, mark my words. I don't advise you to pu=
t to
sea. I dread the fog a good deal more than a hurricane. It's a nasty neighb=
our
that."
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%'>I - T=
HE
DOUVRES
=
At
about five leagues out, in the open sea, to the south of Guernsey, opposite
Pleinmont Point, and between the Channel Islands and St. Malo, there is a g=
roup
of rocks, called the Douvres. The spot is dangerous.
This term Douvres, applied to rocks and cliffs=
, is
very common. There is, for example, near the Côtes du Nord, a Douvre,=
on
which a lighthouse is now being constructed, a dangerous reef; but one whic=
h must
not be confounded with the rock above referred to.
The nearest point on the French coast to the
Douvres is Cape Bréhat. The Douvres are a little further from the co=
ast
of France than from the nearest of the Channel Islands. The distance from
Jersey may be pretty nearly measured by the extreme length of Jersey. If the
island of Jersey could be turned round upon Corbière, as upon a hing=
e,
St. Catherine's Point would almost touch the Douvres, at a distance of more
than four leagues.
In these civilised regions the wildest rocks a=
re
rarely desert places. Smugglers are met with at Hagot, custom-house men at
Binic, Celts at Bréhat, oyster-dredgers at Cancale, rabbit-shooters =
at
Césambre or Cæsar's Island, crab-gatherers at Brecqhou, trawle=
rs
at the Minquiers, dredgers at Ecréhou, but no one is ever seen upon =
the
Douvres.
The sea birds alone make their home there.
No spot in the ocean is more dreaded. The
Casquets, where it is said the Blanche Nef was lost; the Bank of Calvados; =
the
Needles in the Isle of Wight; the Ronesse, which makes the coast of Beaulie=
u so
dangerous; the sunken reefs at Préel, which block the entrance to
Merquel, and which necessitates the red-painted beacon in twenty fathoms of
water, the treacherous approaches to Etables and Plouha; the two granite Dr=
uids
to the south of Guernsey, the Old Anderlo and the Little Anderlo, the Corbi=
ère,
the Hanways, the Isle of Ras, associated with terror in the proverb:
&=
nbsp;
"Si jamais tu passes le Ras, Si tu ne meurs, tu trembleras."=
;
the Mortes-Femmes, the Déroute between
Guernsey and Jersey, the Hardent between the Minquiers and Chousey, the Mau=
vais
Cheval between Bouley Bay and Barneville, have not so evil a reputation. It
would be preferable to have to encounter all these dangers, one after the
other, than the Douvres once.
In all that perilous sea of the Channel, which=
is
the Egean of the West, the Douvres have no equal in their terrors, except t=
he
Paternoster between Guernsey and Sark.
From the Paternoster, however, it is possible =
to
give a signal--a ship in distress there may obtain succour. To the north ri=
ses
Dicard or D'Icare Point, and to the south Grosnez. From the Douvres you can=
see
nothing.
Its associations are the storm, the cloud, the=
wild
sea, the desolate waste, the uninhabited coast. The blocks of granite are
hideous and enormous--everywhere perpendicular wall--the severe inhospitali=
ty
of the abyss.
It is in the open sea; the water about is very
deep. A rock completely isolated like the Douvres attracts and shelters
creatures which shun the haunts of men. It is a sort of vast submarine cave=
of
fossil coral branches--a drowned labyrinth. There, at a depth to which dive=
rs
would find it difficult to descend, are caverns, haunts, and dusky mazes, w=
here
monstrous creatures multiply and destroy each other. Huge crabs devour fish=
and
are devoured in their turn. Hideous shapes of living things, not created to=
be
seen by human eyes, wander in this twilight. Vague forms of antennæ,
tentacles, fins, open jaws, scales, and claws, float about there, quivering,
growing larger, or decomposing and perishing in the gloom, while horrible
swarms of swimming things prowl about seeking their prey.
To gaze into the depths of the sea is, in the
imagination, like beholding the vast unknown, and from its most terrible po=
int
of view. The submarine gulf is analogous to the realm of night and dreams.
There also is sleep, unconsciousness, or at least apparent unconsciousness,=
of creation.
There, in the awful silence and darkness, the rude first forms of life,
phantom-like, demoniacal, pursue their horrible instincts.
Forty years ago, two rocks of singular form
signalled the Douvres from afar to passers on the ocean. They were two vert=
ical
points, sharp and curved--their summits almost touching each other. They lo=
oked
like the two tusks of an elephant rising out of the sea; but they were tusk=
s, high
as tall towers, of an elephant huge as a mountain. These two natural towers,
rising out of the obscure home of marine monsters, only left a narrow passa=
ge
between them, where the waves rushed through. This passage, tortuous and fu=
ll
of angles, resembled a straggling street between high walls. The two twin r=
ocks
are called the Douvres. There was the Great Douvre and the Little Douvre; o=
ne
was sixty feet high, the other forty. The ebb and flow of the tide had at l=
ast
worn away part of the base of the towers, and a violent equinoctial gale on=
the
26th of October, 1859, overthrew one of them. The smaller one, which still =
remains,
is worn and tottering.
One of the most singular of the Douvres is a r=
ock
known as "The Man." This still exists. Some fisherman in the last
century visiting this spot found on the height of the rock a human body. By=
its
side were a number of empty sea-shells. A sailor escaped from shipwreck had
found a refuge there; had lived some time upon rock limpets, and had died.
Hence its name of "The Man."
The solitudes of the sea are peculiarly dismal.
The things which pass there seem to have no relation to the human race; the=
ir
objects are unknown. Such is the isolation of the Douvres. All around, as f=
ar
as eye can reach, spreads the vast and restless sea.
=
On the
Friday morning, the day after the departure of the Tamaulipas, the Durande
started again for Guernsey.
She left St. Malo at nine o'clock. The weather= was fine; no haze. Old Captain Gertrais-Gaboureau was evidently in his dotage.<= o:p>
Sieur Clubin's numerous occupations had decide=
dly
been unfavourable to the collection of freight for the Durande. He had only
taken aboard some packages of Parisian articles for the fancy shops of St.
Peter's Port; three cases for the Guernsey hospital, one containing yellow =
soap
and long candles, and the other French shoe leather for soles, and choice C=
ordovan
skins. He brought back from his last cargo a case of crushed sugar and three
chests of congou tea, which the French custom-house would not permit to pas=
s.
He had embarked very few cattle; some bullocks only. These bullocks were in=
the
hold loosely tethered.
There were six passengers aboard; a Guernsey m=
an,
two inhabitants of St. Malo, dealers in cattle: a "tourist,"--a
phrase already in vogue at this period--a Parisian citizen, probably travel=
ling
on commercial affairs, and an American, engaged in distributing Bibles.
Without reckoning Clubin, the crew of the Dura=
nde
amounted to seven men; a helmsman, a stoker, a ship's carpenter, and a
cook--serving as sailors in case of need--two engineers, and a cabin boy. O=
ne
of the two engineers was also a practical mechanic. This man, a bold and in=
telligent
Dutch negro, who had originally escaped from the sugar plantations of Surin=
am,
was named Imbrancam. The negro, Imbrancam, understood and attended admirabl=
y to
the engine. In the early days of the "Devil Boat," his black face,
appearing now and then at the top of the engine-room stairs, had contributed
not a little to sustain its diabolical reputation.
The helmsman, a native of Guernsey, but of a
family originally from Cotentin, bore the name of Tangrouille. The Tangroui=
lles
were an old noble family.
This was strictly true. The Channel Islands are
like England, an aristocratic region. Castes exist there still. The castes =
have
their peculiar ideas, which are, in fact, their protection. These notions o=
f caste
are everywhere similar; in Hindostan, as in Germany, nobility is won by the
sword; lost by soiling the hands with labour: but preserved by idleness. To=
do
nothing, is to live nobly; whoever abstains from work is honoured. A trade =
is
fatal. In France, in old times, there was no exception to this rule, except=
in
the case of glass manufacturers. Emptying bottles being then one of the glo=
ries
of gentlemen, making them was probably, for that reason, not considered
dishonourable. In the Channel archipelago, as in Great Britain, he who would
remain noble must contrive to be rich. A working man cannot possibly be a
gentleman. If he has ever been one, he is so no longer. Yonder sailor, perh=
aps,
descends from the Knights Bannerets, but is nothing but a sailor. Thirty ye=
ars ago,
a real Gorges, who would have had rights over the Seigniory of Gorges,
confiscated by Philip Augustus, gathered seaweed, naked-footed, in the sea.=
A
Carteret is a waggoner in Sark. There are at Jersey a draper, and at Guerns=
ey a
shoemaker, named Gruchy, who claim to be Grouchys, and cousins of the Marsh=
al
of Waterloo. The old registers of the Bishopric of Coutances make mention o=
f a
Seigniory of Tangroville, evidently from Tancarville on the lower Seine, wh=
ich
is identical with Montmorency. In the fifteenth century, Johan de
Héroudeville, archer and étoffe of the Sire de Tangroville, b=
ore
behind him "son corset et ses autres harnois." In May, 1371, at
Pontorson, at the review of Bertrand du Guesclin, Monsieur de Tangroville
rendered his homage as Knight Bachelor. In the Norman islands, if a noble f=
alls
into poverty, he is soon eliminated from the order. A mere change of
pronunciation is enough. Tangroville becomes Tangrouille: and the thing is
done.
This had been the fate of the helmsman of the
Durande.
At the Bordagé of St. Peter's Port, the=
re
is a dealer in old iron named Ingrouille, who is probably an Ingroville. Un=
der
Lewis le Gros the Ingrovilles possessed three parishes in the district of
Valognes. A certain Abbé Trigan has written an Ecclesiastical Histor=
y of
Normandy. This chronicler Trigan was the curé of the Seigniory of
Digoville. The Sire of Digoville, if he had sunk to a lower grade, would ha=
ve
been called Digouille.
Tangrouille, this probable Tancarville, and
possible Montmorency, had an ancient noble quality, but a grave failing for=
a
steersman; he got drunk occasionally.
Sieur Clubin had obstinately determined to ret=
ain
him. He answered for his conduct to Mess Lethierry.
Tangrouille the helmsman never left the vessel=
; he
slept aboard.
On the eve of their departure, when Sieur Club=
in
came at a late hour to inspect the vessel, the steersman was in his hammock
asleep.
In the night Tangrouille awoke. It was his nig=
htly
habit. Every drunkard who is not his own master has his secret hiding-place.
Tangrouille had his, which he called his store. The secret store of Tangrou=
ille
was in the hold. He had placed it there to put others off the scent. He tho=
ught
it certain that his hiding-place was known only to himself. Captain Clubin,
being a sober man himself, was strict. The little rum or gin which the helm=
sman
could conceal from the vigilant eyes of the captain, he kept in reserve in =
this
mysterious corner of the hold, and nearly every night he had a stolen inter=
view
with the contents of this store. The surveillance was rigorous, the orgie w=
as a
poor one, and Tangrouille's nightly excesses were generally confined to two=
or
three furtive draughts. Sometimes it happened that the store was empty. Thi=
s night
Tangrouille had found there an unexpected bottle of brandy. His joy was gre=
at;
but his astonishment greater. From what cloud had it fallen? He could not
remember when or how he had ever brought it into the ship. He soon, however,
consumed the whole of it; partly from motives of prudence, and partly from a
fear that the brandy might be discovered and seized. The bottle he threw
overboard. In the morning, when he took the helm, Tangrouille exhibited a
slight oscillation of the body.
He steered, however, pretty nearly as usual.
With regard to Clubin, he had gone, as the rea=
der
knows, to sleep at the Jean Auberge.
Clubin always wore, under his shirt, a leathern
travelling belt, in which he kept a reserve of twenty guineas; he took this
belt off only at night. Inside the belt was his name "Clubin,"
written by himself on the rough leather, with thick lithographer's ink, whi=
ch
is indelible.
On rising, just before his departure, he put i=
nto
this girdle the iron box containing the seventy-five thousand francs in
bank-notes; then, as he was accustomed to do, he buckled the belt round his
body.
=
The
Durande started pleasantly. The passengers, as soon as their bags and
portmanteaus were installed upon and under the benches, took that customary
survey of the vessel which seems indispensable under the
circumstances. Two of the passengers--the tour=
ist
and the Parisian--had never seen a steam-vessel before, and from the moment=
the
paddles began to revolve, they stood admiring the foam. Then they looked wi=
th wonderment
at the smoke. Then they examined one by one, and almost piece by piece upon=
the
upper and lower deck, all those naval appliances such as rings, grapnels, h=
ooks
and bolts, which, with their nice precision and adaptation, form a kind of
colossal bijouterie--a sort of iron jewellery, fantastically gilded with ru=
st
by the weather. They walked round the little signal gun upon the upper deck.
"Chained up like a sporting dog," observed the tourist. "And
covered with a waterproof coat to prevent its taking cold," added the
Parisian. As they left the land further behind, they indulged in the custom=
ary
observations upon the view of St. Malo. One passenger laid down the axiom t=
hat
the approach to a place by sea is always deceptive; and that at a league fr=
om
the shore, for example, nothing could more resemble Ostend than Dunkirk. He
completed his series of remarks on Dunkirk by the observation that one of i=
ts
two floating lights painted red was called Ruytingen, and the other Mardyck=
.
St. Malo, meanwhile, grew smaller in the dista=
nce,
and finally disappeared from view.
The aspect of the sea was a vast calm. The fur=
row
left in the water by the vessel was a long double line edged with foam, and
stretching straight behind them as far as the eye could see.
A straight line drawn from St. Malo in France =
to
Exeter in England would touch the island of Guernsey. The straight line at =
sea
is not always the one chosen. Steam-vessels, however, have, to a certain
extent, a power of following the direct course denied to sailing ships.
The wind in co-operation with the sea is a
combination of forces. A ship is a combination of appliances. Forces are
machines of infinite power. Machines are forces of limited power. That stru=
ggle
which we call navigation is between these two organisations, the one
inexhaustible, the other intelligent.
Mind, directing the mechanism, forms the
counterbalance to the infinite power of the opposing forces. But the opposi=
ng
forces, too, have their organisation. The elements are conscious of where t=
hey go,
and what they are about. No force is merely blind. It is the function of ma=
n to
keep watch upon these natural agents, and to discover their laws.
While these laws are still in great part
undiscovered, the struggle continues, and in this struggle navigation, by t=
he
help of steam, is a perpetual victory won by human skill every hour of the =
day,
and upon every point of the sea. The admirable feature in steam navigation =
is, that
it disciplines the very ship herself. It diminishes her obedience to the wi=
nds,
and increases her docility to man.
The Durande had never worked better at sea tha=
n on
that day. She made her way marvellously.
Towards eleven o'clock, a fresh breeze blowing
from the nor'-nor'-west, the Durande was off the Minquiers, under little st=
eam,
keeping her head to the west, on the starboard tack, and close up to the wi=
nd.
The weather was still fine and clear. The trawlers, however, were making fo=
r shore.
By little and little, as if each one was anxio=
us
to get into port, the sea became clear of the boats.
It could not be said that the Durande was keep=
ing
quite her usual course. The crew gave no thought to such matters. The
confidence in the captain was absolute; yet, perhaps through the fault of t=
he
helmsman, there was a slight deviation. The Durande appeared to be making
rather towards Jersey than Guernsey. A little after eleven the captain rect=
ified
the vessel's course, and put her head fair for Guernsey. It was only a litt=
le
time lost, but in short days time lost has its inconveniences. It was a
February day, but the sun shone brightly.
Tangrouille, in his half-intoxicated state, had
not a very sure arm, nor a very firm footing. The result was, that the helm=
sman
lurched pretty often, which also retarded progress.
The wind had almost entirely fallen.
The Guernsey passenger, who had a telescope in=
his
hand, brought it to bear from time to time upon a little cloud of grey mist,
lightly moved by the wind, in the extreme western horizon. It resembled a
fleecy down sprinkled with dust.
Captain Clubin wore his ordinary austere,
Puritan-like expression of countenance. He appeared to redouble his attenti=
on.
All was peaceful and almost joyous on board the
Durande. The passengers chatted. It is possible to judge of the state of the
sea in a passage with the eyes closed, by noting the tremolo of the
conversation about you. The full freedom of mind among the passengers answe=
rs
to the perfect tranquillity of the waters.
It is impossible, for example, that a conversa=
tion
like the following could take place otherwise than on a very calm sea.
"Observe that pretty green and red fly.&q=
uot;
"It has lost itself out at sea, and is
resting on the ship."
"Flies do not soon get tired."
"No doubt; they are light; the wind carri=
es
them."
"An ounce of flies was once weighed, and
afterwards counted; and it was found to comprise no less than six thousand =
two
hundred and sixty-eight."
The Guernsey passenger with the telescope had
approached the St. Malo cattle dealers; and their talk was something in this
vein:
"The Aubrac bull has a round and thick
buttock, short legs, and a yellowish hide. He is slow at work by reason of =
the
shortness of his legs."
"In that matter the Salers beats the
Aubrac."
"I have seen, sir, two beautiful bulls in= my life. The first has the legs low, the breast thick, the rump full, the haun= ches large, a good length of neck to the udder, withers of good height, the skin easy to strip. The second had all the signs of good fattening, a thick-set back, neck and shoulders strong, coat white and brown, rump sinking."<= o:p>
"That's the Cotentin race."
"Yes; with a slight cross with the Angus =
or
Suffolk bull."
"You may believe it if you please, sir, b=
ut I
assure you in the south they hold shows of donkeys."
"Shows of donkeys?"
"Of donkeys, on my honour. And the ugliest
are the most admired."
"Ha! it is the same as with the mule show=
s.
The ugly ones are considered best."
"Exactly. Take also the Poitevin mares; l=
arge
belly, thick legs."
"The best mule known is a sort of barrel =
upon
four posts."
"Beauty in beasts is a different thing fr=
om
beauty in men."
"And particularly in women."
"That is true."
"As for me, I like a woman to be
pretty."
"I am more particular about her being well
dressed."
"Yes; neat, clean, and well set off."=
;
"Looking just new. A pretty girl ought al=
ways
to appear as if she had just been turned out by a jeweller."
"To return to my bulls; I saw these two s=
old
at the market at Thouars."
"The market at Thouars; I know it very we=
ll.
The Bonneaus of La Rochelle, and the Babas corn merchants at Marans, I don't
know whether you have heard of them attending that market."
The tourist and the Parisian were conversing w=
ith
the American of the Bibles.
"Sir," said the tourist, "I will
tell you the tonnage of the civilised world. France 716,000 tons; Germany
1,000,000; the United States, 5,000,000; England, 5,500,000; add the small
vessels. Total 12,904,000 tons, carried in 145,000 vessels scattered over t=
he
waters of the globe."
The American interrupted:
"It is the United States, sir, which have
5,500,000."
"I agree," said the tourist. "Y=
ou
are an American?"
"Yes, sir."
"I agree again."
There was a pause. The American missionary was
considering whether this was a case for the offer of a Bible.
"Is it true, sir," asked the tourist,
"that you have a passion for nicknames in America, so complete, that y=
ou
confer them upon all your celebrated men, and that you call your famous
Missouri banker, Thomas Benton, 'Old Lingot'?"
"Yes; just as we call Zachary Taylor 'Old
Zach.'"
"And General Harrison, 'Old Tip;' am I ri=
ght?
and General Jackson, 'Old Hickory?'"
"Because Jackson is hard as hickory wood;=
and
because Harrison beat the redskins at Tippecanoe."
"It is an odd fashion that of yours."=
;
"It is our custom. We call Van Buren 'The
Little Wizard;' Seward, who introduced the small bank-notes, 'Little Billy;'
and Douglas, the democrat senator from Illinois, who is four feet high and =
very
eloquent, 'The Little Giant.' You may go from Texas to the State of Maine
without hearing the name of Mr. Cass. They say the 'Great Michiganer.' Nor =
the name
of Clay; they say 'The miller's boy with the scar.' Clay is the son of a
miller."
"I should prefer to say 'Clay' or
'Cass,'" said the Parisian. "It's shorter."
"Then you would be out of the fashion. We
call Corwin, who is the Secretary of the Treasury, 'The Waggoner-boy;' Dani=
el
Webster, 'Black Dan.' As to Winfield Scott, as his first thought after beat=
ing
the English at Chippeway, was to sit down to dine, we call him 'Quick--a ba=
sin
of soup.'"
The small white mist perceived in the distance=
had
become larger. It filled now a segment of fifteen degrees above the horizon=
. It
was like a cloud loitering along the water for want of wind to stir it. The
breeze had almost entirely died away. The sea was glassy. Although it was n=
ot yet
noon, the sun was becoming pale. It lighted but seemed to give no warmth.
"I fancy," said the tourist, "t=
hat
we shall have a change of weather."
"Probably rain," said the Parisian.<= o:p>
"Or fog," said the American.
"In Italy," remarked the tourist,
"Molfetta is the place where there falls the least rain; and Tolmezzo,
where there falls the most."
At noon, according to the usage of the Channel
Islands, the bell sounded for dinner. Those dined who desired. Some passeng=
ers
had brought with them provisions, and were eating merrily on the after-deck.
Clubin did not eat.
While this eating was going on, the conversati=
ons
continued.
The Guernsey man, having probably a scent for
Bibles, approached the American. The latter said to him:
"You know this sea?"
"Very well; I belong to this part."<= o:p>
"And I, too," said one of the St. Ma=
lo
men.
The native of Guernsey followed with a bow and
continued:
"We are fortunately well out at sea now; I
should not have liked a fog when we were off the Minquiers."
The American said to the St. Malo man:
"Islanders are more at home on the sea th=
an
the folks of the coast."
"True; we coast people are only half dipp=
ed
in salt water."
"What are the Minquiers?" asked the
American.
The St. Malo man replied:
"They are an ugly reef of rocks."
"There are also the Grelets," said t=
he
Guernsey man.
"Parblus!" ejaculated the other.
"And the Chouas," added the Guernsey
man.
The inhabitant of St. Malo laughed.
"As for that," said he, "there =
are
the Savages also."
"And the Monks," observed the Guerns=
ey
man.
"And the Duck," cried the St. Maloit=
e.
"Sir," remarked the inhabitant of
Guernsey, "you have an answer for everything."
The tourist interposed with a question:
"Have we to pass all that legion of
rocks?"
"No; we have left it to the sou'-south-ea=
st.
It is behind us."
And the Guernsey passenger continued:
"Big and little rocks together, the Grele=
ts
have fifty-seven peaks."
"And the Minquiers forty-eight," said
the other.
The dialogue was now confined to the St. Malo =
and
the Guernsey passenger.
"It strikes me, Monsieur St. Malo, that t=
here
are three rocks which you have not included."
"I mentioned all."
"From the Derée to the Maître
Ile."
"And Les Maisons?"
"Yes; seven rocks in the midst of the
Minquiers."
"I see you know the very stones."
"If I didn't know the stones, I should no=
t be
an inhabitant of St. Malo."
"It is amusing to hear French people's
reasonings."
The St. Malo man bowed in his turn, and said:<= o:p>
"The Savages are three rocks."
"And the Monks two."
"And the Duck one."
"The Duck; this is only one, of course.&q=
uot;
"No: for the Suarde consists of four
rocks."
"What do you mean by the Suarde?" as=
ked
the inhabitant of Guernsey.
"We call the Suarde what you call the
Chouas."
"It is a queer passage, that between the
Chouas and the Duck."
"It is impassable except for the birds.&q=
uot;
"And the fish."
"Scarcely: in bad weather they give
themselves hard knocks against the walls."
"There is sand near the Minquiers?"<= o:p>
"Around the Maisons."
"There are eight rocks visible from
Jersey."
"Visible from the strand of Azette; that's
correct: but not eight; only seven."
"At low water you can walk about the
Minquiers?"
"No doubt; there would be sand above
water."
"And what of the Dirouilles?"
"The Dirouilles bear no resemblance to the
Minquiers."
"They are very dangerous."
"They are near Granville."
"I see that you St. Malo people, like us,
enjoy sailing in these seas."
"Yes," replied the St. Malo man,
"with the difference that we say, 'We have the habit,' you, 'We are
fond.'"
"You make good sailors."
"I am myself a cattle merchant."
"Who was that famous sailor born of St.
Malo?"
"Surcouf?"
"Another?"
"Duguay-Trouin."
Here the Parisian commercial man chimed in:
"Duguay-Trouin? He was captured by the En=
glish.
He was as agreeable as he was brave. A young English lady fell in love with
him. It was she who procured him his liberty."
At this moment a voice like thunder was heard
crying out:
"You are drunk, man!"
=
=
Everybody
turned.
It was the captain calling to the helmsman.
Sieur Clubin's tone and manner evidenced that =
he
was extremely angry, or that he wished to appear so.
A well-timed burst of anger sometimes removes
responsibility, and sometimes shifts it on to other shoulders.
The captain, standing on the bridge between the
two paddle-boxes, fixed his eyes on the helmsman. He repeated, between his
teeth, "Drunkard." The unlucky Tangrouille hung his head.
The fog had made progress. It filled by this t= ime nearly one-half of the horizon. It seemed to advance from every quarter at = the same time. There is something in a fog of the nature of a drop of oil upon = the water. It enlarged insensibly. The light wind moved it onward slowly and silently. By little and little it took possession of the ocean. It was comi= ng chiefly from the north-west, dead ahead: the ship had it before her prow, like a li= ne of cliff moving vast and vague. It rose from the sea like a wall. There was= an exact point where the wide waters entered the fog, and were lost to sight.<= o:p>
This line of the commencement of the fog was s=
till
above half-a-league distant. The interval was visibly growing less and less.
The Durande made way; the fog made way also. It was drawing nearer to the v=
essel,
while the vessel was drawing nearer to it.
Clubin gave the order to put on more steam, an=
d to
hold off the coast.
Thus for some time they skirted the edge of the
fog; but still it advanced. The vessel, meanwhile, sailed in broad sunlight=
.
Time was lost in these manoeuvres, which had
little chance of success. Nightfall comes quickly in February. The native of
Guernsey was meditating upon the subject of this fog. He said to the St. Ma=
lo
men:
"It will be thick!"
"An ugly sort of weather at sea," ob=
served
one of the St. Malo men.
The other added:
"A kind of thing which spoils a good
passage."
The Guernsey passenger approached Clubin, and
said:
"I'm afraid, Captain, that the fog will c=
atch
us."
Clubin replied:
"I wished to stay at St. Malo, but I was
advised to go."
"By whom?"
"By some old sailors."
"You were certainly right to go," sa=
id
the Guernsey man. "Who knows whether there will not be a tempest
to-morrow? At this season you may wait and find it worse."
A few moments later, the Durande entered the f=
og
bank.
The effect was singular. Suddenly those who we=
re
on the after-deck could not see those forward. A soft grey medium divided t=
he
ship in two.
Then the entire vessel passed into the fog. The
sun became like a dull red moon. Everybody suddenly shivered. The passengers
put on their overcoats, and the sailors their tarpaulins. The sea, almost
without a ripple, was the more menacing from its cold tranquillity. All was
pale and wan. The black funnel and the heavy smoke struggled with the dewy =
mist
which enshrouded the vessel.
Dropping to westward was now useless. The capt=
ain
kept the vessel's head again towards Guernsey, and gave orders to put on the
steam.
The Guernsey passenger, hanging about the
engine-room hatchway, heard the negro Imbrancam talking to his engineer
comrade. The passenger listened. The negro said:
"This morning, in the sun, we were going =
half
steam on; now, in the fog, we put on steam."
The Guernsey man returned to Clubin.
"Captain Clubin, a look-out is useless; b=
ut
have we not too much steam on?"
"What can I do, sir? We must make up for =
time
lost through the fault of that drunkard of a helmsman."
"True, Captain Clubin."
And Clubin added:
"I am anxious to arrive. It is foggy enou=
gh
by day: it would be rather too much at night."
The Guernsey man rejoined his St. Malo
fellow-passengers, and remarked:
"We have an excellent captain."
At intervals, great waves of mist bore down
heavily upon them, and blotted out the sun; which again issued out of them =
pale
and sickly. The little that could be seen of the heavens resembled the long
strips of painted sky, dirty and smeared with oil, among the old scenery of=
a theatre.
The Durande passed close to a cutter which had
cast anchor for safety. It was the Shealtiel of Guernsey. The master of the
cutter remarked the high speed of the steam-vessel. It struck him also, that
she was not in her exact course. She seemed to him to bear to westward too
much. The apparition of this vessel under full steam in the fog surprised h=
im.
Towards two o'clock the weather had become so
thick that the captain was obliged to leave the bridge, and plant himself n=
ear
the steersman. The sun had vanished, and all was fog. A sort of ashy darkne=
ss
surrounded the ship. They were navigating in a pale shroud. They could see
neither sky nor water.
There was not a breath of wind.
The can of turpentine suspended under the brid=
ge,
between the paddle-boxes, did not even oscillate.
The passengers had become silent.
The Parisian, however, hummed between his teet=
h the
song of Béranger--"Un jour le bon Dieu s'éveillant."=
;
One of the St. Malo passengers addressed him:<= o:p>
"You are from Paris, sir?"
"Yes, sir. Il mit la tête à =
la
fenêtre."
"What do they do in Paris?"
"Leur planète a péri,
peut-être.--In Paris, sir, things are going on very badly."
"Then it's the same ashore as at sea.&quo=
t;
"It is true; we have an abominable fog
here."
"One which might involve us in
misfortunes."
The Parisian exclaimed:
"Yes; and why all these misfortunes in the
world? Misfortunes! What are they sent for, these misfortunes? What use do =
they
serve? There was the fire at the Odéon theatre, and immediately a nu=
mber
of families thrown out of employment. Is that just? I don't know what is yo=
ur
religion, sir, but I am puzzled by all this."
"So am I," said the St. Malo man.
"Everything that happens here below,"
continued the Parisian, "seems to go wrong. It looks as if Providence,=
for
some reason, no longer watched over the world."
The St. Malo man scratched the top of his head,
like one making an effort to understand. The Parisian continued:
"Our guardian angel seems to be absent. T=
here
ought to be a decree against celestial absenteeism. He is at his country-ho=
use,
and takes no notice of us; so all gets in disorder. It is evident that this=
guardian
is not in the government; he is taking holiday, leaving some vicar--some se=
minarist
angel, some wretched creature with sparrows'-wings--to look after
affairs."
Captain Clubin, who had approached the speakers during this conversation, laid his hand upon the shoulder of the Parisian.<= o:p>
"Silence, sir," he said. "Keep a
watch upon your words. We are upon the sea."
No one spoke again aloud.
After a pause of five minutes, the Guernsey ma=
n,
who had heard all this, whispered in the ear of the St. Malo passenger:
"A religious man, our captain."
It did not rain, but all felt their clothing w=
et.
The crew took no heed of the way they were making; but there was increased
sense of uneasiness. They seemed to have entered into a doleful region. The=
fog
makes a deep silence on the sea; it calms the waves, and stifles the wind. =
In
the midst of this silence, the creaking of the Durande communicated a stran=
ge,
indefinable feeling of melancholy and disquietude.
They passed no more vessels. If afar off, in t=
he
direction of Guernsey or in that of St. Malo, any vessels were at sea outsi=
de
the fog, the Durande, submerged in the dense cloud, must have been invisibl=
e to
them; while her long trail of smoke attached to nothing, looked like a blac=
k comet
in the pale sky.
Suddenly Clubin roared out:
"Hang-dog! you have played us an ugly tri=
ck.
You will have done us some damage before we are out of this. You deserve to=
be
put in irons. Get you gone, drunkard!"
And he seized the helm himself.
The steersman, humbled, shrunk away to take pa=
rt
in the duties forward.
The Guernsey man said:
"That will save us."
The vessel was still making way rapidly.
Towards three o'clock, the lower part of the f=
og
began to clear, and they could see the sea again.
A mist can only be dispersed by the sun or the
wind. By the sun is well; by the wind is not so well. At three o'clock in t=
he
afternoon, in the month of February, the sun is always weak. A return of the
wind at this critical point in a voyage is not desirable. It is often the
forerunner of a hurricane.
If there was any breeze, however, it was scarc=
ely
perceptible.
Clubin with his eye on the binnacle, holding t=
he
tiller and steering, muttered to himself some words like the following, whi=
ch
reached the ears of the passengers:
"No time to be lost; that drunken rascal =
has
retarded us."
His visage, meanwhile, was absolutely without
expression.
The sea was less calm under the mist. A few wa=
ves
were distinguishable. Little patches of light appeared on the surface of the
water. These luminous patches attract the attention of the sailors. They
indicate openings made by the wind in the overhanging roof of fog. The cloud
rose a little, and then sunk heavier. Sometimes the density was perfect. Th=
e ship
was involved in a sort of foggy iceberg. At intervals this terrible circle
opened a little, like a pair of pincers; showed a glimpse of the horizon, a=
nd
then closed again.
Meanwhile the Guernsey man, armed with his
spyglass, was standing like a sentinel in the fore part of the vessel.
An opening appeared for a moment, and was blot=
ted
out again.
The Guernsey man returned alarmed.
"Captain Clubin!"
"What is the matter?"
"We are steering right upon the
Hanways."
"You are mistaken," said Clubin, col=
dly.
The Guernsey man insisted.
"I am sure of it."
"Impossible."
"I have just seen the rock in the
horizon."
"Where?"
"Out yonder."
"It is the open sea there. Impossible.&qu=
ot;
And Clubin kept the vessel's head to the point
indicated by the passenger.
The Guernsey man seized his spyglass again.
A moment later he came running aft again.
"Captain!"
"Well."
"Tack about!"
"Why?"
"I am certain of having seen a very high =
rock
just ahead. It is the Great Hanway."
"You have seen nothing but a thicker bank=
of
fog."
"It is the Great Hanway. Tack, in the nam=
e of
Heaven!"
Clubin gave the helm a turn.
=
A
crash was heard. The ripping of a vessel's side upon a sunken reef in open =
sea
is the most dismal sound of which man can dream. The Durande's course was s=
topped
short.
Several passengers were knocked down with the
shock and rolled upon the deck.
The Guernsey man raised his hands to heaven:
"We are on the Hanways. I predicted it.&q=
uot;
A long cry went up from the ship.
"We are lost."
The voice of Clubin, dry and short, was heard
above all.
"No one is lost! Silence!"
The black form of Imbrancam, naked down to the
waist, issued from the hatchway of the engine-room.
The negro said with self-possession:
"The water is gaining, Captain. The fires
will soon be out."
The moment was terrible.
The shock was like that of a suicide. If the
disaster had been wilfully sought, it could not have been more terrible. The
Durande had rushed upon her fate as if she had attacked the rock itself. A
point had pierced her sides like a wedge. More than six feet square of plan=
king
had gone; the stem was broken, the prow smashed, and the gaping hull drank =
in
the sea with a horrible gulping noise. It was an entrance for wreck and rui=
n.
The rebound was so violent that it had shattered the rudder pendants; the
rudder itself hung unhinged and flapping. The rock had driven in her keel.
Round about the vessel nothing was visible except a thick, compact fog, now
become sombre. Night was gathering fast.
The Durande plunged forward. It was like the
effort of a horse pierced through the entrails by the horns of a bull. All =
was
over with her.
Tangrouille was sobered. Nobody is drunk in the
moment of a shipwreck. He came down to the quarter-deck, went up again, and
said:
"Captain, the water is gaining rapidly in=
the
hold. In ten minutes it will be up to the scupper-holes."
The passengers ran about bewildered, wringing
their hands, leaning over the bulwarks, looking down in the engine-room, and
making every other sort of useless movement in their terror. The tourist had
fainted.
Clubin made a sign with his hand, and they were
silent. He questioned Imbrancam:
"How long will the engines work yet?"=
;
"Five or six minutes, sir."
Then he interrogated the Guernsey passenger:
"I was at the helm. You saw the rock. On
which bank of the Hanways are we?"
"On the Mauve. Just now, in the opening in
the fog, I saw it clearly."
"If we're on the Mauve," remarked
Clubin, "we have the Great Hanway on the port side, and the Little Han=
way
on the starboard bow; we are a mile from the shore."
The crew and passengers listened, fixing their
eyes anxiously and attentively on the captain.
Lightening the ship would have been of no avai=
l,
and indeed would have been hardly possible. In order to throw the cargo ove=
rboard,
they would have had to open the ports and increase the chance of the water =
entering.
To cast anchor would have been equally useless: they were stuck fast. Besid=
es,
with such a bottom for the anchor to drag, the chain would probably have
fouled. The engines not being injured, and being workable while the fires w=
ere
not extinguished, that is to say, for a few minutes longer, they could have
made an effort, by help of steam and her paddles, to turn her astern off the
rocks; but if they had succeeded, they must have settled down immediately. =
The
rock, indeed, in some degree stopped the breach and prevented the entrance =
of
the water. It was at least an obstacle; while the hole once freed, it would
have been impossible to stop the leak or to work the pumps. To snatch a pon=
iard
from a wound in the heart is instant death to the victim. To free the vessel
from the rock would have been simply to founder.
The cattle, on whom the water was gaining in t=
he
hold, were lowing piteously.
Clubin issued orders:
"Launch the long boat."
Imbrancam and Tangrouille rushed to execute the
order. The boat was eased from her fastenings. The rest of the crew looked =
on
stupefied.
"All hands to assist," cried Clubin.=
This time all obeyed.
Clubin, self-possessed, continued to issue his
orders in that old sea dialect, which French sailors of the present day wou=
ld
scarcely understand.
"Haul in a rope--Get a cable if the capst=
an
does not work--Stop heaving--Keep the blocks clear--Lower away there--- Bri=
ng
her down stern and bows--Now then, all together, lads--Take care she don't
lower stern first--There's too much strain on there--Hold the laniard of the
stock tackle--Stand by there!"
The long boat was launched.
At that instant the Durande's paddles stopped,=
and
the smoke ceased--the fires were drowned.
The passengers slipped down the ladder, and
dropped hurriedly into the long boat. Imbrancam lifted the fainting tourist,
carried him into the boat, and then boarded the vessel again.
The crew made a rush after the passengers--the=
cabin
boy was knocked down, and the others were trampling upon him.
Imbrancam barred their passage.
"Not a man before the lad," he said.=
He kept off the sailors with his two black arm=
s,
picked up the boy, and handed him down to the Guernsey man, who was standing
upright in the boat.
The boy saved, Imbrancam made way for the othe=
rs,
and said:
"Pass on!"
Meanwhile Clubin had entered his cabin, and had
made up a parcel containing the ship's papers and instruments. He took the
compass from the binnacle, handed the papers and instruments to Imbrancam, =
and
the compass to Tangrouille, and said to them:
"Get aboard the boat."
They obeyed. The crew had taken their places
before them.
"Now," cried Clubin, "push
off."
A cry arose from the long boat.
"What about yourself, Captain?"
"I will remain here."
Shipwrecked people have little time to deliber=
ate,
and not much for indulging in tender feeling. Those who were in the long bo=
at
and in comparative safety, however, felt an emotion which was not altogethe=
r selfish.
All the voices shouted together:
"Come with us, Captain."
"No: I remain here."
The Guernsey man, who had some experience of t=
he
sea, replied:
"Listen to me, Captain. You are wrecked on
the Hanways. Swimming, you would have only a mile to cross to Pleinmont. In=
a
boat you can only land at Rocquaine, which is two miles. There are breakers,
and there is the fog. Our boat will not get to Rocquaine in less than two
hours. It will be a dark night. The sea is rising--the wind getting fresh. =
A squall
is at hand. We are now ready to return and bring you off; but if bad weather
comes on, that will be out of our power. You are lost if you stay there. Co=
me
with us."
The Parisian chimed in:
"The long boat is full--too full, it is t=
rue,
and one more will certainly be one too many; but we are thirteen--a bad num=
ber
for the boat, and it is better to overload her with a man than to take an o=
minous
number. Come, Captain."
Tangrouille added:
"It was all my fault--not yours, Captain.=
It
isn't fair for you to be left behind."
"I have decided to remain here," said
Clubin. "The vessel must inevitably go to pieces in the tempest to-nig=
ht.
I won't leave her. When the ship is lost, the captain is already dead. Peop=
le
shall not say I didn't do my duty to the end. Tangrouille, I forgive you.&q=
uot;
Then, folding his arms, he cried:
"Obey orders! Let go the rope, and push
off."
The long-boat swayed to and fro. Imbrancam had
seized the tiller. All the hands which were not rowing were raised towards =
the
captain--every mouth cried, "Cheers for Captain Clubin."
"An admirable fellow!" said the
American.
"Sir," replied the Guernsey man,
"he is one of the worthiest seamen afloat."
Tangrouille shed tears.
"If I had had the courage," he said,
"I would have stayed with him."
The long-boat pushed away, and was lost in the
fog.
Nothing more was visible.
The beat of the oars grew fainter, and died aw=
ay.
Clubin remained alone.
=
When
Clubin found himself upon this rock, in the midst of the fog and the wide
waters, far from all sound of human life, left for dead, alone with the tide
rising around him, and night settling down rapidly, he experienced a feelin=
g of
profound satisfaction.
He had succeeded.
His dream was realised. The acceptance which he
had drawn upon destiny at so long a date had fallen due at last.
With him, to be abandoned there was, in fact, =
to
be saved.
He was on the Hanways, one mile from the shore=
; he
had about him seventy-five thousand francs. Never was shipwreck more
scientifically accomplished. Nothing had failed. It is true, everything had
been foreseen. From his early years Clubin had had an idea to stake his rep=
utation
for honesty at life's gaming-table; to pass as a man of high honour, and to
make that reputation his fulcrum for other things; to bide his time, to wat=
ch
his opportunity; not to grope about blindly, but to seize boldly; to ventur=
e on
one great stroke, only one; and to end by sweeping off the stakes, leaving
fools behind him to gape and wonder. What stupid rogues fail in twenty time=
s,
he meant to accomplish at the first blow; and while they terminated a caree=
r on
the gallows, he intended to finish with a fortune. The meeting with Rantaine
had been a new light to him. He had immediately laid his plan--to compel
Rantaine to disgorge; to frustrate his threatened revelations by disappeari=
ng;
to make the world believe him dead, the best of all modes of concealment; a=
nd
for this purpose to wreck the Durande. The shipwreck was necessary to his
designs. Lastly, he had the satisfaction of vanishing, leaving behind him a
great renown, the crowning point of his existence. As he stood meditating on
these things amid the wreck, Clubin might have been taken for some demon in=
a
pleasant mood.
He had lived a lifetime for the sake of this o=
ne
minute.
His whole exterior was expressive of the two
words, "At last." A devilish tranquillity reigned in that sallow
countenance.
His dull eye, the depth of which generally see=
med
to be impenetrable, became clear and terrible. The inward fire of his dark
spirit was reflected there.
Man's inner nature, like that external world a=
bout
him, has its electric phenomena. An idea is like a meteor; at the moment of=
its
coming, the confused meditations which preceded it open a way, and a spark
flashes forth. Bearing within oneself a power of evil, feeling an inward pr=
ey, brings
to some minds a pleasure which is like a sparkle of light. The triumph of an
evil purpose brightens up their visages. The success of certain cunning
combinations, the attainment of certain cherished objects, the gratificatio=
n of
certain ferocious instincts, will manifest themselves in sinister but lumin=
ous
appearances in their eyes. It is like a threatening dawn, a gleam of joy dr=
awn
out of the heart of a storm. These flashes are generated in the conscience =
in
its states of cloud and darkness.
Some such signs were then exhibiting themselve=
s in
the pupils of those eyes. They were like nothing else that can be seen shin=
ing
either above or here below.
All Clubin's pent-up wickedness found full vent
now.
He gazed into the vast surrounding darkness, a=
nd
indulged in a low, irrepressible laugh, full of sinister significance.
He was rich at last! rich at last!
The unknown future of his life was at length
unfolding; the problem was solved.
Clubin had plenty of time before him. The sea =
was
rising, and consequently sustained the Durande, and even raised her at last=
a little.
The vessel kept firmly in its place among the rocks; there was no danger of=
her
foundering. Besides, he determined to give the long-boat time to get clear
off--to go to the bottom, perhaps. Clubin hoped it might.
Erect upon the deck of the shipwrecked vessel,=
he
folded his arms, apparently enjoying that forlorn situation in the dark nig=
ht.
Hypocrisy had weighed upon this man for thirty
years. He had been evil itself, yoked with probity for a mate. He detested
virtue with the feeling of one who has been trapped into a hateful match. He
had always had a wicked premeditation; from the time when he attained manho=
od
he had worn the cold and rigid armour of appearances. Underneath this was t=
he
demon of self. He had lived like a bandit in the disguise of an honest citi=
zen.
He had been the soft-spoken pirate; the bond-slave of honesty. He had been
confined in garments of innocence, as in oppressive mummy cloths; had worn
those angel wings which the devils find so wearisome in their fallen state.=
He
had been overloaded with public esteem. It is arduous passing for a shining
light. To preserve a perpetual equilibrium amid these difficulties, to think
evil, to speak goodness--here had been indeed a labour. Such a life of
contradictions had been Clubin's fate. It had been his lot--not the less
onerous because he had chosen it himself--to preserve a good exterior, to b=
e always
presentable, to foam in secret, to smile while grinding his teeth. Virtue
presented itself to his mind as something stifling. He had felt, sometimes,=
as
if he could have gnawed those finger-ends which he was compelled to keep be=
fore
his mouth.
To live a life which is a perpetual falsehood =
is
to suffer unknown tortures. To be premeditating indefinitely a diabolical a=
ct,
to have to assume austerity; to brood over secret infamy seasoned with outw=
ard
good fame; to have continually to put the world off the scent; to present a=
perpetual
illusion, and never to be one's self--is a burdensome task. To be constrain=
ed
to dip the brush in that dark stuff within, to produce with it a portrait of
candour; to fawn, to restrain and suppress one's self, to be ever on the qui
vive; watching without ceasing to mask latent crimes with a face of healthy
innocence: to transform deformity into beauty; to fashion wickedness into t=
he
shape of perfection; to tickle, as it were, with the point of a dagger, to =
put
sugar with poison, to keep a bridle on every gesture and keep a watch over
every tone, not even to have a countenance of one's own--what can be harder=
, what
can be more torturing. The odiousness of hypocrisy is obscurely felt by the
hypocrite himself. Drinking perpetually of his own imposture is nauseating.=
The
sweetness of tone which cunning gives to scoundrelism is repugnant to the
scoundrel compelled to have it ever in the mouth; and there are moments of
disgust when villainy seems on the point of vomiting its secret. To have to
swallow that bitter saliva is horrible. Add to this picture his profound pr=
ide.
There are strange moments in the history of such a life, when hypocrisy
worships itself. There is always an inordinate egotism in roguery. The worm=
has
the same mode of gliding along as the serpent, and the same manner of raisi=
ng
its head. The treacherous villain is the despot curbed and restrained, and =
only
able to attain his ends by resigning himself to play a secondary part. He i=
s summed-up
littleness capable of enormities. The perfect hypocrite is a Titan dwarfed.=
Clubin had a genuine faith that he had been
ill-used. Why had not he the right to have been born rich? It was from no f=
ault
of his that it was otherwise. Deprived as he had been of the higher enjoyme=
nts
of life, why had he been forced to labour--in other words, to cheat, to bet=
ray,
to destroy? Why had he been condemned to this torture of flattering, cringi=
ng,
fawning; to be always labouring for men's respect and friendship, and to we=
ar
night and day a face which was not his own? To be compelled to dissimulate =
was
in itself to submit to a hardship. Men hate those to whom they have to lie.=
But
now the disguise was at an end. Clubin had taken his revenge.
On whom? On all! On everything!
Lethierry had never done him any but good
services; so much the greater his spleen. He was revenged upon Lethierry.
He was revenged upon all those in whose presen=
ce
he had felt constraint. It was his turn to be free now. Whoever had thought
well of him was his enemy. He had felt himself their captive long enough.
Now he had broken through his prison walls. His
escape was accomplished. That which would be regarded as his death, would b=
e,
in fact, the beginning of his life. He was about to begin the world again. =
The
true Clubin had stripped off the false. In one hour the spell was broken. H=
e had
kicked Rantaine into space; overwhelmed Lethierry in ruin; human justice in
night, and opinion in error. He had cast off all humanity; blotted out the
whole world.
The name of God, that word of three letters,
occupied his mind but little.
He had passed for a religious man. What was he
now?
There are secret recesses in hypocrisy; or rat=
her
the hypocrite is himself a secret recess.
When Clubin found himself quite alone, that ca=
vern
in which his soul had so long lain hidden, was opened. He enjoyed a moment =
of
delicious liberty. He revelled for that moment in the open air. He gave ven=
t to
himself in one long breath.
The depth of evil within him revealed itself in
his visage. He expanded, as it were, with diabolical joy. The features of
Rantaine by the side of his at that moment would have shown like the innoce=
nt
expression of a new-born child.
What a deliverance was this plucking off of the
old mask. His conscience rejoiced in the sight of its own monstrous nakedne=
ss,
as it stepped forth to take its hideous bath of wickedness. The long restra=
int
of men's respect seemed to have given him a peculiar relish for infamy. He =
experienced
a certain lascivious enjoyment of wickedness. In those frightful moral abys=
ses
so rarely sounded, such natures find atrocious delights--they are the
obscenities of rascality. The long-endured insipidity of the false reputati=
on
for virtue gave him a sort of appetite for shame. In this state of mind men
disdain their fellows so much that they even long for the contempt which ma=
rks
the ending of their unmerited homage. They feel a satisfaction in the freed=
om
of degradation, and cast an eye of envy at baseness, sitting at its ease, c=
lothed
in ignominy and shame. Eyes that are forced to droop modestly are familiar =
with
these stealthy glances at sin. From Messalina to Marie-Alacoque the distanc=
e is
not great. Remember the histories of La Cadière and the nun of Louvi=
ers.
Clubin, too, had worn the veil. Effrontery had always been the object of his
secret admiration. He envied the painted courtesan, and the face of bronze =
of
the professional ruffian. He felt a pride in surpassing her in artifices, a=
nd a
disgust for the trick of passing for a saint. He had been the Tantalus of c=
ynicism.
And now, upon this rock, in the midst of this solitude, he could be frank a=
nd
open. A bold plunge into wickedness--what a voluptuous sense of relief it
brought with it. All the delights known to the fallen angels are summed up =
in
this; and Clubin felt them in that moment. The long arrears of dissimulatio=
ns
were paid at last. Hypocrisy is an investment; the devil reimburses it. Clu=
bin
gave himself up to the intoxication of the idea, having no longer any eye u=
pon
him but that of Heaven. He whispered within himself, "I am a
scoundrel," and felt profoundly satisfied.
Never had human conscience experienced such a =
full
tide of emotions.
He was glad to be entirely alone, and yet would
not have been sorry to have had some one there. He would have been pleased =
to
have had a witness of his fiendish joy; gratified to have had opportunity of
saying to society, "Thou fool."
The solitude, indeed, assured his triumph; but=
it
made it less.
He was not himself to be spectator of his glor=
y.
Even to be in the pillory has its satisfaction, for everybody can see your
infamy.
To compel the crowd to stand and gape is, in f=
act,
an exercise of power. A malefactor standing upon a platform in the
market-place, with the collar of iron around his neck, is master of all the
glances which he constrains the multitude to turn towards him. There is a
pedestal on yonder scaffolding. To be there--the centre of universal
observation--is not this, too, a triumph? To direct the pupil of the public
eye, is this not another form of supremacy? For those who worship an ideal =
wickedness,
opprobrium is glory. It is a height from whence they can look down; a
superiority at least of some kind; a pre-eminence in which they can display
themselves royally. A gallows standing high in the gaze of all the world is=
not
without some analogy with a throne. To be exposed is, at least, to be seen =
and
studied.
Herein we have evidently the key to the wicked
reigns of history. Nero burning Rome, Louis Quatorze treacherously seizing =
the
Palatinate, the Prince Regent killing Napoleon slowly, Nicholas strangling
Poland before the eyes of the civilised world, may have felt something akin=
to Clubin's
joy. Universal execration derives a grandeur even from its vastness.
To be unmasked is a humiliation; but to unmask
one's self is a triumph. There is an intoxication in the position, an insol=
ent
satisfaction in its contempt for appearances, a flaunting insolence in the
nakedness with which it affronts the decencies of life.
These ideas in a hypocrite appear to be
inconsistent, but in reality are not. All infamy is logical. Honey is gall.=
A
character like that of Escobar has some affinity with that of the Marquis de
Sade. In proof, we have Léotade. A hypocrite, being a personificatio=
n of
vice complete, includes in himself the two poles of perversity. Priest-like=
on
one side, he resembles the courtesan on the other. The sex of his diabolica=
l nature
is double. It engenders and transforms itself. Would you see it in its plea=
sing
shape? Look at it. Would you see it horrible? Turn it round.
All this multitude of ideas was floating
confusedly in Clubin's mind. He analysed them little, but he felt them much=
.
A whirlwind of flakes of fire borne up from the
pit of hell into the dark night, might fitly represent the wild succession =
of
ideas in his soul.
Clubin remained thus some time pensive and
motionless. He looked down upon his cast-off virtues as a serpent on its old
skin.
Everybody had had faith in that virtue; even he
himself a little.
He laughed again.
Society would imagine him dead, while he was r=
ich.
They would believe him drowned, while he was saved. What a capital trick to
have played off on the stupidity of the world.
Rantaine, too, was included in that universal
stupidity. Clubin thought of Rantaine with an unmeasured disdain: the disda=
in
of the marten for the tiger. The trick had failed with Rantaine; it had
succeeded with him.--Rantaine had slunk away abashed; Clubin disappeared in
triumph. He had substituted himself for Rantaine--stepped between him and h=
is mistress,
and carried off her favours.
As to the future, he had no well-settled plan.=
In
the iron tobacco-box in his girdle he had the three bank-notes. The knowled=
ge
of that fact was enough. He would change his name. There are plenty of
countries where sixty thousand francs are equal to six hundred thousand. It
would be no bad solution to go to one of those corners of the world, and li=
ve there
honestly on the money disgorged by that scoundrel Rantaine. To speculate, to
embark in commerce, to increase his capital, to become really a millionaire,
that, too, would be no bad termination to his career.
For example. The great trade in coffee from Co=
sta
Rica was just beginning to be developed. There were heaps of gold to be mad=
e.
He would see.
It was of little consequence. He had plenty of
time to think of it. The hardest part of the enterprise was accomplished.
Stripping Rantaine, and disappearing with the wreck of the Durande, were the
grand achievements. All the rest was for him simple. No obstacle henceforth=
was
likely to stop him. He had nothing more to fear. He could reach the shore w=
ith certainty
by swimming. He would land at Pleinmont in the darkness; ascend the cliffs;=
go
straight to the old haunted house; enter it easily by the help of the knott=
ed
cord, concealed beforehand in a crevice of the rocks; would find in the hou=
se
his travelling-bag containing provisions and dry clothing. There he could a=
wait
his opportunity. He had information. A week would not pass without the Span=
ish
smugglers, Blasquito probably, touching at Pleinmont. For a few guineas he
would obtain a passage, not to Torbay--as he had said to Blasco, to confoun=
d conjecture,
and put him off the scent--but to Bilbao or Passages. Thence he could get to
Vera Cruz or New Orleans. But the moment had come for taking to the water. =
The
long boat was far enough by this time. An hour's swimming was nothing for
Clubin. The distance of a mile only separated him from the land, as he was =
on
the Hanways.
At this point in Clubin's meditations, a clear=
opening
appeared in the fog bank, the formidable Douvres rocks stood before him.
=
Clubin,
haggard, stared straight ahead.
It was indeed those terrible and solitary rock=
s.
It was impossible to mistake their misshapen
outlines. The two twin Douvres reared their forms aloft, hideously revealing
the passage between them, like a snare, a cut-throat in ambush in the ocean=
.
They were quite close to him. The fog, like an
artful accomplice, had hidden them until now.
Clubin had mistaken his course in the dense mi=
st.
Notwithstanding all his pains, he had experienced the fate of two other gre=
at
navigators, Gonzalez who discovered Cape Blanco, and Fernandez, who discove=
red
Cape Verd. The fog had bewildered him. It had seemed to him, in the confide=
nce
of his seamanship, to favour admirably the execution of his project; but it=
had
its perils. In veering to westward he had lost his reckoning. The Guernsey =
man,
who fancied that he recognised the Hanways, had decided his fate, and deter=
mined
him to give the final turn to the tiller. Clubin had never doubted that he =
had
steered the vessel on the Hanways.
The Durande, stove in by one of the sunken roc=
ks
of the group, was only separated from the two Douvres by a few cables' leng=
ths.
At two hundred fathoms further was a massive b=
lock
of granite. Upon the steep sides of this rock were some hollows and small
projections, which might help a man to climb. The square corners of those r=
ude
walls at right angles indicated the existence of a plateau on the summit.
It was the height known by the name of "T=
he
Man."
"The Man Rock" rose even higher still
than the Douvres. Its platform commanded a view over their two inaccessible
peaks. This platform, crumbling at its edges, had every kind of irregularit=
y of
shape. No place more desolate or more dangerous could be imagined. The hard=
ly perceptible
waves of the open sea lapped gently against the square sides of that dark
enormous mass; a sort of rest-place for the vast spectres of the sea and
darkness.
All around was calm. Scarcely a breath of air =
or a
ripple. The mind guessed darkly the hidden life and vastness of the depths
beneath that quiet surface.
Clubin had often seen the Douvres from afar.
He satisfied himself that he was indeed there.=
He could not doubt it.
A sudden and hideous change of affairs. The
Douvres instead of the Hanways. Instead of one mile, five leagues of sea! T=
he
Douvres to the solitary shipwrecked sailor is the visible and palpable pres=
ence
of death, the extinction of all hope of reaching land.
Clubin shuddered. He had placed himself
voluntarily in the jaws of destruction. No other refuge was left to him than
"The Man Rock." It was probable that a tempest would arise in the
night, and that the long-boat, overloaded as she was, would sink. No news of
the shipwreck then would come to land. It would not even be known that Club=
in
had been left upon the Douvres. No prospect was now before him but death fr=
om cold
and hunger. His seventy-five thousand francs would not purchase him a mouth=
ful
of bread. All the scaffolding he had built up had brought him only to this
snare. He alone was the laborious architect of this crowning catastrophe. No
resource--no possible escape; his triumph transformed into a fatal precipic=
e.
Instead of deliverance, a prison; instead of the long prosperous future, ag=
ony.
In the glance of an eye, in the moment which the lightning occupies in pass=
ing,
all his construction had fallen into ruins. The paradise dreamed of by this=
demon
had changed to its true form of a sepulchre.
Meanwhile there had sprung up a movement in the
air. The wind was rising. The fog, shaken, driven in, and rent asunder, mov=
ed
towards the horizon in vast shapeless masses. As quickly as it had disappea=
red before,
the sea became once more visible.
The cattle, more and more invaded by the water=
s,
continued to bellow in the hold.
Night was approaching, probably bringing with =
it a
storm.
The Durande, filling slowly with the rising ti=
de,
swung from right to left, then from left to right, and began to turn upon t=
he
rock as upon a pivot.
The moment could be foreseen when a wave must =
move
her from her fixed position, and probably roll her over on her beam-ends.
It was not even so dark as at the instant of h=
er
striking the rocks. Though the day was more advanced, it was possible to see
more clearly. The fog had carried away with it some part of the darkness. T=
he
west was without a cloud. Twilight brings a pale sky. Its vast reflection g=
limmered
on the sea.
The Durande's bows were lower than her stern. =
Her
stern was, in fact, almost out of the water. Clubin mounted on the taffrail,
and fixed his eyes on the horizon.
It is the nature of hypocrisy to be sanguine. =
The
hypocrite is one who waits his opportunity. Hypocrisy is nothing, in fact, =
but
a horrible hopefulness; the very foundation of its revolting falsehood is
composed of that virtue transformed into a vice.
Strange contradiction. There is a certain
trustfulness in hypocrisy. The hypocrite confides in some power, unrevealed
even to himself, which permits the course of evil.
Clubin looked far and wide over the ocean.
The position was desperate, but that evil spir=
it
did not yet despair.
He knew that after the fog, vessels that had b=
een
lying-to or riding at anchor would resume their course; and he thought that
perhaps one would pass within the horizon.
And, as he had anticipated, a sail appeared.
She was coming from the east and steering towa=
rds
the west.
As it approached the cut of the vessel became
visible. It had but one mast, and was schooner-rigged. Her bowsprit was alm=
ost
horizontal. It was a cutter.
Before a half-hour she must pass not very far =
from
the Douvres.
Clubin said within himself, "I am
saved!"
In a moment like this, a man thinks at first of
nothing but his life.
The cutter was probably a strange craft. Might=
it
not be one of the smuggling vessels on its way to Pleinmont? It might even =
be
Blasquito himself. In that case, not only life, but fortune, would be saved;
and the accident of the Douvres, by hastening the conclusion, by dispensing=
with
the necessity for concealment in the haunted house, and by bringing the
adventure to a dénouement at sea, would be turned into a happy incid=
ent.
All his original confidence of success returned
fanatically to his sombre mind.
It is remarkable how easily knaves are persuad=
ed
that they deserve to succeed.
There was but one course to take.
The Durande, entangled among the rocks,
necessarily mingled her outline with them, and confounded herself with their
irregular shapes, among which she formed only one more mass of lines. Thus
become indistinct and lost, she would not suffice, in the little light which
remained, to attract the attention of the crew of the vessel which was
approaching.
But a human form standing up, black against the
pale twilight of the sky, upon "the Man Rock," and making signs of
distress, would doubtless be perceived, and the cutter would then send a bo=
at
to take the shipwrecked man aboard.
"The Man" was only two hundred fatho=
ms
off. To reach it by swimming was simple, to climb it easy.
There was not a minute to lose.
The bows of the Durande being low between the
rocks, it was from the height of the poop where Clubin stood that he had to
jump into the sea. He began by taking a sounding, and discovered that there=
was
great depth just under the stern of the wrecked vessel. The microscopic she=
lls
of foraminifera which the adhesive matter on the lead-line brought up were =
intact,
indicating the presence of very hollow caves under the rocks, in which the
water was tranquil, however great the agitation of the surface.
He undressed, leaving his clothing on the deck=
. He
knew that he would be able to get clothing when aboard the cutter.
He retained nothing but his leather belt.
As soon as he was stripped he placed his hand =
upon
this belt, buckled it more securely, felt for the iron tobacco-box, took a
rapid survey in the direction which he would have to follow among the break=
ers
and the waves to gain "the Man Rock;" then precipitating himself =
head
first, he plunged into the sea.
As he dived from a height, he plunged heavily.=
He sank deep in the water, touched the bottom,
skirted for a moment the submarine rocks, then struck out to regain the
surface.
At that moment he felt himself seized by one f=
oot.
=
A few
moments after his short colloquy with Sieur Landoys, Gilliatt was at St.
Sampson.
He was troubled, even anxious. What could it be
that had happened.
There was a murmur in St. Sampson like that of=
a
startled hive. Everybody was at his door. The women were talking loud. There
were people who seemed relating some occurrence and who were gesticulating.=
A group
had gathered around them. The words could be heard, "What a misfortune=
!"
Some faces wore a smile.
Gilliatt interrogated no one. It was not in his
nature to ask questions. He was, moreover, too much moved to speak to
strangers. He had no confidence in rumours. He preferred to go direct to the
Bravées.
His anxiety was so great that he was not even
deterred from entering the house.
The door of the great lower room opening upon =
the
Quay, moreover, stood quite open. There was a swarm of men and women on the
threshold. Everybody was going in, and Gilliatt went with the rest.
Entering he found Sieur Landoys standing near =
the
doorposts.
"You have heard, no doubt, of this
event?"
"No."
"I did not like to call it out to you on =
the
road. It makes me like a bird of evil omen."
"What has happened?"
"The Durande is lost."
There was a crowd in the great room.
The various groups spoke low, like people in a
sick chamber.
The assemblage, which consisted of neighbours,=
the
first comers, curious to learn the news, huddled together near the door wit=
h a
sort of timidity, leaving clear the bottom of the room, where appeared D&ea=
cute;ruchette
sitting and in tears. Mess Lethierry stood beside her.
His back was against the wall at the end of the room. His sailor's cap came down over his eyebrows. A lock of grey hair hung upon his cheek. He said nothing. His arms were motionless; he seemed scarce= ly to breathe. He had the look of something lifeless placed against the wall.<= o:p>
It was easy to see in his aspect a man whose l=
ife
had been crushed within him. The Durande being gone, Lethierry had no longer
any object in his existence. He had had a being on the sea; that being had
suddenly foundered. What could he do now? Rise every morning: go to sleep e=
very
night. Never more to await the coming of the Durande; to see her get under =
way,
or steer again into the port. What was a remainder of existence without obj=
ect?
To drink, to eat, and then?--He had crowned the labours of his life by a
masterpiece: won by his devotion a new step in civilisation. The step was l=
ost;
the masterpiece destroyed. To live a few vacant years longer! where would be
the good? Henceforth nothing was left for him to do. At his age men do not
begin life anew. Besides, he was ruined. Poor old man!
Déruchette, sitting near him on a chair=
and
weeping, held one of Mess Lethierry's hands in hers. Her hands were joined:=
his
hand was clenched fast. It was the sign of the shade of difference in their=
two
sorrows. In joined hands there is still some token of hope, in the clenched
fist none.
Mess Lethierry gave up his arm to her, and let=
her
do with it what she pleased. He was passive. Struck down by a thunderbolt, =
he
had scarcely a spark of life left within him.
There is a degree of overwhelmment which abstr=
acts
the mind entirely from its fellowship with man. The forms which come and go
within your room become confused and indistinct. They pass by, even touch y=
ou,
but never really come near you. You are far away; inaccessible to them, as =
they
to you. The intensities of joy and despair differ in this. In despair, we t=
ake
cognisance of the world only as something dim and afar off: we are insensib=
le
to the things before our eyes; we lose the feeling of our own existence. It=
is
in vain, at such times, that we are flesh and blood; our consciousness of l=
ife
is none the more real: we are become, even to ourselves, nothing but a drea=
m.
Mess Lethierry's gaze indicated that he had
reached this state of absorption.
The various groups were whispering together. T=
hey
exchanged information as far as they had gathered it. This was the substanc=
e of
their news.
The Durande had been wrecked the day before in=
the
fog on the Douvres, about an hour before sunset. With the exception of the
captain, who refused to leave his vessel, the crew and passengers had all
escaped in the long-boat. A squall from the south-west springing up as the =
fog
had cleared, had almost wrecked them a second time, and had carried them ou=
t to
sea beyond Guernsey. In the night they had had the good fortune to meet with
the Cashmere, which had taken them aboard and landed them at St. Peter's Po=
rt.
The disaster was entirely the fault of the steersman Tangrouille, who was in
prison. Clubin had behaved nobly.
The pilots, who had mustered in great force,
pronounced the words "The Douvres" with a peculiar emphasis. &quo=
t;A
dreary half-way house that," said one.
A compass and a bundle of registers and
memorandum-books lay on the table; they were doubtless the compass of the
Durande and the ship's papers, handed by Clubin to Imbrancam and Tangrouill=
e at
the moment of the departure of the long-boat. They were the evidences of th=
e magnificent
self-abnegation of that man who had busied himself with saving these docume=
nts
even in the presence of death itself--a little incident full of moral grand=
eur;
an instance of sublime self-forgetfulness never to be forgotten.
They were unanimous in their admiration of Clu=
bin;
unanimous also in believing him to be saved after all. The Shealtiel cutter=
had
arrived some hours after the Cashmere. It was this vessel which had brought=
the
last items of intelligence. She had passed four-and-twenty hours in the same
waters as the Durande. She had lain-to in the fog, and tacked about during =
the
squall. The captain of the Shealtiel was present among the company.
This captain had just finished his narrative to
Lethierry as Gilliatt entered. The narrative was a true one. Towards the
morning, the storm having abated, and the wind becoming manageable, the cap=
tain
of the Shealtiel had heard the lowing of oxen in the open sea. This rural s=
ound
in the midst of the waves had naturally startled him. He steered in that
direction, and perceived the Durande among the Douvres. The sea had
sufficiently subsided for him to approach. He hailed the wreck; the bellowi=
ng
of the cattle was the sole reply. The captain of the Shealtiel was confident
that there was no one aboard the Durande. The wreck still held together wel=
l,
and notwithstanding the violence of the squall, Clubin could have passed the
night there. He was not the man to leave go his hold very easily. He was not
there, however; and therefore he must have been rescued. It was certain that
several sloops and luggers, from Granville and St. Malo, must, after laying=
-to
in the fog on the previous evening, have passed pretty near the rocks. It w=
as evident
that one of these had taken Clubin aboard. It was to be remembered that the
long-boat of the Durande was full when it left the unlucky vessel; that it =
was
certain to encounter great risks; that another man aboard would have overlo=
aded
her, and perhaps caused her to founder; and that these circumstances had no=
doubt
weighed with Clubin in coming to his determination to remain on the wreck. =
His
duty, however, once fulfilled, and a vessel at hand, Clubin assuredly would=
not
have scrupled to avail himself of its aid. A hero is not necessarily an idi=
ot.
The idea of a suicide was absurd in connection with a man of Clubin's
irreproachable character. The culprit, too, was Tangrouille, not Clubin. All
this was conclusive. The captain of the Shealtiel was evidently right, and
everybody expected to see Clubin reappear very shortly. There was a project
abroad to carry him through the town in triumph.
Two things appeared certain from the narrative=
of
the captain: Clubin was saved, the Durande lost.
As regarded the Durande, there was nothing for=
it
but to accept the fact; the catastrophe was irremediable. The captain of the
Shealtiel had witnessed the last moments of the wreck. The sharp rock on wh=
ich
the vessel had been, as it were, nailed, had held her fast during the night=
, and
resisted the shock of the tempest as if reluctant to part with its prey; bu=
t in
the morning, at the moment when the captain of the Shealtiel had convinced
himself that there was no one aboard to be saved, and was about to wear off
again, one of those seas which are like the last angry blows of a tempest h=
ad
struck her. The wave lifted her violently from her place, and with the
swiftness and directness of an arrow from a bow had thrown her against the =
two
Douvres rocks. "An infernal crash was heard," said the captain. T=
he
vessel, lifted by the wave to a certain height, had plunged between the two
rocks up to her midship frame. She had stuck fast again; but more firmly th=
an
on the submarine rocks. She must have remained there suspended, and exposed=
to every
wind and sea.
The Durande, according to the statements of the
crew of the Shealtiel, was already three parts broken up. She would evident=
ly
have foundered during the night, if the rocks had not kept her up. The capt=
ain
of the Shealtiel had watched her a long time with his spyglass. He gave, wi=
th naval
precision, the details of her disaster. The starboard quarter beaten in, the
masts maimed, the sails blown from the bolt-ropes, the shrouds torn away, t=
he
cabin sky-lights smashed by the falling of one of the booms, the dome of the
cuddy-house beaten in, the chocks of the long-boat struck away, the round-h=
ouse
overturned, the hinges of the rudder broken, the trusses wrenched away, the
quarter-cloths demolished, the bits gone, the cross-beam destroyed, the
shear-rails knocked off, the stern-post broken. As to the parts of the cargo
made fast before the foremast, all destroyed, made a clean sweep of, gone to
ten thousand shivers, with top ropes, iron pulleys, and chains. The Durande=
had
broken her back; the sea now must break her up piecemeal. In a few days the=
re
would be nothing of her remaining.
It appeared that the engine was scarcely injur=
ed
by all these ravages--a remarkable fact, and one which proved its excellenc=
e.
The captain of the Shealtiel thought he could affirm that the crank had
received no serious injury. The vessel's masts had given way, but the funnel
had resisted everything. Only the iron guards of the captain's gangway were=
twisted;
the paddle boxes had suffered, the frames were bruised, but the paddles had=
not
a float missing. The machinery was intact. Such was the conviction of the
captain of the Shealtiel. Imbrancam, the engineer, who was among the crowd,=
had
the same conviction. The negro, more intelligent than many of his white
companions, was proud of his engines. He lifted up his arms, opening the ten
fingers of his black hands, and said to Lethierry, as he sat there silent,
"Master, the machinery is alive still!"
The safety of Clubin seeming certain, and the =
hull
of the Durande being already sacrificed, the engines became the topic of
conversation among the crowd. They took an interest in it as in a living th=
ing.
They felt a delight in praising its good qualities. "That's what I cal=
l a
well-built machine," said a French sailor. "Something like a good
one," cried a Guernsey fisherman. "She must have some good stuff =
in
her," said the captain of the Shealtiel, "to come out of that aff=
air
with only a few scratches."
By degrees the machinery of the Durande became=
the
absorbing object of their thoughts. Opinions were warm for and against. It =
had
its enemies and its friends. More than one who possessed a good old sailing
cutter, and who hoped to get a share of the business of the Durande, was no=
t sorry
to find that the Douvres rock had disposed of the new invention. The whispe=
ring
became louder. The discussion grew noisy, though the hubbub was evidently a
little restrained; and now and then there was a simultaneous lowering of vo=
ices
out of respect to Lethierry's death-like silence.
The result of the colloquy, so obstinately
maintained on all sides, was as follows:--
The engines were the vital part of the vessel.=
To
rescue the Durande was impossible; but the machinery might still be saved.
These engines were unique. To construct others similar, the money was wanti=
ng;
but to find the artificer would have been still more difficult. It was
remembered that the constructor of the machinery was dead. It had cost fort=
y thousand
francs. No one would risk again such a sum upon such a chance: particularly=
as
it was now discovered that steamboats could be lost like other vessels. The
accident of the Durande destroyed the prestige of all her previous success.
Still, it was deplorable to think that at that very moment this valuable
mechanism was still entire and in good condition, and that in five or six d=
ays
it would probably go to pieces, like the vessel herself. As long as this
existed, it might almost be said that there was no shipwreck. The loss of t=
he
engines was alone irreparable. To save the machinery would be almost to rep=
air
the disaster.
Save the machinery! It was easy to talk of it;=
but
who would undertake to do it? Was it possible, even? To scheme and to execu=
te
are two different things; as different as to dream and to do. Now if ever a=
dream
had appeared wild and impracticable, it was that of saving the engines then
embedded between the Douvres. The idea of sending a ship and a crew to work
upon those rocks was absurd. It could not be thought of. It was the season =
of
heavy seas. In the first gale the chains of the anchors would be worn away =
and
snapped upon the submarine peaks, and the vessel must be shattered on the
rocks. That would be to send a second shipwreck to the relief of the first.=
On
the miserable narrow height where the legend of the place described the
shipwrecked sailor as having perished of hunger, there was scarcely room for
one person. To save the engines, therefore, it would be necessary for a man=
to
go to the Douvres, to be alone in that sea, alone in that desert, alone at =
five
leagues from the coast, alone in that region of terrors, alone for entire
weeks, alone in the presence of dangers foreseen and unforeseen--without
supplies in the face of hunger and nakedness, without succour in the time of
distress, without token of human life around him save the bleached bones of=
the
miserable being who had perished there in his misery, without companionship
save that of death. And besides, how was it possible to extricate the
machinery? It would require not only a sailor, but an engineer; and for what
trials must he not prepare. The man who would attempt such a task must be m=
ore
than a hero. He must be a madman: for in certain enterprises, in which supe=
rhuman
power appears necessary, there is a sort of madness which is more potent th=
an
courage. And after all, would it not be a folly to immolate oneself for a m=
ass
of rusted iron. No: it was certain that nobody would undertake to go to the
Douvres on such an errand. The engine must be abandoned like the rest. The
engineer for such a task would assuredly not be forthcoming. Where, indeed,
should they look for such a man?
All this, or similar observations, formed the
substance of the confused conversations of the crowd.
The captain of the Shealtiel, who had been a
pilot, summed up the views of all by exclaiming aloud:--
"No; it is all over. The man does not exi=
st
who could go there and rescue the machinery of the Durande."
"If I don't go," said Imbrancam,
"it is because nobody could do it."
The captain of the Shealtiel shook his left ha=
nd
in the air with that sudden movement which expresses a conviction that a th=
ing
is impossible.
"If he existed--" continued the capt=
ain.
Déruchette turned her head impulsively,=
and
interrupted.
"I would marry him," she said,
innocently.
There was a pause.
A man made his way out of the crowd, and stand=
ing before
her, pale and anxious, said:
"You would marry him, Miss
Déruchette?"
It was Gilliatt.
All eyes were turned towards him. Mess Lethier=
ry
had just before stood upright, and gazed about him. His eyes glittered with=
a
strange light.
He took off his sailor's cap, and threw it on =
the
ground: then looked solemnly before him, and without seeing any of the pers=
ons
present, said:
"Déruchette should be his. I pledge
myself to it in God's name."
=
The
full moon rose at ten o'clock on the following night; but however fine the
night, however favourable the wind and sea, no fisherman thought of going o=
ut
that evening either from Hogue la Perre, or Bourdeaux harbour, or Houmet Be=
net,
or Platon, or Port Grat, or Vazon Bay, or Perrelle Bay, or Pezeries, or the
Tielles or Saints' Bay, or Little Bo, or any other port or little harbour in
Guernsey; and the reason was very simple. A cock had been heard to crow at
noonday.
When the cock is heard to crow at an extraordi=
nary
hour, fishing is suspended.
At dusk on that evening, however, a fisherman
returning to Omptolle, met with a remarkable adventure. On the height above
Houmet Paradis, beyond the Two Brayes and the Two Grunes, stands to the left
the beacon of the Plattes Tougères, representing a tub reversed; and=
to
the right, the beacon of St. Sampson, representing the face of a man. Betwe=
en
these two, the fisherman thought that he perceived for the first time a thi=
rd beacon.
What could be the meaning of this beacon? When had it been erected on that
point? What shoal did it indicate? The beacon responded immediately to these
interrogations. It moved, it was a mast. The astonishment of the fisherman =
did
not diminish. A beacon would have been remarkable; a mast was still more so=
: it
could not be a fishing-boat. When everybody else was returning, some boat w=
as
going out. Who could it be? and what was he about?
Ten minutes later the vessel, moving slowly, c=
ame
within a short distance of the Omptolle fisherman. He did not recognise it.=
He
heard the sound of rowing: there were evidently only two oars. There was pr=
obably,
then, only one man aboard. The wind was northerly. The man, therefore, was
evidently paddling along in order to take the wind off Point Fontenelle. Th=
ere
he would probably take to his sails. He intended then to double the Ancresse
and Mount Crevel. What could that mean?
The vessel passed, the fisherman returned home=
. On
that same night, at different hours, and at different points, various perso=
ns
scattered and isolated on the western coast of Guernsey, observed certain
facts.
As the Omptolle fisherman was mooring his bark=
, a
carter of seaweed about half-a-mile off, whipping his horses along the lone=
ly
road from the Clôtures near the Druid stones, and in the neighbourhoo=
d of
the Martello Towers 6 and 7, saw far off at sea, in a part little frequente=
d,
because it requires much knowledge of the waters, and in the direction of N=
orth
Rock and the Jablonneuse, a sail being hoisted. He paid little attention to=
the
circumstance, not being a seaman, but a carter of seaweed.
Half-an-hour had perhaps elapsed since the car=
ter
had perceived this vessel, when a plasterer returning from his work in the
town, and passing round Pelée Pool, found himself suddenly opposite a
vessel sailing boldly among the rocks of the Quenon, the Rousse de Mer, and=
the
Gripe de Rousse. The night was dark, but the sky was light over the sea, an
effect common enough; and he could distinguish a great distance in every
direction. There was no sail visible except this vessel.
A little lower, a gatherer of crayfish, prepar=
ing
his fish wells on the beach which separates Port Soif from the Port Enfer, =
was
puzzled to make out the movements of a vessel between the Boue Corneille and
the Moubrette. The man must have been a good pilot, and in great haste to r=
each
some destination to risk his boat there.
Just as eight o'clock was striking at the Cate=
l,
the tavern-keeper at Cobo Bay observed with astonishment a sail out beyond =
the
Boue du Jardin and the Grunettes, and very near the Susanne and the Western
Grunes.
Not far from Cobo Bay, upon the solitary point= of the Houmet of Vason Bay, two lovers were lingering, hesitating before they parted for the night. The young woman addressed the young man with the word= s, "I am not going because I don't care to stay with you: I've a great de= al to do." Their farewell kiss was interrupted by a good sized sailing bo= at which passed very near them, making for the direction of the Messellettes.<= o:p>
Monsieur le Peyre des Norgiots, an inhabitant =
of
Cotillon Pipet, was engaged about nine o'clock in the evening in examining a
hole made by some trespassers in the hedge of his property called La
Jennerotte, and his "friquet planted with trees." Even while
ascertaining the amount of the damage, he could not help observing a
fishing-boat audaciously making its way round the Crocq Point at that hour =
of
night.
On the morrow of a tempest, when there is alwa=
ys
some agitation upon the sea, that route was extremely unsafe. It was rash to
choose it, at least, unless the steersman knew all the channels by heart.
At half-past nine o'clock, at L'Equerrier, a
trawler carrying home his net stopped for a time to observe between Colombe=
lle
and the Soufleresse something which looked like a boat. The boat was in a
dangerous position. Sudden gusts of wind of a very dangerous kind are very
common in that spot. The Soufleresse, or Blower, derives its name from the =
sudden
gusts of wind which it seems to direct upon the vessels, which by rare chan=
ce
find their way thither.
At the moment when the moon was rising, the ti=
de
being high and the sea being quiet, in the little strait of Li-Hou, the
solitary keeper of the island of Li-Hou was considerably startled. A long b=
lack
object slowly passed between the moon and him. This dark form, high and nar=
row,
resembled a winding-sheet spread out and moving. It glided along the line of
the top of the wall formed by the ridges of rock. The keeper of Li-Hou fanc=
ied
that he had beheld the Black Lady.
The White Lady inhabits the Tau de Pez d'Amont;
the Grey Lady, the Tau de Pez d'Aval; the Red Lady, the Silleuse, to the no=
rth
of the Marquis Bank; and the Black Lady, the Grand Etacré, to the we=
st
of Li-Houmet. At night, when the moon shines, these ladies stalk abroad, and
sometimes meet.
That dark form might undoubtedly be a sail. The
long groups of rocks on which she appeared to be walking, might in fact be
concealing the hull of a bark navigating behind them, and allowing only her
sail to be seen. But the keeper asked himself, what bark would dare, at that
hour, to venture herself between Li-Hou and the Pécheresses, and the
Anguillières and Lérée Point? And what object could she
have? It seemed to him much more probable that it was the Black Lady.
As the moon was passing the clock-tower of St.
Peter in the Wood, the serjeant at Castle Rocquaine, while in the act of
raising the drawbridge of the castle, distinguished at the end of the bay
beyond the Haute Canée, but nearer than the Sambule, a sailing-vessel
which seemed to be steadily dropping down from north to south.
On the southern coast of Guernsey behind
Pleinmont, in the curve of a bay composed entirely of precipices and rocky
walls rising peak-shaped from the sea, there is a singular landing-place, to
which a French gentleman, a resident of the island since 1855, has given the
name of "The Port on the Fourth Floor," a name now generally adop=
ted.
This port, or landing-place, which was then called the Moie, is a rocky pla=
teau
half-formed by nature, half by art, raised about forty feet above the level=
of
the waves, and communicating with the water by two large beams laid paralle=
l in
the form of an inclined plane. The fishing-vessels are hoisted up there by
chains and pulleys from the sea, and are let down again in the same way alo=
ng
these beams, which are like two rails. For the fishermen there is a ladder.=
The
port was, at the time of our story, much frequented by the smugglers. Being
difficult of access, it was well suited to their purposes.
Towards eleven o'clock, some smugglers--perhaps
the same upon whose aid Clubin had counted--stood with their bales of goods=
on
the summit of this platform of the Moie. A smuggler is necessarily a man on=
the
look out, it is part of his business to watch. They were astonished to perc=
eive
a sail suddenly make its appearance beyond the dusky outline of Cape Pleinm=
ont.
It was moonlight. The smugglers observed the sail narrowly, suspecting that=
it
might be some coast-guard cutter about to lie in ambush behind the Great
Hanway. But the sail left the Hanways behind, passed to the north-west of t=
he
Boue Blondel, and was lost in the pale mists of the horizon out at sea.
"Where the devil can that boat be
sailing?" asked the smuggler.
That same evening, a little after sunset, some=
one
had been heard knocking at the door of the old house of the Bû de la =
Rue.
It was a boy wearing brown clothes and yellow stockings, a fact that indica=
ted
that he was a little parish clerk. An old fisherwoman prowling about the sh=
ore
with a lantern in her hand, had called to the boy, and this dialogue ensued
between the fisherwoman and the little clerk, before the entrance to the
Bû de la Rue:--
"What d'ye want, lad?"
"The man of this place."
"He's not there."
"Where is he?"
"I don't know."
"Will he be there to-morrow?"
"I don't know."
"Is he gone away?"
"I don't know."
"I've come, good woman, from the new rect=
or
of the parish, the Reverend Ebenezer Caudray, who desires to pay him a
visit."
"I don't know where he is."
"The rector sent me to ask if the man who
lives at the Bû de la Rue would be at home to-morrow morning."
"I don't know."
=
During
the twenty-four hours which followed, Mess Lethierry slept not, ate nothing,
drank nothing. He kissed Déruchette on the forehead, asked after Clu=
bin,
of whom there was as yet no news, signed a declaration certifying that he h=
ad
no intention of preferring a charge against anyone, and set Tangrouille at
liberty.
All the morning of the next day he remained ha=
lf
supporting himself on the table of the office of the Durande, neither stand=
ing
nor sitting: answering kindly when anyone spoke to him. Curiosity being
satisfied, the Bravées had become a solitude. There is a good deal of
curiosity generally mingled with the haste of condolences. The door had clo=
sed again,
and left the old man again alone with Déruchette. The strange light =
that
had shone in Lethierry's eyes was extinguished. The mournful look which fil=
led
them after the first news of the disaster had returned.
Déruchette, anxious for his sake, had, = on the advice of Grace and Douce, laid silently beside him a pair of stockings, which he had been knitting, sailor fashion, when the bad news had arrived.<= o:p>
He smiled bitterly, and said:
"They must think me foolish."
After a quarter of an hour's silence, he added=
:
"These things are well when you are
happy."
Déruchette carried away the stockings, =
and
took advantage of the opportunity to remove also the compass and the ship's
papers which Lethierry had been brooding over too long.
In the afternoon, a little before tea-time, the
door opened and two strangers entered, attired in black. One was old, the o=
ther
young.
The young one has, perhaps, already been obser=
ved
in the course of this story.
The two men had each a grave air; but their
gravity appeared different. The old man possessed what might be called state
gravity; the gravity of the young man was in his nature. Habit engenders the
one; thought the other.
They were, as their costume indicated, two
clergymen, each belonging to the Established Church.
The first fact in the appearance of the younger
man which might have first struck the observer was, that his gravity, though
conspicuous in the expression of his features, and evidently springing from=
the
mind, was not indicated by his person. Gravity is not inconsistent with pas=
sion,
which it exalts by purifying it; but the idea of gravity could with difficu=
lty
be associated with an exterior remarkable above all for personal beauty. Be=
ing
in holy orders, he must have been at least four-and-twenty, but he seemed
scarcely more than eighteen. He possessed those gifts at once in harmony wi=
th,
and in opposition to, each other. A soul which seemed created for exalted
passion, and a body created for love. He was fair, rosy-fresh, slim, and
elegant in his severe attire, and he had the cheeks of a young girl, and
delicate hands. His movements were natural and lively, though subdued.
Everything about him was pleasing, elegant, almost voluptuous. The beauty of
his expression served to correct this excess of personal attraction. His op=
en
smile, which showed his teeth, regular and white as those of a child, had s=
omething
in it pensive, even devotional. He had the gracefulness of a page, mingled =
with
the dignity of a bishop.
His fair hair, so fair and golden as to be alm=
ost
effeminate, clustered over his white forehead, which was high and well-form=
ed.
A slight double line between the eyebrows awakened associations with studio=
us
thought.
Those who saw him felt themselves in the prese=
nce
of one of those natures, benevolent, innocent, and pure, whose progress is =
in
inverse sense with that of vulgar minds; natures whom illusion renders wise,
and whom experience makes enthusiasts.
His older companion was no other than Doctor
Jaquemin Hérode. Doctor Jaquemin Hérode belonged to the High
Church; a party whose system is a sort of popery without a pope. The Church=
of
England was at that epoch labouring with the tendencies which have since be=
come
strengthened and condensed in the form of Puseyism. Doctor Jaquemin
Hérode belonged to that shade of Anglicanism which is almost a varie=
ty
of the Church of Rome. He was haughty, precise, stiff, and commanding. His
inner sight scarcely penetrated outwardly. He possessed the letter in the p=
lace
of the spirit. His manner was arrogant; his presence imposing. He had less =
the
appearance of a "Reverend" than of a Monsignore. His frock-coat w=
as
cut somewhat in the fashion of a cassock. His true centre would have been R=
ome.
He was a born Prelate of the Antechamber. He seemed to have been created
expressly to fill a part in the Papal Court, to walk behind the Pontifical
litter, with all the Court of Rome in abitto paonazzo. The accident of his
English birth and his theological education, directed more towards the Old =
than
the New Testament, had deprived him of that destiny. All his splendours were
comprised in his preferments as Rector of St. Peter's Port, Dean of the Isl=
and
of Guernsey, and Surrogate of the Bishop of Winchester. These were,
undoubtedly, not without their glories. These glories did not prevent M.
Jaquemin Hérode being, on the whole, a worthy man.
As a theologian he was esteemed by those who w=
ere
able to judge of such matters; he was almost an authority in the Court of
Arches--that Sorbonne of England.
He had the true air of erudition; a learned
contraction of the eyes; bristling nostrils; teeth which showed themselves =
at
all times; a thin upper lip and a thick lower one. He was the possessor of
several learned degrees, a valuable prebend, titled friends, the confidence=
of
the bishop, and a Bible, which he carried always in his pocket.
Mess Lethierry was so completely absorbed that=
the
entrance of the two priests produced no effect upon him, save a slight move=
ment
of the eyebrows.
M. Jaquemin Hérode advanced, bowed, all=
uded
in a few sober and dignified words to his recent promotion, and mentioned t=
hat
he came according to custom to introduce among the inhabitants, and to Mess
Lethierry in particular, his successor in the parish, the new Rector of St.
Sampson, the Rev. Ebenezer Caudray, henceforth the pastor of Mess Lethierry=
.
Déruchette rose.
The young clergyman, who was the Rev. Ebenezer,
saluted her.
Mess Lethierry regarded Monsieur Ebenezer Caud=
ray,
and muttered, "A bad sailor."
Grace placed chairs. The two visitors seated t=
hemselves
near the table.
Doctor Hérode commenced a discourse. It=
had
reached his ears that a serious misfortune had befallen his host. The Duran=
de
had been lost. He came as Lethierry's pastor to offer condolence and advice.
This shipwreck was unfortunate, and yet not without compensations. Let us e=
xamine
our own hearts. Are we not puffed up with prosperity? The waters of felicity
are dangerous. Troubles must be submitted to cheerfully. The ways of Provid=
ence
are mysterious. Mess Lethierry was ruined, perhaps. But riches were a dange=
r.
You may have false friends; poverty will disperse them, and leave you alone.
The Durande was reported to have brought a revenue of one thousand pounds
sterling per annum. It was more than enough for the wise. Let us fly from t=
emptations;
put not our faith in gold; bow the head to losses and neglect. Isolation is
full of good fruits. It was in solitude that Ajah discovered the warm sprin=
gs
while leading the asses of his father Zibeon. Let us not rebel against the =
inscrutable
decrees of Providence. The holy man Job, after his misery, had put faith in
riches. Who can say that the loss of the Durande may not have its advantages
even of a temporal kind. He, for instance, Doctor Jaquemin Hérode had
invested some money in an excellent enterprise, now in progress at Sheffiel=
d.
If Mess Lethierry, with the wealth which might still remain to him, should
choose to embark in the same affair, he might transfer his capital to that
town. It was an extensive manufactory of arms for the supply of the Czar, n=
ow
engaged in repressing insurrection in Poland. There was a good prospect of =
obtaining
three hundred per cent. profit.
The word Czar appeared to awaken Lethierry. He
interrupted Dr. Hérode.
"I want nothing to do with the Czar."=
;
The Reverend Jaquemin Hérode replied:
"Mess Lethierry, princes are recognised by
God. It is written, 'Render unto Cæsar the things which are
Cæsar's.' The Czar is Cæsar."
Lethierry partly relapsed into his dream and
muttered:
"Cæsar? who is Cæsar? I don't
know."
The Rev. Jaquemin Hérode continued his
exhortations. He did not press the question of Sheffield.
To contemn a Cæsar was republicanism. He
could understand a man being a republican. In that case he could turn his
thoughts towards a republic. Mess Lethierry might repair his fortune in the
United States, even better than in England. If he desired to invest what
remained to him at great profit, he had only to take shares in the great
company for developing the resources of Texas, which employed more than twe=
nty thousand
negroes.
"I want nothing to do with slavery,"
said Lethierry.
"Slavery," replied the Reverend
Hérode, "is an institution recognised by Scripture. It is writt=
en,
'If a man smite his slave, he shall not be punished, for he is his
money.'"
Grace and Douce at the door of the room listen=
ed
in a sort of ecstacy to the words of the Reverend Doctor.
The doctor continued. He was, all things
considered, as we have said, a worthy man; and whatever his differences,
personal or connected with caste, with Mess Lethierry, he had come very
sincerely to offer him that spiritual and even temporal aid which he, Doctor
Jaquemin Hérode, dispensed.
If Mess Lethierry's fortune had been diminishe=
d to
that point that he was unable to take a beneficial part in any speculation,
Russian or American, why should he not obtain some government appointment
suited to him? There were many very respectable places open to him, and the=
reverend
gentleman was ready to recommend him. The office of Deputy-Vicomte was just
vacant. Mess Lethierry was popular and respected, and the Reverend Jaquemin
Hérode, Dean of Guernsey and Surrogate of the Bishop, would make an
effort to obtain for Mess Lethierry this post. The Deputy-Vicomte is an
important officer. He is present as the representative of His Majesty at the
holding of the Sessions, at the debates of the Cohue, and at executions of
justice.
Lethierry fixed his eye upon Doctor Hér=
ode.
"I don't like hanging," he said.
Doctor Hérode, who, up to this point, h=
ad
pronounced his words with the same intonation, had now a fit of severity; h=
is
tone became slightly changed.
"Mess Lethierry, the pain of death is of
divine ordination. God has placed the sword in the hands of governors. It is
written, 'An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.'"
The Reverend Ebenezer imperceptibly drew his c=
hair
nearer to the Reverend Doctor and said, so as to be heard only by him:
"What this man says, is dictated to
him."
"By whom? By what?" demanded the
Reverend Jaquemin Hérode, in the same tone.
The young man replied in a whisper, "By h=
is
conscience."
The Reverend Jaquemin Hérode felt in his
pocket, drew out a thick little bound volume with clasps, and said aloud:
"Conscience is here."
The book was a Bible.
Then Doctor Hérode's tone became softer.
"His wish was to render a service to Mess Lethierry, whom he respected
much. As his pastor, it was his right and duty to offer counsel. Mess
Lethierry, however, was free."
Mess Lethierry, plunged once more in his
overwhelming absorption, no longer listened. Déruchette, seated near
him, and thoughtful, also did not raise her eyes, and by her silent presence
somewhat increased the embarrassment of a conversation not very animated. A
witness who says nothing is a species of indefinable weight. Doctor
Hérode, however, did not appear to feel it.
Lethierry no longer replying, Doctor Hé=
rode
expatiated freely. Counsel is from man; inspiration is from God. In the
counsels of the priests there is inspiration. It is good to accept, dangero=
us
to refuse them. Sochoh was seized by eleven devils for disdaining the
exhortations of Nathaniel. Tiburianus was struck with a leprosy for having
driven from his house the Apostle Andrew. Barjesus, a magician though he wa=
s,
was punished with blindness for having mocked at the words of St. Paul. Elx=
ai
and his sisters, Martha and Martena, are in eternal torments for despising =
the
warnings of Valentianus, who proved to them clearly that their Jesus Christ,
thirty-eight leagues in height, was a demon. Aholibamah, who is also called
Judith, obeyed the Councils, Reuben and Peniel listened to the counsels fro=
m on
high, as their names indeed indicate. Reuben signifies son of the vision; a=
nd
Peniel, "the face of God.":
Mess Lethierry struck the table with his fist.=
"Parbleu!" he cried; "it was my=
fault."
"What do you mean?" asked M. Jaquemin
Hérode.
"I say that it is my fault."
"Your fault? Why?"
"Because I allowed the Durande to return =
on
Fridays."
M. Jaquemin Hérode whispered in Caudray=
's
ear:
"This man is superstitious."
He resumed, raising his voice, and in a didact=
ic
tone:
"Mess Lethierry, it is puerile to believe=
in
Fridays. You ought not to put faith in fables. Friday is a day just like any
other. It is very often a propitious day. Melendez founded the city of Saint
Augustin on a Friday; it was on a Friday that Henry the Seventh gave his
commission to John Cabot; the Pilgrims of the Mayflower landed at Province =
Town
on a Friday. Washington was born on Friday, the 22nd of February 1732; Chri=
stopher
Columbus discovered America on Friday, the 12th of October 1492."
Having delivered himself of these remarks, he
rose.
Caudray, whom he had brought with him, rose al=
so.
Grace and Douce, perceiving that the two clerg=
ymen
were about to take their leave, opened the folding-doors.
Mess Lethierry saw nothing; heard nothing.
M. Jaquemin Hérode said, apart to M.
Caudray:
"He does not even salute us. This is not
sorrow; it is vacancy. He must have lost his reason."
He took his little Bible, however, from the ta=
ble,
and held it between his hands outstretched, as one holds a bird in fear tha=
t it
may fly away. This attitude awakened among the persons present a certain am=
ount
of attention. Grace and Douce leaned forward eagerly.
His voice assumed all the solemnity of which it
was capable.
"Mess Lethierry," he began, "le=
t us
not part without reading a page of the Holy Book. It is from books that wise
men derive consolation in the troubles of life. The profane have their orac=
les;
but believers have their ready resource in the Bible. The first book which
comes to hand, opened by chance may afford counsel; but the Bible, opened at
any page, yields a revelation. It is, above all, a boon to the afflicted. Y=
es, Holy
Scripture is an unfailing balm for their wounds. In the presence of afflict=
ion,
it is good to consult its sacred pages--to open even without choosing the
place, and to read with faith the passage which we find. What man does not
choose is chosen by God. He knoweth best what suiteth us. His finger pointe=
th
invisibly to that which we read. Whatever be the page, it will infallibly
enlighten. Let us seek, then, no other light; but hold fast to His. It is t=
he
word from on high. In the text which is evoked with confidence and reverenc=
e,
often do we find a mysterious significance in our present troubles. Let us
hearken, then, and obey. Mess Lethierry, you are in affliction, but I hold =
here
the book of consolation. You are sick at heart, but I have here the book of=
spiritual
health."
The Reverend Jaquemin Hérode touched the
spring of the clasp, and let his finger slip between the leaves. Then he pl=
aced
his hand a moment upon the open volume, collected his thoughts, and, raising
his eyes impressively, began to read in a loud voice.
The passage which he had lighted on was as
follows:
"And Isaac went out to meditate in the fi=
eld
at the eventide, and he lifted up his eyes and saw and beheld the camels we=
re
coming.
"And Rebekah lifted up her eyes, and when=
she
saw Isaac she lighted off the camel.
"For she had said unto the servant, What =
man
is this that walketh in the field to meet us?
"And Isaac brought her into his mother
Sarah's tent, and took Rebekah, and she became his wife, and he loved her; =
and
Isaac was comforted after his mother's death."
Caudray and Déruchette glanced at each
other.
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%'>BOOK =
I - THE
ROCK
=
The
bark which had been observed at so many points on the coast of Guernsey on =
the
previous evening was, as the reader has guessed, the old Dutch barge or slo=
op.
Gilliatt had chosen the channel along the coast among the rocks. It was the
most dangerous way, but it was the most direct. To take the shortest route =
was
his only thought. Shipwrecks will not wait; the sea is a pressing creditor;=
an
hour's delay may be irreparable. His anxiety was to go quickly to the rescu=
e of
the machinery in danger.
One of his objects in leaving Guernsey was to
avoid arousing attention. He set out like one escaping from justice, and se=
emed
anxious to hide from human eyes. He shunned the eastern coast, as if he did=
not
care to pass in sight of St. Sampson and St. Peter's Port, and glided silen=
tly along
the opposite coast, which is comparatively uninhabited. Among the breakers,=
it
was necessary to ply the oars; but Gilliatt managed them on scientific
principles; taking the water quietly, and dropping it with exact regularity=
, he
was able to move in the darkness with as little noise and as rapidly as
possible. So stealthy were his movements, that he might have seemed to be b=
ent
upon some evil errand.
In truth, though embarking desperately in an
enterprise which might well be called impossible, and risking his life with
nearly every chance against him, he feared nothing but the possibility of s=
ome
rival in the work which he had set before him.
As the day began to break, those unknown eyes
which look down upon the world from boundless space might have beheld, at o=
ne
of the most dangerous and solitary spots at sea, two objects, the distance
between which was gradually decreasing, as the one was approaching the othe=
r. One,
which was almost imperceptible in the wide movement of the waters, was a
sailing boat. In this was a man. It was the sloop. The other, black,
motionless, colossal, rose above the waves, a singular form. Two tall pilla=
rs
issuing from the sea bore aloft a sort of cross-beam which was like a bridge
between them. This bridge, so singular in shape that it was impossible to
imagine what it was from a distance, touched each of the two pillars. It
resembled a vast portal. Of what use could such an erection be in that open
plain, the sea, which stretched around it far and wide? It might have been
imagined to be a Titanic Cromlech, planted there in mid-ocean by an imperio=
us
whim, and built up by hands accustomed to proportion their labours to the g=
reat
deep. Its wild outline stood well-defined against the clear sky.
The morning light was growing stronger in the
east; the whiteness in the horizon deepened the shadow on the sea. In the
opposite sky the moon was sinking.
The two perpendicular forms were the Douvres. =
The
huge mass held fast between them, like an architrave between two pillars, w=
as
the wreck of the Durande.
The rock, thus holding fast and exhibiting its
prey, was terrible to behold. Inanimate things look sometimes as if endowed
with a dark and hostile spirit towards man. There was a menace in the attit=
ude
of the rocks. They seemed to be biding their time.
Nothing could be more suggestive of haughtiness
and arrogance than their whole appearance: the conquered vessel; the triump=
hant
abyss. The two rocks, still streaming with the tempest of the day before, w=
ere
like two wrestlers sweating from a recent struggle. The wind had sunk; the =
sea rippled
gently; here and there the presence of breakers might be detected in the gr=
aceful
streaks of foam upon the surface of the waters. A sound came from the sea l=
ike
the murmuring of bees. All around was level except the Douvres, rising
straight, like two black columns. Up to a certain height they were complete=
ly
bearded with seaweed; above this their steep haunches glittered at points l=
ike
polished armour. They seemed ready to commence the strife again. The behold=
er
felt that they were rooted deep in mountains whose summits were beneath the
sea. Their aspect was full of a sort of tragic power.
Ordinarily the sea conceals her crimes. She
delights in privacy. Her unfathomable deeps keep silence. She wraps herself=
in
a mystery which rarely consents to give up its secrets. We know her savage
nature, but who can tell the extent of her dark deeds? She is at once open =
and secret;
she hides away carefully, and cares not to divulge her actions; wrecks a
vessel, and, covering it with the waves, engulfs it deep, as if conscious of
her guilt. Among her crimes is hypocrisy. She slays and steals, conceals her
booty, puts on an air of unconsciousness, and smiles.
Here, however, was nothing of the kind. The
Douvres, lifting above the level of the waters the shattered hull of the
Durande, had an air of triumph. The imagination might have pictured them as=
two
monstrous arms, reaching upwards from the gulf, and exhibiting to the tempe=
st
the lifeless body of the ship. Their aspect was like that of an assassin bo=
asting
of his evil deeds.
The solemnity of the hour contributed somethin=
g to
the impression of the scene. There is a mysterious grandeur in the dawn, as=
of
the border-land between the region of consciousness and the world of our
dreams. There is something spectral in that confused transition time. The
immense form of the two Douvres, like a capital letter H, the Durande formi=
ng
its cross stroke, appeared against the horizon in all their twilight majest=
y.
Gilliatt was attired in his seaman's clothing:=
a
Guernsey shirt, woollen stockings, thick shoes, a homespun jacket, trousers=
of
thick stuff, with pockets, and a cap upon his head of red worsted, of a kind
then much in use among sailors, and known in the last century as a
galérienne.
He recognised the rocks, and steered towards t=
hem.
The situation of the Durande was exactly the
contrary of that of a vessel gone to the bottom: it was a vessel suspended =
in
the air.
No problem more strange was ever presented to a
salvor.
It was broad daylight when Gilliatt arrived in=
the
waters about the rock.
As we have said, there was but little sea. The
slight agitation of the water was due almost entirely to its confinement am=
ong
the rocks. Every passage, small or large, is subject to this chopping movem=
ent.
The inside of a channel is always more or less white with foam. Gilliatt di=
d not
approach the Douvres without caution.
He cast the sounding lead several times.
He had a cargo to disembark.
Accustomed to long absences, he had at home a
number of necessaries always ready. He had brought a sack of biscuit, anoth=
er
of rye-meal, a basket of salt fish and smoked beef, a large can of fresh wa=
ter;
a Norwegian chest painted with flowers, containing several coarse woollen s=
hirts,
his tarpaulin and his waterproof overalls, and a sheepskin which he was
accustomed to throw at night over his clothes. On leaving the Bû de la
Rue he had put all these things hastily into the barge, with the addition o=
f a
large loaf. In his hurry he had brought no other tools but his huge
forge-hammer, his chopper and hatchet, and a knotted rope. Furnished with a
grappling-iron and with a ladder of that sort, the steepest rocks become
accessible, and a good sailor will find it possible to scale the rudest
escarpment. In the island of Sark the visitor may see what the fishermen of=
the
Havre Gosselin can accomplish with a knotted cord.
His nets and lines and all his fishing apparat=
us
were in the barge. He had placed them there mechanically and by habit; for =
he
intended, if his enterprise continued, to sojourn for some time in an
archipelago of rocks and breakers, where fishing nets and tackle are of lit=
tle
use.
At the moment when Gilliatt was skirting the g=
reat
rock the sea was retiring; a circumstance favourable to his purpose. The
departing tide laid bare, at the foot of the smaller Douvre, one or two
table-rocks, horizontal, or only slightly inclined, and bearing a fanciful =
resemblance
to boards supported by crows. These table-rocks, sometimes narrow, sometimes
broad, standing at unequal distances along the side of the great perpendicu=
lar
column, were continued in the form of a thin cornice up to a spot just bene=
ath
the Durande, the hull of which stood swelling out between the two rocks. The
wreck was held fast there as in a vice.
This series of platforms was convenient for
approaching and surveying the position. It was convenient also for disembar=
king
the contents of the barge provisionally; but it was necessary to hasten, fo=
r it
was only above water for a few hours. With the rising tide the table-rocks
would be again beneath the foam.
It was before these table-rocks, some level, s=
ome
slanting, that Gilliatt pushed in and brought the barge to a stand. A thick
mass of wet and slippery sea-wrack covered them, rendered more slippery here
and there by their inclined surfaces.
Gilliatt pulled off his shoes and sprang
bare-footed on to the slimy weeds, and made fast the barge to a point of ro=
ck.
Then he advanced as far as he could along the
granite cornice, reached the rock immediately beneath the wreck, looked up,=
and
examined it.
The Durande had been caught suspended, and, as=
it
were, fitted in between the two rocks, at about twenty feet above the water=
. It
must have been a heavy sea which had cast her there.
Such effects from furious seas have nothing
surprising for those who are familiar with the ocean. To cite one example
only:--On the 25th January 1840, in the Gulf of Stora, a tempest struck with
its expiring force a brig, and casting it almost intact completely over the
broken wreck of the corvette La Marne, fixed it immovable, bowsprit first, =
in a
gap between the cliffs.
The Douvres, however, held only a part of the
Durande.
The vessel snatched from the waves had been, a=
s it
were, uprooted from the waters by the hurricane. A whirlwind had wrenched it
against the counteracting force of the rolling waves, and the vessel thus
caught in contrary directions by the two claws of the tempest had snapped l=
ike
a lath. The after-part with the engine and the paddles, lifted out of the f=
oam
and driven by all the fury of the cyclone into the defile of the Douvres, h=
ad
plunged in up to her midship beam, and remained there. The blow had been we=
ll
directed. To drive it in this fashion between the two rocks, the storm had
struck it as with an enormous hammer. The forecastle carried away and rolled
down by the sea, had gone to fragments among the breakers.
The hold, broken in, had scattered out the bod=
ies
of the drowned cattle upon the sea.
A large portion of the forward side and bulwar=
ks
still hung to the riders by the larboard paddle-box, and by some shattered
braces easy to strike off with the blow of a hatchet.
Here and there, among beams, planks, rags of
canvas, pieces of chains, and other remains of wreck were seen lying about
among the rugged fragments of shattered rock.
Gilliatt surveyed the Durande attentively. The
keel formed a roofing over his head.
A serene sky stretched far and wide over the
waters, scarcely wrinkled with a passing breath. The sun rose gloriously in=
the
midst of the vast azure circle.
From time to time a drop of water was detached
from the wreck and fell into the sea.
=
The
Douvres differed in shape as well as in height.
Upon the Little Douvre, which was curved and
pointed, long veins of reddish-coloured rock, of a comparatively soft kind,
could be seen branching out and dividing the interior of the granite. At the
edges of these red dykes were fractures, favourable to climbing. One of the=
se fractures,
situated a little above the wreck, had been so laboriously worn and scooped=
out
by the splashing of the waves, that it had become a sort of niche, in which=
it
would have been quite possible to place a statue. The granite of the Little
Douvre was rounded at the surface, and, to the feel at least, soft like
touchstone; but this feeling detracted nothing from its durability. The Lit=
tle
Douvre terminated in a point like a horn. The Great Douvre, polished, smoot=
h,
glossy, perpendicular, and looking as if cut out by the builder's square, w=
as
in one piece, and seemed made of black ivory. Not a hole, not a break in its
smooth surface. The escarpment looked inhospitable. A convict could not have
used it for escape, nor a bird for a place for its nest. On the summit there
was a horizontal surface as upon "The Man Rock;" but the summit of
the Great Douvre was inaccessible.
It was possible to scale the Little Douvre, but
not to remain on the summit; it would have been possible to rest on the sum=
mit
of the Great Douvre, but impossible to scale it.
Gilliatt, having rapidly surveyed the situatio=
n of
affairs, returned to the barge, landed its contents upon the largest of the
horizontal cornice rocks, made of the whole compact mass a sort of bale, wh=
ich
he rolled up in tarpaulin, fitted a sling rope to it with a hoisting block,=
pushed
the package into a corner of the rocks where the waves could not reach it, =
and
then clutching the Little Douvre with his hands, and holding on with his na=
ked
feet, he clambered from projection to projection, and from niche to niche,
until he found himself level with the wrecked vessel high up in the air.
Having reached the height of the paddles, he
sprang upon the poop.
The interior of the wreck presented a mournful
aspect.
Traces of a great struggle were everywhere
visible. There were plainly to be seen the frightful ravages of the sea and
wind. The action of the tempest resembles the violence of a band of pirates.
Nothing is more like the victim of a criminal outrage than a wrecked ship
violated and stripped by those terrible accomplices, the storm-cloud, the
thunder, the rain, the squall, the waves, and the breakers.
Standing upon the dismantled deck, it was natu=
ral
to dream of the presence of something like a furious stamping of the spirit=
s of
the storm. Everywhere around were the marks of their rage. The strange cont=
ortions
of certain portions of the ironwork bore testimony to the terrific force of=
the
winds. The between-decks were like the cell of a lunatic, in which everythi=
ng
has been broken.
No wild beast can compare with the sea for
mangling its prey. The waves are full of talons. The north wind bites, the
billows devour, the waves are like hungry jaws. The ocean strikes like a li=
on
with its heavy paw, seizing and dismembering at the same moment.
The ruin conspicuous in the Durande presented =
the
peculiarity of being detailed and minute. It was a sort of horrible strippi=
ng
and plucking. Much of it seemed done with design. The beholder was tempted =
to
exclaim, "What wanton mischief!" The ripping of the planking was
edged here and there artistically. This peculiarity is common with the rava=
ges
of the cyclone. To chip and tear away is the caprice of the great devastato=
r. Its
ways are like those of the professional torturer. The disasters which it ca=
uses
wear a look of ingenious punishments. One might fancy it actuated by the wo=
rst
passions of man. It refines in cruelty like a savage. While it is extermina=
ting
it dissects bone by bone. It torments its victim, avenges itself, and takes
delight in its work. It even appears to descend to petty acts of malice.
Cyclones are rare in our latitudes, and are, f=
or
that reason, the more dangerous, being generally unexpected. A rock in the =
path
of a heavy wind may become the pivot of a storm. It is probable that the sq=
uall
had thus rotated upon the point of the Douvres, and had turned suddenly int=
o a
waterspout on meeting the shock of the rocks, a fact which explained the
casting of the vessel so high among them. When the cyclone blows, a vessel =
is
of no more weight in the wind than a stone in a sling.
The damage received by the Durande was like the
wound of a man cut in twain. It was a divided trunk from which issued a mas=
s of
débris like the entrails of a body. Various kinds of cordage hung
floating and trembling, chains swung chattering; the fibres and nerves of t=
he
vessel were there naked and exposed. What was not smashed was disjointed.
Fragments of the sheeting resembled currycombs
bristling with nails; everything bore the appearance of ruin; a handspike h=
ad
become nothing but a piece of iron; a sounding-lead, nothing but a lump of
metal; a dead-eye had become a mere piece of wood; a halliard, an end of ro=
pe;
a strand of cord, a tangled skein; a bolt-rope, a thread in the hem of a sa=
il.
All around was the lamentable work of demolition. Nothing remained that was=
not
unhooked, unnailed, cracked, wasted, warped, pierced with holes, destroyed:
nothing hung together in the dreadful mass, but all was torn, dislocated,
broken. There was that air of drift which characterises the scene of all
struggles--from the melées of men, which are called battles, to the
melées of the elements, to which we give the name of chaos. Everythi=
ng
was sinking and dropping away; a rolling mass of planks, panelling, ironwor=
k,
cables, and beams had been arrested just at the great fracture of the hull,
whence the least additional shock must have precipitated them into the sea.=
What
remained of her powerful frame, once so triumphant, was cracked here and th=
ere,
showing through large apertures the dismal gloom within.
The foam from below spat its flakes contemptuo=
usly
upon this broken and forlorn outcast of the sea.
=
Gilliatt
did not expect to find only a portion of the ship existing. Nothing in the
description, in other respects so precise, of the captain of the Shealtiel =
had
led him to anticipate this division of the vessel in the centre. It was pro=
bable
that the "diabolical crash" heard by the captain of the Shealtiel
marked the moment when this destruction had taken place under the blows of a
tremendous sea. The captain had, doubtless, worn ship just before this last
heavy squall; and what he had taken for a great sea was probably a waterspo=
ut.
Later, when he drew nearer to observe the wreck, he had only been able to s=
ee
the stern of the vessel--the remainder, that is to say, the large opening w=
here
the fore-part had given way, having been concealed from him among the masse=
s of
rock.
With that exception, the information given by =
the
captain of the Shealtiel was strictly correct. The hull was useless, but the
engine remained intact.
Such chances are common in the history of
shipwreck. The logic of disaster at sea is beyond the grasp of human scienc=
e.
The masts having snapped short, had fallen over
the side; the chimney was not even bent. The great iron plating which suppo=
rted
the machinery had kept it together, and in one piece. The planks of the pad=
dle-boxes
were disjointed, like the leaves of wooden sunblinds; but through their ape=
rtures
the paddles themselves could be seen in good condition. A few of their floa=
ts
only were missing.
Besides the machinery, the great stern capstan=
had
resisted the destruction. Its chain was there, and, thanks to its firm fixt=
ure
in a frame of joists, might still be of service, unless the strain of the v=
oyal
should break away the planking. The flooring of the deck bent at almost eve=
ry
point, and was tottering throughout.
On the other hand, the trunk of the hull, fixed
between the Douvres, held together, as we have already said, and it appeared
strong.
There was something like derision in this
preservation of the machinery; something which added to the irony of the mi=
sfortune.
The sombre malice of the unseen powers of mischief displays itself sometime=
s in
such bitter mockeries. The machinery was saved, but its preservation did no=
t make
it any the less lost. The ocean seemed to have kept it only to demolish it =
at
leisure. It was like the playing of the cat with her prey.
Its fate was to suffer there and to be dismemb=
ered
day by day. It was to be the plaything of the savage amusements of the sea.=
It
was slowly to dwindle, and, as it were, to melt away. For what could be don=
e?
That this vast block of mechanism and gear, at once massive and delicate, c=
ondemned
to fixity by its weight, delivered up in that solitude to the destructive
elements, exposed in the gripe of the rock to the action of the wind and wa=
ve,
could, under the frown of that implacable spot, escape from slow destructio=
n,
seemed a madness even to imagine.
The Durande was the captive of the Douvres.
How could she be extricated from that position=
?
How could she be delivered from her bondage?
The escape of a man is difficult; but what a
problem was this--the escape of a vast and cumbrous machine.
=
Gilliatt
was pressed on all sides by demands upon his labours. The most pressing,
however, was to find a safe mooring for the barge; then a shelter for himse=
lf.
The Durande having settled down more on the
larboard than on the starboard side, the right paddle-box was higher than t=
he
left.
Gilliatt ascended the paddle-box on the right.
From that position, although the gut of rocks stretching in abrupt angles
behind the Douvres had several elbows, he was able to study the ground-plan=
of
the group.
This survey was the preliminary step of his
operations.
The Douvres, as we have already described them,
were like two high gable-ends, forming the narrow entrance to a straggling
alley of small cliffs with perpendicular faces. It is not rare to find in
primitive submarine formations these singular kinds of passages, which seem=
cut
out with a hatchet.
This defile was extremely tortuous, and was ne=
ver
without water even in the low tides. A current, much agitated, traversed it=
at
all times from end to end. The sharpness of its turnings was favourable or =
unfavourable,
according to the nature of the prevailing wind; sometimes it broke the swell
and caused it to fall; sometimes it exasperated it. This latter effect was =
the
most frequent. An obstacle arouses the anger of the sea, and pushes it to
excesses. The foam is the exaggeration of the waves.
The stormy winds in these narrow and tortuous
passages between the rocks are subjected to a similar compression, and acqu=
ire
the same malignant character. The tempest frets in its sudden imprisonment.=
Its
bulk is still immense, but sharpened and contracted; and it strikes with th=
e massiveness
of a huge club and the keenness of an arrow. It pierces even while it strik=
es
down. It is a hurricane contracted, like the draught through the crevice of=
a
door.
The two chains of rocks, leaving between them =
this
kind of street in the sea, formed stages at a lower level than the Douvres,
gradually decreasing, until they sunk together at a certain distance beneath
the waves.
There was another such gullet of less height t=
han
the gullet of the Douvres, but narrower still, and which formed the eastern
entrance of the defile. It was evident that the double prolongation of the
ridge of rocks continued the kind of street under the water as far as "=
;The
Man Rock," which stood like a square citadel at the extremity of the
group.
At low water, indeed, which was the time at wh=
ich
Gilliatt was observing them, the two rows of sunken rock showed their tips,
some high and dry, and all visible and preserving their parallel without
interruption.
"The Man" formed the boundary, and
buttressed on the eastern side the entire mass of the group, which was
protected on the opposite side by the two Douvres.
The whole, from a bird's-eye view, appeared li=
ke a
winding chaplet of rocks, having the Douvres at one extremity and "The
Man" at the other.
The Douvres, taken together, were merely two
gigantic shafts of granite protruding vertically and almost touching each
other, and forming the crest of one of the mountainous ranges lying beneath=
the
ocean. Those immense ridges are not only found rising out of the unfathomab=
le
deep. The surf and the squall had broken them up and divided them like the =
teeth
of a saw. Only the tip of the ridge was visible; this was the group of rock=
s.
The remainder, which the waves concealed, must have been enormous. The pass=
age
in which the storm had planted the Durande was the way between these two
colossal shafts.
This passage, zigzag in form as the forked
lightning, was of about the same width in all parts. The ocean had so fashi=
oned
it. Its eternal commotion produces sometimes those singular regularities. T=
here
is a sort of geometry in the action of the sea.
From one extremity to the other of the defile,=
the
two parallel granite walls confronted each other at a distance which the
midship frame of the Durande measured exactly. Between the two Douvres, the
widening of the Little Douvre, curved and turned back as it was, had formed=
a
space for the paddles. In any other part they must have been shattered to f=
ragments.
The high double façade of rock within t=
he
passage was hideous to the sight. When, in the exploration of the desert of
water which we call the ocean, we come upon the unknown world of the sea, a=
ll
is uncouth and shapeless. So much as Gilliatt could see of the defile from =
the
height of the wreck, was appalling. In the rocky gorges of the ocean we may=
often
trace a strange permanent impersonation of shipwreck. The defile of the Dou=
vres
was one of these gorges, and its effect was exciting to the imagination. The
oxydes of the rock showed on the escarpment here and there in red places, l=
ike
marks of clotted blood; it resembled the splashes on the walls of an abatto=
ir.
Associations of the charnel-house haunted the place. The rough marine stone=
s,
diversely tinted--here by the decomposition of metallic amalgams mingling w=
ith
the rock, there by the mould of dampness, manifested in places by purple
scales, hideous green blotches, and ruddy splashes, awakened ideas of murder
and extermination. It was like the unwashed walls of a chamber which had be=
en
the scene of an assassination; or it might have been imagined that men had =
been
crushed to death there, leaving traces of their fate. The peaked rocks prod=
uced
an indescribable impression of accumulated agonies. Certain spots appeared =
to
be still dripping with the carnage; here the wall was wet, and it looked
impossible to touch it without leaving the fingers bloody. The blight of
massacre seemed everywhere. At the base of the double parallel escarpment,
scattered along the water's edge, or just below the waves, or in the worn
hollows of the rocks, were monstrous rounded masses of shingle, some scarle=
t,
others black or purple, which bore a strange resemblance to internal organs=
of
the body; they might have been taken for human lungs, or heart, or liver, s=
cattered
and putrefying in that dismal place. Giants might have been disembowelled
there. From top to bottom of the granite ran long red lines, which might ha=
ve
been compared to oozings from a funeral bier.
Such aspects are frequent in sea caverns.
=
Those
who, by the disastrous chances of sea-voyages, happen to be condemned to a
temporary habitation upon a rock in mid-ocean, find that the form of their
inhospitable refuge is by no means a matter of indifference. There is the
pyramidal-shaped rock, a single peak rising from the water; there is the ci=
rcle
rock somewhat resembling a round of great stones; and there is the
corridor-rock. The latter is the most alarming of all. It is not only the
ceaseless agony of the waves between its walls, or the tumult of the impris=
oned
sea; there are also certain obscure meteorological characteristics which ap=
pear
to appertain to this parallelism of two marine rocks. The two straight sides
seem a veritable electric battery.
The first result of the peculiar position of t=
hese
corridor-rocks is an action upon the air and the water. The corridor-rock a=
cts
upon the waves and the wind mechanically by its form; galvanically, by the
different magnetic action rendered possible by its vertical height, its mas=
ses
in juxtaposition and contrary to each other.
This form of rock attracts to itself all the
forces scattered in the winds, and exercises over the tempest a singular po=
wer
of concentration.
Hence there is in the neighbourhood of these
breakers a certain accentuation of storms.
It must be borne in mind that the wind is
composite. The wind is believed to be simple; but it is by no means simple.=
Its
power is not merely dynamic, it is chemical also; but this is not all, it i=
s magnetic.
Its effects are often inexplicable. The wind is as much electrical as aeria=
l.
Certain winds coincide with the aurores boreales. The wind blowing from the
bank of the Aiguilles rolls the waves one hundred feet high; a fact observed
with astonishment by Dumont-d'Urville. The corvette, he says, "knew not
what to obey."
In the south seas the waters will sometimes be=
come
inflated like an outbreak of immense tumours; and at such times the ocean
becomes so terrible that the savages fly to escape the sight of it. The bla=
sts
in the north seas are different. They are mingled with sharp points of ice;=
and
their gusts, unfit to breathe, will blow the sledges of the Esquimaux backw=
ards
in the snow. Other winds burn. The simoon of Africa is the typhoon of China=
and
the samiel of India. Simoon, typhoon, and samiel, are believed to be the na=
mes
of demons. They descend from the heights of the mountains. A storm vitrified
the volcano of Toluca. This hot wind, a whirlwind of inky colour, rushing u=
pon
red clouds, is alluded to in the Vedas: "Behold the black god, who com=
es
to steal the red cows." In all these facts we trace the presence of the
electric mystery.
The wind indeed is full of it; so are the wave=
s.
The sea, too, is composite in its nature. Under its waves of water which we
see, it has its waves of force which are invisible. Its constituents are in=
numerable.
Of all the elements the ocean is the most indivisible and the most profound=
.
Endeavour to conceive this chaos so enormous t=
hat
it dwarfs all other things to one level. It is the universal recipient,
reservoir of germs of life, and mould of transformations. It amasses and th=
en
disperses, it accumulates and then sows, it devours and then creates. It
receives all the waste and refuse waters of the earth, and converts them in=
to treasure.
It is solid in the iceberg, liquid in the wave, fluid in the estuary. Regar=
ded
as matter, it is a mass; regarded as a force, it is an abstraction. It
equalises and unites all phenomena. It may be called the infinite in
combination. By force and disturbance, it arrives at transparency. It disso=
lves
all differences, and absorbs them into its own unity. Its elements are so
numerous that it becomes identity. One of its drops is complete, and repres=
ents
the whole. From the abundance of its tempests, it attains equilibrium. Plato
beheld the mazy dances of the spheres. Strange fact, though not the less re=
al,
the ocean, in the vast terrestrial journey round the sun, becomes, with its
flux and reflux, the balance of the globe.
In a phenomenon of the sea, all other phenomena
are resumed. The sea is blown out of a waterspout as from a syphon; the sto=
rm
observes the principle of the pump; the lightning issues from the sea as fr=
om
the air. Aboard ships dull shocks are sometimes felt, and an odour of sulph=
ur
issues from the receptacles of chain cables. The ocean boils. "The dev=
il
has put the sea in his cauldron," said De Ruyter. In certain tempests,
which characterise the equinoxes and the return to equilibrium of the proli=
fic
power of nature, vessels breasting the foam seem to give out a kind of fire,
phosphoric lights chase each other along the rigging, so close sometimes to=
the
sailors at their work that the latter stretch forth their hands and try to
catch, as they fly, these birds of flame. After the great earthquake of Lis=
bon,
a blast of hot air, as from a furnace, drove before it towards the city a w=
ave
sixty feet high. The oscillation of the ocean is closely related to the
convulsions of the earth.
These immeasurable forces produce sometimes
extraordinary inundations. At the end of the year 1864, one of the Maldive
Islands, at a hundred leagues from the Malabar coast, actually foundered in=
the
sea. It sunk to the bottom like a shipwrecked vessel. The fishermen who sai=
led
from it in the morning, found nothing when they returned at night; scarcely=
could
they distinguish their villages under the sea. On this occasion boats were =
the
spectators of the wrecks of houses.
In Europe, where nature seems restrained by the
presence of civilisation, such events are rare and are thought impossible. =
Nevertheless,
Jersey and Guernsey originally formed part of Gaul, and at the moment while=
we
are writing these lines, an equinoctial gale has demolished a great portion=
of
the cliff of the Firth of Forth in Scotland.
Nowhere do these terrific forces appear more
formidably conjoined than in the surprising strait known as the Lyse-Fiord.=
The
Lyse-Fiord is the most terrible of all the gut rocks of the ocean. Their
terrors are there complete. It is in the northern sea, near the inhospitable
Gulf of Stavanger, and in the 59th degree of latitude. The water is black a=
nd heavy,
and subject to intermitting storms. In this sea, and in the midst of this
solitude, rises a great sombre street--a street for no human footsteps. None
ever pass through there; no ship ever ventures in. It is a corridor ten lea=
gues
in length, between two rocky walls of three thousand feet in height. Such is
the passage which presents an entrance to the sea. The defile has its elbows
and angles like all these streets of the sea--never straight, having been
formed by the irregular action of the water. In the Lyse-Fiord, the sea is
almost always tranquil; the sky above is serene; the place terrible. Where =
is
the wind? Not on high. Where is the thunder? Not in the heavens. The wind is
under the sea; the lightnings within the rock. Now and then there is a
convulsion of the water. At certain moments, when there is perhaps not a cl=
oud
in the sky, nearly half way up the perpendicular rock, at a thousand or fif=
teen
hundred feet above the water, and rather on the southern than on the northe=
rn
side, the rock suddenly thunders, lightnings dart forth, and then retire li=
ke
those toys which lengthen out and spring back again in the hands of childre=
n.
They contract and enlarge; strike the opposite cliff, re-enter the rock, is=
sue
forth again, recommence their play, multiply their heads and tips of flame,
grow bristling with points, strike wherever they can, recommence again, and
then are extinguished with a sinister abruptness. Flocks of birds fly wide =
in
terror. Nothing is more mysterious than that artillery issuing out of the
invisible. One cliff attacks the other, raining lightning blows from side to
side. Their war concerns not man. It signals the ancient enmity of two rock=
s in
the impassable gulf.
In the Lyse-Fiord, the wind whirls like the wa=
ter
in an estuary; the rock performs the function of the clouds; and the thunder
breaks forth like volcanic fire. This strange defile is a voltaic pile; the
plates of which are the double line of cliffs.
=
Gilliatt
was sufficiently familiar with marine rocks to grapple in earnest with the
Douvres. Before all, as we have just said, it was necessary to find a safe
shelter for the barge.
The double row of reefs, which stretched in a
sinuous form behind the Douvres, connected itself here and there with other
rocks, and suggested the existence of blind passages and hollows opening out
into the straggling way, and joining again to the principal defile like
branches to a trunk.
The lower part of these rocks was covered with= kelp, the upper part with lichens. The uniform level of the seaweed marked the li= ne of the water at the height of the tide, and the limit of the sea in calm weather. The points which the water had not touched presented those silver = and golden hues communicated to marine granite by the white and yellow lichen.<= o:p>
A crust of conoidical shells covered the rock =
at
certain points, the dry rot of the granite.
At other points in the retreating angles, where
fine sand had accumulated, ribbed on its surface rather by the wind than by=
the
waves, appeared tufts of blue thistles.
In the indentations, sheltered from the winds,
could be traced the little perforations made by the sea-urchin. This shelly
mass of prickles, which moves about a living ball, by rolling on its spines,
and the armour of which is composed of ten thousand pieces, artistically ad=
justed
and welded together--the sea-urchin, which is popularly called, for some
unknown reason, "Aristotle's lantern," wears away the granite with
his five teeth, and lodges himself in the hole. It is in such holes that the
samphire gatherers find them. They cut them in halves and eat them raw, lik=
e an
oyster. Some steep their bread in the soft flesh. Hence its other name,
"Sea-egg."
The tips of the further reefs, left out of the
water by the receding tide, extended close under the escarpment of "The
Man" to a sort of creek, enclosed nearly on all sides by rocky walls. =
Here
was evidently a possible harbourage. It had the form of a horse-shoe, and
opened only on one side to the east wind, which is the least violent of all
winds in that sea labyrinth. The water was shut in there, and almost
motionless. The shelter seemed comparatively safe. Gilliatt, moreover, had =
not
much choice.
If he wished to take advantage of the low wate=
r,
it was important to make haste.
The weather continued to be fine and calm. The
insolent sea was for a while in a gentle mood.
Gilliatt descended, put on his shoes again,
unmoored the cable, re-embarked, and pushed out into the water. He used the
oars, coasting the side of the rock.
Having reached "The Man Rock," he
examined the entrance to the little creek.
A fixed, wavy line in the motionless sea, a so=
rt
of wrinkle, imperceptible to any eye but that of a sailor, marked the chann=
el.
Gilliatt studied for a moment its lineament,
almost indistinct under the water; then he held off a little in order to ve=
er
at ease, and steer well into channel; and suddenly with a stroke of the oar=
s he
entered the little bay.
He sounded.
The anchorage appeared to be excellent.
The sloop would be protected there against alm=
ost
any of the contingencies of the season.
The most formidable reefs have quiet nooks of =
this
sort. The ports which are thus found among the breakers are like the
hospitality of the fierce Bedouin--friendly and sure.
Gilliatt placed the sloop as near as he could =
to
"The Man," but still far enough to escape grazing the rock; and he
cast his two anchors.
That done, he crossed his arms, and reflected =
on
his position.
The sloop was sheltered. Here was one problem
solved. But another remained. Where could he now shelter himself?
He had the choice of two places: the sloop its=
elf,
with its corner of cabin, which was scarcely habitable, and the summit of
"The Man Rock," which was not difficult to scale.
From one or other of these refuges it was poss=
ible
at low water, by jumping from rock to rock, to gain the passage between the
Douvres where the Durande was fixed, almost without wetting the feet.
But low water lasts but a short while, and all=
the
rest of the time he would be cut off either from his shelter or from the wr=
eck
by more than two hundred fathoms. Swimming among breakers is difficult at a=
ll
times; if there is the least commotion in the sea it is impossible.
He was driven to give up the idea of shelter in
the sloop or on "The Man."
No resting-place was possible among the
neighbouring rocks.
The summits of the lower ones disappeared twic=
e a
day beneath the rising tide.
The summits of the higher ones were constantly
swept by the flakes of foam, and promised nothing but an inhospitable
drenching.
No choice remained but the wreck itself.
Was it possible to seek refuge there?
Gilliatt hoped it might be.
=
Half-an-hour
afterwards, Gilliatt having returned to the wreck, climbed to the deck, went
below, and descended into the hold, completing the summary survey of his fi=
rst
visit.
By the help of the capstan he had raised to the
deck of the Durande the package which he had made of the lading of the sloo=
p.
The capstan had worked well. Bars for turning it were not wanting. Gilliatt=
had
only to take his choice among the heap of wreck.
He found among the fragments a chisel, dropped=
, no
doubt, from the carpenter's box, and which he added to his little stock of
tools.
Besides this--for in poverty of appliances so
complete everything counts for a little--he had his jack-knife in his pocke=
t.
Gilliatt worked the whole day long on the wrec=
k,
clearing away, propping, arranging.
At nightfall he observed the following facts:<= o:p>
The entire wreck shook in the wind. The carcass
trembled at every step he took. There was nothing stable or strong except t=
he
portion of the hull jammed between the rocks which contained the engine. Th=
ere
the beams were powerfully supported by the granite walls.
Fixing his home in the Durande would be imprud=
ent.
It would increase the weight; but far from adding to her burden, it was
important to lighten it. To burden the wreck in any way was indeed the very
contrary of what he wanted.
The mass of ruin required, in fact, the most
careful management. It was like a sick man at the approach of dissolution. =
The
wind would do sufficient to help it to its end.
It was, moreover, unfortunate enough to be
compelled to work there. The amount of disturbance which the wreck would ha=
ve
to withstand would necessarily distress it, perhaps beyond its strength.
Besides, if any accident should happen in the
night while Gilliatt was sleeping, he must necessarily perish with the vess=
el.
No assistance was possible; all would be over. In order to help the shatter=
ed
vessel, it was absolutely necessary to remain outside it.
How to be outside and yet near it, this was the
problem.
The difficulty became more complicated as he
considered it.
Where could he find a shelter under such condi=
tions?
Gilliatt reflected.
There remained nothing but the two Douvres. Th=
ey
seemed hopeless enough.
From below, it was possible to distinguish upon
the upper plateau of the Great Douvre a sort of protuberance.
High rocks with flattened summits, like the Gr=
eat
Douvre and "The Man," are a sort of decapitated peaks. They abound
among the mountains and in the ocean. Certain rocks, particularly those whi=
ch
are met with in the open sea, bear marks like half-felled trees. They have =
the
appearance of having received blows from a hatchet. They have been subjecte=
d,
in fact, to the blows of the gale, that indefatigable pioneer of the sea.
There are other still more profound causes of
marine convulsions. Hence the innumerable bruises upon these primeval masse=
s of
granite. Some of these sea giants have their heads struck off.
Sometimes these heads, from some inexplicable
cause, do not fall, but remain shattered on the summit of the mutilated tru=
nk.
This singularity is by no means rare. The Devil's Rock, at Guernsey, and the
Table, in the Valley of Anweiler, illustrate some of the most surprising
features of this strange geological enigma.
Some such phenomena had probably fashioned the
summit of the Great Douvre.
If the protuberance which could be observed on=
the
plateau were not a natural irregularity in the stone, it must necessarily be
some remaining fragment of the shattered summit.
Perhaps the fragment might contain some
excavation--some hole into which a man could creep for cover. Gilliatt asked
for no more.
But how could he reach the plateau? How could =
he
scale that perpendicular wall, hard and polished as a pebble, half covered =
with
the growth of glutinous confervæ, and having the slippery look of a s=
oapy
surface?
The ridge of the plateau was at least thirty f=
eet
above the deck of the Durande.
Gilliatt took out of his box of tools the knot=
ted
cord, hooked it to his belt by the grapnel, and set to work to scale the Li=
ttle
Douvre. The ascent became more difficult as he climbed. He had forgotten to
take off his shoes, a fact which increased the difficulty. With great labour
and straining, however, he reached the point. Safely arrived there, he rais=
ed
himself and stood erect. There was scarcely room for his two feet. To make =
it
his lodging would be difficult. A Stylite might have contented himself ther=
e;
Gilliatt, more luxurious in his requirements, wanted something more commodi=
ous.
The Little Douvre, leaning towards the great o=
ne,
looked from a distance as if it was saluting it, and the space between the
Douvres, which was some score of feet below, was only eight or ten at the
highest points.
From the spot to which he had climbed, Gilliatt
saw more distinctly the rocky excrescence which partly covered the plateau =
of
the Great Douvre.
This plateau rose three fathoms at least above=
his
head.
A precipice separated him from it. The curved
escarpment of the Little Douvre sloped away out of sight beneath him.
He detached the knotted rope from his belt, to=
ok a
rapid glance at the dimensions of the rock, and slung the grapnel up to the
plateau.
The grapnel scratched the rock, and slipped. T=
he
knotted rope with the hooks at its end fell down beneath his feet, swinging
against the side of the little Douvre.
He renewed the attempt; slung the rope further,
aiming at the granite protuberance, in which he could perceive crevices and
scratches.
The cast was, this time, so neat and skilful, =
that
the hooks caught.
He pulled from below. A portion of the rock br=
oke
away, and the knotted rope with its heavy iron came down once more, striking
the escarpment beneath his feet.
He slung the grapnel a third time.
It did not fall.
He put a strain upon the rope; it resisted. The
grapnel was firmly anchored.
The hooks had caught in some fracture of the
plateau which he could not see.
It was necessary to trust his life to that unk=
nown
support.
He did not hesitate.
The matter was urgent. He was compelled to take
the shortest route.
Moreover, to descend again to the deck of the
Durande, in order to devise some other step, was impossible. A slip was
probable, and a fall almost certain. It was easier to climb than to descend=
.
Gilliatt's movements were decisive, as are tho=
se
of all good sailors. He never wasted force. He always proportioned his effo=
rts
to the work in hand. Hence the prodigies of strength which he executed with
ordinary muscles. His biceps were no more powerful than that of ordinary me=
n;
but his heart was firmer. He added, in fact, to strength which is physical,=
energy
which belongs to the moral faculties.
The feat to be accomplished was appalling.
It was to cross the space between the two Douv=
res,
hanging only by this slender line.
Oftentimes in the path of duty and devotedness,
the figure of death rises before men to present these terrible questions:
Wilt thou do this? asks the shadow.
Gilliatt tested the cord again; the grappling-=
iron
held firm.
Wrapping his left hand in his handkerchief, he
grasped the knotted cord with his right hand, which he covered with his lef=
t;
then stretching out one foot, and striking out sharply with the other again=
st
the rock, in order that the impetus might prevent the rope twisting, he
precipitated himself from the height of the Little Douvre on to the escarpm=
ent
of the great one.
The shock was severe.
There was a rebound.
His clenched fists struck the rocks in their t=
urn;
the handkerchief had loosened, and they were scratched; they had indeed
narrowly escaped being crushed.
Gilliatt remained hanging there a moment dizzy=
.
He was sufficiently master of himself not to l=
et
go his hold of the cord.
A few moments passed in jerks and oscillations
before he could catch the cord with his feet; but he succeeded at last.
Recovering himself, and holding the cord at la=
st
between his naked feet as with two hands, he gazed into the depth below.
He had no anxiety about the length of the cord,
which had many a time served him for great heights. The cord, in fact, trai=
led
upon the deck of the Durande.
Assured of being able to descend again, he beg=
an
to climb hand over hand, and still clinging with his feet.
In a few moments he had gained the summit.
Never before had any creature without wings fo=
und
a footing there. The plateau was covered in parts with the dung of birds. It
was an irregular trapezium, a mass struck off from the colossal granitic pr=
ism
of the Great Douvre. This block was hollowed in the centre like a basin--a =
work
of the rain.
Gilliatt, in fact, had guessed correctly.
At the southern angle of the block, he found a
mass of superimposed rocks, probably fragments of the fallen summit. These
rocks, looking like a heap of giant paving-stones, would have left room for=
a
wild beast, if one could have found its way there, to secrete himself betwe=
en them.
They supported themselves confusedly one against the other, leaving interst=
ices
like a heap of ruins. They formed neither grottoes nor caves, but the pile =
was
full of holes like a sponge. One of these holes was large enough to admit a
man.
This recess had a flooring of moss and a few t=
ufts
of grass. Gilliatt could fit himself in it as in a kind of sheath. The rece=
ss
at its entrance was about two feet high. It contracted towards the bottom. =
Stone
coffins sometimes have this form. The mass of rocks behind lying towards the
south-west, the recess was sheltered from the showers, but was open to the =
cold
north wind.
Gilliatt was satisfied with the place.
The two chief problems were solved; the sloop =
had
a harbour, and he had found a shelter.
The chief merit of his cave was its accessibil=
ity
from the wreck.
The grappling-iron of the knotted cord having
fallen between two blocks, had become firmly hooked, but Gilliatt rendered =
it
more difficult to give way by rolling a huge stone upon it.
He was now free to operate at leisure upon the
Durande.
Henceforth he was at home.
The Great Douvre was his dwelling; the Durande=
was
his workshop.
Nothing was more simple for him than going to =
and
fro, ascending and descending.
He dropped down easily by the knotted cord on =
to
the deck.
The day's work was a good one, the enterprise =
had
begun well; he was satisfied, and began to feel hungry.
He untied his basket of provisions, opened his
knife, cut a slice of smoked beef, took a bite out of his brown loaf, drank=
a
draught from his can of fresh water, and supped admirably.
To do well and eat well are two satisfactions.=
A
full stomach resembles an easy conscience.
This supper was ended, and there was still bef=
ore
him a little more daylight. He took advantage of it to begin the lightening=
of
the wreck--an urgent necessity.
He had passed part of the day in gathering up =
the
fragments. He put on one side, in the strong compartment which contained the
machine, all that might become of use to him, such as wood, iron, cordage, =
and canvas.
What was useless he cast into the sea.
The cargo of the sloop hoisted on to the deck =
by
the capstan, compact as he had made it, was an encumbrance. Gilliatt survey=
ed
the species of niche, at a height within his reach, in the side of the Litt=
le
Douvre. These natural closets, not shut in, it is true, are often seen in t=
he rocks.
It struck him that it was possible to trust some stores to this depôt,
and he accordingly placed in the back of the recess his two boxes containing
his tools and his clothing, and his two bags holding the rye-meal and the
biscuit. In the front--a little too near the edge perhaps, but he had no ot=
her
place--he rested his basket of provisions.
He had taken care to remove from the box of
clothing his sheepskin, his loose coat with a hood, and his waterproof
overalls.
To lessen the hold of the wind upon the knotted
cord, he made the lower extremity fast to one of the riders of the Durande.=
The Durande being much driven in, this rider w=
as
bent a good deal, and it held the end of the cord as firmly as a tight hand=
.
There was still the difficulty of the upper en=
d of
the cord. To control the lower part was well, but at the summit of the
escarpment at the spot where the knotted cord met the ridge of the plateau,
there was reason to fear that it would be fretted and worn away by the sharp
angle of the rock.
Gilliatt searched in the heap of rubbish in
reserve, and took from it some rags of sail-cloth, and from a bunch of old
cables he pulled out some strands of rope-yarn with which he filled his
pockets.
A sailor would have guessed that he intended to
bind with these pieces of sail-cloth and ends of yarn the part of the knott=
ed
rope upon the edge of the rock, so as to preserve it from all friction--an
operation which is called "keckling."
Having provided himself with these things, he =
drew
on his overalls over his legs, put on his waterproof coat over his jacket, =
drew
its hood over his red cap, hung the sheepskin round his neck by the two leg=
s,
and clothed in this complete panoply, he grasped the cord, now firmly fixed=
to
the side of the Great Douvre, and mounted to the assault of that sombre cit=
adel
in the sea.
In spite of his scratched hands, Gilliatt easi=
ly
regained the summit.
The last pale tints of sunset were fading in t=
he
sky. It was night upon the sea below. A little light still lingered upon the
height of the Douvre.
Gilliatt took advantage of this remains of
daylight to bind the knotted rope. He wound it round again and again at the
part which passed over the edge of the rock, with a bandage of several
thicknesses of canvas strongly tied at every turn. The whole resembled in s=
ome
degree the padding which actresses place upon their knees, to prepare them =
for
the agonies and supplications of the fifth act.
This binding completely accomplished, Gilliatt
rose from his stooping position.
For some moments, while he had been busied in =
his
task, he had had a confused sense of a singular fluttering in the air.
It resembled, in the silence of the evening, t=
he
noise which an immense bat might make with the beating of its wings.
Gilliatt raised his eyes.
A great black circle was revolving over his he=
ad
in the pale twilight sky.
Such circles are seen in pictures round the he=
ads
of saints. These, however, are golden on a dark ground, while the circle ar=
ound
Gilliatt was dark upon a pale ground. The effect was strange. It spread rou=
nd
the Great Douvre like the aureole of night.
The circle drew nearer, then retired; grew
narrower, and then spread wide again.
It was an immense flight of gulls, seamews, and
cormorants; a vast multitude of affrighted sea birds.
The Great Douvre was probably their lodging, a=
nd
they were coming to rest for the night. Gilliatt had taken a chamber in the=
ir
home. It was evident that their unexpected fellow-lodger disturbed them.
A man there was an object they had never beheld
before.
Their wild flutter continued for some time.
They seemed to be waiting for the stranger to
leave the place.
Gilliatt followed them dreamily with his eyes.=
The flying multitude seemed at last to give up
their design. The circle suddenly took a spiral form, and the cloud of sea
birds came down upon "The Man Rock" at the extremity of the group,
where they seemed to be conferring and deliberating.
Gilliatt, after settling down in his alcove of
granite, and covering a stone for a pillow for his head, could hear the bir=
ds
for a long time chattering one after the other, or croaking, as if in turns=
.
Then they were silent, and all were sleeping--=
the
birds upon their rock, Gilliatt upon his.
=
Gilliatt
slept well; but he was cold, and this awoke him from time to time. He had
naturally placed his feet at the bottom, and his head at the entrance to his
cave. He had not taken the precaution to remove from his couch a number of
angular stones, which did not by any means conduce to sleep.
Now and then he half-opened his eyes.
At intervals he heard loud noises. It was the
rising tide entering the caverns of the rocks with a sound like the report =
of a
cannon.
All the circumstances of his position conspire= d to produce the effect of a vision. Hallucinations seemed to surround him. The vagueness of night increased this effect; and Gilliatt felt himself plunged into some region of unrealities. He asked himself if all were not a dream?<= o:p>
Then he dropped to sleep again; and this time,=
in
a veritable dream, found himself at the Bû de la Rue, at the
Bravées, at St. Sampson. He heard Déruchette singing; he was
among realities. While he slept he seemed to wake and live; when he awoke a=
gain
he appeared to be sleeping.
In truth, from this time forward he lived in a
dream.
Towards the middle of the night a confused mur=
mur
filled the air. Gilliatt had a vague consciousness of it even in his sleep.=
It
was perhaps a breeze arising.
Once, when awakened by a cold shiver, he opened
his eyes a little wider than before. Clouds were moving in the zenith; the =
moon
was flying through the sky, with one large star following closely in her
footsteps.
Gilliatt's mind was full of the incidents of h=
is
dreams. The wild outlines of things in the darkness were exaggerated by this
confusion with the impressions of his sleeping hours.
At daybreak he was half-frozen; but he slept
soundly.
The sudden daylight aroused him from a slumber
which might have been dangerous. The alcove faced the rising sun.
Gilliatt yawned, stretched himself, and sprang=
out
of his sleeping place.
His sleep had been so deep that he could not at
first recall the circumstances of the night before.
By degrees the feeling of reality returned, an=
d he
began to think of breakfast.
The weather was calm; the sky cool and serene.=
The
clouds were gone; the night wind had cleared the horizon, and the sun rose
brightly. Another fine day was commencing. Gilliatt felt joyful.
He threw off his overcoat and his leggings; ro= lled them up in the sheepskin with the wool inside, fastened the roll with a len= gth of rope-yarn, and pushed it into the cavern for a shelter in case of rain.<= o:p>
This done, he made his bed--an operation which
consisted in removing the stones which had annoyed him in the night.
His bed made, he slid down the cord on to the =
deck
of the Durande, and approached the niche where he had placed his basket of
provisions. As it was very near the edge, the wind in the night had swept it
down, and rolled it into the sea.
It was evident that it would not be easy to
recover it. There was a spirit of mischief and malice in a wind which had
sought out his basket in that position.
It was the commencement of hostilities. Gillia=
tt
understood the token.
To those who live in a state of rude familiari=
ty
with the sea, it becomes natural to regard the wind as an individuality, and
the rocks as sentient beings.
Nothing remained but the biscuit and the rye-m=
eal,
except the shell-fish, on which the shipwrecked sailor had supported a
lingering existence upon "The Man Rock."
It was useless to think of subsisting by net or
line fishing. Fish are naturally averse to the neighbourhood of rocks. The =
drag
and bow net fishers would waste their labour among the breakers, the points=
of
which would be destructive only to their nets.
Gilliatt breakfasted on a few limpets which he
plucked with difficulty from the rocks. He narrowly escaped breaking his kn=
ife
in the attempt.
While he was making his spare meal, he was
sensible of a strange disturbance on the sea. He looked around.
It was a swarm of gulls and seamews which had =
just
alighted upon some low rocks, and were beating their wings, tumbling over e=
ach
other, screaming, and shrieking. All were swarming noisily upon the same po=
int.
This horde with beaks and talons were evidently pillaging something.
It was Gilliatt's basket.
Rolled down upon a sharp point by the wind, the
basket had burst open. The birds had gathered round immediately. They were
carrying off in their beaks all sorts of fragments of provisions. Gilliatt
recognised from the distance his smoked beef and his salted fish.
It was their turn now to be aggressive. The bi=
rds
had taken to reprisals. Gilliatt had robbed them of their lodging, they
deprived him of his supper.
=
A week
passed.
Although it was in the rainy season no rain fe=
ll,
a fact for which Gilliatt felt thankful. But the work he had entered upon
surpassed, in appearance at least, the power of human hand or skill. Success
appeared so improbable that the attempt seemed like madness.
It is not until a task is fairly grappled with
that its difficulties and perils become fully manifest. There is nothing li=
ke
making a commencement for making evident how difficult it will be to come to
the end. Every beginning is a struggle against resistance. The first step i=
s an
exorable undeceiver. A difficulty which we come to touch pricks like a thor=
n.
Gilliatt found himself immediately in the pres=
ence
of obstacles.
In order to raise the engine of the Durande fr=
om
the wreck in which it was three-fourths buried, with any chance of success-=
-in
order to accomplish a salvage in such a place and in such a season, it seem=
ed almost
necessary to be a legion of men. Gilliatt was alone; a complete apparatus of
carpenters' and engineers' tools and implements were wanted. Gilliatt had a
saw, a hatchet, a chisel, and a hammer. He wanted both a good workshop and a
good shed; Gilliatt had not a roof to cover him. Provisions, too, were
necessary, but he had not even bread.
Any one who could have seen Gilliatt working on
the rock during all that first work might have been puzzled to determine the
nature of his operations. He seemed to be no longer thinking either of the
Durande or the two Douvres. He was busy only among the breakers: he seemed
absorbed in saving the smaller parts of the shipwreck. He took advantage of
every high tide to strip the reefs of everything which the shipwreck had di=
stributed
among them. He went from rock to rock, picking up whatever the sea had
scattered--tatters of sail-cloth, pieces of iron, splinters of panels,
shattered planking, broken yards--here a beam, there a chain, there a pulle=
y.
At the same time he carefully surveyed all the
recesses of the rocks. To his great disappointment none were habitable. He =
had
suffered from the cold in the night, where he lodged between the stones on =
the
summit of the rock, and he would gladly have found some better refuge.
Two of those recesses were somewhat extensive.
Although the natural pavement of rock was almost everywhere oblique and une=
ven
it was possible to stand upright, and even to walk within them. The wind an=
d the
rain wandered there at will, but the highest tides did not reach them. They
were near the Little Douvre, and were approachable at any time. Gilliatt
decided that one should serve him as a storehouse, the other as a forge.
With all the sail, rope-bands, and all the
reef-earrings he could collect, he made packages of the fragments of wreck,
tying up the wood and iron in bundles, and the canvas in parcels. He lashed=
all
these together carefully. As the rising tide approached these packages, he =
began
to drag them across the reefs to his storehouse. In the hollow of the rocks=
he
had found a top rope, by means of which he had been able to haul even the l=
arge
pieces of timber. In the same manner he dragged from the sea the numerous
portions of chains which he found scattered among the breakers.
Gilliatt worked at these tasks with astonishing
activity and tenacity. He accomplished whatever he attempted--nothing could
withstand his ant-like perseverance.
At the end of the week he had gathered into th=
is
granite warehouse of marine stores, and ranged into order, all this
miscellaneous and shapeless mass of salvage. There was a corner for the tac=
ks
of sails and a corner for sheets. Bow-lines were not mixed with halliards;
parrels were arranged according to their number of holes. The coverings of =
rope-yarn,
unwound from the broken anchorings, were tied in bunches; the dead-eyes wit=
hout
pulleys were separated from the tackle-blocks. Belaying-pins, bullseyes,
preventer-shrouds, down-hauls, snatch-blocks, pendents, kevels, trusses,
stoppers, sailbooms, if they were not completely damaged by the storm, occu=
pied
different compartments. All the cross-beams, timber-work, uprights, stanchi=
ons,
mast-heads, binding-strakes, portlids, and clamps, were heaped up apart.
Wherever it was possible, he had fixed the fragments of planks, from the
vessel's bottom, one in the other. There was no confusion between reef-poin=
ts
and nippers of the cable, nor of crow's-feet with towlines; nor of pulleys =
of
the small with pulleys of the large ropes; nor of fragments from the waist =
with
fragments from the stern. A place had been reserved for a portion of the
cat-harpings of the Durande, which had supported the shrouds of the topmast=
and
the futtock-shrouds. Every portion had its place. The entire wreck was there
classed and ticketed. It was a sort of chaos in a storehouse.
A stay-sail, fixed by huge stones, served, tho=
ugh
torn and damaged, to protect what the rain might have injured.
Shattered as were the bows of the wreck, he had
succeeded in saving the two cat-heads with their three pulley-blocks.
He had found the bowsprit too, and had had much
trouble in unrolling its gammoning; it was very hard and tight, having been,
according to custom, made by the help of the windlass, and in dry weather.
Gilliatt, however, persevered until he had detached it, this thick rope
promising to be very useful to him.
He had been equally successful in discovering =
the
little anchor which had become fast in the hollow of a reef, where the rece=
ding
tide had left it uncovered.
In what had been Tangrouille's cabin he had fo=
und
a piece of chalk, which he preserved carefully. He reflected that he might =
have
some marks to make.
A fire-bucket and several pails in pretty good
condition completed this stock of working materials.
All that remained of the store of coal of the
Durande he carried into the warehouse.
In a week this salvage of débris was
finished; the rock was swept clean, and the Durande was lightened. Nothing
remained now to burden the hull except the machinery.
The portion of the fore-side bulwarks which hu=
ng
to it did not distress the hull. The mass hung without dragging, being part=
ly
sustained by a ledge of rock. It was, however, large and broad, and heavy to
drag, and would have encumbered his warehouse too much. This bulwarking loo=
ked something
like a boat-builder's stocks. Gilliatt left it where it was.
He had been profoundly thoughtful during all t=
his
labour. He had sought in vain for the figure-head--the "doll," as=
the
Guernsey folks called it, of the Durande. It was one of the things which the
waves had carried away for ever. Gilliatt would have given his hands to find
it--if he had not had such peculiar need of them at that time.
At the entrance to the storehouse and outside =
were
two heaps of refuse--a heap of iron good for forging, and a heap of wood go=
od
for burning.
Gilliatt was always at work at early dawn. Exc=
ept
his time of sleep, he did not take a moment of repose.
The wild sea birds, flying hither and thither,
watched him at his work.
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%'>X - T=
HE
FORGE
=
The
warehouse completed, Gilliatt constructed his forge.
The other recess which he had chosen had withi=
n it
a species of passage like a gallery in a mine of pretty good depth. He had =
had
at first an idea of making this his lodging, but the draught was so continu=
ous
and so persevering in this passage that he had been compelled to give it up=
. This
current of air, incessantly renewed, first gave him the notion of the forge.
Since it could not be his chamber, he was determined that this cabin should=
be
his smithy. To bend obstacles to our purposes is a great step towards trium=
ph.
The wind was Gilliatt's enemy. He had set about making it his servant.
The proverb applied to certain kinds of
men--"Fit for everything, good for nothing"--may also be applied =
to
the hollows of rocks. They give no advantages gratuitously. On one side we =
find
a hollow fashioned conveniently in the shape of a bath; but it allows the w=
ater
to run away through a fissure. Here is a rocky chamber, but without a roof;
here a bed of moss, but oozy with wet; here an arm-chair, but one of hard s=
tone.
The forge which Gilliatt intended was roughly
sketched out by nature; but nothing could be more troublesome than to reduce
this rough sketch to manageable shape, to transform this cavern into a
laboratory and smith's shop. With three or four large rocks, shaped like a
funnel, and ending in a narrow fissure, chance had constructed there a spec=
ies
of vast ill-shapen blower, of very different power to those huge old forge =
bellows
of fourteen feet long, which poured out at every breath ninety-eight thousa=
nd
inches of air. This was quite a different sort of construction. The proport=
ions
of the hurricane cannot be definitely measured.
This excess of force was an embarrassment. The
incessant draught was difficult to regulate.
The cavern had two inconveniences; the wind
traversed it from end to end; so did the water.
This was not the water of the sea, but a conti=
nual
little trickling stream, more like a spring than a torrent.
The foam, cast incessantly by the surf upon the
rocks and sometimes more than a hundred feet in the air, had filled with sea
water a natural cave situated among the high rocks overlooking the excavati=
on.
The overflowings of this reservoir caused, a little behind the escarpment, =
a fall
of water of about an inch in breadth, and descending four or five fathoms. =
An
occasional contribution from the rains also helped to fill the reservoir. F=
rom
time to time a passing cloud dropped a shower into the rocky basin, always
overflowing. The water was brackish, and unfit to drink, but clear. This ri=
ll
of water fell in graceful drops from the extremities of the long marine
grasses, as from the ends of a length of hair.
He was struck with the idea of making this wat=
er
serve to regulate the draught in the cave. By the means of a funnel made of
planks roughly and hastily put together to form two or three pipes, one of
which was fitted with a valve, and of a large tub arranged as a lower
reservoir, without checks or counterweight, and completed solely by air-tig=
ht
stuffing above and air-holes below, Gilliatt, who, as we have already said,=
was
handy at the forge and at the mechanic's bench, succeeded in constructing,
instead of the forge-bellows, which he did not possess, an apparatus less
perfect than what is known now-a-days by the name of a "cagniardelle,&=
quot;
but less rude than what the people of the Pyrenees anciently called a
"trompe."
He had some rye-meal, and he manufactured with=
it
some paste. He had also some white rope, which picked out into tow. With th=
is
paste and tow, and some bits of wood, he stopped all the crevices of the ro=
ck, leaving
only a little air passage made of a powder-flask which he had found aboard =
the
Durande, and which had served for loading the signal gun. This powder-flask=
was
directed horizontally to a large stone, which Gilliatt made the hearth of t=
he
forge. A stopper made of a piece of tow served to close it in case of need.=
After this, he heaped up the wood and coal upon
the hearth, struck his steel against the bare rock, caught a spark upon a
handful of loose tow, and having ignited it, soon lighted his forge fire.
He tried the blower: it worked well.
Gilliatt felt the pride of a Cyclops: he was t=
he
master of air, water, and fire. Master of the air; for he had given a kind =
of
lungs to the wind, and changed the rude draught into a useful blower. Maste=
r of
water, for he had converted the little cascade into a "trompe."
Master of fire, for out of this moist rock he had struck a flame.
The cave being almost everywhere open to the s=
ky,
the smoke issued freely, blackening the curved escarpment. The rocks which
seemed destined for ever to receive only the white foam, became now familia=
r with
the blackening smoke.
Gilliatt selected for an anvil a large smooth
round stone, of about the required shape and dimensions. It formed a base f=
or
the blows of his hammer; but one that might fly and was very dangerous. One=
of
the extremities of this block, rounded and ending in a point, might, for wa=
nt
of anything better, serve instead of a conoid bicorn; but the other kind of
bicorn of the pyramidal form was wanting. It was the ancient stone anvil of=
the
Troglodytes. The surface, polished by the waves, had almost the firmness of
steel.
He regretted not having brought his anvil. As =
he
did not know that the Durande had been broken in two by the tempest, he had
hoped to find the carpenter's chest and all his tools generally kept in the
forehold. But it was precisely the fore-part of the vessel which had been
carried away.
These two excavations which he had found in the
rock were contiguous. The warehouse and the forge communicated with each ot=
her.
Every evening, when his work was ended, he sup=
ped
on a little biscuit, moistened in water, a sea-urchin or a crab, or a few
châtaignes de mer, the only food to be found among those rocks; and
shivering like his knotted cord, mounted again to sleep in his cell upon the
Great Douvre.
The very materialism of his daily occupation
increased the kind of abstraction in which he lived. To be steeped too deep=
ly
in realities is in itself a cause of visionary moods. His bodily labour, wi=
th
its infinite variety of details, detracted nothing from the sensation of st=
upor
which arose from the strangeness of his position and his work. Ordinary bod=
ily
fatigue is a thread which binds man to the earth; but the very peculiarity =
of
the enterprise he was engaged in kept him in a sort of ideal twilight regio=
n.
There were times when he seemed to be striking blows with his hammer in the
clouds. At other moments his tools appeared to him like arms. He had a sing=
ular
feeling, as if he was repressing or providing against some latent danger of
attack. Untwisting ropes, unravelling threads of yarn in a sail, or proppin=
g up
a couple of beams, appeared to him at such times like fashioning engines of
war. The thousand minute pains which he took about his salvage operations p=
roduced
at last in his mind the effect of precautions against aggressions little
concealed, and easy to anticipate. He did not know the words which express =
the
ideas, but he perceived them. His instincts became less and less those of t=
he
worker; his habits more and more those of the savage man.
His business there was to subdue and direct the
powers of nature. He had an indistinct perception of it. A strange enlargem=
ent
of his ideas!
Around him, far as eye could reach, was the va=
st
prospect of endless labour wasted and lost. Nothing is more disturbing to t=
he
mind than the contemplation of the diffusion of forces at work in the
unfathomable and illimitable space of the ocean. The mind tends naturally to
seek the object of these forces. The unceasing movement in space, the
unwearying sea, the clouds that seem ever hurrying somewhere, the vast
mysterious prodigality of effort, all this is a problem. Whither does this =
perpetual
movement tend? What do these winds construct? What do these giant blows bui=
ld
up? These howlings, shocks, and sobbings of the storm, what do they end in?=
and
what is the business of this tumult? The ebb and flow of these questionings=
is
eternal, as the flux and reflux of the sea itself. Gilliatt could answer for
himself; his work he knew, but the agitation which surrounded him far and w=
ide
at all times perplexed him confusedly with its eternal questionings. Unknow=
n to
himself, mechanically, by the mere pressure of external things, and without=
any
other effect than a strange, unconscious bewilderment, Gilliatt, in this dr=
eamy
mood, blended his own toil somehow with the prodigious wasted labour of the
sea-waves. How, indeed, in that position, could he escape the influence of =
that
mystery of the dread, laborious ocean? how do other than meditate, so far as
meditation was possible, upon the vacillation of the waves, the perseveranc=
e of
the foam, the imperceptible wearing down of rocks, the furious beatings of =
the
four winds? How terrible that perpetual recommencement, that ocean bed, tho=
se Danaïdes-like
clouds, all that travail and weariness for no end!
For no end? Not so! But for what? O Thou Infin=
ite
Unknown, Thou only knowest!
=
A rock
near the coast is sometimes visited by men; a rock in mid-ocean never. What
object could any one have there? No supplies can be drawn thence; no
fruit-trees are there, no pasturage, no beasts, no springs of water fitted =
for
man's use. It stands aloft, a rock with its steep sides and summits above
water, and its sharp points below. Nothing is to be found there but inevita=
ble
shipwreck.
This kind of rocks, which in the old sea diale=
ct
were called Isolés, are, as we have said, strange places. The sea is
alone there; she works her own will. No token of terrestrial life disturbs =
her.
Man is a terror to the sea; she is shy of his approach, and hides from him =
her
deeds. But she is bolder among the lone sea rocks. The everlasting soliloqu=
y of
the waves is not troubled there. She labours at the rock, repairs its damag=
e,
sharpens its peaks, makes them rugged or renews them. She pierces the grani=
te,
wears down the soft stone, and denudes the hard; she rummages, dismembers,
bores, perforates, and grooves; she fills the rock with cells, and makes it
sponge-like, hollows out the inside, or sculptures it without. In that secr=
et
mountain which is hers, she makes to herself caves, sanctuaries, palaces. S=
he
has her splendid and monstrous vegetation, composed of floating plants which
bite, and of monsters which take root; and she hides away all this terrible=
magnificence
in the twilight of her deeps. Among the isolated rocks no eye watches over =
her;
no spy embarrasses her movements. It is there that she develops at liberty =
her
mysterious side, which is inaccessible to man. Here she keeps all strange
secretions of life. Here that the unknown wonders of the sea are assembled.=
Promontories, forelands, capes, headlands,
breakers, and shoals are veritable constructions. The geological changes of=
the
earth are trifling compared with the vast operations of the ocean. These
breakers, these habitations in the sea, these pyramids, and spouts of the f=
oam
are the practicers of a mysterious art which the author of this book has so=
mewhere
called "the Art of Nature." Their style is known by its vastness.=
The
effects of chance seem here design. Its works are multiform. They abound in=
the
mazy entanglement of the rock-coral groves, the sublimity of the cathedral,=
the
extravagance of the pagoda, the amplitude of the mountain, the delicacy of =
the
jeweller's work, the horror of the sepulchre. They are filled with cells li=
ke
the wasps' nest, with dens like menageries, with subterranean passages like=
the
haunts of moles, with dungeons like Bastiles, with ambuscades like a camp. =
They
have their doors, but they are barricaded; their columns, but they are
shattered; their towers, but they are tottering; their bridges, but they are
broken. Their compartments are unaccommodating; these are fitted for the bi=
rds
only, those only for fish. They are impassable. Their architectural style is
variable and inconsistent; it regards or disregards at will the laws of
equilibrium, breaks off, stops short, begins in the form of an archivolt, a=
nd
ends in an architrave, block on block. Enceladus is the mason. A wondrous
science of dynamics exhibits here its problems ready solved. Fearful
overhanging blocks threaten, but fall not: the human mind cannot guess what
power supports their bewildering masses. Blind entrances, gaps, and pondero=
us
suspensions multiply and vary infinitely. The laws which regulate this Babel
baffle human induction. The great unknown architect plans nothing, but succ=
eeds
in all. Rocks massed together in confusion form a monstrous monument, defy
reason, yet maintain equilibrium. Here is something more than strength; it =
is
eternity. But order is wanting. The wild tumult of the waves seems to have
passed into the wilderness of stone. It is like a tempest petrified and fix=
ed
for ever. Nothing is more impressive than that wild architecture; always
standing, yet always seeming to fall; in which everything appears to give
support, and yet to withdraw it. A struggle between opposing lines has resu=
lted
in the construction of an edifice, filled with traces of the efforts of tho=
se
old antagonists, the ocean and the storm.
This architecture has its terrible masterpiece=
s,
of which the Douvres rock was one.
The sea had fashioned and perfected it with a
sinister solicitude. The snarling waters licked it into shape. It was hideo=
us,
treacherous, dark, full of hollows.
It had a complete system of submarine caverns
ramifying and losing themselves in unfathomed depths. Some of the orifices =
of
this labyrinth of passages were left exposed by the low tides. A man might
enter there, but at his risk and peril.
Gilliatt determined to explore all these grott=
oes,
for the purpose of his salvage labour. There was not one which was not
repulsive. Everywhere about the caverns that strange aspect of an abattoir,
those singular traces of slaughter, appeared again in all the exaggeration =
of the
ocean. No one who has not seen in excavations of this kind, upon the walls =
of
everlasting granite, these hideous natural frescoes, can form a notion of t=
heir
singularity.
These pitiless caverns, too, were false and sl=
y.
Woe betide him who would loiter there. The rising tide filled them to their
roofs.
Rock limpets and edible mosses abounded among
them.
They were obstructed by quantities of shingle,
heaped together in their recesses. Some of their huge smooth stones weighed
more than a ton. They were of every proportion, and of every hue; but the
greater part were blood coloured. Some, covered with a hairy and glutinous
seaweed, seemed like large green moles boring a way into the rock.
Several of the caverns terminated abruptly in =
the
form of a demi-cupola. Others, main arteries of a mysterious circulation,
lengthened out in the rock in dark and tortuous fissures. They were the all=
eys
of the submarine city; but they gradually contracted from their entrances, =
and at
length left no way for a man to pass. Peering in by the help of a lighted
torch, he could see nothing but dark hollows dripping with moisture.
One day, Gilliatt, exploring, ventured into on=
e of
these fissures. The state of the tide favoured the attempt. It was a beauti=
ful
day of calm and sunshine. There was no fear of any accident from the sea to
increase the danger.
Two necessities, as we have said, compelled hi=
m to
undertake these explorations. He had to gather fragments of wreck and other
things to aid him in his labour, and to search for crabs and crayfish for h=
is food.
Shell-fish had begun to fail him on the rocks.
The fissure was narrow, and the passage diffic=
ult.
Gilliatt could see daylight beyond. He made an effort, contorted himself as
much as he could, and penetrated into the cave as far as he was able.
He had reached, without suspecting it, the
interior of the rock, upon the point of which Clubin had steered the Durand=
e.
Though abrupt and almost inaccessible without, it was hollowed within. It w=
as
full of galleries, pits, and chambers, like the tomb of an Egyptian king. T=
his network
of caverns was one of the most complicated of all that labyrinth, a labour =
of
the water, the undermining of the restless sea. The branches of the
subterranean maze probably communicated with the sea without by more than o=
ne
issue, some gaping at the level of the waves, the others profound and
invisible. It was near here, but Gilliatt knew it not, that Clubin had dived
into the sea.
In this crocodile cave--where crocodiles, it is
true, were not among the dangers--Gilliatt wound about, clambered, struck h=
is
head occasionally, bent low and rose again, lost his footing and regained it
many times, advancing laboriously. By degrees the gallery widened; a glimme=
r of
daylight appeared, and he found himself suddenly at the entrance to a caver=
n of
a singular kind.
=
The
gleam of daylight was fortunate.
One step further, and Gilliatt must have fallen
into a pool, perhaps without bottom. The waters of these cavern pools are so
cold and paralysing as to prove fatal to the strongest swimmers.
There is, moreover, no means of remounting or =
of
hanging on to any part of their steep walls.
He stopped short. The crevice from which he had
just issued ended in a narrow and slippery projection, a species of corbel =
in
the peaked wall. He leaned against the side and surveyed it.
He was in a large cave. Over his head was a
roofing not unlike the inside of a vast skull, which might have been imagin=
ed
to have been recently dissected. The dripping ribs of the striated indentat=
ions
of the roof seemed to imitate the branching fibres and jagged sutures of the
bony cranium. A stony ceiling and a watery floor. The rippled waters between
the four walls of the cave were like wavy paving tiles. The grotto was shut=
in
on all sides. Not a window, not even an air-hole visible. No breach in the
wall, no crack in the roof. The light came from below and through the water=
, a
strange, sombre light.
Gilliatt, the pupils of whose eyes had contrac=
ted
during his explorations of the dusky corridor, could distinguish everything
about him in the pale glimmer.
He was familiar, from having often visited the=
m,
with the caves of Plémont in Jersey, the Creux-Maillé at
Guernsey, the Boutiques at Sark; but none of these marvellous caverns could
compare with the subterranean and submarine chamber into which he had made =
his
way.
Under the water at his feet he could see a sor=
t of
drowned arch. This arch, a natural ogive, fashioned by the waves, was
glittering between its two dark and profound supports. It was by this subme=
rged
porch that the daylight entered into the cavern from the open sea. A strange
light shooting upward from a gulf.
The glimmer spread out beneath the waters like=
a
large fan, and was reflected on the rocks. Its direct rays, divided into lo=
ng,
broad shafts, appeared in strong relief against the darkness below, and bec=
oming
brighter or more dull from one rock to another, looked as if seen here and
there through plates of glass. There was light in that cave it is true; but=
it
was the light that was unearthly. The beholder might have dreamed that he h=
ad
descended in some other planet. The glimmer was an enigma, like the glaucous
light from the eye-pupil of a Sphinx. The whole cave represented the interi=
or
of a death's-head of enormous proportions, and of a strange splendour. The
vault was the hollow of the brain, the arch the mouth; the sockets of the e=
yes
were wanting. The cavern, alternately swallowing and rendering up the flux =
and
reflux through its mouth wide opened to the full noonday without, seemed to
drink in the light and vomit forth bitterness; a type of some beings
intelligent and evil. The light, in traversing this inlet through the vitre=
ous
medium of the sea-water, became green, like a ray of starlight from Aldebar=
an.
The water, filled with the moist light, appeared like a liquid emerald. A t=
int
of aqua-marina of marvellous delicacy spread a soft hue throughout the cave=
rn.
The roof, with its cerebral lobes, and its rampant ramifications, like the
fibres of nerves, gave out a tender reflection of chrysoprase. The ripples =
reflected
on the roof were falling in order and dissolving again incessantly, and
enlarging and contracting their glittering scales in a mysterious and mazy
dance. They gave the beholder an impression of something weird and spectral=
: he
wondered what prey secured, or what expectation about to be realised, moved
with a joyous thrill this magnificent network of living fire. From the
projections of the vault, and the angles of the rock, hung lengths of delic=
ate
fibrous plants, bathing their roots probably through the granite in some up=
per
pool of water, and distilling from their silky ends one after the other, a =
drop
of water like a pearl. These drops fell in the water now and then with a ge=
ntle
splash. The effect of the scene was singular. Nothing more beautiful could =
be
imagined; nothing more mournful could anywhere be found.
It was a wondrous palace, in which death sat
smiling and content.
A
place of shade, which yet was dazzling to the eyes--such was this surprising
cavern.
The beating of the sea made itself felt throug=
hout
the cavern. The oscillation without raised and depressed the level of the
waters within, with the regularity of respiration. A mysterious spirit seem=
ed
to fill this great organism, as it swelled and subsided in silence.
The water had a magical transparency, and Gill=
iatt
distinguished at various depths submerged recesses, and surfaces of jutting
rocks ever of a deeper and a deeper green. Certain dark hollows, too, were
there, probably too deep for soundings.
On each side of the submarine porch, rude
elliptical arches, filled with shallows, indicated the position of small
lateral caves, low alcoves of the central cavern, accessible, perhaps, at
certain tides. These openings had roofs in the form of inclined planes, and=
at
angles more or less acute. Little sandy beaches of a few feet wide, laid ba=
re
by the action of the water, stretched inward, and were lost in these recess=
es.
Here and there seaweeds of more than a fathom =
in
length undulated beneath the water, like the waving of long tresses in the
wind; and there were glimpses of a forest of sea plants.
Above and below the surface of the water, the =
wall
of the cavern from top to bottom--from the vault down to the depth at which=
it
became invisible--was tapestried with that prodigious efflorescence of the =
sea,
rarely perceived by human eyes, which the old Spanish navigators called pra=
derias
del mar. A luxuriant moss, having all the tints of the olive, enlarged and
concealed the protuberances of granite. From all the jutting points swung t=
he
thin fluted strips of varech, which sailors use as their barometers. The li=
ght
breath which stirred in the cavern waved to and fro their glossy bands.
Under these vegetations there showed themselves
from time to time some of the rarest bijoux of the casket of the ocean; ivo=
ry
shells, strombi, purple-fish, univalves, struthiolaires, turriculated cerit=
es. The
bell-shaped limpet shells, like tiny huts, were everywhere adhering to the
rocks, distributed in settlements, in the alleys between which prowled
oscabrions, those beetles of the sea. A few large pebbles found their way i=
nto
the cavern; shell-fish took refuge there. The crustacea are the grandees of=
the
sea, who, in their lacework and embroidery, avoid the rude contact of the
pebbly crowd. The glittering heap of their shells, in certain spots under t=
he
wave, gave out singular irradiations, amidst which the eye caught glimpses =
of
confused azure and gold, and mother-of-pearl, of every tint of the water.
Upon the side of the cavern, a little above the
water-line, a magnificent and singular plant, attaching itself, like a frin=
ge,
to the border of seaweed, continued and completed it. This plant, thick, fi=
brous,
inextricably intertwined, and almost black, exhibited to the eye large conf=
used
and dusky festoons, everywhere dotted with innumerable little flowers of the
colour of lapis-lazuli. In the water they seemed to glow like small blue
flames. Out of the water they were flowers; beneath it they were sapphires.=
The
water rising and inundating the basement of the grotto clothed with these
plants, seemed to cover the rock with gems.
At every swelling of the wave these flowers
increased in splendour, and at every subsidence grew dull again. So it is w=
ith
the destiny of man; aspiration is life, the outbreathing of the spirit is
death.
One of the marvels of the cavern was the rock
itself. Forming here a wall, there an arch, and here again a pillar or
pilaster, it was in places rough and bare, and sometimes close beside, was
wrought with the most delicate natural carving. Strange evidences of mind
mingled with the massive stolidity of the granite. It was the wondrous art-=
work
of the ocean. Here a sort of panel, cut square, and covered with round embo=
ssments
in various positions, simulated a vague bas-relief. Before this sculpture, =
with
its obscure designs, a man might have dreamed of Prometheus roughly sketchi=
ng
for Michael Angelo. It seemed as if that great genius with a few blows of h=
is
mallet could have finished the indistinct labours of the giant. In other pl=
aces
the rock was damasked like a Saracen buckler, or engraved like a Florentine
vase. There were portions which appeared like Corinthian brass, then like
arabesques, as on the door of a mosque; then like Runic stones with obscure=
and
mystic prints of claws. Plants with twisted creepers and tendrils, crossing=
and
recrossing upon the groundwork of golden lichens, covered it with filigree.=
The
grotto resembled in some wise a Moorish palace. It was a union of barbarism=
and
of goldsmith's work, with the imposing and rugged architecture of the eleme=
nts.
The magnificent stains and moulderings of the =
sea
covered, as with velvet, the angles of granite. The escarpments were festoo=
ned
with large-flowered bindweed, sustaining itself with graceful ease, and orn=
amenting
the walls as by intelligent design. Wall-pellitories showed their strange
clusters in tasteful arrangement. The wondrous light which came from beneath
the water, at once a submarine twilight and an Elysian radiance, softened d=
own
and blended all harsh lineaments. Every wave was a prism. The outlines of
things under these rainbow-tinted undulations produced the chromatic effect=
s of
optical glasses made too convex. Solar spectra shot through the waters.
Fragments of rainbows seemed floating in that transparent dawn. Elsewhere--=
in
other corners--there was discernible a kind of moonlight in the water. Every
kind of splendour seemed to mingle there, forming a strange sort of twiligh=
t.
Nothing could be more perplexing or enigmatical than the sumptuous beauties=
of this
cavern. Enchantment reigned over all. The fantastic vegetation, the rude
masonry of the place seemed to harmonise. It was a happy marriage this, bet=
ween
these strange wild things. The branches seeming but to touch one another cl=
ung
closely each to each. The stern rock and the pale flower met in a passionate
embrace. Massive pillars had capitals and entwining wreaths of delicate
garlands, that quivered through every fibre, suggestive of fairy fingers
tickling the feet of a Behemoth, and the rock upheld the plant, and the pla=
nt
clasped the rock with unnatural joy of attraction.
The effect produced by the mysterious
reconciliation of these strange forms was of a supreme and inexpressible
beauty.
The works of nature, not less than the works of
genius, contain the absolute, and produce an impression of awe. Something
unexpected about them imperiously insists on our mental submission; we are
conscious of a premeditation beyond our human scope, and at no time are they
more startling than when we suddenly become aware of the beauty that is min=
gled
with their terror.
This hidden grotto was, if we may use the
expression, siderealised. There was everything in it to surprise and overwh=
elm.
An apocalyptic light illuminated this crypt. One could not tell if that whi=
ch
the eyes looked upon was a reality, for reality bore the impress of the imp=
ossible.
One could see, and touch, and know that one was standing there, and yet it =
was
difficult to believe in it all.
Was it daylight which entered by this casement
beneath the sea? Was it indeed water which trembled in this dusky pool? Were
not these arched roofs and porches fashioned out of sunset clouds to imitat=
e a
cavern to men's eyes? What stone was that beneath the feet? Was not this so=
lid shaft
about to melt and pass into thin air? What was that cunning jewellery of
glittering shells, half seen beneath the wave? How far away were life, and =
the
green earth, and human faces? What strange enchantment haunted that mystic
twilight? What blind emotion, mingling its sympathies with the uneasy
restlessness of plants beneath the wave?
At the extremity of the cavern, which was oblo=
ng,
rose a Cyclopean archivolte, singularly exact in form. It was a species of =
cave
within a cave, of tabernacle within a sanctuary. Here, behind a sheet of br=
ight
verdure, interposed like the veil of a temple, arose a stone out of the wav=
es,
having square sides, and bearing some resemblance to an altar. The water
surrounded it in all parts. It seemed as if a goddess had just descended fr=
om
it. One might have dreamed there that some celestial form beneath that cryp=
t or
upon that altar dwelt for ever pensive in naked beauty, but grew invisible =
at
the approach of mortals. It was hard to conceive that majestic chamber with=
out
a vision within. The day-dream of the intruder might evoke again the marvel=
lous
apparition. A flood of chaste light falling upon white shoulders scarcely s=
een;
a forehead bathed with the light of dawn; an Olympian visage oval-shaped; a
bust full of mysterious grace; arms modestly drooping; tresses unloosened in
the aurora; a body delicately modelled of pure whiteness, half-wrapped in a
sacred cloud, with the glance of a virgin; a Venus rising from the sea, or =
Eve
issuing from chaos; such was the dream which filled the mind.
It seemed improbable that no phantom figure
haunted this abode. Some woman's form, the embodiment of a star, had no dou=
bt
but shortly left the altar. Enveloped in this atmosphere of mute adoration =
the
mind pictured an Amphitryon, a Tethys, some Diana capable of passion, some =
idealistic
figure formed of light, looking softly down in the surrounding dusk. It was=
she
who had left behind in the cave this perfumed luminosity, an emanation from=
her
star-body. The dazzling phantom was no longer visible, she was only reveale=
d by
the invisible, and the sense of her presence lingered, setting the whole be=
ing voluptuously
a-quiver. The goddess had departed, but divinity remained.
The beauty of the recess seemed made for this
celestial presence. It was for the sake of this deity, this fairy of the pe=
arl
caverns, this queen of the Zephyrs, this Grace born of the waves, it was for
her--as the mind, at least, imagined--that this subterranean dwelling had b=
een
thus religiously walled in, so that nothing might ever trouble the reverent=
shadows
and the majestic silence round about that divine spirit.
Gilliatt, who was a kind of seer amid the secr=
ets
of nature, stood there musing, and sensible of confused emotions.
Suddenly, at a few feet below him, in the
delightful transparence of that water like liquid jewels, he became sensibl=
e of
the approach of something of mystic shape. A species of long ragged band was
moving amidst the oscillation of the waves. It did not float, but darted ab=
out of
its own will. It had an object; was advancing somewhere rapidly. The object=
had
something of the form of a jester's bauble with points, which hung flabby a=
nd
undulating. It seemed covered with a dust incapable of being washed away by=
the
water. It was more than horrible; it was foul. The beholder felt that it was
something monstrous. It was a living thing; unless, indeed, it were but an
illusion. It seemed to be seeking the darker portion of the cavern, where at
last it vanished. The heavy shadows grew darker as its sinister form glided=
into
them, and disappeared.
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%'>BOOK =
II - THE
LABOUR
=
The
cavern did not easily part with its explorers. The entry had been difficult;
going back was more difficult still. Gilliatt, however, succeeded in
extricating himself; but he did not return there. He had found nothing of w=
hat
he was in quest of, and he had not the time to indulge curiosity.
He put the forge in operation at once. Tools w=
ere
wanting; he set to work and made them.
For fuel he had the wreck; for motive force the
water; for his bellows the wind; for his anvil a stone; for art his instinc=
t;
for power his will.
He entered with ardour upon his sombre labours=
.
The weather seemed to smile upon his work. It
continued to be dry and free from equinoctial gales. The month of March had
come, but it was tranquil. The days grew longer. The blue of the sky, the
gentleness of all the movements of the scene, the serenity of the noontide,
seemed to exclude the idea of mischief. The waves danced merrily in the sun=
light.
A Judas kiss is the first step to treachery; of such caresses the ocean is
prodigal. Her smile, like that of woman's sometimes, cannot be trusted.
There was little wind. The hydraulic bellows
worked all the better for that reason. Much wind would have embarrassed rat=
her
than aided it. Gilliatt had a saw; he manufactured for himself a file. With=
the
saw he attacked the wood; with the file the metal. Then he availed himself =
of the
two iron hands of the smith--the pincers and the pliers. The pincers gripe,=
the
pliers handle; the one is like the closed hand, the other like the fingers.=
By
degrees he made for himself a number of auxiliaries, and constructed his
armour. With a piece of hoop-wood he made a screen for his forge-fire.
One of his principal labours was the sorting a=
nd
repair of pulleys. He mended both the blocks and the sheaves of tackle. He =
cut
down the irregularities of all broken joists, and reshaped the extremities.=
He had,
as we have said, for the necessities of his carpentry, a quantity of pieces=
of
wood, stored away, and arranged according to the forms, the dimensions, and=
the
nature of their grain; the oak on one side, the pine on the other; the short
pieces like riders, separated from the straight pieces like binding strakes.
This formed his reserve of supports and levers, of which he might stand in
great need at any moment.
Any one who intends to construct hoisting tack=
le
ought to provide himself with beams and small cables. But that is not
sufficient. He must have cordage. Gilliatt restored the cables, large and
small. He frayed out the tattered sails, and succeeded in converting them i=
nto
an excellent yarn, of which he made twine. With this he joined the ropes. T=
he
joins, however, were liable to rot. It was necessary, therefore, to hasten =
to
make use of these cables. He had only been able to make white tow, for he w=
as
without tar.
The ropes mended, he proceeded to repair the
chains.
Thanks to the lateral point of the stone anvil,
which served the part of the conoid bicorn, he was able to forge rings rude=
in
shape but strong. With these he fastened together the severed lengths of
chains, and made long pieces.
To work at a forge without assistance is somet=
hing
more than troublesome. He succeeded nevertheless. It is true that he had on=
ly
to forge and shape articles of comparatively small size, which he was able =
to
handle with the pliers in one hand, while he hammered with the other.
He cut into lengths the iron bars of the capta=
in's
bridge on which Clubin used to pass to and fro from paddle-box to paddle-box
giving his orders; forged at one extremity of each piece a point, and at the
other a flat head. By this means he manufactured large nails of about a foo=
t in
length. These nails, much used in pontoon making, are useful in fixing anyt=
hing
in rocks.
What was his object in all these labours? We s=
hall
see.
He was several times compelled to renew the bl=
ade
of his hatchet and the teeth of his saw. For renotching the saw he had
manufactured a three-sided file.
Occasionally he made use of the capstan of the
Durande. The hook of the chain broke: he made another.
By the aid of his pliers and pincers, and by u=
sing
his chisel as a screwdriver, he set to work to remove the two paddle-wheels=
of
the vessel; an object which he accomplished. This was rendered practicable =
by
reason of a peculiarity in their construction. The paddle-boxes which cover=
ed
them served him to stow them away. With the planks of these paddle-boxes, he
made two cases in which he deposited the two paddles, piece by piece, each =
part
being carefully numbered.
His lump of chalk became precious for this
purpose.
He kept the two cases upon the strongest part =
of
the wreck.
When these preliminaries were completed, he fo=
und
himself face to face with the great difficulty. The problem of the engine of
the Durande was now clearly before him.
Taking the paddle-wheels to pieces had proved
practicable. It was very different with the machinery.
In the first place, he was almost entirely
ignorant of the details of the mechanism. Working thus blindly he might do =
some
irreparable damage. Then, even in attempting to dismember it, if he had
ventured on that course, far other tools would be necessary than such as he
could fabricate with a cavern for a forge, a wind-draught for bellows, and =
a stone
for an anvil. In attempting, therefore, to take to pieces the machinery, th=
ere
was the risk of destroying it.
The attempt seemed at first sight wholly
impracticable.
The apparent impossibility of the project rose
before him like a stone wall, blocking further progress.
What was to be done?
=
=
Gilliatt
had a notion.
Since the time of the carpenter-mason of Salbr=
is,
who, in the sixteenth century, in the dark ages of science--long before
Amontons had discovered the first law of electricity, or Lahire the second,=
or Coulomb
the third--without other helper than a child, his son, with ill-fashioned
tools, in the chamber of the great clock of La Charité-sur-Loire,
resolved at one stroke five or six problems in statics and dynamics
inextricably intervolved like the wheels in a block of carts and waggons--s=
ince
the time of that grand and marvellous achievement of the poor workman, who
found means, without breaking a single piece of wire, without throwing one =
of
the teeth of the wheels out of gear, to lower in one piece, by a marvellous
simplification, from the second story of the clock-tower to the first, that
massive monitor of the hours, made all of iron and brass, "large as the
room in which the man watches at night from the tower," with its motio=
n,
its cylinders, its barrels, its drum, its hooks, and its weights, the barre=
l of
its spring steel-yard, its horizontal pendulum, the holdfasts of its escape=
ment,
its reels of large and small chains, its stone weights, one of which weighed
five hundred pounds, its bells, its peals, its jacks that strike the
hours--since the days, I say, of the man who accomplished this miracle, and=
of
whom posterity knows not even the name--nothing that could be compared with=
the
project which Gilliatt was meditating had ever been attempted.
The ponderousness, the delicacy, the involveme=
nt
of the difficulties were not less in the machinery of the Durande than in t=
he
clock of La Charité-sur-Loire.
The untaught mechanic had his helpmate--his so=
n;
Gilliatt was alone.
A crowd gathered together from Meung-sur-Loire, from Nevers, and even from Orleans, able at time of need to assist the maso= n of Salbris, and to encourage him with their friendly voices. Gilliatt had arou= nd him no voices but those of the wind; no crowd but the assemblage of waves.<= o:p>
There is nothing more remarkable than the timi=
dity
of ignorance, unless it be its temerity. When ignorance becomes daring, she=
has
sometimes a sort of compass within herself--the intuition of the truth, cle=
arer
oftentimes in a simple mind than in a learned brain.
Ignorance invites to an attempt. It is a state=
of
wonderment, which, with its concomitant curiosity, forms a power. Knowledge
often enough disconcerts and makes over-cautious. Gama, had he known what l=
ay
before him, would have recoiled before the Cape of Storms. If Columbus had =
been
a great geographer, he might have failed to discover America.
The second successful climber of Mont Blanc was
the savant, Saussure; the first the goatherd, Balmat.
These instances I admit are exceptions, which
detract nothing from science, which remains the rule. The ignorant man may
discover; it is the learned who invent.
The sloop was still at anchor in the creek of
"The Man Rock," where the sea left it in peace. Gilliatt, as will=
be
remembered, had arranged everything for maintaining constant communication =
with
it. He visited the sloop and measured her beam carefully in several parts, =
but particularly
her midship frame. Then he returned to the Durande and measured the diamete=
r of
the floor of the engine-room. This diameter, of course, without the paddles,
was two feet less than the broadest part of the deck of his bark. The
machinery, therefore, might be put aboard the sloop.
But how could it be got there?
=
Any
fisherman who had been mad enough to loiter in that season in the neighbour=
hood
of Gilliatt's labours about this time would have been repaid for his hardih=
ood,
by a singular sight between the two Douvres.
Before his eyes would have appeared four stout
beams, at equal distances, stretching from one Douvre to the other, and
apparently forced into the rock, which is the firmest of all holds. On the
Little Douvre, their extremities were laid and buttressed upon the projecti=
ons of
rock. On the Great Douvre, they had been driven in by blows of a hammer, by=
the
powerful hand of a workman standing upright upon the beam itself. These
supports were a little longer than the distance between the rocks. Hence the
firmness of their hold; and hence, also, their slanting position. They touc=
hed
the Great Douvre at an acute, and the Little Douvre at an obtuse angle. The=
ir
inclination was only slight; but it was unequal, which was a defect. But for
this defect, they might have been supposed to be prepared to receive the
planking of a deck. To these four beams were attached four sets of hoisting
apparatus, each having its pendent and its tackle-fall, with the bold
peculiarity of having the tackle-blocks with two sheaves at one extremity of
the beam, and the simple pulleys at the opposite end. This distance, which =
was
too great not to be perilous, was necessitated by the operations to be
effected. The blocks were firm, and the pulleys strong. To this tackle-gear=
cables
were attached, which from a distance looked like threads; while beneath this
apparatus of tackle and carpentry, in the air, the massive hull of the Dura=
nde
seemed suspended by threads.
She was not yet suspended, however. Under the
cross beams, eight perpendicular holes had been made in the deck, four on t=
he
port, and four on the starboard side of the engine; eight other holes had b=
een made
beneath them through the keel. The cables, descending vertically from the f=
our
tackle-blocks, through the deck, passed out at the keel, and under the
machinery, re-entered the ship by the holes on the other side, and passing
again upward through the deck, returned, and were wound round the beams. He=
re a
sort of jigger-tackle held them in a bunch bound fast to a single cable,
capable of being directed by one arm. The single cable passed over a hook, =
and
through a dead-eye, which completed the apparatus, and kept it in check. Th=
is
combination compelled the four tacklings to work together, and acting as a
complete restraint upon the suspending powers, became a sort of dynamical
rudder in the hand of the pilot of the operation, maintaining the movements=
in
equilibrium. The ingenious adjustment of this system of tackling had some of
the simplifying qualities of the Weston pulley of these times, with a mixtu=
re
of the antique polyspaston of Vitruvius. Gilliatt had discovered this, alth=
ough
he knew nothing of the dead Vitruvius or of the still unborn Weston. The le=
ngth
of the cables varied, according to the unequal declivity of the cross-beams.
The ropes were dangerous, for the untarred hemp was liable to give way. Cha=
ins
would have been better in this respect, but chains would not have passed we=
ll
through the tackle-blocks.
The apparatus was full of defects; but as the =
work
of one man, it was surprising. For the rest, it will be understood that many
details are omitted which would render the construction perhaps intelligibl=
e to
practical mechanics, but obscure to others.
The top of the funnel passed between the two b=
eams
in the middle.
Gilliatt, without suspecting it, had
reconstructed, three centuries later, the mechanism of the Salbris carpente=
r--a
mechanism rude and incorrect, and hazardous for him who would dare to use i=
t.
Here let us remark, that the rudest defects do=
not
prevent a mechanism from working well or ill. It may limp, but it moves. The
obelisk in the square of St. Peter's at Rome is erected in a way which offe=
nds
against all the principles of statics. The carriage of the Czar Peter was s=
o constructed
that it appeared about to overturn at every step; but it travelled onward f=
or
all that. What deformities are there in the machinery of Marly! Everything =
that
is heterodox in hydraulics. Yet it did not supply Louis XIV. any the less w=
ith
water.
Come what might, Gilliatt had faith. He had ev=
en
anticipated success so confidently as to fix in the bulwarks of the sloop, =
on
the day when he measured its proportions, two pairs of corresponding iron r=
ings
on each side, exactly at the same distances as the four rings on board the =
Durande,
to which were attached the four chains of the funnel.
He had in his mind a very complete and settled
plan. All the chances being against him, he had evidently determined that a=
ll
the precautions at least should be on his side.
He did some things which seemed useless; a sig=
n of
attentive premeditation.
His manner of proceeding would, as we have sai= d, have puzzled an observer, even though familiar with mechanical operations.<= o:p>
A witness of his labour who had seen him, for
example, with enormous efforts, and at the risk of breaking his neck, drivi=
ng
with blows of his hammer eight or ten great nails which he had forged into =
the
base of the two Douvres at the entrance of the defile between them, would h=
ave
had some difficulty in understanding the object of these nails, and would p=
robably
have wondered what could be the use of all that trouble.
If he had then seen him measuring the portion =
of
the fore bulwark which had remained, as we have described it, hanging on by=
the
wreck, then attaching a strong cable to the upper edge of that portion, cut=
ting
away with strokes of his hatchet the dislocated fastenings which held it, t=
hen
dragging it out of the defile, pushing the lower part by the aid of the
receding tide, while he dragged the upper part; finally, by great labour,
fastening with the cable this heavy mass of planks and piles wider than the
entrance of the defile itself, with the nails driven into the base of the
Little Douvre, the observer would perhaps have found it still more difficul=
t to
comprehend, and might have wondered why Gilliatt, if he wanted for the purp=
ose
of his operations to disencumber the space between the two rocks of this ma=
ss,
had not allowed it to fall into the sea, where the tide would have carried =
it
away.
Gilliatt had probably his reasons.
In fixing the nails in the basement of the roc=
ks,
he had taken advantage of all the cracks in the granite, enlarged them where
needful, and driven in first of all wedges of wood, in which he fixed the
nails. He made a rough commencement of similar preparations in the two rocks
which rose at the other extremity of the narrow passage on the eastern side=
. He
furnished with plugs of wood all the crevices, as if he desired to keep the=
se
also ready to hold nails or clamps; but this appeared to be a simple
precaution, for he did not use them further. He was compelled to economise,=
and
only to use his materials as he had need, and at the moment when the necess=
ity
for them came. This was another addition to his numerous difficulties.
As fast as one labour was accomplished another
became necessary. Gilliatt passed without hesitation from task to task, and
resolutely accomplished his giant strides.
<=
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SUB RE
=
The
aspect of the man who accomplished all these labours became terrible.
Gilliatt in his multifarious tasks expended all
his strength at once, and regained it with difficulty.
Privations on the one hand, lassitude on the
other, had much reduced him. His hair and beard had grown long. He had but =
one
shirt which was not in rags. He went about bare-footed, the wind having car=
ried
away one of his shoes and the sea the other. Fractures of the rude and
dangerous stone anvil which he used had left small wounds upon his hands and
arms, the marks of labour. These wounds, or rather scratches, were superfic=
ial;
but the keen air and the salt sea irritated them continually.
He was generally hungry, thirsty, and cold.
His store of fresh water was gone; his rye-meal
was used or eaten. He had nothing left but a little biscuit.
This he broke with his teeth, having no water =
in
which to steep it.
By little and little, and day by day, his powe=
rs
decreased.
The terrible rocks were consuming his existenc=
e.
How to obtain food was a problem; how to get d=
rink
was a problem; how to find rest was a problem.
He ate when he was fortunate enough to find a
crayfish or a crab; he drank when he chanced to see a sea-bird descend upon=
a
point of rock; for on climbing up to the spot he generally found there a ho=
llow
with a little fresh water. He drank from it after the bird; sometimes with =
the bird;
for the gulls and seamews had become accustomed to him, and no longer flew =
away
at his approach. Even in his greatest need of food he did not attempt to mo=
lest
them. He had, as will be remembered, a superstition about birds. The birds =
on
their part--now that his hair was rough and wild and his beard long--had no
fear of him. The change in his face gave them confidence; he had lost
resemblance to men, and taken the form of the wild beast.
The birds and Gilliatt, in fact, had become go=
od
friends. Companions in poverty, they helped each other. As long as he had h=
ad
any meal, he had crumbled for them some little bits of the cakes he made. In
his deeper distress they showed him in their turn the places where he might
find the little pools of water.
He ate the shell-fish raw. Shell-fish help in a
certain degree to quench the thirst. The crabs he cooked. Having no kettle,=
he
roasted them between two stones made red-hot in his fire, after the manner =
of
the savages of the Feroe islands.
Meanwhile signs of the equinoctial season had
begun to appear. There came rain--an angry rain. No showers or steady torre=
nts,
but fine, sharp, icy, penetrating points which pierced to his skin through =
his clothing,
and to his bones through his skin. It was a rain which yielded little water=
for
drinking, but which drenched him none the less.
Chary of assistance, prodigal of misery--such =
was
the character of these rains. During one week Gilliatt suffered from them a=
ll
day and all night.
At night, in his rocky recess, nothing but the
overpowering fatigue of his daily work enabled him to get sleep. The great
sea-gnats stung him, and he awakened covered with blisters.
He had a kind of low fever, which sustained hi=
m;
this fever is a succour which destroys. By instinct he chewed the mosses, or
sucked the leaves of wild cochlearia, scanty tufts of which grew in the dry
crevices of the rocks. Of his suffering, however, he took little heed. He h=
ad
no time to spare from his work to the consideration of his own privations. =
The
rescue of the machinery of the Durande was progressing well. That sufficed =
for
him.
Every now and then, for the necessities of his
work, he jumped into the water, swam to some point, and gained a footing ag=
ain.
He simply plunged into the sea and left it, as a man passes from one room in
his dwelling to another.
His clothing was never dry. It was saturated w=
ith
rain water, which had no time to evaporate, and with sea water, which never
dries. He lived perpetually wet.
Living in wet clothing is a habit which may be
acquired. The poor groups of Irish people--old men, mothers, girls almost
naked, and infants--who pass the winter in the open air, under the snow and
rain, huddled together, sometimes at the corners of houses in the streets o=
f London,
live and die in this condition.
To be soaked with wet, and yet to be thirsty:
Gilliatt grew familiar with this strange torture. There were times when he =
was
glad to suck the sleeve of his loose coat.
The fire which he made scarcely warmed him. A =
fire
in open air yields little comfort. It burns on one side, and freezes on the
other.
Gilliatt often shivered even while sweating ov=
er
his forge.
Everywhere about him rose resistance amidst a
terrible silence. He felt himself the enemy of an unseen combination. There=
is
a dismal non possumus in nature. The inertia of matter is like a sullen thr=
eat.
A mysterious persecution environed him. He suffered from heats and shiverin=
gs.
The fire ate into his flesh; the water froze him; feverish thirst tormented
him; the wind tore his clothing; hunger undermined the organs of the body. =
The
oppression of all these things was constantly exhausting him. Obstacles sil=
ent,
immense, seemed to converge from all points, with the blind irresponsibilit=
y of
fate, yet full of a savage unanimity. He felt them pressing inexorably upon
him. No means were there of escaping from them. His sufferings produced the
impression of some living persecutor. He had a constant sense of something
working against him, of a hostile form ever present, ever labouring to circ=
umvent
and to subdue him. He could have fled from the struggle; but since he remai=
ned,
he had no choice but to war with this impenetrable hostility. He asked hims=
elf
what it was. It took hold of him, grasped him tightly, overpowered him,
deprived him of breath. The invisible persecutor was destroying him by slow
degrees. Every day the oppression became greater, as if a mysterious screw =
had
received another turn.
His situation in this dreadful spot resembled a
duel, in which a suspicion of some treachery haunts the mind of one of the
combatants.
Now it seemed a coalition of obscure forces wh=
ich
surrounded him. He felt that there was somewhere a determination to be rid =
of
his presence. It is thus that the glacier chases the loitering ice-block.
Almost without seeming to touch him this latent
coalition had reduced him to rags; had left him bleeding, distressed, and, =
as
it were, hors de combat, even before the battle. He laboured, indeed, not t=
he less--without
pause or rest; but as the work advanced, the workman himself lost ground. It
might have been fancied that Nature, dreading his bold spirit, adopted the =
plan
of slowly undermining his bodily power. Gilliatt kept his ground, and left =
the
rest to the future. The sea had begun by consuming him; what would come nex=
t?
The double Douvres--that dragon made of granit=
e,
and lying in ambush in mid-ocean--had sheltered him. It had allowed him to
enter, and to do his will; but its hospitality resembled the welcome of
devouring jaws.
The desert, the boundless surface, the
unfathomable space around him and above, so full of negatives to man's will;
the mute, inexorable determination of phenomena following their appointed
course; the grand general law of things, implacable and passive; the ebbs a=
nd
flows; the rocks themselves, dark Pleiades whose points were each a star am=
id vortices,
a centre of an irradiation of currents; the strange, indefinable conspiracy=
to
stifle with indifference the temerity of a living being; the wintry winds, =
the
clouds, and the beleaguering waves enveloped him, closed round him slowly, =
and
in a measure shut him in, and separated him from companionship, like a dung=
eon
built up by degrees round a living man. All against him; nothing for him; he
felt himself isolated, abandoned, enfeebled, sapped, forgotten. His storeho=
use
empty, his tools broken or defective; he was tormented with hunger and thir=
st by
day, with cold by night. His sufferings had left him with wounds and tatter=
s,
rags covering sores, torn hands, bleeding feet, wasted limbs, pallid cheeks,
and eyes bright with a strange light; but this was the steady flame of his
determination.
The virtue of a man is betrayed by his eyes. H=
ow
much of the man there is in us may be read in their depths. We make ourselv=
es
known by the light that gleams beneath our brows. The petty natures wink at=
us,
the larger send forth flashes. If there is no brilliancy under the lids, th=
ere
is no thought in the brain, no love in the heart. Those who love desire, and
those who desire sparkle and flash. Determination gives a fire to the glanc=
e, a
magnificent fire that consumes all timid thoughts.
It is the self-willed ones who are sublime. He=
who
is only brave, has but a passing fit, he who is only valiant has temperament
and nothing more, he who is courageous has but one virtue. He who persists =
in
the truth is the grand character. The secret of great hearts may be summed =
up
in the word: Perseverando. Perseverance is to courage what the wheel is to =
the
lever; it is the continual renewing of the centre of support. Let the desir=
ed
goal be on earth or in heaven, only make for the goal. Everything is in tha=
t;
in the first case one is a Columbus, in the second a god. Not to allow
conscience to argue or the will to fail--this is the way to suffering and g=
lory.
In the world of ethics to fall does not exclude the possibility of soaring,
rather does it give impetus to flight. The mediocrities allow themselves to=
be
dissuaded by the specious obstacles--the great ones never. To perish is the=
ir
perhaps, to conquer their conviction. You may propose many good reasons to =
the martyr
why he should not allow himself to be stoned to death. Disdain of every
reasonable objection begets that sublime victory of the vanquished which we
call martyrdom.
All his efforts seemed to tend to the impossib=
le.
His success was trifling and slow. He was compelled to expend much labour f=
or
very little results. This it was that gave to his struggle its noble and pa=
thetic
character.
That it should have required so many preparati=
ons,
so much toil, so many cautious experiments, such nights of hardship, and su=
ch
days of danger, merely to set up four beams over a shipwrecked vessel, to
divide and isolate the portion that could be saved, and to adjust to that w=
reck
within a wreck four tackle-blocks with their cables was only the result of =
his
solitary labour. Fate had decreed him the work, and necessity obliged him to
carry it out.
That solitary position Gilliatt had more than
accepted; he had deliberately chosen it. Dreading a competitor, because a
competitor might have proved a rival, he had sought for no assistance. The =
overwhelming
enterprise, the risk, the danger, the toil multiplied by itself, the possib=
le
destruction of the salvor in his work, famine, fever, nakedness, distress--=
he
had chosen all these for himself! Such was his selfishness. He was like a m=
an
placed in some terrible chamber which is being slowly exhausted of air. His
vitality was leaving him by little and little. He scarcely perceived it.
Exhaustion of the bodily strength does not
necessarily exhaust the will. Faith is only a secondary power; the will is =
the
first. The mountains, which faith is proverbially said to move, are nothing
beside that which the will can accomplish. All that Gilliatt lost in vigour=
, he
gained in tenacity. The destruction of the physical man under the oppressiv=
e influence
of that wild surrounding sea, and rock, and sky, seemed only to reinvigorate
his moral nature.
Gilliatt felt no fatigue; or, rather, would not
yield to any. The refusal of the mind to recognise the failings of the body=
is
in itself an immense power.
He saw nothing, except the steps in the progre=
ss
of his labours.
His object--now seeming so near
attainment--wrapped him in perpetual illusions.
He endured all this suffering without any other
thought than is comprised in the word "Forward." His work flew to=
his
head; the strength of the will is intoxicating. Its intoxication is called
heroism.
He had become a kind of Job, having the ocean =
for
the scene of his sufferings. But he was a Job wrestling with difficulty, a =
Job
combating and making head against afflictions; a Job conquering! a combinat=
ion
of Job and Prometheus, if such names are not too great to be applied to a p=
oor
sailor and fisher of crabs and crayfish.
<=
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UB
UMBRA
=
Sometimes
in the night-time Gilliatt woke and peered into the darkness.
He felt a strange emotion.
His eyes were opened upon the black night; the
situation was dismal; full of disquietude.
There is such a thing as the pressure of darkn=
ess.
A strange roof of shadow; a deep obscurity, wh=
ich
no diver can explore; a light mingled with that obscurity, of a strange,
subdued, and sombre kind; floating atoms of rays, like a dust of seeds or of
ashes; millions of lamps, but no illumining; a vast sprinkling of fire, of
which no man knows the secret; a diffusion of shining points, like a drift =
of
sparks arrested in their course; the disorder of the whirlwind, with the fi=
xedness
of death; a mysterious and abyssmal depth; an enigma, at once showing and
concealing its face; the Infinite in its mask of darkness--these are the
synonyms of night. Its weight lies heavily on the soul of man.
This union of all mysteries--the mystery of the
Cosmos and the mystery of Fate--oppresses human reason.
The pressure of darkness acts in inverse
proportion upon different kinds of natures. In the presence of night man fe=
els
his own incompleteness. He perceives the dark void and is sensible of
infirmity. It is like the vacancy of blindness. Face to face with night, man
bends, kneels, prostrates himself, crouches on the earth, crawls towards a
cave, or seeks for wings. Almost always he shrinks from that vague presence=
of the
Infinite Unknown. He asks himself what it is; he trembles and bows the head.
Sometimes he desires to go to it.
To go whither?
He can only answer, "Yonder."
But what is that? and what is there?
This curiosity is evidently forbidden to the
spirit of man; for all around him the roads which bridge that gulf are brok=
en
up or gone. No arch exists for him to span the Infinite. But there is
attraction in forbidden knowledge, as in the edge of the abyss. Where the
footstep cannot tread, the eye may reach; where the eye can penetrate no
further, the mind may soar. There is no man, however feeble or insufficient=
his
resources, who does not essay. According to his nature he questions or reco=
ils
before that mystery. With some it has the effect of repressing; with others=
it
enlarges the soul. The spectacle is sombre, indefinite.
Is the night calm and cloudless? It is then a
depth of shadow. Is it stormy? It is then a sea of cloud. Its limitless dee=
ps
reveal themselves to us, and yet baffle our gaze: close themselves against
research, but open to conjecture. Its innumerable dots of light only make
deeper the obscurity beyond. Jewels, scintillations, stars; existences reve=
aled
in the unknown universes; dread defiances to man's approach; landmarks of t=
he
infinite creation; boundaries there, where there are no bounds; sea-marks
impossible, and yet real, numbering the fathoms of those infinite deeps. One
microscopic glittering point; then another; then another; imperceptible, yet
enormous. Yonder light is a focus; that focus is a star; that star is a sun;
that sun is a universe; that universe is nothing. For all numbers are as ze=
ro
in the presence of the Infinite.
These worlds, which yet are nothing, exist.
Through this fact we feel the difference which separates the being nothing =
from
the not to be.
The inaccessible joined to the inexplicable, s=
uch
is the universe. From the contemplation of the universe is evolved a sublime
phenomenon: the soul growing vast through its sense of wonder. A reverent f=
ear
is peculiar to man; the beasts know no such fear.
His intelligence becomes conscious in this aug=
ust
terror of its own power and its own weakness.
Darkness has unity, hence arises horror; at the
same time it is complex, and hence terror. Its unity weighs on the spirit a=
nd
destroys all desire of resistance. Its complexity causes us to look around =
on
all sides; apparently we have reason to fear sudden happenings. We yield and
yet are on guard. We are in presence of the whole, hence submission; and of=
the
many, hence defiance.
The unity of darkness contains a multiple, a
mysterious plurality--visible in matter, realised in thought. Silence rules
all; another reason for watchfulness.
Night--and he who writes this has said it
elsewhere--is the right and normal condition of that special part of creati=
on
to which we belong. Light, brief of duration here as throughout space, is b=
ut
the nearness of a star. This universal, prodigious night does not fulfil
itself, without friction, and all such friction in such a mechanism means w=
hat we
call evil. We feel this darkness to be evil, a latent denial of divine orde=
r,
the implicit blasphemy of the real rebelling against the ideal. Evil
complicates, by one knows not what hydra-headed monstrosity, the vast, cosm=
ic
whole.
Everywhere it arises and resists.
It is the tempest, and hinders the hastening s=
hip;
it is chaos, and trammels the birth of a world. Good is one; evil is
ubiquitous. Evil dislocates the logic of Life. It causes the bird to devour=
the
fly and the comet to destroy the planet. Evil is a blot on the page of
creation.
The darkness of night is full of vertiginous
uncertainty.
Whoso would sound its depths is submerged, and
struggles therein.
What fatigue to be compared to this contemplat=
ion
of shadows. It is the study of annihilation.
There is no sure hold on which the soul may re=
st.
There are ports of departure, and no havens for arrival. The interlacing of
contradictory solutions; all the branches of doubt seen at a glance; the
ramifications of phenomena budding limitlessly from some undefined impulse;
laws intersecting each other; an incomprehensible promiscuity causing the m=
ineral
to become vegetable; the vegetable to rise to higher life; thought to gather
weight; love to shine and gravitation to attract; the immense range present=
ed
to view by all questions, extending itself into the limitless obscurity; the
half seen, suggesting the unknown; the cosmic correlation appearing clearly,
not to sight but to intelligence, in the vast, dim space; the invisible bec=
ome
visible--these are the great overshadowing! Man lives beneath it. He is
ignorant of detail, but he carries, in such proportion as he is able to bea=
r,
the weight of the monstrous whole. This obsession prompted the astronomy of=
the
Chaldean shepherds. Involuntary revelations flow from creation; hints of
science fall from it unconsciously and are absorbed by the ignorant. Every =
solitary,
impregnated in this mysterious way, becomes, without being aware of it, a
natural philosopher.
The darkness is indivisible. It is inhabited.
Inhabited by the changeless absolute; inhabited also by change. Action exis=
ts
there, disquieting thought! An awful creative will works out its phases. Pr=
emeditations,
Powers, fore-ordained Destinies, elaborate there together an incommensurable
work. A life of horror and terror is hidden therein. There are vast evoluti=
ons
of suns; the stellar family, the planetary family; zodiacal pollen; the Quid
Divinum of currents; effluvia, polarisations, and attractions; there are
embraces and antagonisms; a magnificent flux and reflux of universal
antithesis; the imponderable, free-floating around fixed centres; there is =
the
sap of globes and light beyond globes; the wandering atom, the scattered ge=
rm, the
processes of fecundity, meetings for union and for combat; unimagined
profusion, distances which are as a dream, vertiginous orbits, the rush of
worlds into the incalculable; marvels following each other in the obscurity.
One mechanism works throughout in the breath of fleeing spheres, and the wh=
eels
that we know are turning. The sage conjectures; the ignorant man believes a=
nd
trembles. These things exist and yet are hidden; they are inexpugnable, bey=
ond
reach, beyond approach.
We are convinced and oppressed--we feel, we kn=
ow
not what dark evidence within us; we realise nothing, but are crushed by the
impalpable.
All is incomprehensible, but nothing is
unintelligible.
And add to all that, the tremendous question: =
Is
this immanent universe a Being?
We exist beneath the shadow. We look; we liste=
n.
And meanwhile the dark earth rolls onward. The flowers are conscious of this
tremendous motion; the one opens at eleven in the evening and the other at =
five
in the morning. Astounding sense of law! And in other depths of wonder, the=
drop
of water is a world; the infusoria breed; animalculæ display gigantic
fecundity, the imperceptible reveals its grandeur, immensity manifests itse=
lf,
in an inverse sense; there are algæ that produce in an hour thirteen
hundred millions of their kind. Every enigma is propounded in one. The
irreducible is before us. Hence we are constrained to some kind of faith. An
involuntary belief is the result. But belief does not ensure peace of mind.
Faith has an extraordinary desire to take shape. Hence religions. Nothing i=
s so
overwhelming as a formless faith.
And despite of thought or desire or inward
resistance, to look at the darkness is to fall into profound and wondering
meditation. What can we make of these phenomena! How should we act beneath
their united forces? To divide such weight of oppression is impossible. What
reverie can follow all these mystic vistas? What abstruse revelations arise=
, stammering,
and are obscure from their very mass, as a hesitating speech. Darkness is
silence, but such a silence suggests everything. One majestic thought is the
result: God--God is the irrepressible idea that springs within man's soul.
Syllogisms, feuds, negations, systems, religions cannot destroy it. This id=
ea
is affirmed by the whole dark universe. Yet unrest is everywhere in fearful
immanence. The wondrous correlation of forces is manifested in the upholdin=
g of
the balanced darkness. The universe is suspended and nothing falls. Incessa=
nt
and immeasurable changes operate without accident or destruction. Man parti=
cipates
in the constant changes, and in experiencing such he names them Destiny. But
where does destiny begin? And where does nature end? What difference is the=
re between
an event and a season? between a sorrow and a rainfall? between a virtue an=
d a
star? An hour, is it not a rolling wave? The wheels of creation revolve
mechanically regardless of man. The starry sky is a vision of wheels,
pendulums, and counterpoise.
He who contemplates it cannot but ponder upon =
it.
It is the whole reality and yet the whole
abstraction. And nothing more. We are in prison and at the mercy of the
darkness, and no evasion is possible.
We are an integral part of the working of this=
unknown
whole; and we feel the mystery within us fraternising with the mystery beyo=
nd
us. Hence the sublimity of Death. What anguish! And yet what bliss to belon=
g to
the Infinite, and through the sense of the Infinite to recognise our inevit=
able
immortality, the possibility of an eternity; to grasp amid this prodigious
deluge of universal life, the persistent, imperishable Me; to look at the s=
tars
and say, The living soul within me is akin to you; to gaze into darkness and
cry, I am as unfathomable as thou! Such immensity is of night, and, added to
solitude, weighed heavily on Gilliatt's mind.
Did he understand it? No.
Did he feel it? Yes.
All these vague imaginings, increased and
intensified by solitude, weighed upon Gilliatt.
He understood them little, but he felt them. H=
is
was a powerful intellect clouded; a great spirit wild and untaught.
<=
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GILLIATT
PLACES THE SLOOP IN READINESS<=
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=
This
rescue of the machinery of the wreck as meditated by Gilliatt was, as we ha=
ve
already said, like the escape of a criminal from a prison--necessitating all
the patience and industry recorded of such achievements; industry carried to
the point of a miracle, patience only to be compared with a long agony. A
certain prisoner named Thomas, at the Mont Saint Michel, found means of
secreting the greater part of a wall in his paillasse. Another at Tulle, in
1820, cut away a quantity of lead from the terrace where the prisoners walk=
ed
for exercise. With what kind of knife? No one would guess. And melted this =
lead
with what fire? None have ever discovered; but it is known that he cast it =
in a
mould made of the crumbs of bread. With this lead and this mould he made a =
key,
and with this key succeeded in opening a lock of which he had never seen
anything but the keyhole. Some of this marvellous ingenuity Gilliatt posses=
sed.
He had once climbed and descended from the cliff at Boisrosé. He was=
the
Baron Trenck of the wreck, and the Latude of her machinery.
The sea, like a jailor, kept watch over him.
For the rest, mischievous and inclement as the
rain had been, he had contrived to derive some benefit from it. He had in p=
art
replenished his stock of fresh water; but his thirst was inextinguishable, =
and
he emptied his can as fast as he filled it.
One day--it was on the last day of April or the
first of May--all was at length ready for his purpose.
The engine-room was, as it were, enclosed betw=
een
the eight cables hanging from the tackle-blocks, four on one side, four on =
the
other. The sixteen holes upon the deck and under the keel, through which the
cables passed, had been hooped round by sawing. The planking had been sawed=
, the
timber cut with the hatchet, the ironwork with a file, the sheathing with t=
he
chisel. The part of the keel immediately under the machinery was cut
squarewise, and ready to descend with it while still supporting it. All this
frightful swinging mass was held only by one chain, which was itself only k=
ept
in position by a filed notch. At this stage, in such a labour and so near i=
ts
completion, haste is prudence.
The water was low; the moment favourable.
Gilliatt had succeeded in removing the axle of=
the
paddles, the extremities of which might have proved an obstacle and checked=
the
descent. He had contrived to make this heavy portion fast in a vertical pos=
ition
within the engine-room itself.
It was time to bring his work to an end. The
workman, as we have said, was not weary, for his will was strong; but his t=
ools
were. The forge was by degrees becoming impracticable. The blower had begun=
to
work badly. The little hydraulic fall being of sea-water, saline deposits h=
ad encrusted
the joints of the apparatus, and prevented its free action.
Gilliatt visited the creek of "The Man
Rock," examined the sloop, and assured himself that all was in good
condition, particularly the four rings fixed to starboard and to larboard; =
then
he weighed anchor, and worked the heavy barge-shaped craft with the oars ti=
ll
he brought it alongside the two Douvres. The defile between the rocks was w=
ide
enough to admit it. There was also depth enough. On the day of his arrival =
he had
satisfied himself that it was possible to push the sloop under the Durande.=
The feat, however, was difficult; it required =
the
minute precision of a watchmaker. The operation was all the more delicate f=
rom
the fact that, for his objects, he was compelled to force it in by the ster=
n,
rudder first. It was necessary that the mast and the ringing of the sloop s=
hould
project beyond the wreck in the direction of the sea.
These embarrassments rendered all Gilliatt's
operations awkward. It was not like entering the creek of "The Man,&qu=
ot;
where it was a mere affair of the tiller. It was necessary here to push, dr=
ag,
row, and take soundings all together. Gilliatt consumed but a quarter of an
hour in these manoeuvres; but he was successful.
In fifteen or twenty minutes the sloop was
adjusted under the wreck. It was almost wedged in there. By means of his two
anchors he moored the boat by head and stern. The strongest of the two was
placed so as to be efficient against the strongest wind that blows, which w=
as
that from the south-west. Then by the aid of a lever and the capstan, he
lowered into the sloop the two cases containing the pieces of the paddle-wh=
eel,
the slings of which were all ready. The two cases served as ballast.
Relieved of these encumbrances, he fastened to=
the
hook of the chain of the capstan the sling of the regulating tackle-gear,
intending to check the pulleys.
Owing to the peculiar objects of this labour, =
the
defects of the old sloop became useful qualities. It had no deck; her burden
therefore would have greater depth, and could rest upon the hold. Her mast =
was very
forward--too far forward indeed for general purposes; her contents therefore
would have more room, and the mast standing thus beyond the mass of the wre=
ck,
there would be nothing to hinder its disembarkation. It was a mere shell, or
case for receiving it; but nothing is more stable than this on the sea.
While engaged in these operations, Gilliatt
suddenly perceived that the sea was rising. He looked around to see from wh=
at
quarter the wind was coming.
<=
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SUDDEN
DANGER
=
The
breeze was scarcely perceptible; but what there was came from the west. A
disagreeable habit of the winds during the equinoxes.
The rising sea varies much in its effects upon=
the
Douvres rocks, depending upon the quarter of the wind.
According to the gale which drives them before=
it,
the waves enter the rocky corridor either from the east or from the west.
Entering from the east, the sea is comparatively gentle; coming from the we=
st,
it is always furious. The reason of this is, that the wind from the east bl=
owing
from the land has not had time to gather force; while the westerly winds,
coming from the Atlantic, blow unchecked from a vast ocean. Even a very sli=
ght
breeze, if it comes from the west, is serious. It rolls the huge billows fr=
om
the illimitable space and dashes the waves against the narrow defile in gre=
ater
bulk than can find entrance there.
A sea which rolls into a gulf is always terrib=
le.
It is the same with a crowd of people: a multitude is a sort of fluid body.
When the quantity which can enter is less than the quantity endeavouring to
force a way, there is a fatal crush among the crowd, a fierce convulsion on=
the
water. As long as the west wind blows, however slight the breeze, the Douvr=
es
are twice a day subjected to that rude assault. The sea rises, the tide bre=
asts
up, the narrow gullet gives little entrance, the waves, driven against it
violently, rebound and roar, and a tremendous surf beats the two sides of t=
he
gorge. Thus the Douvres, during the slightest wind from the west, present t=
he
singular spectacle of a sea comparatively calm without, while within the ro=
cks
a storm is raging. This tumult of waters, altogether confined and
circumscribed, has nothing of the character of a tempest. It is a mere local
outbreak among the waves, but a terrible one. As regards the winds from the
north and south, they strike the rocks crosswise, and cause little surf in =
the passage.
The entrance by the east, a fact which must be borne in mind, was close to
"The Man Rock." The dangerous opening to the west was at the oppo=
site
extremity, exactly between the two Douvres.
It was at this western entrance that Gilliatt
found himself with the wrecked Durande, and the sloop made fast beneath it.=
A catastrophe seemed inevitable. There was not
much wind, but it was sufficient for the impending mischief.
Before many hours, the swell which was rising
would be rushing with full force into the gorge of the Douvres. The first w=
aves
were already breaking. This swell, and eddy of the entire Atlantic, would h=
ave
behind it the immense sea. There would be no squall; no violence, but a sim=
ple overwhelming
wave, which commencing on the coasts of America, rolls towards the shores of
Europe with an impetus gathered over two thousand leagues. This wave, a
gigantic ocean barrier, meeting the gap of the rocks, must be caught between
the two Douvres, standing like watch-towers at the entrance, or like pillar=
s of
the defile. Thus swelled by the tide, augmented by resistance, driven back =
by
the shoals, and urged on by the wind, it would strike the rock with violenc=
e,
and with all the contortions from the obstacles it had encountered, and all=
the
frenzy of a sea confined in limits, would rush between the rocky walls, whe=
re
it would reach the sloop and the Durande, and, in all probability, destroy
them.
A shield against this danger was wanting. Gill=
iatt
had one.
The problem was to prevent the sea reaching it=
at
one bound; to obstruct it from striking, while allowing it to rise; to bar =
the
passage without refusing it admission; to prevent the compression of the wa=
ter
in the gorge, which was the whole danger; to turn an eruption into a simple=
flood;
to extract as it were from the waves all their violence, and constrain the
furies to be gentle; it was, in fact, to substitute an obstacle which will
appease, for an obstacle which irritates.
Gilliatt, with all that dexterity which he
possessed, and which is so much more efficient than mere force, sprang upon=
the
rocks like a chamois among the mountains or a monkey in the forest; using f=
or
his tottering and dizzy strides the smallest projecting stone; leaping into=
the
water, and issuing from it again; swimming among the shoals and clambering =
the
rocks, with a rope between his teeth and a mallet in his hand. Thus he deta=
ched
the cable which kept suspended and also fast to the basement of the Little
Douvre the end of the forward side of the Durande; fashioned out of some en=
ds
of hawsers a sort of hinges, holding this bulwark to the huge nails fixed in
the granite; swung this apparatus of planks upon them, like the gates of a
great dock, and turned their sides, as he would turn a rudder, outward to t=
he
waves, which pushed the extremities upon the Great Douvre, while the rope h=
inges
detained the other extremities upon the Little Douvre; next he contrived, by
means of the huge nails placed beforehand for the purpose, to fix the same =
kind
of fastenings upon the Great Douvre as on the little one; made completely f=
ast
the vast mass of woodwork against the two pillars of the gorge, slung a cha=
in
across this barrier like a baldric upon a cuirass; and in less than an hour,
this barricade against the sea was complete and the gullet of the rocks clo=
sed
as by a folding-door.
This powerful apparatus, a heavy mass of beams=
and
planks, which laid flat would have made a raft, and upright formed a wall, =
had
by the aid of the water been handled by Gilliatt with the adroitness of a
juggler. It might almost have been said that the obstruction was complete
before the rising sea had the time to perceive it.
It was one of those occasions on which Jean Ba=
rt
would have employed the famous expression which he applied to the sea every
time he narrowly escaped shipwreck. "We have cheated the Englishman;&q=
uot;
for it is well known that when that famous admiral meant to speak
contemptuously of the ocean he called it "the Englishman."
The entrance to the defile being thus protecte=
d,
Gilliatt thought of the sloop. He loosened sufficient cable for the two anc=
hors
to allow her to rise with the tide; an operation similar to what the marine=
rs
of old called "mouiller avec des embossures." In all this, Gillia=
tt
was not taken the least by surprise; the necessity had been foreseen. A sea=
man would
have perceived it by the two pulleys of the top ropes cut in the form of
snatch-blocks, and fixed behind the sloop, through which passed two ropes, =
the
ends of which were slung through the rings of the anchors.
Meanwhile the tide was rising fast; the half f=
lood
had arrived, a moment when the shock of the waves, even in comparatively
moderate weather, may become considerable. Exactly what Gilliatt expected c=
ame
to pass. The waves rolled violently against the barrier, struck it, broke
heavily and passed beneath. Outside was the heavy swell; within, the waters=
ran
quietly. He had devised a sort of marine Furculæ caudinæ. The s=
ea
was conquered.
=
The
moment so long dreaded had come.
The problem now was to place the machinery in =
the
bark.
Gilliatt remained thoughtful for some moments,
holding the elbow of his left arm in his right hand, and applying his left =
hand
to his forehead.
Then he climbed upon the wreck, one part of wh= ich, containing the engine, was to be parted from it, while the other remained.<= o:p>
He severed the four slings which fixed the four
chains from the funnel on the larboard and the starboard sides. The slings
being only of cord, his knife served him well enough for this purpose.
The four chains set free, hung down along the =
sides
of the funnel.
From the wreck he climbed up to the apparatus
which he had constructed, stamped with his feet upon the beams, inspected t=
he
tackle-blocks, looked to the pulleys, handled the cables, examined the
eking-pieces, assured himself that the untarred hemp was not saturated thro=
ugh,
found that nothing was wanting and nothing giving way; then springing from =
the height
of the suspending props on to the deck, he took up his position near the
capstan, in the part of the Durande which he intended to leave jammed in
between the two Douvres. This was to be his post during his labours.
Earnest, but troubled with no impulses but what
were useful to his work, he took a final glance at the hoisting-tackle, then
seized a file and began to saw with it through the chain which held the who=
le
suspended.
The rasping of the file was audible amidst the
roaring of the sea.
The chain from the capstan, attached to the
regulating gear, was within his reach, quite near his hand.
Suddenly there was a crash. The link which he =
was
filing snapped when only half cut through: the whole apparatus swung violen=
tly.
He had only just time sufficient to seize the regulating gear.
The severed chain beat against the rock; the e=
ight
cables strained; the huge mass, sawed and cut through, detached itself from=
the
wreck; the belly of the hull opened, and the iron flooring of the engine-ro=
om
was visible below the keel.
If he had not seized the regulating tackle at =
that
instant it would have fallen. But his powerful hand was there, and it desce=
nded
steadily.
When the brother of Jean Bart, Peter Bart, that
powerful and sagacious toper, that poor Dunkirk fisherman, who used to talk
familiarly with the Grand Admiral of France, went to the rescue of the gall=
ey
Langeron, in distress in the Bay of Ambleteuse, endeavouring to save the he=
avy floating
mass in the midst of the breakers of that furious bay, he rolled up the
mainsail, tied it with sea-reeds, and trusted to the ties to break away of
themselves, and give the sail to the wind at the right moment. Just so Gill=
iatt
trusted to the breaking of the chain; and the same eccentric feat of daring=
was
crowned with the same success.
The tackle, taken in hand by Gilliatt, held out
and worked well. Its function, as will be remembered, was to moderate the
powers of the apparatus, thus reduced from many to one, by bringing them in=
to
united action. The gear had some similarity to a bridle of a bowline, excep=
t that
instead of trimming a sail it served to balance a complicated mechanism.
Erect, and with his hand upon the capstan,
Gilliatt, so to speak, was enabled to feel the pulse of the apparatus.
It was here that his inventive genius manifest=
ed
itself.
A remarkable coincidence of forces was the res=
ult.
While the machinery of the Durande, detached i=
n a
mass, was lowering to the sloop, the sloop rose slowly to receive it. The w=
reck
and the salvage vessel assisting each other in opposite ways, saved half th=
e labour
of the operation.
The tide swelling quietly between the two Douv=
res
raised the sloop and brought it nearer to the Durande. The sea was more than
conquered; it was tamed and broken in. It became, in fact, part and parcel =
of
the organisation of power.
The rising waters lifted the vessel without any
sort of shock, gently, and almost with precaution, as one would handle
porcelain.
Gilliatt combined and proportioned the two
labours, that of the water and that of the apparatus; and standing steadfas=
t at
the capstan, like some terrible statue obeyed by all the movement around it=
at
the same moment, regulated the slowness of the descent by the slow rise of =
the sea.
There was no jerk given by the waters, no slip
among the tackle. It was a strange collaboration of all the natural forces
subdued. On one side, gravitation lowering the huge bulk, on the other the =
sea
raising the bark. The attraction of heavenly bodies which causes the tide, =
and
the attractive force of the earth, which men call weight, seemed to conspir=
e together
to aid his plans. There was no hesitation, no stoppage in their service; un=
der the
dominance of mind these passive forces became active auxiliaries. From minu=
te
to minute the work advanced; the interval between the wreck and the sloop
diminished insensibly. The approach continued in silence, and as in a sort =
of
terror of the man who stood there. The elements received his orders and
fulfilled them.
Nearly at the moment when the tide ceased to r=
aise
it, the cable ceased to slide. Suddenly, but without commotion, the pulleys
stopped. The vast machine had taken its place in the bark, as if placed the=
re
by a powerful hand. It stood straight, upright, motionless, firm. The iron =
floor
of the engine-room rested with its four corners evenly upon the hold.
The work was accomplished.
Gilliatt contemplated it, lost in thought.
He was not the spoiled child of success. He be=
nt
under the weight of his great joy. He felt his limbs, as it were, sinking; =
and
contemplating his triumph, he, who had never been shaken by danger, began to
tremble.
He gazed upon the sloop under the wreck and at=
the
machinery in the sloop. He seemed to feel it hard to believe it true. It mi=
ght
have been supposed that he had never looked forward to that which he had ac=
complished.
A miracle had been wrought by his hands, and he contemplated it in
bewilderment.
His reverie lasted but a short time.
Starting like one awakening from a deep sleep,=
he
seized his saw, cut the eight cables, separated now from the sloop, thanks =
to
the rising of the tide, by only about ten feet; sprang aboard, took a bunch=
of
cord, made four slings, passed them through the rings prepared beforehand, =
and fixed
on both sides aboard the sloop the four chains of the funnel which only an =
hour
before had been still fastened to their places aboard the Durande.
The funnel being secured, he disengaged the up=
per
part of the machinery. A square portion of the planking of the Durande was
adhering to it; he struck off the nails and relieved the sloop of this
encumbrance of planks and beams; which fell over on to the rocks--a great
assistance in lightening it.
For the rest, the sloop, as has been foreseen,
behaved well under the burden of the machinery. It had sunk in the water, b=
ut
only to a good water-line. Although massive, the engine of the Durande was =
less
heavy than the pile of stones and the cannon which he had once brought back=
from
Herm in the sloop.
All then was ended; he had only to depart.
=
All
was not ended.
To re-open the gorge thus closed by the portio=
n of
the Durande's bulwarks, and at once to push out with the sloop beyond the
rocks, nothing could appear more clear and simple. On the ocean every minut=
e is
urgent. There was little wind; scarcely a wrinkle on the open sea. The afte=
rnoon
was beautiful, and promised a fine night. The sea, indeed, was calm, but the
ebb had begun. The moment was favourable for starting. There would be the
ebb-tide for leaving the Douvres; and the flood would carry him into Guerns=
ey.
It would be possible to be at St. Sampson's at daybreak.
But an unexpected obstacle presented itself. T=
here
was a flaw in his arrangements which had baffled all his foresight.
The machinery was freed; but the chimney was n=
ot.
The tide, by raising the sloop to the wreck
suspended in the air, had diminished the dangers of the descent, and abridg=
ed
the labour. But this diminution of the interval had left the top of the fun=
nel
entangled in the kind of gaping frame formed by the open hull of the Durand=
e.
The funnel was held fast there as between four walls.
The services rendered by the sea had been
accompanied by that unfortunate drawback. It seemed as if the waves,
constrained to obey, had avenged themselves by a malicious trick.
It is true that what the flood-tide had done, =
the
ebb would undo.
The funnel, which was rather more than three
fathoms in height, was buried more than eight feet in the wreck. The
water-level would fall about twelve feet. Thus the funnel descending with t=
he
falling tide would have four feet of room to spare, and would clear itself
easily.
But how much time would elapse before that rel=
ease
would be completed? Six hours.
In six hours it would be near midnight. What m=
eans
would there be of attempting to start at such an hour? What channel could he
find among all those breakers, so full of dangers even by day? How was he to
risk his vessel in the depth of black night in that inextricable labyrinth,=
that
ambuscade of shoals?
There was not help for it. He must wait for the
morrow. These six hours lost, entailed a loss of twelve hours at least.
He could not even advance the labour by opening
the mouth of the gorge. His breakwater was necessary against the next tide.=
He was compelled to rest. Folding his arms was
almost the only thing which he had not yet done since his arrival on the ro=
cks.
This forced inaction irritated, almost vexed h=
im with
himself, as if it had been his fault. He thought "what would
Déruchette say of me if she saw me thus doing nothing?"
And yet this interval for regaining his streng=
th
was not unnecessary.
The sloop was now at his command; he determine=
d to
pass the night in it.
He mounted once more to fetch his sheepskin up=
on
the Great Douvre; descended again, supped off a few limpets and
châtaignes de mer, drank, being very thirsty, a few draughts of water
from his can, which was nearly empty, enveloped himself in the skin, the wo=
ol
of which felt comforting, lay down like a watch-dog beside the engine, drew=
his
red cap over his eyes and slept.
His sleep was profound. It was such sleep as m=
en
enjoy who have completed a great labour.
<=
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EA-WARNINGS
=
In the
middle of the night he awoke suddenly and with a jerk like the recoil of a
spring.
He opened his eyes.
The Douvres, rising high over his head, were
lighted up as by the white glow of burning embers. Over all the dark escarp=
ment
of the rock there was a light like the reflection of a fire.
Where could this fire come from?
It was from the water.
The aspect of the sea was extraordinary.
The water seemed a-fire. As far as the eye cou=
ld
reach, among the reefs and beyond them, the sea ran with flame. The flame w=
as not
red; it had nothing in common with the grand living fires of volcanic crate=
rs
or of great furnaces. There was no sparkling, no glare, no purple edges, no=
noise.
Long trails of a pale tint simulated upon the water the folds of a
winding-sheet. A trembling glow was spread over the waves. It was the spect=
re
of a great fire, rather than the fire itself. It was in some degree like the
glow of unearthly flames lighting the inside of a sepulchre. A burning
darkness.
The night itself, dim, vast, and wide-diffused,
was the fuel of that cold flame. It was a strange illumination issuing out =
of
blindness. The shadows even formed part of that phantom-fire.
The sailors of the Channel are familiar with t=
hose
indescribable phosphorescences, full of warning for the navigator. They are
nowhere more surprising than in the "Great V," near Isigny.
By this light, surrounding objects lose their
reality. A spectral glimmer renders them, as it were, transparent. Rocks be=
come
no more than outlines. Cables of anchors look like iron bars heated to a wh=
ite heat.
The nets of the fishermen beneath the water seem webs of fire. The half of =
the
oar above the waves is dark as ebony, the rest in the sea like silver. The
drops from the blades uplifted from the water fall in starry showers upon t=
he
sea. Every boat leaves a furrow behind it like a comet's tail. The sailors,=
wet
and luminous, seem like men in flames. If you plunge a hand into the water,=
you
withdraw it clothed in flame. The flame is dead, and is not felt. Your arm
becomes a firebrand. You see the forms of things in the sea roll beneath the
waves as in liquid fire. The foam twinkles. The fish are tongues of fire, or
fragments of the forked lightning, moving in the depths.
The reflection of this brightness had passed o=
ver
the closed eyelids of Gilliatt in the sloop. It was this that had awakened =
him.
His awakening was opportune.
The ebb tide had run out, and the waters were
beginning to rise again. The funnel, which had become disengaged during his
sleep, was about to enter again into the yawning hollow above it.
It was rising slowly.
A rise of another foot would have entangled it=
in
the wreck again. A rise of one foot is equivalent to half-an-hour's tide. I=
f he
intended, therefore, to take advantage of that temporary deliverance once m=
ore within
his reach, he had just half-an-hour before him.
He leaped to his feet.
Urgent as the situation was, he stood for a few
moments meditative, contemplating the phosphorescence of the waves.
Gilliatt knew the sea in all its phases. Notwi=
thstanding
all her tricks, and often as he had suffered from her terrors, he had long =
been
her companion. That mysterious entity which we call the ocean had nothing i=
n its
secret thoughts which he could not divine. Observation, meditation, and
solitude, had given him a quick perception of coming changes, of wind, or
cloud, or wave.
Gilliatt hastened to the top ropes and payed o=
ut
some cable; then being no longer held fast by the anchors, he seized the
boat-hook of the sloop, and pushed her towards the entrance to the gorge so=
me
fathoms from the Durande, and quite near to the breakwater. Here, as the Gu=
ernsey
sailors say, it had du rang. In less than ten minutes the sloop was withdra=
wn
from beneath the carcase of the wreck. There was no further danger of the
funnel being caught in a trap. The tide might rise now.
And yet Gilliatt's manner was not that of one
about to take his departure.
He stood considering the light upon the sea on=
ce
more; but his thoughts were not of starting. He was thinking of how to fix =
the
sloop again, and how to fix it more firmly than ever, though near to the ex=
it
from the defile.
Up to this time he had only used the two ancho=
rs
of the sloop and had not yet employed the little anchor of the Durande, whi=
ch
he had found, as will be remembered, among the breakers. This anchor had be=
en deposited
by him in readiness for any emergency, in a corner of the sloop, with a
quantity of hawsers, and blocks of top-ropes, and his cable, all furnished
beforehand with large knots, which prevented its dragging. He now let go th=
is
third anchor, taking care to fasten the cable to a rope, one end of which w=
as
slung through the anchor ring, while the other was attached to the windlass=
of
the sloop. In this manner he made a kind of triangular, triple anchorage, m=
uch
stronger than the moorings with two anchors. All this indicated keen anxiet=
y,
and a redoubling of precautions. A sailor would have seen in this operation=
something
similar to an anchorage in bad weather, when there is fear of a current whi=
ch
might carry the vessel under the wind.
The phosphorescence which he had been observin=
g,
and upon which his eye was now fixed once more, was threatening, but
serviceable at the same time. But for it he would have been held fast locke=
d in
sleep, and deceived by the night. The strange appearance upon the sea had
awakened him, and made things about him visible.
The light which it shed among the rocks was,
indeed, ominous; but disquieting as it appeared to be to Gilliatt, it had
served to show him the dangers of his position, and had rendered possible h=
is
operations in extricating the sloop. Henceforth, whenever he should be able=
to
set sail, the vessel, with its freight of machinery, would be free.
And yet the idea of departing was further than
ever from his mind. The sloop being fixed in its new position, he went in q=
uest
of the strongest chain which he had in his store-cavern, and attaching it to
the nails driven into the two Douvres, he fortified from within with this c=
hain
the rampart of planks and beams, already protected from without by the cross
chain. Far from opening the entrance to the defile, he made the barrier more
complete.
The phosphorescence lighted him still, but it =
was
diminishing. The day, however, was beginning to break.
Suddenly he paused to listen.
A
feeble, indistinct sound seemed to reach his ear from somewhere in the far
distance.
At certain hours the great deeps give forth a
murmuring noise.
He listened a second time. The distant noise
recommenced. Gilliatt shook his head like one who recognises at last someth=
ing
familiar to him.
A few minutes later he was at the other extrem=
ity
of the alley between the rocks, at the entrance facing the east, which had
remained open until then, and by heavy blows of his hammer was driving large
nails into the sides of the gullet near "The Man Rock," as he had
done at the gullet of the Douvres.
The crevices of these rocks were prepared and =
well
furnished with timber, almost all of which was heart of oak. The rock on th=
is
side being much broken up, there were abundant cracks, and he was able to f=
ix even
more nails there than in the base of the two Douvres.
Suddenly, and as if some great breath had pass=
ed
over it, the luminous appearance on the waters vanished. The twilight becom=
ing
paler every moment, assumed its functions.
The nails being driven, Gilliatt dragged beams=
and
cords, and then chains to the spot; and without taking his eyes off his wor=
k,
or permitting his mind to be diverted for a moment, he began to construct a=
cross
the gorge of "The Man" with beams fixed horizontally, and made fa=
st
by cables, one of those open barriers which science has now adopted under t=
he
name of breakwaters.
Those who have witnessed, for example, at La
Rocquaine in Guernsey, or at Bourg-d'Eau in France, the effect produced by a
few posts fixed in the rock, will understand the power of these simple
preparations. This sort of breakwater is a combination of what is called in
France épi with what is known in England as "a dam." The b=
reakwater
is the chevaux-de-frise of fortifications against tempests. Man can only st=
ruggle
against the sea by taking advantage of this principle of dividing its force=
s.
Meanwhile, the sun had risen, and was shining
brightly. The sky was clear, the sea calm.
Gilliatt pressed on his work. He, too, was cal=
m;
but there was anxiety in his haste. He passed with long strides from rock to
rock, and returned dragging wildly sometimes a rider, sometimes a binding
strake. The utility of all this preparation of timbers now became manifest.=
It was
evident that he was about to confront a danger which he had foreseen.
A strong iron bar served him as a lever for mo=
ving
the beams.
The work was executed so fast that it was rath=
er a
rapid growth than a construction. He who has never seen a military pontoone=
r at
his work can scarcely form an idea of this rapidity.
The eastern gullet was still narrower than the
western. There were but five or six feet of interval between the rocks. The
smallness of this opening was an assistance. The space to be fortified and
closed up being very little, the apparatus would be stronger, and might be =
more
simple. Horizontal beams, therefore, sufficed, the upright ones being usele=
ss.
The first cross pieces of the breakwater being
fixed, Gilliatt mounted upon them and listened once more.
The murmurs had become significant.
He continued his construction. He supported it with the two cat-heads of the Durande, bound to the frame of beams by cords passed through the three pulley-sheaves. He made the whole fast by chains.<= o:p>
The construction was little more than a coloss=
al
hurdle, having beams for rods and chains in the place of wattles.
It seemed woven together, quite as much as bui=
lt.
He multiplied the fastenings, and added nails
where they were necessary.
Having obtained a great quantity of bar iron f=
rom
the wreck, he had been able to make a large number of these heavy nails.
While still at work, he broke some biscuit with
his teeth. He was thirsty, but he could not drink, having no more fresh wat=
er.
He had emptied the can at his meal of the evening before.
He added afterwards four or five more pieces of
timber; then climbed again upon the barrier and listened.
The noises from the horizon had ceased; all was
still.
The sea was smooth and quiet; deserving all th=
ose
complimentary phrases which worthy citizens bestow upon it when satisfied w=
ith
a trip. "A mirror," "a pond," "like oil," and=
so
forth. The deep blue of the sky responded to the deep green tint of the oce=
an.
The sapphire and the emerald hues vied with each other. Each were perfect. =
Not
a cloud on high, not a line of foam below. In the midst of all this splendo=
ur,
the April sun rose magnificently. It was impossible to imagine a lovelier d=
ay.
On the verge of the horizon a flight of birds =
of
passage formed a long dark line against the sky. They were flying fast as if
alarmed.
Gilliatt set to work again to raise the
breakwater.
He raised it as high as he could; as high, ind=
eed,
as the curving of the rocks would permit.
Towards noon the sun appeared to him to give m=
ore
than its usual warmth. Noon is the critical time of the day. Standing upon =
the
powerful frame which he had built up, he paused again to survey the wide
expanse.
The sea was more than tranquil. It was a dull =
dead
calm. No sail was visible. The sky was everywhere clear; but from blue it h=
ad
become white. The whiteness was singular. To the west, and upon the horizon=
, was
a little spot of a sickly hue. The spot remained in the same place, but by
degrees grew larger. Near the breakers the waves shuddered; but very gently=
.
Gilliatt had done well to build his breakwater=
.
A tempest was approaching.
The elements had determined to give battle.
<=
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XTREMES
MEET
=
Nothing
is more threatening than a late equinox.
The appearance of the sea presents a strange
phenomenon, resulting from what may be called the arrival of the ocean wind=
s.
In all seasons, but particularly at the epoch =
of
the Syzygies, at the moment when least expected, the sea sometimes becomes =
singularly
tranquil. That vast perpetual movement ceases; a sort of drowsiness and lan=
guor
overspreads it; and it seems weary and about to rest. Every rag of bunting,
from the tiny streamer of the fishing-boat to the great flag of ships of wa=
r,
droops against the mast. The admiral's flag, the Royal and Imperial ensigns
sleep alike.
Suddenly all these streamers begin to flutter
gently.
If there happen to be clouds, the moment has t=
hen
come for marking the formation of the cirri; if the sun is setting, for obs=
erving
the red tints of the horizon; or if it be night and there is a moon, for
looking attentively for the halo.
It is then that the captain or commander of a
squadron, if he happen to possess one of those storm indicators, the invent=
or
of which is unknown, notes his instrument carefully and takes his precautio=
ns
against the south wind, if the clouds have an appearance like dissolved sug=
ar;
or against the north, if they exfoliate in crystallisations like brakes of =
brambles,
or like fir woods. Then, too, the poor Irish or Breton fisherman, after hav=
ing
consulted some mysterious gnomon engraved by the Romans or by demons upon o=
ne
of those straight enigmatical stones, which are called in Brittany Menhir, =
and
in Ireland Cruach, hauls his boat up on the shore.
Meanwhile the serenity of sky and ocean contin=
ues.
The day dawns radiant, and Aurora smiles. It was this which filled the old
poets and seers with religious horror; for men dared to suspect the falsity=
of the
sun. Solem quis dicere falsum audeat?
The sombre vision of nature's secret laws is
interdicted to man by the fatal opacity of surrounding things. The most
terrible and perfidious of her aspects is that which masks the convulsions =
of
the deep.
Some hours, and even days sometimes, pass thus.
Pilots raise their telescopes here and there. The faces of old seamen have
always an expression of severity left upon them by the vexation of perpetua=
lly looking
out for changes.
Suddenly a great confused murmur is heard. A s=
ort
of mysterious dialogue takes place in the air.
Nothing unusual is seen.
The wide expanse is tranquil.
Yet the noises increase. The dialogue becomes =
more
audible.
There is something beyond the horizon.
Something terrible. It is the wind.
The wind; or rather that populace of Titans wh=
ich
we call the gale. The unseen multitude.
India knew them as the Maroubs, Judea as the
Keroubim, Greece as the Aquilones. They are the invisible winged creatures =
of
the Infinite. Their blasts sweep over the earth.
<=
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THE
OCEAN WINDS
=
They
come from the immeasurable deep. Their wide wings need the breadth of the o=
cean
gulf; the spaciousness of desert solitudes. The Atlantic, the Pacific--those
vast blue plains--are their delight. They hasten thither in flocks. Command=
er
Page witnessed, far out at sea, seven waterspouts at once. They wander ther=
e,
wild and terrible! The ever-ending yet eternal flux and reflux is their wor=
k.
The extent of their power, the limits of their will, none know. They are the
Sphinxes of the abyss: Gama was their oedipus. In that dark, ever-moving
expanse, they appear with faces of cloud. He who perceives their pale
lineaments in that wide dispersion, the horizon of the sea, feels himself i=
n presence
of an unsubduable power. It might be imagined that the proximity of human
intelligence disquieted them, and that they revolted against it. The mind of
man is invincible, but the elements baffle him. He can do nothing against t=
he
power which is everywhere, and which none can bind. The gentle breath becom=
es a
gale, smites with the force of a war-club, and then becomes gentle again. T=
he
winds attack with a terrible crash, and defend themselves by fading into
nothingness. He who would encounter them must use artifice. Their varying
tactics, their swift redoubled blows, confuse. They fly as often as they
attack. They are tenacious and impalpable. Who can circumvent them? The pro=
w of
the Argo, cut from an oak of Dodona's grove, that mysterious pilot of the b=
ark,
spoke to them, and they insulted that pilot-goddess. Columbus, beholding th=
eir
approach at La Pinta, mounted upon the poop, and addressed them with the fi=
rst
verses of St. John's Gospel. Surcouf defied them: "Here come the
gang," he used to say. Napier greeted them with cannon-balls. They ass=
ume
the dictatorship of chaos.
Chaos is theirs, in which to wreak their
mysterious vengeance: the den of the winds is more monstrous than that of
lions. How many corpses lie in its deep recesses, where the howling gusts s=
weep
without pity over that obscure and ghastly mass! The winds are heard wheres=
oever
they go, but they give ear to none. Their acts resemble crimes. None know on
whom they cast their hoary surf; with what ferocity they hover over shipwre=
cks,
looking at times as if they flung their impious foam-flakes in the face of
heaven. They are the tyrants of unknown regions. "Luoghi spaventosi,&q=
uot;
murmured the Venetian mariners.
The trembling fields of space are subjected to
their fierce assaults. Things unspeakable come to pass in those deserted
regions. Some horseman rides in the gloom; the air is full of a forest soun=
d;
nothing is visible; but the tramp of cavalcades is heard. The noonday is
overcast with sudden night; a tornado passes. Or it is midnight, which sudd=
enly
becomes bright as day; the polar lights are in the heavens. Whirlwinds pass=
in
opposite ways, and in a sort of hideous dance, a stamping of the storms upon
the waters. A cloud overburdened opens and falls to earth. Other clouds, fi=
lled
with red light, flash and roar; then frown again ominously. Emptied of their
lightnings, they are but as spent brands. Pent-up rains dissolve in mists.
Yonder sea appears a fiery furnace in which the rains are falling: flames s=
eem
to issue from the waves. The white gleam of the ocean under the shower is
reflected to marvellous distances. The different masses transform themselves
into uncouth shapes. Monstrous whirlpools make strange hollows in the sky. =
The vapours
revolve, the waves spin, the giddy Naiads roll; sea and sky are livid; nois=
es
as of cries of despair are in the air.
Great sheaves of shadow and darkness are gathe=
red
up, trembling in the far depths of the sky. Now and then there is a convuls=
ion.
The rumour becomes tumult as the wave becomes surge. The horizon, a confused
mass of strata, oscillating ceaselessly, murmurs in a continual undertone. =
Strange
and sudden outbursts break through the monotony. Cold airs rush forth,
succeeded by warm blasts. The trepidation of the sea betokens anxious
expectation, agony, terror profound. Suddenly the hurricane comes down, lik=
e a
wild beast, to drink of the ocean: a monstrous draught! The sea rises to the
invisible mouth; a mound of water is formed; the swell increases, and the
waterspout appears; the Prester of the ancients, stalactite above, stalagmi=
te
below, a whirling double-inverted cone, a point in equilibrium upon another,
the embrace of two mountains--a mountain of foam ascending, a mountain of
vapour descending--terrible coition of the cloud and the wave. Like the col=
umn in
Holy Writ, the waterspout is dark by day and luminous by night. In its pres=
ence
the thunder itself is silent and seems cowed.
The vast commotion of those solitudes has its
gamut, a terrible crescendo. There are the gust, the squall, the storm, the
gale, the tempest, the whirlwind, the waterspout--the seven chords of the l=
yre
of the winds, the seven notes of the firmament. The heavens are a clear spa=
ce,
the sea a vast round; but a breath passes, they have vanished, and all is f=
ury
and wild confusion.
Such are these inhospitable realms.
The winds rush, fly, swoop down, dwindle away,
commence again; hover above, whistle, roar, and smile; they are frenzied,
wanton, unbridled, or sinking at ease upon the raging waves. Their howlings
have a harmony of their own. They make all the heavens sonorous. They blow =
in
the cloud as in a trumpet; they sing through the infinite space with the
mingled tones of clarions, horns, bugles, and trumpets--a sort of Promethea=
n fanfare.
Such was the music of ancient Pan. Their harmo=
nies
are terrible. They have a colossal joy in the darkness. They drive and disp=
erse
great ships. Night and day, in all seasons, from the tropics to the pole, t=
here
is no truce; sounding their fatal trumpet through the tangled thickets of t=
he
clouds and waves, they pursue the grim chase of vessels in distress. They h=
ave
their packs of bloodhounds, and take their pleasure, setting them to bark a=
mong
the rocks and billows. They huddle the clouds together, and drive them dive=
rse.
They mould and knead the supple waters as with a million hands.
The water is supple because it is incompressib=
le.
It slips away without effort. Borne down on one side, it escapes on the oth=
er.
It is thus that waters become waves, and that the billows are a token of th=
eir
liberty.
=
III
THE NOISES EXPLAINED
=
The
grand descent of winds upon the world takes place at the equinoxes. At this
period the balance of tropic and pole librates, and the vast atmospheric ti=
des
pour their flood upon one hemisphere and their ebb upon another. The signs =
of
Libra and Aquarius have reference to these phenomena.
It is the time of tempests.
The sea awaits their coming, keeping silence.<= o:p>
Sometimes the sky looks sickly. Its face is wa=
n. A
thick dark veil obscures it. The mariners observe with uneasiness the angry
aspect of the clouds.
But it is its air of calm contentment which th=
ey
dread the most. A smiling sky in the equinoxes is the tempest in gay disgui=
se.
It was under skies like these that "The Tower of Weeping Women," =
in
Amsterdam, was filled with wives and mothers scanning the far horizon.
When the vernal or autumnal storms delay to br=
eak,
they are gathering strength; hoarding up their fury for more sure destructi=
on.
Beware of the gale that has been long delayed. It was Angot who said that
"the sea pays well old debts."
When the delay is unusually long, the sea beto=
kens
her impatience only by a deeper calm, but the magnetic intensity manifests
itself by what might be called a fiery humour in the sea. Fire issues from =
the
waves; electric air, phosphoric water. The sailors feel a strange lassitude=
. This
time is particularly perilous for iron vessels; their hulls are then liable=
to
produce variations of the compass, leading them to destruction. The
transatlantic steam-vessel Iowa perished from this cause.
To those who are familiar with the sea, its as=
pect
at these moments is singular. It may be imagined to be both desiring and
fearing the approach of the cyclone. Certain unions, though strongly urged =
by nature,
are attended by this strange conjunction of terror and desire. The lioness =
in
her tenderest moods flies from the lion. Thus the sea, in the fire of her
passion, trembles at the near approach of her union with the tempest. The
nuptials are prepared. Like the marriages of the ancient emperors, they are
celebrated with immolations. The fête is heralded with disasters.
Meanwhile, from yonder deeps, from the great o=
pen
sea, from the unapproachable latitudes, from the lurid horizon of the watery
waste, from the utmost bounds of the free ocean, the winds pour down.
Listen; for this is the famous equinox.
The storm prepares mischief. In the old mythol=
ogy
these entities were recognised, indistinctly moving, in the grand scene of
nature. Eolus plotted with Boreas. The alliance of element with element is
necessary; they divide their task. One has to give impetus to the wave, the
cloud, the stream: night is an auxiliary, and must be employed. There are c=
ompasses
to be falsified, beacons to be extinguished, lanterns of lighthouses to be
masked, stars to be hidden. The sea must lend her aid. Every storm is prece=
ded
by a murmur. Behind the horizon line there is a premonitory whispering among
the hurricanes.
This is the noise which is heard afar off in t=
he
darkness amidst the terrible silence of the sea.
It was this significant whispering which Gilli=
att
had noted. The phosphorescence on the water had been the first warning: this
murmur the second.
If the demon Legion exists, he is assuredly no
other than the wind.
The wind is complex, but the air is one.
Hence it follows that all storms are mixed--a
principle which results from the unity of the air.
The entire abyss of heaven takes part in a
tempest: the entire ocean also. The totality of its forces is marshalled for
the strife. A wave is the ocean gulf; a gust is a gulf of the atmosphere. A
contest with a storm is a contest with all the powers of sea and sky.
It was Messier, that great authority among nav=
al
men, the pensive astronomer of the little lodge at Cluny, who said, "T=
he
wind comes from everywhere and is everywhere." He had no faith in the =
idea
of winds imprisoned even in inland seas. With him there were no Mediterrane=
an winds;
he declared that he recognised them as they wandered about the earth. He
affirmed that on a certain day, at a certain hour, the Föhn of the Lak=
e of
Constance, the ancient Favonius of Lucretius, had traversed the horizon of
Paris; on another day, the Bora of the Adriatic; on another day, the whirli=
ng
Notus, which is supposed to be confined in the round of the Cyclades. He
indicated their currents. He did not believe it impossible that the
"Autan," which circulates between Corsica and the Balearic Isles,
could escape from its bounds. He did not admit the theory of winds imprison=
ed
like bears in their dens. It was he, too, who said that "every rain co=
mes
from the tropics, and every flash of lightning from the pole." The win=
d,
in fact, becomes saturated with electricity at the intersection of the colu=
res
which marks the extremity of the axis, and with water at the equator; bring=
ing
moisture from the equatorial line and the electric fluid from the poles.
The wind is ubiquitous.
It is certainly not meant by this that the win=
ds
never move in zones. Nothing is better established than the existence of th=
ose
continuous air currents; and aerial navigation by means of the wind boats, =
to
which the passion for Greek terminology has given the name of
"aeroscaphes," may one day succeed in utilising the chief of these
streams of wind. The regular course of air streams is an incontestable fact.
There are both rivers of wind and rivulets of wind, although their branches=
are
exactly the reverse of water currents: for in the air it is the rivulets wh=
ich flow
out of the rivers, and the smaller rivers which flow out of the great strea=
ms
instead of falling into them. Hence instead of concentration we have
dispersion.
The united action of the winds and the unity of
the atmosphere result from this dispersion. The displacement of one molecule
produces the displacement of another. The vast body of air becomes subject =
to
one agitation. To these profound causes of coalition we must add the irregu=
lar
surface of the earth, whose mountains furrow the atmosphere, contorting and
diverting the winds from their course, and determining the directions of
counter currents in infinite radiations.
The phenomenon of the wind is the oscillation =
of
two oceans one against the other; the ocean of air, superimposed upon the o=
cean
of water, rests upon these currents, and is convulsed with this vast agitat=
ion.
The indivisible cannot produce separate action=
. No
partition divides wave from wave. The islands of the Channel feel the influ=
ence
of the Cape of Good Hope. Navigation everywhere contends with the same mons=
ter;
the sea is one hydra. The waves cover it as with a coat of scales. The ocea=
n is
Ceto.
Upon that unity reposes an infinite variety.
=
<=
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TURBA
TURMA
=
According
to the compass there are thirty-two winds, that is to say, thirty-two point=
s.
But these directions may be subdivided indefinitely. Classed by its directi=
ons,
the wind is incalculable; classed by its kinds, it is infinite. Homer himse=
lf
would have shrunk from the task of enumerating them.
The polar current encounters the tropical curr=
ent.
Heat and cold are thus combined; the equilibrium is distributed by a shock,=
the
wave of wind issues forth and is distended, scattered and broken up in ever=
y direction
in fierce streams. The dispersion of the gusts shakes the streaming locks of
the wind upon the four corners of the horizon.
All the winds which blow are there. The wind of
the Gulf Stream, which disgorges the great fogs of Newfoundland; the wind of
Peru, in the region of silent heavens, where no man ever heard the thunder
roar; the wind of Nova Scotia, where flies the great auk (Alca impennis) wi=
th his
furrowed beak; the iron whirlwinds of the Chinese seas; the wind of Mozambi=
que,
which destroys the canoes and junks; the electric wind, which the people of
Japan denounce by the beating of a gong; the African wind, which blows betw=
een
Table Mountain and the Devil's Peak, where it gains its liberty; the curren=
ts
of the equator, which pass over the trade winds, describing a parabola, the
summit of which is always to the west; the Plutonian wind, which issues from
craters, the terrible breath of flames; the singular wind peculiar to the
volcano Awa, which occasions a perpetual olive tint in the north; the Java
monsoon, against which the people construct those casemates known as hurric=
ane
houses; the branching north winds called by the English "Bush winds;&q=
uot;
the curved squalls of the Straits of Malacca, observed by Horsburgh; the
powerful south-west wind, called Pampero in Chili, and Rebojo at Buenos Ayr=
es, which
carries the great condor out to sea, and saves him from the pit where the
Indian, concealed under a bullock-hide newly stripped, watches for him, lyi=
ng
on his back and bending his great bow with his feet; the chemical wind, whi=
ch,
according to Lemery, produces thunder-bolts from the clouds; the Harmattan =
of
the Caffres; the Polar snow-driver, which harnesses itself to the everlasti=
ng
icebergs; the wind of the Gulf of Bengal, which sweeps over a continent to
pillage the triangular town of wooden booths at Nijni-Novogorod, in which is
held the great fair of Asia; the wind of the Cordilleras, agitator of great=
waves and forests; the wind of the Australian
Archipelago, where the bee-hunters take the wild hives hidden under the for=
ks
of the branches of the giant eucalyptus; the Sirocco, the Mistral, the
Hurricane, the dry winds, the inundating and diluvian winds, the torrid win=
ds,
which scatter dust from the plains of Brazil upon the streets of Genoa, whi=
ch both
obey and revolt against diurnal rotation, and of which Herrara said, "=
Malo
viento torna contra el sol;" those winds which hunt in couples, conspi=
ring
mischief, the one undoing the work of the other; and those old winds which
assailed Columbus on the coast of Veragua, and which during forty days, from
the 21st of October to the 28th of November 1520, delayed and nearly frustr=
ated
Magellan's approach to the Pacific; and those which dismasted the Armada and
confounded Philip II. Others, too, there are, of the names of which there i=
s no
end. The winds, for instance, which carry showers of frogs and locusts, and
drive before them clouds of living things across the ocean; those which blo=
w in
what are called "Wind-leaps," and whose function is to destroy sh=
ips at
sea; those which at a single blast throw the cargo out of trim, and compel =
the
vessel to continue her course half broadside over; the winds which construct
the circum-cumuli; the winds which mass together the circum-strati; the dark
heavy winds swelled with rains; the winds of the hailstorms; the fever wind=
s,
whose approach sets the salt springs and sulphur springs of Calabria boilin=
g;
those which give a glittering appearance to the fur of African panthers,
prowling among the bushes of Cape Ferro; those which come shaking from the
cloud, like the tongue of a trigonocephal, the terrible forked lightning; a=
nd
those which bring whirlwinds of black snow. Such is the legion of winds.
The Douvres rock heard their distant tramp at =
the
moment when Gilliatt was constructing his breakwater.
As we have said, the wind means the combinatio=
n of
all the winds of the earth.
=
The
mysterious forces had chosen their time well.
Chance, if chance exists, is sometimes far-see=
ing.
While the sloop had been anchored in the little
creek of "The Man Rock," and as long as the machinery had been
prisoned in the wreck, Gilliatt's position had been impregnable. The sloop =
was
in safety; the machinery sheltered. The Douvres, which held the hull of the
Durande fast, condemned it to slow destruction, but protected it against
unexpected accidents. In any event, one resource had remained to him. If the
engine had been destroyed, Gilliatt would have been uninjured. He had still=
the
sloop by which to escape.
But to wait till the sloop was removed from the
anchorage where she was inaccessible; to allow it to be fixed in the defile=
of
the Douvres; to watch until the sloop, too, was, as it were, entangled in t=
he
rocks; to permit him to complete the salvage, the moving, and the final emb=
arkation
of the machinery; to do no damage to that wonderful construction by which o=
ne
man was enabled to put the whole aboard his bark; to acquiesce, in fact, in=
the
success of his exploits so far; this was but the trap which the elements had
laid for him. Now for the first time he began to perceive in all its sinist=
er
characteristics the trick which the sea had been meditating so long.
The machinery, the sloop, and their master were
all now within the gorge of the rocks. They formed but a single point. One
blow, and the sloop might be dashed to pieces on the rock, the machinery
destroyed, and Gilliatt drowned.
The situation could not have been more critica=
l.
The sphinx, which men have imagined concealing
herself in the cloud, seemed to mock him with a dilemma.
"Go or stay."
To go would have been madness; to remain was
terrible.
=
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%'>VI - =
THE
COMBAT
=
Gilliatt
ascended to the summit of the Great Douvre.
From hence he could see around the horizon.
The western side was appalling. A wall of cloud
spread across it, barring the wide expanse from side to side, and ascending
slowly from the horizon towards the zenith. This wall, straight lined,
vertical, without a crevice in its height, without a rent in its structure,=
seemed
built by the square and measured by the plumb-line. It was cloud in the lik=
eness
of granite. Its escarpment, completely perpendicular at the southern extrem=
ity,
curved a little towards the north, like a bent sheet of iron, presenting the
steep slippery face of an inclined plane. The dark wall enlarged and grew; =
but
its entablature never ceased for a moment to be parallel with the horizon l=
ine,
which was almost indistinguishable in the gathering darkness. Silently, and
altogether, the airy battlements ascended. No undulation, no wrinkle, no
projection changed its shape or moved its place. The aspect of this immobil=
ity
in movement was impressive. The sun, pale in the midst of a strange sickly =
transparence,
lighted up this outline of the Apocalypse. Already the cloudy bank had blot=
ted
out one half the space of the sky: shelving like the fearful talus of the
abyss. It was the uprising of a dark mountain between earth and heaven.
It was night falling suddenly upon midday.
There was a heat in the air as from an oven do=
or,
coming from that mysterious mass on mass. The sky, which from blue had beco=
me
white, was now turning from white to a slatey grey. The sea beneath was
leaden-hued and dull. There was no breath, no wave, no noise. Far as eye co=
uld reach,
the desert ocean. No sail was visible on any side. The birds had disappeare=
d.
Some monstrous treason seemed abroad.
The wall of cloud grew visibly larger.
This moving mountain of vapours, which was
approaching the Douvres, was one of those clouds which might be called the
clouds of battle. Sinister appearances; some strange, furtive glance seemed
cast upon the beholder through that obscure mass up-piled.
The approach was terrible.
Gilliatt observed it closely, and muttered to
himself, "I am thirsty enough, but you will give me plenty to drink.&q=
uot;
He stood there motionless a few moments, his e=
ye
fixed upon the cloud bank, as if mentally taking a sounding of the tempest.=
His galérienne was in the pocket of his
jacket; he took it out and placed it on his head. Then he fetched from the
cave, which had so long served him for a sleeping-place, a few things which=
he
had kept there in reserve; he put on his overalls, and attired himself in h=
is
waterproof overcoat, like a knight who puts on his armour at the moment of =
battle.
He had no shoes; but his naked feet had become hardened to the rocks.
This preparation for the storm being completed=
, he
looked down upon his breakwater, grasped the knotted cord hurriedly, descen=
ded
from the plateau of the Douvre, stepped on to the rocks below, and hastened=
to his
store cavern. A few moments later he was at work. The vast silent cloud mig=
ht
have heard the strokes of his hammer. With the nails, ropes, and beams which
still remained, he constructed for the eastern gullet a second frame, which=
he
succeeded in fixing at ten or twelve feet from the other.
The silence was still profound. The blades of
grass between the cracks of the rocks were not stirred.
The sun disappeared suddenly. Gilliatt looked =
up.
The rising cloud had just reached it. It was l=
ike
the blotting out of day, succeeded by a mingled pale reflection.
The immense wall of cloud had changed its
appearance. It no longer retained its unity. It had curved on reaching the
zenith, whence it spread horizontally over the rest of the heavens. It had =
now
its various stages. The tempest formation was visible, like the strata in t=
he
side of a trench. It was possible to distinguish the layers of the rain fro=
m the
beds of hail. There was no lightning, but a horrible, diffused glare; for t=
he
idea of horror may be attached to light. The vague breathing of the storm w=
as
audible; the silence was broken by an obscure palpitation. Gilliatt, silent
also, watched the giant blocks of vapour grouping themselves overhead formi=
ng
the shapeless mass of clouds. Upon the horizon brooded and lengthened out a
band of mist of ashen hue; in the zenith, another band of lead colour. Pale,
ragged fragments of cloud hung from the great mass above upon the mist belo=
w.
The pile of cloud which formed the background was wan, dull, gloomy. A thin,
whitish transverse cloud, coming no one could tell whither, cut the high da=
rk wall
obliquely from north to south. One of the extremities of this cloud trailed
along the surface of the sea. At the point where it touched the waters, a d=
ense
red vapour was visible in the midst of the darkness. Below it, smaller clou=
ds,
quite black and very low, were flying as if bewildered or moved by opposite
currents of air. The immense cloud beyond increased from all points at once,
darkened the eclipse, and continued to spread its sombre pall. In the east,
behind Gilliatt, there was only one clear porch in the heavens, which was r=
apidly
being closed. Without any feeling of wind abroad, a strange flight of grey
downy particles seemed to pass; they were fine and scattered as if some
gigantic bird had been plucked of its plumage behind the bank of cloud. A d=
ark
compact roof had gradually formed itself, which on the verge of the horizon
touched the sea, and mingled in darkness with it. The beholder had a vague
sense of something advancing steadily towards him. It was vast, heavy, omin=
ous.
Suddenly an immense peal of thunder burst upon the air.
Gilliatt himself felt the shock. The rude real=
ity
in the midst of that visionary region has something in it terrific. The
listener might fancy that he hears something falling in the chamber of gian=
ts.
No electric flash accompanied the report. It was a blind peal. The silence =
was profound
again. There was an interval, as when combatants take up their position. Th=
en
appeared slowly, one after the other, great shapeless flashes; these flashes
were silent. The wall of cloud was now a vast cavern, with roofs and arches.
Outlines of forms were traceable among them; monstrous heads were vaguely
shadowed forth; rocks seemed to stretch out; elephants bearing turrets, seen
for a moment, vanished. A column of vapour, straight, round, and dark, and
surmounted by a white mist, simulated the form of a colossal steam-vessel
engulfed, hissing, and smoking beneath the waves. Sheets of cloud undulated
like folds of giant flags. In the centre, under a thick purple pall, a nucl=
eus
of dense fog sunk motionless, inert, impenetrable by the electric fires; a =
sort
of hideous foetus in the bosom of the tempest.
Suddenly Gilliatt felt a breath moving his hai=
r.
Two or three large spots of rain fell heavily around him on the rock. Then
there was a second thunder-clap. The wind was rising.
The terror of darkness was at its highest poin=
t.
The first peal of thunder had shaken the sea; the second rent the wall of c=
loud
from top to base; breach was visible; the pent-up deluge rushed towards it;=
the
rent became like a gulf filled with rain. The outpouring of the tempest had
begun.
The moment was terrible.
Rain, wind, lightnings, thunder, waves swirling
upwards to the clouds, foam, hoarse noises, whistlings, mingled together li=
ke
monsters suddenly unloosened.
For a solitary man, imprisoned with an overloa=
ded
vessel, between two dangerous rocks in mid-ocean, no crisis could have been
more menacing. The danger of the tide, over which he had triumphed, was not=
hing
compared with the danger of the tempest.
Surrounded on all sides by dangers, Gilliatt, =
at
the last moment, and before the crowning peril, had developed an ingenious
strategy. He had secured his basis of operations in the enemies' territory;=
had
pressed the rock into his service. The Douvres, originally his enemy, had
become his second in that immense duel. Out of that sepulchre he had constr=
ucted
a fortress. He was built up among those formidable sea ruins. He was blocka=
ded,
but well defended. He had, so to speak, set his back against the wall, and
stood face to face with the hurricane. He had barricaded the narrow strait,
that highway of the waves. This, indeed, was the only possible course. It
seemed as if the ocean, like other despots, might be brought to reason by t=
he
aid of barricades. The sloop might be considered secure on three sides. Clo=
sely
wedged between the two interior walls of the rock, made fast by three
anchorings, she was sheltered from the north by the Little Douvre, on the s=
outh
by the Great one; terrible escarpments, more accustomed to wreck vessels th=
an
to save them. On the western side she was protected by the frame of timbers
made fast and nailed to the rocks--a tried barrier which had withstood the =
rude
flood-tide of the sea; a veritable citadel-gate, having for its sides the
columns of the rock--the two Douvres themselves. Nothing was to be feared f=
rom
that side. It was on the eastern side only that there was danger.
On that side there was no protection but the
breakwater. A breakwater is an apparatus for dividing and distributing. It
requires at least two frames. Gilliatt had only had time to construct one. =
He
was compelled to build the second in the very presence of the tempest.
Fortunately the wind came from the north-west.=
The
wind is not always adroit in its attacks. The north-west wind, which is the
ancient "galerno," had little effect upon the Douvres. It assailed
the rocks in flank, and drove the waves neither against the one nor the oth=
er
of the two gullets; so that instead of rushing into a defile, they dashed t=
hemselves
against a wall.
But the currents of the wind are curved, and it
was probable that there would be some sudden change. If it should veer to t=
he
east before the second frame could be constructed the peril would be great.=
The
irruption of the sea into the gorge would be complete, and all would probab=
ly
be lost.
The wildness of the storm went on increasing. =
The
essence of a tempest is the rapid succession of its blows. That is its
strength; but it is also its weakness. Its fury gives the opportunity to hu=
man
intelligence, and man spies its weak points for his defence; but under what=
overwhelming
assaults! No respite, no interruption, no truce, no pause for taking breath.
There seems an unspeakable cowardice in that prodigality of inexhaustible
resources.
All the tumult of the wide expanse rushed towa=
rds
the Douvres. Voices were heard in the darkness. What could they be? The anc=
ient
terror of the sea was there. At times they seemed to speak as if some one w=
as uttering
words of command. There were clamours, strange trepidations, and then that
majestic roar which the mariners call the "Ocean cry." The indefi=
nite
and flying eddies of the wind whistled, while curling the waves and flinging
them like giant quoits, cast by invisible athletes, against the breakers. T=
he
enormous surf streamed over all the rocks; torrents above; foam below. Then=
the
roaring was redoubled. No uproar of men or beasts could yield an idea of th=
at
din which mingled with the incessant breaking of the sea. The clouds
cannonaded, the hailstones poured their volleys, the surf mounted to the
assault. As far as eye could reach, the sea was white; ten leagues of yeasty
water filled the horizon. Doors of fire were opened, clouds seemed burnt by
clouds, and showed like smoke above a nebulous red mass, resembling burning
embers. Floating conflagrations rushed together and amalgamated, each chang=
ing the
shape of the other. From the midst of the dark roof a terrible arsenal appe=
ared
to be emptied out, hurling downward from the gulf, pell-mell, waterspouts, =
hail
torrents, purple fire, phosphoric gleams, darkness, and lightnings.
Meanwhile Gilliatt seemed to pay no attention =
to
the storm. His head was bent over his work. The second framework began to
approach completion. To every clap of thunder he replied with a blow of his
hammer, making a cadence which was audible even amidst that tumult. He was
bareheaded, for a gust had carried away his galérienne.
He suffered from a burning thirst. Little pool=
s of
rain had formed in the rocks around him. From time to time he took some wat=
er
in the hollow of his hand and drank. Then, without even looking upward to
observe the storm, he applied himself anew to his task.
All might depend upon a moment. He knew the fa=
te
that awaited him if his breakwater should not be completed in time. Of what
avail could it be to lose a moment in looking for the approach of death?
The turmoil around him was like that of a vast
bubbling cauldron. Crash and uproar were everywhere. Sometimes the lightning
seemed to descend a sort of ladder. The electric flame returned incessantly=
to
the same points of the rock, where there were probably metallic veins.
Hailstones fell of enormous size. Gilliatt was compelled to shake the folds=
of
his overcoat, even the pockets of which became filled with hail.
The storm had now rotated to the west, and was
expending its fury upon the barricades of the two Douvres. But Gilliatt had
faith in his breakwaters, and with good reason. These barricades, made of a
great portion of the fore-part of the Durande, took the shock of the waves =
easily.
Elasticity is a resistance. The experiments of Stephenson establish the fact
that against the waves, which are themselves elastic, a raft of timber, joi=
ned
and chained together in a certain fashion, will form a more powerful obstac=
le
than a breakwater of masonry. The barriers of the Douvres fulfilled these
conditions. They were, moreover, so ingeniously made fast, that the waves
striking them beneath were like hammers beating in nails, pressing and
consolidating the work upon the rocks. To demolish them it would have been
necessary to overthrow the Douvres themselves. The surf, in fact, was only =
able
to cast over upon the sloop some flakes of foam. On that side, thanks to the
barrier, the tempest ended only in harmless insult. Gilliatt turned his back
upon the scene. He heard composedly its useless rage upon the rocks behind =
him.
The foam-flakes coming from all sides were like
flights of down. The vast irritated ocean deluged the rocks, dashed over th=
em
and raged within, penetrated into the network of their interior fissures, a=
nd issued
again from the granitic masses by the narrow chinks, forming a kind of
inexhaustible fountains playing peacefully in the midst of that deluge. Here
and there a silvery network fell gracefully from these spouts in the sea.
The second frame of the eastern barrier was ne=
arly
completed. A few more knots of rope and ends of chains and this new rampart
would be ready to play its part in barring out the storm.
Suddenly there was a great brightness; the rain
ceased; the clouds rolled asunder; the wind had just shifted; a sort of hig=
h,
dark window opened in the zenith, and the lightnings were extinguished. The=
end
seemed to have come. It was but the commencement.
The change of wind was from the north-west to =
the
north-east.
The storm was preparing to burst forth again w=
ith
a new legion of hurricanes. The north was about to mount to the assault.
Sailors call this dreaded moment of transition the "Return storm."
The southern wind brings most rain, the north wind most lightning.
The attack, coming now from the east, was dire=
cted
against the weak point of the position.
This time Gilliatt interrupted his work and lo=
oked
around him.
He stood erect, upon a curved projection of the
rock behind the second barrier, which was nearly finished. If the first fra=
me
had been carried away, it would have broken down the second, which was not =
yet consolidated,
and must have crushed him. Gilliatt, in the place that he had chosen, must =
in
that case have been destroyed before seeing the sloop, the machinery, and a=
ll
his work shattered and swallowed up in the gulf. Such was the possibility w=
hich
awaited him. He accepted it, and contemplated it sternly.
In that wreck of all his hope, to die at once
would have been his desire; to die first, as he would have regarded it--for=
the
machinery produced in his mind the effect of a living being. He moved aside=
his
hair, which was beaten over his eyes by the wind, grasped his trusty mallet,
drew himself up in a menacing attitude, and awaited the event.
He was not kept long in suspense.
A flash of lightning gave the signal; the livid
opening in the zenith closed; a driving torrent of rain fell; then all beca=
me
dark, save where the lightnings broke forth once more. The attack had
recommenced in earnest.
A heavy swell, visible from time to time in the
blaze of the lightning, was rolling in the east beyond "The Man
Rock." It resembled a huge wall of glass. It was green and without foa=
m,
and it stretched across the wide expanse. It was advancing towards the
breakwater, increasing as it approached. It was a singular kind of gigantic
cylinder, rolling upon the ocean. The thunder kept up a hollow rumbling.
The great wave struck "The Man Rock,"
broke in twain, and passed beyond. The broken wave, rejoined, formed a moun=
tain
of water, and instead of advancing in parallel line as before, came down
perpendicularly upon the breakwater.
The shock was terrific: the whole wave became a
roaring surf.
It is impossible for those who have not witnes=
sed
them to imagine those snowy avalanches which the sea thus precipitates, and
under which it engulfs for the moment rocks of more than a hundred feet in
height, such, for example, as the Great Anderlo at Guernsey, and the Pinnac=
le
at Jersey. At Saint Mary of Madagascar it passes completely over the promon=
tory
of Tintingue.
For some moments the sea drowned everything.
Nothing was visible except the furious waters, an enormous breadth of foam,=
the
whiteness of a winding-sheet blowing in the draught of a sepulchre; nothing=
was
heard but the roaring storm working devastation around.
When the foam subsided, Gilliatt was still
standing at his post.
The barrier had stood firm. Not a chain was
broken, not a nail displaced. It had exhibited under the trial the two chief
qualities of a breakwater; it had proved flexible as a hurdle and firm as a
wall. The surf falling upon it had dissolved into a shower of drops.
A river of foam rushing along the zigzags of t=
he
defile subsided as it approached the sloop.
The man who had put this curb upon the fury of=
the
ocean took no rest.
The storm fortunately turned aside its fury fo=
r a
moment. The fierce attack of the waves was renewed upon the wall of the roc=
k.
There was a respite, and Gilliatt took advantage of it to complete the inte=
rior
barrier.
The daylight faded upon his labours. The hurri=
cane
continued its violence upon the flank of the rocks with a mournful solemnit=
y.
The stores of fire and water in the sky poured out incessantly without exha=
usting
themselves. The undulations of the wind above and below were like the movem=
ents
of a dragon.
Nightfall brought scarcely any deeper night. T=
he
change was hardly felt, for the darkness was never complete. Tempests
alternately darkening and illumining by their lightnings, are merely interv=
als
of the visible and invisible. All is pale glare, and then all is darkness.
Spectral shapes issue forth suddenly, and return as suddenly into the deep
shade.
A phosphoric zone, tinged with the hue of the
aurora borealis, appeared like ghastly flames behind the dense clouds, givi=
ng
to all things a wan aspect, and making the rain-drifts luminous.
This uncertain light aided Gilliatt, and direc=
ted
him in his operations. By its help he was enabled to raise the forward barr=
ier.
The breakwater was now almost complete. As he was engaged in making fast a
powerful cable to the last beam, the gale blew directly in his face. This c=
ompelled
him to raise his head. The wind had shifted abruptly to the north-east. The
assault upon the eastern gullet recommenced. Gilliatt cast his eyes around =
the
horizon. Another great wall of water was approaching.
The wave broke with a great shock; a second
followed; then another and another still; then five or six almost together;
then a last shock of tremendous force.
This last wave, which was an accumulation of
forces, had a singular resemblance to a living thing. It would not have been
difficult to imagine in the midst of that swelling mass the shapes of fins =
and gill-coverings.
It fell heavily and broke upon the barriers. Its almost animal form was tor=
n to
pieces in the shape of spouts and gushes, resembling the crushing to death =
of
some sea hydra upon that block of rocks and timbers. The swell rushed throu=
gh,
subsiding but devastating as it went. The huge wave seemed to bite and clin=
g to
its victim as it died. The rock shook to its base. A savage howling mingled
with the roar; the foam flew far like the spouting of a leviathan.
The subsidence exhibited the extent of the rav=
ages
of the surf. This last escalade had not been ineffectual. The breakwater had
suffered this time. A long and heavy beam, torn from the first barrier, had
been carried over the second, and hurled violently upon the projecting rock=
on
which Gilliatt had stood but a moment before. By good fortune he had not
returned there. Had he done so, his death had been inevitable.
There was a remarkable circumstance in the fal=
l of
this beam, which by preventing the framework rebounding, saved Gilliatt from
greater dangers. It even proved useful to him, as will be seen, in another =
way.
Between the projecting rock and the interior w=
all
of the defile there was a large interval, something like the notch of an ax=
e,
or the split of a wedge. One of the extremities of the timber hurled into t=
he
air by the waves had stuck fast into this notch in falling. The gap had bec=
ome enlarged.
Gilliatt was struck with an idea. It was that =
of
bearing heavily on the other extremity.
The beam caught by one end in the nook, which =
it
had widened, projected from it straight as an outstretched arm. This specie=
s of
arm projected parallel with the anterior wall of the defile, and the diseng=
aged
end stretched from its resting place about eighteen or twenty inches. A goo=
d distance
for the object to be attained.
Gilliatt raised himself by means of his hands,
feet, and knees to the escarpment, and then turned his back, pressing both =
his
shoulders against the enormous lever. The beam was long, which increased it=
s raising
power. The rock was already loosened; but he was compelled to renew his eff=
orts
again and again. The sweat-drops rolled from his forehead as rapidly as the
spray. The fourth attempt exhausted all his powers. There was a cracking no=
ise;
the gap spreading in the shape of a fissure, opened its vast jaws, and the
heavy mass fell into the narrow space of the defile with a noise like the e=
cho
of the thunder.
The mass fell straight, and without breaking;
resting in its bed like a Druid cromlech precipitated in one piece.
The beam which had served as a lever descended
with the rock, and Gilliatt, stumbling forward as it gave way, narrowly esc=
aped
falling.
The bed of the pass at this part was full of h=
uge
round stones, and there was little water. The monolith lying in the boiling
foam, the flakes of which fell on Gilliatt where he stood, stretched from s=
ide
to side of the great parallel rocks of the defile, and formed a transversal=
wall,
a sort of cross-stroke between the two escarpments. Its two ends touched the
rocks. It had been a little too long to lie flat, but its summit of soft ro=
ck
was struck off with the fall. The result of this fall was a singular sort of
cul-de-sac, which may still be seen. The water behind this stony barrier is
almost always tranquil.
This was a rampart more invincible still than =
the
forward timbers of the Durande fixed between the two Douvres.
The barrier came opportunely.
The assaults of the sea had continued. The
obstinacy of the waves is always increased by an obstacle. The first frame
began to show signs of breaking up. One breach, however small, in a breakwa=
ter,
is always serious. It inevitably enlarges, and there is no means of supplyi=
ng
its place, for the sea would sweep away the workmen.
A flash which lighted up the rocks revealed to
Gilliatt the nature of the mischief; the beams broken down, the ends of rope
and fragments of chain swinging in the winds, and a rent in the centre of t=
he
apparatus. The second frame was intact.
Though the block of stone so powerfully overtu=
rned
by Gilliatt in the defile behind the breakwater was the strongest possible
barrier, it had a defect. It was too low. The surge could not destroy, but
could sweep over it.
It was useless to think of building it higher.=
Nothing
but masses of rock could avail upon a barrier of stone; but how could such
masses be detached? or, if detached, how could they be moved, or raised, or
piled, or fixed? Timbers may be added, but rocks cannot.
Gilliatt was not Enceladus.
The very little height of this rocky isthmus
rendered him anxious.
The effects of this fault were not long in sho=
wing
themselves. The assaults upon the breakwater were incessant; the heavy seas
seemed not merely to rage, but to attack with determination to destroy it. A
sort of trampling noise was heard upon the jolted framework.
Suddenly the end of a binding strake, detached
from the dislocated frame, was swept away over the second barrier and across
the transversal rock, falling in the defile, where the water seized and car=
ried
it into the sinuosities of the pass. Gilliatt lost sight of it. It seemed p=
robable
that it would do some injury to the sloop. Fortunately, the water in the
interior of the rocks, shut in on all sides, felt little of the commotion
without. The waves there were comparatively trifling, and the shock was not
likely to be very severe. For the rest, he had little time to spare for
reflection upon this mishap. Every variety of danger was arising at once; t=
he
tempest was concentrated upon the vulnerable point; destruction was imminen=
t.
The darkness was profound for a moment: the
lightnings paused--a sort of sinister connivance. The cloud and the sea bec=
ame
one: there was a dull peal.
This was followed by a terrible outburst. The
frame which formed the front of the barriers was swept away. The fragments =
of
beams were visible in the rolling waters. The sea was using the first
breakwater as an engine for making a breach in the second.
Gilliatt experienced the feeling of a general =
who
sees his advanced guard driven in.
The second construction of beams resisted the
shock. The apparatus behind it was powerfully secured and buttressed. But t=
he
broken frame was heavy, and was at the mercy of the waves, which were
incessantly hurling it forward and withdrawing it. The ropes and chains whi=
ch remained
unsevered prevented its entirely breaking up, and the qualities which Gilli=
att
had given it as a means of defence made it, in the end, a more effective we=
apon
of destruction. Instead of a buckler, it had become a battering-ram. Besides
this, it was now full of irregularities from breaking; ends of timbers
projected from all parts; and it was, as it were, covered with teeth and
spikes. No sort of arm could have been more effective, or more fitted for t=
he
handling of the tempest. It was the projectile, while the sea played the pa=
rt
of the catapult.
The blows succeeded each other with a dismal
regularity. Gilliatt, thoughtful and anxious, behind that barricaded portal,
listened to the
sound of death knocking loudly for admittance.=
He reflected with bitterness that, but for the
fatal entanglement of the funnel of the Durande in the wreck, he would have
been at that very moment, and even since the morning, once more at Guernsey=
, in
the port, with the sloop out of danger and with the machinery saved.
The dreaded moment arrived. The destruction was
complete. There was a sound like a death-rattle. The entire frame of the
breakwater, the double apparatus crushed and mingled confusedly, came in a
whirl of foam, rushing upon the stone barricade like chaos upon a mountain,
where it stopped. Here the fragments lay together, a mass of beams penetrab=
le by
the waves, but still breaking their force. The conquered barrier struggled
nobly against destruction. The waves had shattered it, and in their turn we=
re
shattered against it. Though overthrown, it still remained in some degree
effective. The rock which barred its passage, an immovable obstacle held it
fast. The defile, as we have said, was very narrow at that point; the
victorious whirlwind had driven forward, mingled and piled up the wreck of =
the
breakwater in this narrow pass. The very violence of the assault, by heapin=
g up
the mass and driving the broken ends one into the other, had contributed to
make the pile firm. It was destroyed, but immovable. A few pieces of timber
only were swept away and dispersed by the waves. One passed through the air
very near to Gilliatt. He felt the counter current upon his forehead.
Some waves, however, of that kind which in gre=
at
tempests return with an imperturbable regularity, swept over the ruins of t=
he
breakwater. They fell into the defile, and in spite of the many angles of t=
he
passage, set the waters within in commotion. The waters began to roll throu=
gh
the gorge ominously. The mysterious embraces of the waves among the rocks w=
ere
audible.
What means were there of preventing this agita=
tion
extending as far as the sloop? It would not require a long time for the bla=
st
of wind to create a tempest through all the windings of the pass. A few hea=
vy
seas would be sufficient to stave in the sloop and scatter her burden.
Gilliatt shuddered as he reflected.
But he was not disconcerted. No defeat could d=
aunt
his soul.
The hurricane had now discovered the true plan=
of
attack, and was rushing fiercely between the two walls of the strait.
Suddenly a crash was heard, resounding and
prolonging itself through the defile at some distance behind him: a crash m=
ore
terrible than any he had yet heard.
It came from the direction of the sloop.
Something disastrous was happening there.
Gilliatt hastened towards it.
From the eastern gullet where he was, he could=
not
see the sloop on account of the sharp turns of the pass. At the last turn he
stopped and waited for the lightning.
The first flash revealed to him the position of
affairs.
The rush of the sea through the eastern entran=
ce
had been met by a blast of wind from the other end. A disaster was near at
hand.
The sloop had received no visible damage; anch=
ored
as she was, the storm had little power over her, but the carcase of the Dur=
ande
was distressed.
In such a tempest, the wreck presented a
considerable surface. It was entirely out of the sea in the air, exposed. T=
he
breach which Gilliatt had made, and which he had passed the engine through,=
had
rendered the hull still weaker. The keelson was snapped, the vertebral colu=
mn
of the skeleton was broken.
The hurricane had passed over it. Scarcely more than this was needed to complete its destruction. The planking of the deck = had bent like an opened book. The dismemberment had begun. It was the noise of = this dislocation which had reached Gilliatt's ears in the midst of the tempest.<= o:p>
The disaster which presented itself as he
approached appeared almost irremediable.
The square opening which he had cut in the keel
had become a gaping wound. The wind had converted the smooth-cut hole into a
ragged fracture. This transverse breach separated the wreck in two. The aft=
er-part,
nearest to the sloop, had remained firm in its bed of rocks. The forward
portion which faced him was hanging. A fracture, while it holds, is a sort =
of
hinge. The whole mass oscillated, as the wind moved it, with a doleful nois=
e.
Fortunately the sloop was no longer beneath it.
But this swinging movement shook the other por=
tion
of the hull, still wedged and immovable as it was between the two Douvres. =
From
shaking to casting down the distance is not far. Under the obstinate assaul=
ts
of the gale, the dislocated part might suddenly carry away the other portio=
n,
which almost touched the sloop. In this case, the whole wreck, together with
the sloop and the engine, must be swept into the sea and swallowed up.
All this presented itself to his eyes. It was =
the
end of all. How could it be prevented?
Gilliatt was one of those who are accustomed to
snatch the means of safety out of danger itself. He collected his ideas for=
a
moment. Then he hastened to his arsenal and brought his hatchet.
The mallet had served him well, it was now the
turn of the axe.
He mounted upon the wreck, got a footing on th=
at
part of the planking which had not given way, and leaning over the precipic=
e of
the pass between the Douvres, he began to cut away the broken joists and th=
e planking
which supported the hanging portion of the hull.
His object was to effect the separation of the=
two
parts of the wreck, to disencumber the half which remained firm, to throw
overboard what the waves had seized, and thus share the prey with the storm.
The hanging portion of the wreck, borne down by the wind and by its own wei=
ght,
adhered only at one or two points. The entire wreck resembled a folding-scr=
een,
one leaf of which, half-hanging, beat against the other. Five or six pieces=
of
the planking only, bent and started, but not broken, still held. Their
fractures creaked and enlarged at every gust, and the axe, so to speak, had=
but
to help the labour of the wind. This more than half-severed condition, whil=
e it
increased the facility of the work, also rendered it dangerous. The whole m=
ight
give way beneath him at any moment.
The tempest had reached its highest point. The
convulsion of the sea reached the heavens. Hitherto the storm had been supr=
eme,
it had seemed to work its own imperious will, to give the impulse, to drive=
the
waves to frenzy, while still preserving a sort of sinister lucidity. Below =
was fury--above,
anger. The heavens are the breath, the ocean only foam, hence the authority=
of
the wind. But the intoxication of its own horrors had confused it. It had
become a mere whirlwind; it was a blindness leading to night. There are tim=
es
when tempests become frenzied, when the heavens are attacked with a sort of
delirium; when the firmament raves and hurls its lightnings blindly. No ter=
ror
is greater than this. It is a hideous moment. The trembling of the rock was=
at
its height. Every storm has a mysterious course, but now it loses its appoi=
nted
path. It is the most dangerous point of the tempest. "At that
moment," says Thomas Fuller, "the wind is a furious maniac."=
It
is at that instant that that continuous discharge of electricity takes plac=
e which
Piddington calls "the cascade of lightnings." It is at that insta=
nt
that in the blackest spot of the clouds, none know why, unless it be to spy=
the
universal terror, a circle of blue light appears, which the Spanish sailors=
of
ancient times called the eye of the tempest, el ojo de la tempestad. That
terrible eye looked down upon Gilliatt.
Gilliatt on his part was surveying the heavens=
. He
raised his head now. After every stroke of his hatchet he stood erect and g=
azed
upwards, almost haughtily. He was, or seemed to be, too near destruction no=
t to
feel self-sustained. Would he despair? No! In the presence of the wildest f=
ury
of the ocean he was watchful as well as bold. He planted his feet only where
the wreck was firm. He ventured his life, and yet was careful; for his
determined spirit, too, had reached its highest point. His strength had gro=
wn
tenfold greater. He had become heated with his own intrepidity. The strokes=
of
his hatchet were like blows of defiance. He seemed to have gained in direct=
ness
what the tempest had lost. A pathetic struggle! On the one hand, an
indefatigable will; on the other, inexhaustible power. It was a contest with
the elements for the prize at his feet. The clouds took the shape of Gorgon
masks in the immensity of the heavens; every possible form of terror appear=
ed;
the rain came from the sea, the surf from the cloud; phantoms of the wind b=
ent
down; meteoric faces revealed themselves and were again eclipsed, leaving t=
he
darkness more monstrous: then there was nothing seen but the torrents coming
from all sides--a boiling sea; cumuli heavy with hail, ashen-hued,
ragged-edged, appeared seized with a sort of whirling frenzy; strange rattl=
ings
filled the air; the inverse currents of electricity observed by Volta darted
their sudden flashes from cloud to cloud. The prolongation of the lightnings
was terrible; the flashes passed near to Gilliatt. The very ocean seemed
astonished. He passed to and fro upon the tottering wreck, making the deck
tremble under his steps, striking, cutting, hacking with the hatchet in his
hand, pallid in the gleam of the lightning, his long hair streaming, his fe=
et
naked, in rags, his face covered with the foam of the sea, but grand still =
amid
that maelstrom of the thunderstorm.
Against these furious powers man has no weapon=
but
his invention. Invention was Gilliatt's triumph. His object was to allow all
the dislocated portions of the wreck to fall together. For this reason he c=
ut
away the broken portions without entirely separating them, leaving some par=
ts on
which they still swung. Suddenly he stopped, holding his axe in the air. The
operation was complete. The entire portion went with a crash.
The mass rolled down between the two Douvres, =
just
below Gilliatt, who stood upon the wreck, leaning over and observing the fa=
ll.
It fell perpendicularly into the water, struck the rocks, and stopped in th=
e defile
before touching the bottom. Enough remained out of the water to rise more t=
han
twelve feet above the waves. The vertical mass of planking formed a wall be=
tween
the two Douvres; like the rock overturned crosswise higher up the defile, it
allowed only a slight stream of foam to pass through at its two extremities,
and thus was a fifth barricade improvised by Gilliatt against the tempest in
that passage of the seas.
The hurricane itself, in its blind fury, had
assisted in the construction of this last barrier.
It was fortunate that the proximity of the two
walls had prevented the mass of wreck from falling to the bottom. This
circumstance gave the barricade greater height; the water, besides, could f=
low
under the obstacle, which diminished the power of the waves. That which pas=
ses below
cannot pass over. This is partly the secret of the floating breakwater.
Henceforth, let the storm do what it might, th=
ere
was nothing to fear for the sloop or the machinery. The water around them c=
ould
not become agitated again. Between the barrier of the Douvres, which covered
them on the west, and the barricade which protected them from the east, no =
heavy
sea or wind could reach them.
Gilliatt had plucked safety out of the catastr=
ophe
itself. The storm had been his fellow-labourer in the work.
This done, he took a little water in the palm =
of
his hand from one of the rain-pools, and drank: and then, looking upward at=
the
storm, said with a smile, "Bungler!"
Human intelligence combating with brute force
experiences an ironical joy in demonstrating the stupidity of its antagonis=
t,
and compelling it to serve the very objects of its fury, and Gilliatt felt
something of that immemorial desire to insult his invisible enemy, which is=
as
old as the heroes of the Iliad.
He descended to the sloop and examined it by t=
he
gleam of the lightning. The relief which he had been able to give to his
distressed bark was well-timed. She had been much shaken during the last ho=
ur,
and had begun to give way. A hasty glance revealed no serious injury.
Nevertheless, he was certain that the vessel had been subjected to violent
shocks. As soon as the waves had subsided, the hull had righted itself; the=
anchors
had held fast; as to the machine, the four chains had supported it admirabl=
y.
While Gilliatt was completing this survey,
something white passed before his eyes and vanished in the gloom. It was a
sea-mew.
No sight could be more welcome in tempestuous
weather. When the birds reappear the storm is departing. The thunder redoub=
led;
another good sign.
The violent efforts of the storm had broken its
force. All mariners know that the last ordeal is severe, but short. The
excessive violence of the thunderstorm is the herald of the end.
The rain stopped suddenly. Then there was only=
a
surly rumbling in the heavens. The storm ceased with the suddenness of a pl=
ank
falling to the ground. The immense mass of clouds became disorganised. A st=
rip
of clear sky appeared between them. Gilliatt was astonished: it was broad d=
aylight.
The tempest had lasted nearly twenty hours.
The wind which had brought the storm carried it
away. A dark pile was diffused over the horizon, the broken clouds were fly=
ing
in confusion across the sky. From one end to the other of the line there wa=
s a movement
of retreat: a long muttering was heard, gradually decreasing, a few last dr=
ops
of rain fell, and all those dark masses charged with thunder, departed like=
a
terrible multitude of chariots.
Suddenly the wide expanse of sky became blue.<= o:p>
Gilliatt perceived that he was wearied. Sleep
swoops down upon the exhausted frame like a bird upon its prey. He drooped =
and
sank upon the deck of the bark without choosing his position, and there sle=
pt. Stretched
at length and inert, he remained thus for some hours, scarcely distinguisha=
ble
from the beams and joists among which he lay.
=
When
he awakened he was hungry.
The sea was growing calmer. But there was stil=
l a
heavy swell, which made his departure, for the present at least, impossible.
The day, too, was far advanced. For the sloop with its burden to get to
Guernsey before midnight, it was necessary to start in the morning.
Although pressed by hunger, Gilliatt began by
stripping himself, the only means of getting warmth. His clothing was satur=
ated
by the storm, but the rain had washed out the sea-water, which rendered it
possible to dry them.
He kept nothing on but his trousers, which he
turned up nearly to the knees.
His overcoat, jacket, overalls, and sheepskin =
he
spread out and fixed with large round stones here and there.
Then he thought of eating.
He had recourse to his knife, which he was car=
eful
to sharpen, and to keep always in good condition; and he detached from the
rocks a few limpets, similar in kind to the clonisses of the Mediterranean.=
It
is well known that these are eaten raw: but after so many labours, so vario=
us
and so rude, the pittance was meagre. His biscuit was gone; but of water he=
had
now abundance.
He took advantage of the receding tide to wand=
er
among the rocks in search of crayfish. There was extent enough of rock to h=
ope
for a successful search.
But he had not reflected that he could do noth=
ing
with these without fire to cook them. If he had taken the trouble to go to =
his store-cavern,
he would have found it inundated with the rain. His wood and coal were drow=
ned,
and of his store of tow, which served him for tinder, there was not a fibre
which was not saturated. No means remained of lighting a fire.
For the rest, his blower was completely
disorganised. The screen of the hearth of his forge was broken down; the st=
orm
had sacked and devastated his workshop. With what tools and apparatus had
escaped the general wreck, he could still have done carpentry work; but he
could not have accomplished any of the labours of the smith. Gilliatt, howe=
ver,
never thought of his workshop for a moment.
Drawn in another direction by the pangs of hun=
ger,
he had pursued without much reflection his search for food. He wandered, no=
t in
the gorge of the rocks, but outside among the smaller breakers. It was ther=
e that
the Durande, ten weeks previously, had first struck upon the sunken reef.
For the search that Gilliatt was prosecuting, =
this
part was more favourable than the interior. At low water the crabs are
accustomed to crawl out into the air. They seem to like to warm themselves =
in
the sun, where they swarm sometimes to the disgust of loiterers, who recogn=
ise
in these creatures, with their awkward sidelong gait, climbing clumsily from
crack to crack the lower stages of the rocks like the steps of a staircase,=
a
sort of sea vermin.
For two months Gilliatt had lived upon these
vermin of the sea.
On this day, however, the crayfish and crabs w=
ere
both wanting. The tempest had driven them into their solitary retreats; and
they had not yet mustered courage to venture abroad. Gilliatt held his open
knife in his hand, and from time to time scraped a cockle from under the
bunches of seaweed, which he ate while still walking.
He could not have been far from the very spot
where Sieur Clubin had perished.
As Gilliatt was determining to content himself
with the sea-urchins and the châtaignes de mer, a little clattering n=
oise
at his feet aroused his attention. A large crab, startled by his approach, =
had
just dropped into a pool. The water was shallow, and he did not lose sight =
of
it.
He chased the crab along the base of the rock;=
the
crab moved fast.
Suddenly it was gone.
It had buried itself in some crevice under the
rock.
Gilliatt clutched the projections of the rock,=
and
stretched out to observe where it shelved away under the water.
As he suspected, there was an opening there in
which the creature had evidently taken refuge. It was more than a crevice; =
it
was a kind of porch.
The sea entered beneath it, but was not deep. =
The
bottom was visible, covered with large pebbles. The pebbles were green and
clothed with confervæ, indicating that they were never dry. They were
like the tops of a number of heads of infants, covered with a kind of green
hair.
Holding his knife between his teeth, Gilliatt descended, by the help of feet and hands, from the upper part of the escarpment, and leaped into the water. It reached almost to his shoulders.<= o:p>
He made his way through the porch, and found
himself in a blind passage, with a roof in the form of a rude arch over his
head. The walls were polished and slippery. The crab was nowhere visible. He
gained his feet and advanced in daylight growing fainter, so that he began =
to
lose the power to distinguish objects.
At about fifteen paces the vaulted roof ended
overhead. He had penetrated beyond the blind passage. There was here more
space, and consequently more daylight. The pupils of his eyes, moreover, ha=
d dilated;
he could see pretty clearly. He was taken by surprise.
He had made his way again into the singular ca=
vern
which he had visited in the previous month. The only difference was that he=
had
entered by the way of the sea.
It was through the submarine arch, that he had
remarked before, that he had just entered. At certain low tides it was
accessible.
His eyes became more accustomed to the place. =
His
vision became clearer and clearer. He was astonished. He found himself agai=
n in
that extraordinary palace of shadows; saw again before his eyes that vaulte=
d roof,
those columns, those purple and blood-like stains, that vegetation rich with
gems, and at the farther end, that crypt or sanctuary, and that altar-like
stone. He took little notice of these details, but their impression was in =
his
mind, and he saw that the place was unchanged.
He observed before him, at a certain height in=
the
wall, the crevice through which he had penetrated the first time, and which,
from the point where he now stood, appeared inaccessible.
Near the moulded arch, he remarked those low d=
ark
grottoes, a sort of caves within a cavern, which he had already observed fr=
om a
distance. He now stood nearer to them. The entrance to the nearest to him w=
as
out of the water, and easily approachable. Nearer still than this recess he=
noticed,
above the level of the water, and within reach of his hand, a horizontal
fissure. It seemed to him probable that the crab had taken refuge there, an=
d he
plunged his hand in as far as he was able, and groped about in that dusky
aperture.
Suddenly he felt himself seized by the arm. A
strange indescribable horror thrilled through him.
Some living thing, thin, rough, flat, cold, sl=
imy,
had twisted itself round his naked arm, in the dark depth below. It crept
upward towards his chest. Its pressure was like a tightening cord, its stea=
dy persistence
like that of a screw. In less than a moment some mysterious spiral form had
passed round his wrist and elbow, and had reached his shoulder. A sharp poi=
nt
penetrated beneath the armpit.
Gilliatt recoiled; but he had scarcely power to
move! He was, as it were, nailed to the place. With his left hand, which was
disengaged, he seized his knife, which he still held between his teeth, and
with that hand, holding the knife, he supported himself against the rocks,
while he made a desperate effort to withdraw his arm. He succeeded only in =
disturbing
his persecutor, which wound itself still tighter. It was supple as leather,
strong as steel, cold as night.
A second form, sharp, elongated, and narrow,
issued out of the crevice, like a tongue out of monstrous jaws. It seemed to
lick his naked body. Then suddenly stretching out, it became longer and
thinner, as it crept over his skin, and wound itself round him. At the same
time a terrible sense of pain, comparable to nothing he had ever known,
compelled all his muscles to contract. He felt upon his skin a number of fl=
at
rounded points. It seemed as if innumerable suckers had fastened to his fle=
sh and
were about to drink his blood.
A third long undulating shape issued from the =
hole
in the rock; seemed to feel its way about his body; lashed round his ribs l=
ike
a cord, and fixed itself there.
Agony when at its height is mute. Gilliatt utt=
ered
no cry. There was sufficient light for him to see the repulsive forms which=
had
entangled themselves about him. A fourth ligature, but this one swift as an
arrow, darted towards his stomach, and wound around him there.
It was impossible to sever or tear away the sl=
imy
bands which were twisted tightly round his body, and were adhering by a num=
ber
of points. Each of the points was the focus of frightful and singular pangs=
. It
was as if numberless small mouths were devouring him at the same time.
A fifth long, slimy, riband-shaped strip issued
from the hole. It passed over the others, and wound itself tightly around h=
is
chest. The compression increased his sufferings. He could scarcely breathe.=
These living thongs were pointed at their
extremities, but broadened like a blade of a sword towards its hilt. All
belonged evidently to the same centre. They crept and glided about him; he =
felt
the strange points of pressure, which seemed to him like mouths, change the=
ir
places from time to time.
Suddenly a large, round, flattened, glutinous =
mass
issued from beneath the crevice. It was the centre; the five thongs were
attached to it like spokes to the nave of a wheel. On the opposite side of =
this
disgusting monster appeared the commencement of three other tentacles, the =
ends
of which remained under the rock. In the middle of this slimy mass appeared=
two
eyes.
The eyes were fixed on Gilliatt.
He recognised the Devil-Fish.
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%'>II - =
THE
MONSTER
=
It is
difficult for those who have not seen it to believe in the existence of the
devil-fish.
Compared to this creature, the ancient hydras =
are
insignificant.
At times we are tempted to imagine that the va=
gue
forms which float in our dreams may encounter in the realm of the Possible
attractive forces, having power to fix their lineaments, and shape living b=
eings,
out of these creatures of our slumbers. The Unknown has power over these st=
range
visions, and out of them composes monsters. Orpheus, Homer, and Hesiod imag=
ined
only the Chimera: Providence has created this terrible creature of the sea.=
Creation abounds in monstrous forms of life. T=
he
wherefore of this perplexes and affrights the religious thinker.
If terror were the object of its creation, not=
hing
could be imagined more perfect than the devil-fish.
The whale has enormous bulk, the devil-fish is
comparatively small; the jararaca makes a hissing noise, the devil-fish is
mute; the rhinoceros has a horn, the devil-fish has none; the scorpion has a
dart, the devil-fish has no dart; the shark has sharp fins, the devil-fish =
has
no fins; the vespertilio-bat has wings with claws, the devil-fish has no wi=
ngs;
the porcupine has his spines, the devil-fish has no spines; the sword-fish =
has
his sword, the devil-fish has none; the torpedo has its electric spark, the
devil-fish has none; the toad has its poison, the devil-fish has none; the
viper has its venom, the devil-fish has no venom; the lion has its talons, =
the
devil-fish has no talons; the griffon has its beak, the devil-fish has no b=
eak;
the crocodile has its jaws, the devil-fish has no teeth.
The devil-fish has no muscular organisation, no
menacing cry, no breastplate, no horn, no dart, no claw, no tail with which=
to
hold or bruise; no cutting fins, or wings with nails, no prickles, no sword=
, no
electric discharge, no poison, no talons, no beak, no teeth. Yet he is of a=
ll
creatures the most formidably armed.
What, then, is the devil-fish? It is the sea
vampire.
The swimmer who, attracted by the beauty of the
spot, ventures among breakers in the open sea, where the still waters hide =
the
splendours of the deep, or in the hollows of unfrequented rocks, in unknown
caverns abounding in sea plants, testacea, and crustacea, under the deep
portals of the ocean, runs the risk of meeting it. If that fate should be
yours, be not curious, but fly. The intruder enters there dazzled; but quit=
s the
spot in terror.
This frightful apparition, which is always
possible among the rocks in the open sea, is a greyish form which undulates=
in
the water. It is of the thickness of a man's arm, and in length nearly five
feet. Its outline is ragged. Its form resembles an umbrella closed, and wit=
hout
handle. This irregular mass advances slowly towards you. Suddenly it opens,=
and
eight radii issue abruptly from around a face with two eyes. These radii are
alive: their undulation is like lambent flames; they resemble, when opened,=
the
spokes of a wheel, of four or five feet in diameter. A terrible expansion! =
It
springs upon its prey.
The devil-fish harpoons its victim.
It winds around the sufferer, covering and
entangling him in its long folds. Underneath it is yellow; above, a dull,
earthy hue: nothing could render that inexplicable shade dust coloured. Its
form is spider-like, but its tints are like those of the chamelion. When
irritated it becomes violet. Its most horrible characteristic is its softne=
ss.
Its folds strangle, its contact paralyses.
It has an aspect like gangrened or scabrous fl=
esh.
It is a monstrous embodiment of disease.
It adheres closely to its prey, and cannot be =
torn
away; a fact which is due to its power of exhausting air. The eight
antennæ, large at their roots, diminish gradually, and end in needle-=
like
points. Underneath each of these feelers range two rows of pustules, decrea=
sing
in size, the largest ones near the head, the smaller at the extremities. Ea=
ch
row contains twenty-five of these. There are, therefore, fifty pustules to =
each
feeler, and the creature possesses in the whole four hundred. These pustules
are capable of acting like cupping-glasses. They are cartilaginous substanc=
es,
cylindrical, horny, and livid. Upon the large species they diminish gradual=
ly
from the diameter of a five-franc piece to the size of a split pea. These s=
mall
tubes can be thrust out and withdrawn by the animal at will. They are capab=
le
of piercing to a depth of more than an inch.
This sucking apparatus has all the regularity =
and
delicacy of a key-board. It stands forth at one moment and disappears the n=
ext.
The most perfect sensitiveness cannot equal the contractibility of these su=
ckers;
always proportioned to the internal movement of the animal, and its exterior
circumstances. The monster is endowed with the qualities of the sensitive
plant.
This animal is the same as those which mariners
call Poulps; which science designates Cephalopteræ, and which ancient
legends call Krakens. It is the English sailors who call them
"Devil-fish," and sometimes Bloodsuckers. In the Channel Islands =
they
are called pieuvres.
They are rare at Guernsey, very small at Jerse=
y;
but near the island of Sark are numerous as well as very large.
An engraving in Sonnini's edition of Buffon
represents a Cephaloptera crushing a frigate. Denis Montfort, in fact,
considers the Poulp, or Octopod, of high latitudes, strong enough to destro=
y a
ship. Bory Saint Vincent doubts this; but he shows that in our regions they
will attack men. Near Brecq-Hou, in Sark, they show a cave where a devil-fi=
sh a
few years since seized and drowned a lobster-fisher. Peron and Lamarck are =
in
error in their belief that the "poulp" having no fins cannot swim=
. He
who writes these lines has seen with his own eyes, at Sark, in the cavern
called the Boutiques, a pieuvre swimming and pursuing a bather. When captur=
ed
and killed, this specimen was found to be four English feet broad, and it w=
as
possible to count its four hundred suckers. The monster thrust them out
convulsively in the agony of death.
According to Denis Montfort, one of those
observers whose marvellous intuition sinks or raises them to the level of
magicians, the poulp is almost endowed with the passions of man: it has its
hatreds. In fact, in the Absolute to be hideous is to hate.
Hideousness struggles under the natural law of
elimination, which necessarily renders it hostile.
When swimming, the devil-fish rests, so to spe=
ak,
in its sheath. It swims with all its parts drawn close. It may be likened t=
o a
sleeve sewn up with a closed fist within. The protuberance, which is the he=
ad, pushes
the water aside and advances with a vague undulatory movement. Its two eyes,
though large, are indistinct, being of the colour of the water.
When in ambush, or seeking its prey, it retires
into itself, grows smaller and condenses itself. It is then scarcely
distinguishable in the submarine twilight.
At such times, it looks like a mere ripple in =
the
water. It resembles anything except a living creature.
The devil-fish is crafty. When its victim is
unsuspicious, it opens suddenly.
A glutinous mass, endowed with a malignant wil=
l,
what can be more horrible?
It is in the most beautiful azure depths of the
limpid water that this hideous, voracious polyp delights. It always conceals
itself, a fact which increases its terrible associations. When they are see=
n,
it is almost invariably after they have been captured.
At night, however, and particularly in the hot
season, it becomes phosphorescent. These horrible creatures have their
passions; their submarine nuptials. Then it adorns itself, burns and illumi=
nes;
and from the height of some rock, it may be seen in the deep obscurity of t=
he waves
below, expanding with a pale irradiation--a spectral sun.
The devil-fish not only swims, it walks. It is
partly fish, partly reptile. It crawls upon the bed of the sea. At these ti=
mes,
it makes use of its eight feelers, and creeps along in the fashion of a spe=
cies
of swift-moving caterpillar.
It has no blood, no bones, no flesh. It is soft
and flabby; a skin with nothing inside. Its eight tentacles may be turned
inside out like the fingers of a glove.
It has a single orifice in the centre of its
radii, which appears at first to be neither the vent nor the mouth. It is, =
in
fact, both one and the other. The orifice performs a double function. The
entire creature is cold.
The jelly-fish of the Mediterranean is repulsi=
ve.
Contact with that animated gelatinous substance which envelopes the bather,=
in
which the hands sink, and the nails scratch ineffectively; which can be tor=
n without
killing it, and which can be plucked off without entirely removing it--that
fluid and yet tenacious creature which slips through the fingers, is
disgusting; but no horror can equal the sudden apparition of the devil-fish,
that Medusa with its eight serpents.
No grasp is like the sudden strain of the
cephaloptera.
It is with the sucking apparatus that it attac=
ks.
The victim is oppressed by a vacuum drawing at numberless points: it is not=
a
clawing or a biting, but an indescribable scarification. A tearing of the f=
lesh
is terrible, but less terrible than a sucking of the blood. Claws are harml=
ess
compared with the horrible action of these natural air-cups. The talons of =
the
wild beast enter into your flesh; but with the cephaloptera it is you who e=
nter
into the creature. The muscles swell, the fibres of the body are contorted,=
the
skin cracks under the loathsome oppression, the blood spurts out and mingles
horribly with the lymph of the monster, which clings to its victim by
innumerable hideous mouths. The hydra incorporates itself with the man; the=
man
becomes one with the hydra. The spectre lies upon you: the tiger can only
devour you; the devil-fish, horrible, sucks your life-blood away. He draws =
you to
him, and into himself; while bound down, glued to the ground, powerless, you
feel yourself gradually emptied into this horrible pouch, which is the mons=
ter
itself.
These strange animals, Science, in accordance =
with
its habit of excessive caution even in the face of facts, at first rejects =
as fabulous;
then she decides to observe them; then she dissects, classifies, catalogues,
and labels; then procures specimens, and exhibits them in glass cases in
museums. They enter then into her nomenclature; are designated mollusks,
invertebrata, radiata: she determines their position in the animal world a
little above the calamaries, a little below the cuttle-fish; she finds for
these hydras of the sea an analogous creature in fresh water called the arg=
yronecte:
she divides them into great, medium, and small kinds; she admits more readi=
ly
the existence of the small than of the large species, which is, however, the
tendency of science in all countries, for she is by nature more microscopic
than telescopic. She regards them from the point of view of their construct=
ion,
and calls them Cephaloptera; counts their antennæ, and calls them
Octopedes. This done, she leaves them. Where science drops them, philosophy
takes them up.
Philosophy in her turn studies these creatures.
She goes both less far and further. She does not dissect, but meditate. Whe=
re
the scalpel has laboured, she plunges the hypothesis. She seeks the final
cause. Eternal perplexity of the thinker. These creatures disturb his ideas=
of
the Creator. They are hideous surprises. They are the death's-head at the f=
east
of contemplation. The philosopher determines their characteristics in dread.
They are the concrete forms of evil. What attitude can he take towards this
treason of creation against herself? To whom can he look for the solution of
these riddles? The Possible is a terrible matrix. Monsters are mysteries in
their concrete form. Portions of shade issue from the mass, and something
within detaches itself, rolls, floats, condenses, borrows elements from the
ambient darkness, becomes subject to unknown polarisations, assumes a kind =
of
life, furnishes itself with some unimagined form from the obscurity, and wi=
th
some terrible spirit from the miasma, and wanders ghostlike among living
things. It is as if night itself assumed the forms of animals. But for what
good? with what object? Thus we come again to the eternal questioning.
These animals are indeed phantoms as much as
monsters. They are proved and yet improbable. Their fate is to exist in spi=
te
of à priori reasonings. They are the amphibia of the shore which
separates life from death. Their unreality makes their existence puzzling. =
They
touch the frontier of man's domain and people the region of chimeras. We de=
ny
the possibility of the vampire, and the cephaloptera appears. Their swarmin=
g is
a certainty which disconcerts our confidence. Optimism, which is neverthele=
ss
in the right, becomes silenced in their presence. They form the visible
extremity of the dark circles. They mark the transition of our reality into
another. They seem to belong to that commencement of terrible life which the
dreamer sees confusedly through the loophole of the night.
That multiplication of monsters, first in the
Invisible, then in the Possible, has been suspected, perhaps perceived by m=
agi
and philosophers in their austere ecstasies and profound contemplations. He=
nce
the conjecture of a material hell. The demon is simply the invisible tiger.=
The
wild beast which devours souls has been presented to the eyes of human bein=
gs
by St. John, and by Dante in his vision of Hell.
If, in truth, the invisible circles of creation
continue indefinitely, if after one there is yet another, and so forth in
illimitable progression; if that chain, which for our part we are resolved =
to doubt,
really exist, the cephaloptera at one extremity proves Satan at the other. =
It
is certain that the wrongdoer at one end proves the existence of wrong at t=
he
other.
Every malignant creature, like every perverted
intelligence, is a sphinx. A terrible sphinx propounding a terrible riddle;=
the
riddle of the existence of Evil.
It is this perfection of evil which has someti=
mes
sufficed to incline powerful intellects to a faith in the duality of the De=
ity,
towards that terrible bifrons of the Manichæans.
A piece of silk stolen during the last war from
the palace of the Emperor of China represents a shark eating a crocodile, w=
ho
is eating a serpent, who is devouring an eagle, who is preying on a swallow,
who in his turn is eating a caterpillar.
All nature which is under our observation is t=
hus
alternately devouring and devoured. The prey prey on each other.
Learned men, however, who are also philosopher=
s,
and therefore optimists in their view of creation, find, or believe they fi=
nd,
an explanation. Among others, Bonnet of Geneva, that mysterious exact think=
er,
who was opposed to Buffon, as in later times Geoffrey St. Hilaire has been =
to Cuvier,
was struck with the idea of the final object. His notions may be summed up
thus: universal death necessitates universal sepulture; the devourers are t=
he
sextons of the system of nature. All created things enter into and form the
elements of other. To decay is to nourish. Such is the terrible law from wh=
ich
not even man himself escapes.
In our world of twilight this fatal order of
things produces monsters. You ask for what purpose. We find the solution he=
re.
But is this the solution? Is this the answer to
our questionings? And if so, why not some different order of things? Thus t=
he
question returns.
Let us live: be it so.
But let us endeavour that death shall be progr=
ess.
Let us aspire to an existence in which these mysteries shall be made clear.=
Let
us follow that conscience which leads us thither.
For let us never forget that the highest is on=
ly
attained through the high.
=
Such
was the creature in whose power Gilliatt had fallen for some minutes.
The monster was the inhabitant of the grotto; =
the
terrible genii of the place. A kind of sombre demon of the water.
All the splendours of the cavern existed for it
alone.
On the day of the previous month when Gilliatt=
had
first penetrated into the grotto, the dark outline, vaguely perceived by hi=
m in
the ripples of the secret waters, was this monster. It was here in its home=
.
When entering for the second time into the cav=
ern
in pursuit of the crab, he had observed the crevice in which he supposed th=
at
the crab had taken refuge, the pieuvre was there lying in wait for prey.
Is it possible to imagine that secret ambush?<= o:p>
No bird would brood, no egg would burst to lif=
e,
no flower would dare to open, no breast to give milk, no heart to love, no
spirit to soar, under the influence of that apparition of evil watching with
sinister patience in the dusk.
Gilliatt had thrust his arm deep into the open=
ing;
the monster had snapped at it. It held him fast, as the spider holds the fl=
y.
He was in the water up to his belt; his naked =
feet
clutching the slippery roundness of the huge stones at the bottom; his right
arm bound and rendered powerless by the flat coils of the long tentacles of=
the
creature, and his body almost hidden under the folds and cross folds of this
horrible bandage.
Of the eight arms of the devil-fish three adhe=
red
to the rock, while five encircled Gilliatt. In this way, clinging to the
granite on the one hand, and with the other to its human prey, it enchained=
him
to the rock. Two hundred and fifty suckers were upon him, tormenting him wi=
th agony
and loathing. He was grasped by gigantic hands, the fingers of which were e=
ach
nearly a yard long, and furnished inside with living blisters eating into t=
he
flesh.
As we have said, it is impossible to tear ones=
elf
from the folds of the devil-fish. The attempt ends only in a firmer grasp. =
The
monster clings with more determined force. Its effort increases with that of
its victim; every struggle produces a tightening of its ligatures.
Gilliatt had but one resource, his knife.
His left hand only was free; but the reader kn=
ows
with what power he could use it. It might have been said that he had two ri=
ght
hands.
His open knife was in his hand.
The antenna of the devil-fish cannot be cut; i=
t is
a leathery substance impossible to divide with the knife, it slips under the
edge; its position in attack also is such that to cut it would be to wound =
the victim's
own flesh.
The creature is formidable, but there is a way=
of
resisting it. The fishermen of Sark know this, as does any one who has seen
them execute certain movements in the sea. The porpoises know it also; they
have a way of biting the cuttle-fish which decapitates it. Hence the freque=
nt sight
on the sea of pen-fish, poulps, and cuttle-fish without heads.
The cephaloptera, in fact, is only vulnerable
through the head.
Gilliatt was not ignorant of this fact.
He had never seen a devil-fish of this size. H=
is
first encounter was with one of the larger species. Another would have been
powerless with terror.
With the devil-fish, as with a furious bull, t=
here
is a certain moment in the conflict which must be seized. It is the instant
when the bull lowers the neck; it is the instant when the devil-fish advanc=
es
its head. The movement is rapid. He who loses that moment is destroyed.
The things we have described occupied only a f=
ew
moments. Gilliatt, however, felt the increasing power of its innumerable
suckers.
The monster is cunning; it tries first to stup=
efy
its prey. It seizes and then pauses awhile.
Gilliatt grasped his knife; the sucking increa=
sed.
He looked at the monster, which seemed to look=
at
him.
Suddenly it loosened from the rock its sixth
antenna, and darting it at him, seized him by the left arm.
At the same moment it advanced its head with a
violent movement. In one second more its mouth would have fastened on his
breast. Bleeding in the sides, and with his two arms entangled, he would ha=
ve
been a dead man.
But Gillian was watchful. He avoided the anten=
na,
and at the moment when the monster darted forward to fasten on his breast, =
he
struck it with the knife clenched in his left hand. There were two convulsi=
ons
in opposite directions; that of the devil-fish and that of its prey. The mo=
vement
was rapid as a double flash of lightnings.
He had plunged the blade of his knife into the
flat slimy substance, and by a rapid movement, like the flourish of a whip =
in
the air, describing a circle round the two eyes, he wrenched the head off a=
s a
man would draw a tooth.
The struggle was ended. The folds relaxed. The
monster dropped away, like the slow detaching of bands. The four hundred
suckers, deprived of their sustaining power, dropped at once from the man a=
nd
the rock. The mass sank to the bottom of the water.
Breathless with the struggle, Gilliatt could
perceive upon the stones at his feet two shapeless, slimy heaps, the head on
one side, the remainder of the monster on the other.
Fearing, nevertheless, some convulsive return =
of
his agony, he recoiled to avoid the reach of the dreaded tentacles.
But the monster was quite dead.
Gilliatt closed his knife.
=
It was
time that he killed the devil-fish. He was almost suffocated. His right arm=
and
his chest were purple. Numberless little swellings were distinguishable upon
them; the blood flowed from them here and there. The remedy for these wound=
s is
sea-water. Gilliatt plunged into it, rubbing himself at the same time with =
the
palms of his hands. The swellings disappeared under the friction.
By stepping further into the waters he had,
without perceiving, approached to the species of recess already observed by=
him
near the crevice where he had been attacked by the devil-fish.
This recess stretched obliquely under the great
walls of the cavern, and was dry. The large pebbles which had become heaped=
up
there had raised the bottom above the level of ordinary tides. The entrance=
was
a rather large elliptical arch; a man could enter by stooping. The green li=
ght
of the submarine grotto penetrated into it and lighted it feebly.
It happened that, while hastily rubbing his sk=
in,
Gilliatt raised his eyes mechanically.
He was able to see far into the cavern.
He shuddered.
He fancied that he perceived, in the furthest
depth of the dusky recess, something smiling.
Gilliatt had never heard the word
"hallucination," but he was familiar with the idea. Those mysteri=
ous
encounters with the invisible, which, for the sake of avoiding the difficul=
ty
of explaining them, we call hallucinations, are in nature. Illusions or
realities, visions are a fact. He who has the gift will see them. Gilliatt,=
as
we have said, was a dreamer. He had, at times, the faculty of a seer. It was
not in vain that he had spent his days in musing among solitary places.
He imagined himself the dupe of one of those
mirages which he had more than once beheld when in his dreamy moods.
The opening was somewhat in the shape of a
chalk-burner's oven. It was a low niche with projections like basket-handle=
s.
Its abrupt groins contracted gradually as far as the extremity of the crypt,
where the heaps of round stones and the rocky roof joined.
Gilliatt entered, and lowering his head, advan=
ced
towards the object in the distance.
There was indeed something smiling.
It was a death's head; but it was not only the
head. There was the entire skeleton. A complete human skeleton was lying in=
the
cavern.
In such a position a bold man will continue his
researches.
Gilliatt cast his eyes around. He was surround=
ed
by a multitude of crabs. The multitude did not stir. They were but empty
shells.
These groups were scattered here and there amo=
ng
the masses of pebbles in irregular constellations.
Gilliatt, having his eyes fixed elsewhere, had
walked among them without perceiving them.
At this extremity of the crypt, where he had n=
ow
penetrated, there was a still greater heap of remains. It was a confused ma=
ss
of legs, antennæ, and mandibles. Claws stood wide open; bony shells l=
ay
still under their bristling prickles; some reversed showed their livid holl=
ows.
The heap was like a mêlée of besiegers who had fallen, and lay
massed together.
The skeleton was partly buried in this heap.
Under this confused mass of scales and tentacl=
es,
the eye perceived the cranium with its furrows, the vertebræ, the thi=
gh
bones, the tibias, and the long-jointed finger bones with their nails. The
frame of the ribs was filled with crabs. Some heart had once beat there. The
green mould of the sea had settled round the sockets of the eyes. Limpets h=
ad
left their slime upon the bony nostrils. For the rest, there were not in th=
is cave
within the rocks either sea-gulls, or weeds, or a breath of air. All was st=
ill.
The teeth grinned.
The sombre side of laughter is that strange
mockery of expression which is peculiar to a human skull.
This marvellous palace of the deep, inlaid and
incrusted with all the gems of the sea, had at length revealed and told its
secret. It was a savage haunt; the devil-fish inhabited it; it was also a t=
omb,
in which the body of a man reposed.
The skeleton and the creatures around it
oscillated vaguely in the reflections of the subterranean water which tremb=
led
upon the roof and wall. The horrible multitude of crabs looked as if finish=
ing
their repast. These crustacea seemed to be devouring the carcase. Nothing c=
ould
be more strange than the aspect of the dead vermin upon their dead prey.
Gilliatt had beneath his eyes the storehouse of
the devil-fish.
It was a dismal sight. The crabs had devoured =
the
man: the devil-fish had devoured the crabs.
There were no remains of clothing anywhere
visible. The man must have been seized naked.
Gilliatt, attentively examining, began to remo=
ve
the shells from the skeleton. What had this man been? The body was admirably
dissected; it looked as if prepared for the study of anatomy; all the flesh=
was
stripped; not a muscle remained; not a bone was missing. If Gilliatt had be=
en
learned in science, he might have demonstrated the fact. The periostea, den=
uded
of their covering, were white and smooth, as if they had been polished. But=
for
some green mould of sea-mosses here and there, they would have been like iv=
ory.
The cartilaginous divisions were delicately inlaid and arranged. The tomb
sometimes produces this dismal mosaic work.
The body was, as it were, interred under the h=
eap
of dead crabs. Gilliatt disinterred it.
Suddenly he stooped, and examined more closely=
.
He had perceived around the vertebral column a
sort of belt.
It was a leathern girdle, which had evidently =
been
worn buckled upon the waist of the man when alive.
The leather was moist; the buckle rusty.
Gilliatt pulled the girdle; the vertebra of the
skeleton resisted, and he was compelled to break through them in order to r=
emove
it. A crust of small shells had begun to form upon it.
He felt it, and found a hard substance within,
apparently of square form. It was useless to endeavour to unfasten the buck=
le,
so he cut the leather with his knife.
The girdle contained a little iron box and some
pieces of gold. Gilliatt counted twenty guineas.
The iron box was an old sailor's tobacco-box,
opening and shutting with a spring. It was very tight and rusty. The spring
being completely oxidised would not work.
Once more the knife served Gilliatt in a
difficulty. A pressure with the point of the blade caused the lid to fly up=
.
The box was open.
There was nothing inside but pieces of paper.<= o:p>
A little roll of very thin sheets, folded in f=
our,
was fitted in the bottom of the box. They were damp, but not injured. The b=
ox, hermetically
sealed, had preserved them. Gilliatt unfolded them.
They were three bank-notes of one thousand pou=
nds
sterling each; making together seventy-five thousand francs.
Gilliatt folded them again, replaced them in t=
he
box, taking advantage of the space which remained to add the twenty guineas;
and then reclosed the box as well as he could.
Next he examined the girdle.
The leather, which had originally been polished
outside, was rough within. Upon this tawny ground some letters had been tra=
ced
in black thick ink. Gilliatt deciphered them, and read the words, "Sie=
ur
Clubin."
=
Gilliatt
replaced the box in the girdle, and placed the girdle in the pocket of his
trousers.
He left the skeleton among the crabs, with the
remains of the devil-fish beside it.
While he had been occupied with the devil-fish=
and
the skeleton, the rising tide had submerged the entrance to the cave. He was
only enabled to leave it by plunging under the arched entrance. He got thro=
ugh without
difficulty; for he knew the entrance well, and was master of these gymnasti=
cs
in the sea.
It is easy to understand the drama which had t=
aken
place there during the ten weeks preceding. One monster had preyed upon
another; the devil-fish had seized Clubin.
These two embodiments of treachery had met in =
the
inexorable darkness. There had been an encounter at the bottom of the sea
between these two compounds of mystery and watchfulness; the monster had de=
stroyed
the man: a horrible fulfilment of justice.
The crab feeds on carrion, the devil-fish on
crabs. The devil-fish seizes as it passes any swimming animal--an otter, a =
dog,
a man if it can--sucks the blood, and leaves the body at the bottom of the =
water.
The crabs are the spider-formed scavengers of the sea. Putrefying flesh att=
racts
them; they crowd round it, devour the body, and are in their turn consumed =
by
the devil-fish. Dead creatures disappear in the crab, the crab disappears in
the pieuvre. This is the law which we have already pointed out.
The devil-fish had laid hold of him, and drown=
ed
him. Some wave had carried his body into the cave, and deposited it at the
extremity of the inner cavern, where Gilliatt had discovered it.
He returned searching among the rocks for
sea-urchins and limpets. He had no desire for crabs; to have eaten them now
would have seemed to him like feeding upon human flesh.
For the rest, he thought of nothing but of eat=
ing
what he could before starting. Nothing now interposed to prevent his depart=
ure.
Great tempests are always followed by a calm, which lasts sometimes several=
days.
There was, therefore, no danger from the sea. Gilliatt had resolved to leave
the rocks on the following day. It was important, on account of the tide, to
keep the barrier between the two Douvres during the night, but he intended =
to
remove it at daybreak, to push the sloop out to sea, and set sail for St.
Sampson. The light breeze which was blowing came from the south-west, which=
was
precisely the wind which he would want.
It was in the first quarter of the moon, in the
month of May; the days were long.
When Gilliatt, having finished his wanderings
among the rocks, and appeased his appetite to some extent, returned to the
passage between the two Douvres, where he had left the sloop, the sun had s=
et,
the twilight was increased by that pale light which comes from a crescent m=
oon;
the tide had attained its height, and was beginning to ebb. The funnel stan=
ding
upright above the sloop had been covered by the foam during the tempest wit=
h a
coating of salt which glittered white in the light of the moon.
This circumstance reminded Gilliatt that the s=
torm
had inundated the sloop, both with surf and rain-water, and that if he mean=
t to
start in the morning, it would be necessary to bail it out.
Before leaving to go in quest of crabs, he had
ascertained that it had about six inches of water in the hold. The scoop wh=
ich
he used for the purpose would, he thought, be sufficient for throwing the w=
ater
overboard.
On arriving at the barrier, Gilliatt was struck
with terror. There were nearly two feet of water in the sloop. A terrible
discovery; the bark had sprung a leak.
She had been making water gradually during his
absence. Burdened as she was, two feet of water was a perilous addition. A
little more, and she must inevitably founder. If he had returned but an hour
later, he would probably have found nothing above water but the funnel and =
the
mast.
There was not a minute to be lost in deliberat=
ion.
It was absolutely necessary to find the leakage, stop it, and then empty the
vessel, or at all events, lighten it. The pumps of the Durande had been los=
t in
the break-up of the wreck. He was reduced to use the scoop of the bark.
To find the leak was the most urgent necessity=
.
Gilliatt set to work immediately, and without =
even
giving himself time to dress. He shivered; but he no longer felt either hun=
ger
or cold.
The water continued to gain upon his vessel.
Fortunately there was no wind. The slightest swell would have been fatal.
The moon went down.
Bent low, and plunged in the water deeper than= his waist he groped about for a long time. He discovered the mischief at last.<= o:p>
During the gale, at the critical moment when t=
he
sloop had swerved, the strong bark had bumped and grazed rather violently on
the rocks. One of the projections of the Little Douvre had made a fracture =
in
the starboard side of the hull.
The leak unluckily--it might almost have been
said, maliciously--had been made near the joint of the two riders, a fact
which, joined with the fury of the hurricane, had prevented him perceiving =
it
during his dark and rapid survey in the height of the storm.
The fracture was alarming on account of its si=
ze;
but fortunately, although the vessel was sunk lower than usual by the weigh=
t of
water, it was still above the ordinary water-line.
At the moment when the accident had occurred, =
the
waves had rolled heavily into the defile, and had flooded through the breac=
h;
and the vessel had sunk a few inches under the additional weight, so that, =
even
after the subsidence of the water, the weight having raised the water-line,=
had
kept the hole still under the surface. Hence the imminence of the danger. B=
ut
if he could succeed in stopping the leak, he could empty the sloop; the hole
once staunched, the vessel would rise to its usual water-line, the fracture
would be above water, and in this position the repair would be easy, or at
least possible. He had still, as we have already said, his carpenters' tool=
s in
good condition.
But meanwhile what uncertainty must he not end=
ure!
What perils, what chances of accidents! He heard the water rising inexorabl=
y.
One shock, and all would have perished. What misery seemed in store for him=
. Perhaps
his endeavours were even now too late.
He reproached himself bitterly. He thought tha=
t he
ought to have seen the damage immediately. The six inches of water in the h=
old
ought to have suggested it to him. He had been stupid enough to attribute t=
hese
six inches of water to the rain and the foam. He was angry with himself for
having slept and eaten; he taxed himself even with his weariness, and almost
with the storm and the dark night. All seemed to him to have been his own
fault.
These bitter self-reproaches filled his mind w=
hile
engaged in his labour, but they did not prevent his considering well the wo=
rk
he was engaged in.
The leak had been found; that was the first st=
ep:
to staunch it was the second. That was all that was possible for the moment.
Joinery work cannot be carried on under water.
It was a favourable circumstance that the brea=
ch
in the hull was in the space between the two chains which held the funnel f=
ast
on the starboard side. The stuffing with which it was necessary to stop it
could be fixed to these chains.
The water meanwhile was gaining. Its depth was=
now
between two and three feet; and it reached above his knees.
=
Gilliatt
had to his hand among his reserve of rigging for the sloop a pretty large
tarpaulin, furnished with long laniards at the four corners.
He took this tarpaulin, made fast the two corn=
ers
by the laniards to the two rings of the chains of the funnel on the same si=
de
as the leak, and threw it over the gunwale. The tarpaulin hung like a sheet
between the Little Douvre and the bark, and sunk in the water. The pressure=
of
the water endeavouring to enter into the hold, kept it close to the hull up=
on
the gap. The heavier the pressure the closer the sail adhered. It was stuck=
by
the water itself right upon the fracture. The wound of the bark was staunch=
ed.
The tarred canvas formed an effectual barrier
between the interior of the hold and the waves without. Not a drop of water
entered. The leak was masked, but was not stopped. It was a respite only.
Gilliatt took the scoop and began to bale the
sloop. It was time that she were lightened. The labour warmed him a little,=
but
his weariness was extreme. He was forced to acknowledge to himself that he
could not complete the work of staunching the hold. He had scarcely eaten a=
nything,
and he had the humiliation of feeling himself exhausted.
He measured the progress of his work by the
sinking of the level of water below his knees. The fall was slow.
Moreover, the leakage was only interrupted; the
evil was moderated, not repaired. The tarpaulin pushed into the gap began to
bulge inside; looking as if a fist were under the canvas, endeavouring to f=
orce
it through. The canvas, strong and pitchy, resisted; but the swelling and t=
he
tension increased; it was not certain that it would not give way, and at any
moment the swelling might become a rent. The irruption of water must then
recommence.
In such a case, as the crews of vessels in
distress know well, there is no other remedy than stuffing. The sailors take
rags of every kind which they can find at hand, everything, in fact, which =
in
their language is called "service;" and with this they push the
bulging sail-cloth as far as they can into the leak.
Of this "service," Gilliatt had none.
All the rags and tow which he had stored up had been used in his operations=
, or
carried away by the storm.
If necessary, he might possibly have been able=
to
find some remains by searching among the rocks. The sloop was sufficiently
lightened for him to leave it with safety for a quarter of an hour; but how
could he make this search without a light? The darkness was complete. There=
was
no longer any moon; nothing but the starry sky. He had no dry tow with whic=
h to
make a match, no tallow to make a candle, no fire to light one, no lantern =
to
shelter it from the wind. In the sloop and among the rocks all was confused=
and
indistinct. He could hear the water lapping against the wounded hull, but he
could not even see the crack. It was with his hands that he had ascertained=
the
bulging of the tarpaulin. In that darkness it was impossible to make any us=
eful
search for rags of canvas or pieces of tow scattered among the breakers. Who
could glean these waifs and strays without being able to see his path? Gill=
iatt
looked sorrowfully at the sky; all those stars, he thought, and yet no ligh=
t!
The water in the bark having diminished, the
pressure from without increased. The bulging of the canvas became larger, a=
nd
was still increasing, like a frightful abscess ready to burst. The situatio=
n, which
had been improved for a short time, began to be threatening.
Some means of stopping it effectually was
absolutely necessary. He had nothing left but his clothes, which he had
stretched to dry upon the projecting rocks of the Little Douvre.
He hastened to fetch them, and placed them upon
the gunwale of the sloop.
Then he took his tarpaulin overcoat, and kneel=
ing
in the water, thrust it into the crevice, and pushing the swelling of the s=
ail
outward, emptied it of water. To the tarpaulin coat he added the sheepskin,
then his Guernsey shirt, and then his jacket. The hole received them all. H=
e had
nothing left but his sailor's trousers, which he took off, and pushed in wi=
th
the other articles. This enlarged and strengthened the stuffing.
The stopper was made, and it appeared to be
sufficient.
These clothes passed partly through the gap, t=
he
sail-cloth outside enveloping them. The sea making an effort to enter, pres=
sed
against the obstacle, spread it over the gap, and blocked it. It was a sort=
of exterior
compression.
Inside, the centre only of the bulging having =
been
driven out, there remained all around the gap and the stuffing just thrust
through a sort of circular pad formed by the tarpaulin, which was rendered
still firmer by the irregularities of the fracture with which it had become=
entangled.
The leak was staunched, but nothing could be m=
ore
precarious. Those sharp splinters of the gap which fixed the tarpaulin might
pierce it and make holes, by which the water would enter; while he would not
even perceive it in the darkness. There was little probability of the stopp=
age
lasting until daylight. Gilliatt's anxiety changed its form; but he felt it
increasing at the same time that he found his strength leaving him.
He had again set to work to bale out the hold,= but his arms, in spite of all his efforts, could scarcely lift a scoopfull of water. He was naked and shivering. He felt as if the end were now at hand.<= o:p>
One possible chance flashed across his mind. T=
here
might be a sail in sight. A fishing-boat which should by any accident be in=
the
neighbourhood of the Douvres, might come to his assistance. The moment had
arrived when a helpmate was absolutely necessary. With a man and a lantern =
all
might yet be saved. If there were two persons, one might easily bale the
vessel. Since the leak was temporarily staunched, as soon as she could be
relieved of this burden, she would rise, and regain her ordinary water-line.
The leak would then be above the surface of the water, the repairs would be
practicable, and he would be able immediately to replace the stuff by a pie=
ce
of planking, and thus substitute for the temporary stoppage a complete repa=
ir.
If not, it would be necessary to wait till daylight--to wait the whole night
long; a delay which might prove ruinous. If by chance some ship's lantern s=
hould
be in sight, Gilliatt would be able to signal it from the height of the Gre=
at
Douvre. The weather was calm, there was no wind or rolling sea; there was a
possibility of the figure of a man being observed moving against the backgr=
ound
of the starry sky. A captain of a ship, or even the master of a fishing-boa=
t,
would not be at night in the waters of the Douvres without directing his gl=
ass
upon the rock, by way of precaution.
Gilliatt hoped that some one might perceive hi=
m.
He climbed upon the wreck, grasped the knotted
rope, and mounted upon the Great Douvre.
Not a sail was visible around the horizon; not=
a
boat's lantern. The wide expanse, as far as eye could reach, was a desert. =
No
assistance was possible, and no resistance possible.
Gilliatt felt himself without resources; a fee=
ling
which he had not felt until then.
A dark fatality was now his master. With all h=
is
labour, all his success, all his courage, he and his bark, and its precious
burden, were about to become the sport of the waves. He had no other means =
of continuing
the struggle; he became listless. How could he prevent the tide from return=
ing,
the water from rising, the night from continuing? The temporary stoppage wh=
ich
he had made was his sole reliance. He had exhausted and stripped himself in=
constructing
and completing it; he could neither fortify nor add to it. The stopgap was =
such
that it must remain as it was; and every further effort was useless. The
apparatus, hastily constructed, was at the mercy of the waves. How would th=
is
inert obstacle work? It was this obstacle now, not Gilliatt, which had to s=
ustain
the combat, that handfull of rags, not that intelligence. The swell of a wa=
ve
would suffice to re-open the fracture. More or less of pressure; the whole
question was comprised in that formula.
All depended upon a brute struggle between two mechanical quantities. Henceforth he could neither aid his auxiliary, nor s= top his enemy. He was no longer any other than a mere spectator of this struggl= e, which was one for him of life or death. He who had ruled over it, a supreme= intelligence, was at the last moment compelled to resign all to a mere blind resistance.<= o:p>
No trial, no terror that he had yet undergone,
could bear comparison with this.
From the time when he had taken up his abode u=
pon
the Douvres, he had found himself environed, and, as it were, possessed by
solitude. This solitude more than surrounded, it enveloped him. A thousand
menaces at once had met him face to face. The wind was always there, ready =
to become
furious; the sea, ready to roar. There was no stopping that terrible mouth =
the
wind, no imprisoning that dread monster the sea. And yet he had striven, he=
, a
solitary man, had combated hand to hand with the ocean, had wrestled even w=
ith
the tempest.
Many other anxieties, many other necessities h=
ad
he made head against. There was no form of distress with which he had not
become familiar. He had been compelled to execute great works without tools=
, to
move vast burdens without aid, without science to resolve problems, without=
provisions
to find food, without bed or roof to cover it, to find shelter and sleep.
Upon that solitary rock he had been subjected =
by
turns to all the varied and cruel tortures of nature; oftentimes a gentle
mother, not less often a pitiless destroyer.
He had conquered his isolation, conquered hung=
er,
conquered thirst, conquered cold, conquered fever, conquered labour, conque=
red
sleep. He had encountered a mighty coalition of obstacles formed to bar his=
progress.
After his privations there were the elements; after the sea the tempest, af=
ter
the tempest the devil-fish, after the monster the spectre.
A dismal irony was then the end of all. Upon t=
his
rock, whence he had thought to arise triumphant, the spectre of Clubin had =
only
arisen to mock him with a hideous smile.
The grin of the spectre was well founded. Gill= iatt saw himself ruined; saw himself no less than Clubin in the grasp of death.<= o:p>
Winter, famine, fatigue, the dismemberment of =
the
wreck, the removal of the machinery, the equinoctial gale, the thunder, the
monster, were all as nothing compared with this small fracture in a vessel's
planks. Against the cold one could procure--and he had procured--fire; agai=
nst hunger,
the shell-fish of the rocks; against thirst, the rain; against the difficul=
ties
of his great task, industry and energy; against the sea and the storm, the
breakwater; against the devil-fish, the knife; but against the terrible lea=
k he
had no weapon.
The hurricane had bequeathed him this sinister
farewell. The last struggle, the traitorous thrust, the treacherous side bl=
ow
of the vanquished foe. In its flight the tempest had turned and shot this a=
rrow
in the rear. It was the final and deadly stab of his antagonist.
It was possible to combat with the tempest, but
how could he struggle with that insidious enemy who now attacked him.
If the stoppage gave way, if the leak re-opene=
d,
nothing could prevent the sloop foundering. It would be the bursting of the
ligature of the artery; and once under the water with its heavy burden, no
power could raise it. The noble struggle, with two months' Titanic labour,
ended then in annihilation. To recommence would be impossible. He had neith=
er forge
nor materials. At daylight, in all probability, he was about to see all his
work sink slowly and irrecoverably into the gulf. Terrible, to feel that so=
mbre
power beneath. The sea snatched his prize from his hands.
With his bark engulfed, no fate awaited him bu=
t to
perish of hunger and cold, like the poor shipwrecked sailor on "The Man
Rock."
During two long months the intelligences which
hover invisibly over the world had been the spectators of these things; on =
one
hand the wide expanse, the waves, the winds, the lightnings, the meteors; on
the other a man. On one hand the sea, on the other a human mind; on the one=
hand
the infinite, on the other an atom.
The battle had been fierce, and behold the
abortive issue of these prodigies of valour.
Thus did this heroism without parallel end in
powerlessness; thus ended in despair that formidable struggle; that struggl=
e of
a nothing against all; that Iliad against one.
Gilliatt gazed wildly into space.
He had no clothing. He stood naked in the mids=
t of
that immensity.
Then overwhelmed by the sense of that unknown
infinity, like one bewildered by a strange persecution, confronting the sha=
dows
of night, in the presence of that impenetrable darkness, in the midst of th=
e murmur
of the waves, the swell, the foam, the breeze, under the clouds, under that
vast diffusion of force, under that mysterious firmament of wings, of stars=
, of
gulfs, having around him and beneath him the ocean, above him the
constellations, under the great unfathomable deep, he sank, gave up the
struggle, lay down upon the rock, his face towards the stars, humbled, and
uplifting his joined hands towards the terrible depths, he cried aloud,
"Have mercy."
Weighed down to earth by that immensity, he
prayed.
He was there alone, in the darkness upon the r=
ock,
in the midst of that sea, stricken down with exhaustion like one smitten by
lightning, naked like the gladiator in the circus, save that for circus he =
had
the vast horizon, instead of wild beasts the shadows of darkness, instead of
the faces of the crowd the eyes of the Unknown, instead of the Vestals the =
stars,
instead of Cæsar the All-powerful.
His whole being seemed to dissolve in cold,
fatigue, powerlessness, prayer, and darkness, and his eyes closed.
=
Some
hours passed.
The sun rose in an unclouded sky.
Its first ray shone upon a motionless form upon
the Great Douvre. It was Gilliatt.
He was still outstretched upon the rock.
He was naked, cold, and stiff; but he did not
shiver. His closed eyelids were wan. It would have been difficult for a
beholder to say whether the form before him was not a corpse.
The sun seemed to look upon him.
If he were not dead, he was already so near de=
ath
that the slightest cold wind would have sufficed to extinguish life.
The wind began to breathe, warm and animating:=
it
was the opening breath of May.
Meanwhile the sun ascended in the deep blue sk=
y;
its rays, less horizontal, flushed the sky. Its light became warmth. It
enveloped the slumbering form.
Gilliatt moved not. If he breathed, it was only
that feeble respiration which could scarcely tarnish the surface of a mirro=
r.
The sun continued its ascent; its rays striking
less and less obliquely upon the naked man. The gentle breeze which had been
merely tepid became hot.
The rigid and naked body remained still without
movement; but the skin seemed less livid.
The sun, approaching the zenith, shone almost
perpendicularly upon the plateau of the Douvres. A flood of light descended
from the heavens; the vast reflection from the glassy sea increased its
splendour: the rock itself imbibed the rays and warmed the sleeper.
A sigh raised his breast.
He lived.
The sun continued its gentle offices. The wind,
which was already the breath of summer and of noon, approached him like lov=
ing
lips that breathed upon him softly.
Gilliatt moved.
The peaceful calm upon the sea was perfect. Its
murmur was like the droning of the nurse beside the sleeping infant. The ro=
ck
seemed cradled in the waves.
The sea-birds, who knew that form, fluttered a=
bove
it; not with their old wild astonishment, but with a sort of fraternal
tenderness. They uttered plaintive cries: they seemed to be calling to him.=
A
sea-mew, who no doubt knew him, was tame enough to come near him. It began =
to
caw as if speaking to him. The sleeper seemed not to hear. The bird hopped =
upon
his shoulder, and pecked his lips softly.
Gilliatt opened his eyes.
The birds dispersed, chattering wildly.
Gilliatt arose, stretched himself like a roused
lion, ran to the edge of the platform, and looked down into the space betwe=
en
the two Douvres.
The sloop was there, intact; the stoppage had =
held
out; the sea had probably disturbed it but little.
All was saved.
He was no longer weary. His powers had returne=
d.
His swoon had ended in a deep sleep.
He descended and baled out the sloop, emptied =
the
hold, raised the leakage above the water-line, dressed himself, ate, drank =
some
water, and was joyful.
The gap in the side of his vessel, examined in
broad daylight, proved to require more labour than he had thought. It was a
serious fracture. The entire day was not too much for its repair.
At daybreak on the morrow, after removing the
barrier and re-opening the entrance to the defile, dressed in the tattered
clothing which had served to stop the leak, having about him Clubin's girdle
and the seventy-five thousand francs, standing erect in the sloop, now repa=
ired,
by the side of the machinery which he had rescued, with a favourable breeze=
and
a good sea, Gilliatt pushed off from the Douvres.
He put the sloop's head for Guernsey.
At the moment of his departure from the rocks,=
any
one who had been there might have heard him singing, in an undertone, the a=
ir
of "Bonnie Dundee."
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%'>PART
III.--DÉRUCHETTE
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%'>I - T=
HE
HARBOUR BELL
=
The
St. Sampson of the present day is almost a city; the St. Sampson of forty y=
ears
since was almost a village.
When the winter evenings were ended and spring=
had
come, the inhabitants were not long out of bed after sundown. St. Sampson w=
as
an ancient parish which had long been accustomed to the sound of the
curfew-bell, and which had a traditional habit of blowing out the candle at=
an
early hour. Those old Norman villages are famous for early roosting, and th=
e villagers
are generally great rearers of poultry.
The people of St. Sampson, except a few rich
families among the townsfolk, are also a population of quarriers and
carpenters. The port is a port of ship repairing. The quarrying of stone and
the fashioning of timber go on all day long; here the labourer with the
pickaxe, there the workman with the mallet. At night they sink with fatigue,
and sleep like lead. Rude labours bring heavy slumbers.
One evening, in the commencement of the month =
of
May, after watching the crescent moon for some instants through the trees, =
and
listening to the step of Déruchette, walking alone in the cool air in
the garden of the Bravées, Mess Lethierry had returned to his room
looking on the harbour, and had retired to rest; Douce and Grace were alrea=
dy
a-bed. Except Déruchette, the whole household were sleeping. Doors a=
nd
shutters were everywhere closed. Footsteps were silent in the streets. Some=
few
lights, like winking eyes about to close in rest, showed here and there in
windows in the roofs, indicating the hour of domestics going to bed. Nine h=
ad
already struck in the old Romanesque belfry, surrounded by ivy, which shares
with the church of St. Brélade at Jersey the peculiarity of having f=
or
its date four ones (IIII), which are used to signify eleven hundred and ele=
ven.
The popularity of Mess Lethierry at St. Sampson
had been founded on his success. The success at an end, there had come a vo=
id.
It might be imagined that ill-fortune is contagious, and that the unsuccess=
ful
have a plague, so rapidly are they put in quarantine. The young men of well=
-to-do
families avoided Déruchette. The isolation around the Bravées=
was
so complete that its inmates had not even yet heard the news of the great l=
ocal
event which had that day set all St. Sampson in a ferment. The rector of the
parish, the Rev. Ebenezer Caudray, had become rich. His uncle, the magnific=
ent
Dean of St. Asaph, had just died in London. The news had been brought by the
mail sloop, the Cashmere, arrived from England that very morning, and the m=
ast
of which could be perceived in the roads of St. Peter's Port. The Cashmere =
was
to depart for Southampton at noon on the morrow, and, so the rumour ran, to
convey the reverend gentleman, who had been suddenly summoned to England, t=
o be
present at the official opening of the will, not to speak of other urgent
matters connected with an important inheritance. All day long St. Sampson h=
ad
been conversing on this subject. The Cashmere, the Rev. Ebenezer, his decea=
sed
uncle, his riches, his departure, his possible preferment in the future, had
formed the foundations of that perpetual buzzing. A solitary house, still
uninformed on these matters, had remained at peace. This was the
Bravées.
Mess Lethierry had jumped into his hammock, and
lay down in his clothing.
Since the catastrophe of the Durande, to get i=
nto
his hammock had been his resource. Every captive has recourse to stretching
himself upon his pallet, and Mess Lethierry was the captive of his grief. T=
o go
to bed was a truce, a gain in breathing time, a suspension of ideas. He nei=
ther
slept nor watched. Strictly speaking, for two months and a half--for so long
was it since his misfortune--Mess Lethierry had been in a sort of somnambul=
ism.
He had not yet regained possession of his faculties. He was in that cloudy =
and
confused condition of intellect with which those are familiar who have
undergone overwhelming afflictions. His reflections were not thought, his s=
leep
was no repose. By day he was not awake, by night not asleep. He was up, and
then gone to rest, that was all. When he was in his hammock forgetfulness c=
ame
to him a little. He called that sleeping. Chimeras floated about him, and w=
ithin
him. The nocturnal cloud, full of confused faces, traversed his brain.
Sometimes it was the Emperor Napoleon dictating to him the story of his lif=
e; sometimes
there were several Déruchettes; strange birds were in the trees; the
streets of Lons-le-Saulnier became serpents. Nightmares were the brief resp=
ites
of despair. He passed his nights in dreaming, and his days in reverie.
Sometimes he remained all the afternoon at the
window of his room, which looked out upon the port, with his head drooping,=
his
elbows on the stone, his ears resting on his fists, his back turned to the
whole world, his eye fixed on the old massive iron ring fastened in the wal=
l of
the house, at only a few feet from his window, where in the old days he use=
d to
moor the Durande. He was looking at the rust which gathered on the ring.
He was reduced to the mere mechanical habit of
living.
The bravest men, when deprived of their most
cherished idea, will come to this. His life had become a void. Life is a
voyage; the idea is the itinerary. The plan of their course gone, they stop.
The object is lost, the strength of purpose gone. Fate has a secret
discretionary power. It is able to touch with its rod even our moral being.
Despair is almost the destitution of the soul. Only the greatest minds resi=
st,
and for what?
Mess Lethierry was always meditating, if
absorption can be called meditation, in the depth of a sort of cloudy abyss.
Broken words sometimes escaped him like these, "There is nothing left =
for
me now, but to ask yonder for leave to go."
There was a certain contradiction in that natu=
re,
complex as the sea, of which Mess Lethierry was, so to speak, the product. =
Mess
Lethierry's grief did not seek relief in prayer.
To be powerless is a certain strength. In the
presence of our two great expressions of this blindness--destiny and nature=
--it
is in his powerlessness that man has found his chief support in prayer.
Man seeks succour from his terror; his anxiety
bids him kneel. Prayer, that mighty force of the soul, akin to mystery. Pra=
yer
addresses itself to the magnanimity of the Shades; prayer regards mystery w=
ith
eyes themselves overshadowed by it, and beneath the power of its fixed and =
appealing
gaze, we feel the possibility of the great Unknown unbending to reply.
The mere thought of such a possibility becomes=
a
consolation.
But Mess Lethierry prayed not.
In the time when he was happy, God existed for=
him
almost in visible contact. Lethierry addressed Him, pledged his word to Him,
seemed at times to hold familiar intercourse with Him. But in the hour of h=
is misfortune,
a phenomenon not infrequent--the idea of God had become eclipsed in his min=
d.
This happens when the mind has created for itself a deity clothed with human
qualities.
In the state of mind in which he existed, there
was for Lethierry only one clear vision--the smile of Déruchette. Be=
yond
this all was dark.
For some time, apparently on account of the lo=
ss
of the Durande, and of the blow which it had been to them, this pleasant sm=
ile
had been rare. She seemed always thoughtful. Her birdlike playfulness, her
childlike ways, were gone. She was never seen now in the morning, at the so=
und
of the cannon which announced daybreak, saluting the rising sun with
"Boom! Daylight! Come in, please!" At times her expression was ve=
ry
serious, a sad thing for that sweet nature. She made an effort, however,
sometimes to laugh before Mess Lethierry and to divert him; but her
cheerfulness grew tarnished from day to day--gathered dust like the wing of=
a butterfly
with a pin through its body. Whether through sorrow for her uncle's sorrow-=
-for
there are griefs which are the reflections of other griefs--or whether for =
any
other reasons, she appeared at this time to be much inclined towards religi=
on.
In the time of the old rector, M. Jaquemin Hérode, she scarcely went=
to
church, as has been already said, four times a year. Now she was, on the
contrary, assiduous in her attendance. She missed no service, neither of Su=
nday
nor of Thursday. Pious souls in the parish remarked with satisfaction that
amendment. For it is a great blessing when a girl who runs so many dangers =
in
the world turns her thoughts towards God. That enables the poor parents at
least to be easy on the subject of love-making and what not.
In the evening, whenever the weather permitted,
she walked for an hour or two in the garden of the Bravées. She was
almost as pensive there as Mess Lethierry, and almost always alone.
Déruchette went to bed last. This, however, did not prevent Douce and
Grace watching her a little, by that instinct for spying which is common to
servants; spying is such a relaxation after household work.
As to Mess Lethierry, in the abstracted state =
of
his mind, these little changes in Déruchette's habits escaped him.
Moreover, his nature had little in common with the Duenna. He had not even
remarked her regularity at the church. Tenacious of his prejudices against =
the
clergy and their sermons, he would have seen with little pleasure these fre=
quent
attendances at the parish church. It was not because his own moral condition
was not undergoing change. Sorrow is a cloud which changes form.
Robust natures, as we have said, are sometimes almost overthrown by sudden great misfortunes; but not quite. Manly charact= ers such as Lethierry's experience a reaction in a given time. Despair has its = backward stages. From overwhelmment we rise to dejection; from dejection to afflicti= on; from affliction to melancholy. Melancholy is a twilight state; suffering me= lts into it and becomes a sombre joy. Melancholy is the pleasure of being sad.<= o:p>
These elegiac moods were not made for Lethierr=
y.
Neither the nature of his temperament nor the character of his misfortune
suited those delicate shades. But at the moment at which we have returned to
him, the reverie of his first despair had for more than a week been tending=
to disperse;
without, however, leaving him less sad. He was more inactive, was always du=
ll;
but he was no longer overwhelmed. A certain perception of events and
circumstances was returning to him, and he began to experience something of
that phenomenon which may be called the return to reality.
Thus by day in the great lower room, he did not
listen to the words of those about him, but he heard them. Grace came one
morning quite triumphant to tell Déruchette that he had undone the c=
over
of a newspaper.
This half acceptance of realities is in itself=
a
good symptom, a token of convalescence. Great afflictions produce a stupor;=
it
is by such little acts that men return to themselves. This improvement,
however, is at first only an aggravation of the evil. The dreamy condition =
of
mind in which the sufferer has lived, has served, while it lasted, to blunt=
his
grief. His sight before was thick. He felt little. Now his view is clear,
nothing escapes him; and his wounds re-open. Each detail that he perceives
serves to remind him of his sorrow. He sees everything again in memory, eve=
ry
remembrance is a regret. All kinds of bitter aftertastes lurk in that retur=
n to
life. He is better, and yet worse. Such was the condition of Lethierry. In =
returning
to full consciousness, his sufferings had become more distinct.
A sudden shock first recalled him to a sense of
reality.
One afternoon, between the 15th and 20th of Ap=
ril,
a double-knock at the door of the great lower room of the Bravées had
signalled the arrival of the postman. Douce had opened the door; there was a
letter.
The letter came from beyond sea; it was addres=
sed
to Mess Lethierry, and bore the postmark "Lisbon."
Douce had taken the letter to Mess Lethierry, =
who
was in his room. He had taken it, placed it mechanically upon the table, and
had not looked at it.
The letter remained an entire week upon the ta=
ble
without being unsealed.
It happened, however, one morning that Douce s=
aid
to Mess Lethierry:
"Shall I brush the dust off your letter,
sir?"
Lethierry seemed to arouse from his lethargy.<= o:p>
"Ay, ay! You are right," he said; an=
d he
opened the letter, and read as follows:--
&=
nbsp;
"At Sea, 10th March.
"To Mess Lethierry of St. Sampson.
"You will be gratified to receive news of=
me.
I am aboard the Tamaulipas, bound for the port of 'No-return.' Among the cr=
ew
is a sailor named Ahier-Tostevin, from Guernsey, who will return and will h=
ave
some facts to communicate to you. I take the opportunity of our speaking a
vessel, the Herman Cortes, bound for Lisbon, to forward you this letter.
"You will be astonished to learn that I am
going to be honest.
"As honest as Sieur Clubin.
"I am bound to believe that you know of
certain recent occurrences; nevertheless, it is, perhaps, not altogether su=
perfluous
to send you a full account of them.
"To proceed then.
"I have returned you your money.
"Some years ago, I borrowed from you, und=
er
somewhat irregular circumstances, the sum of fifty thousand francs. Before
leaving St. Malo lately, I placed in the hands of your confidential man of
business, Sieur Clubin, on your account three bank-notes of one thousand po=
unds
each; making together seventy-five thousand francs. You will no doubt find =
this
reimbursement sufficient.
"Sieur Clubin acted for you, and received
your money, including interest, in a remarkably energetic manner. He appear=
ed
to me, indeed, singularly zealous. This is, in fact, my reason for apprising
you of the facts.
"Your other confidential man of business,=
&=
nbsp;
"RANTAINE.
"Postscript--Sieur Clubin was in possessi=
on
of a revolver, which will explain to you the circumstance of my having no
receipt."
*
He who has ever touched a torpedo, or a Leyden=
-jar
fully charged, may have a notion of the effect produced on Mess Lethierry by
the reading of this letter.
Under that envelope, in that sheet of paper fo=
lded
in four, to which he had at first paid so little attention, lay the element=
s of
an extraordinary commotion.
He recognised the writing and the signature. A=
s to
the facts which the letter contained, at first he understood nothing.
The excitement of the event, however, soon gave
movement to his faculties.
The effective part of the shock he had received
lay in the phenomenon of the seventy-five thousand francs entrusted by Rant=
aine
to Clubin; this was a riddle which compelled Lethierry's brain to work.
Conjecture is a healthy occupation for the mind. Reason is awakened: logic =
is
called into play.
For some time past public opinion in Guernsey =
had
been undergoing a reaction on the subject of Clubin: that man of such high
reputation for honour during many years; that man so unanimously regarded w=
ith
esteem. People had begun to question and to doubt; there were wagers pro an=
d con.
Some light had been thrown on the question in singular ways. The figure of
Clubin began to become clearer, that is to say, he began to be blacker in t=
he
eyes of the world.
A judicial inquiry had taken place at St. Malo,
for the purpose of ascertaining what had become of the coast-guardman, numb=
er
619. Legal perspicacity had got upon a false scent, a thing which happens n=
ot unfrequently.
It had started with the hypothesis that the man had been enticed by Zuela, =
and
shipped aboard the Tamaulipas for Chili. This ingenious supposition had led=
to
a considerable amount of wasted conjecture. The shortsightedness of justice=
had
failed to take note of Rantaine; but in the progress of inquiry the authori=
ties
had come upon other clues. The affair, so obscure, became complicated. Club=
in
had become mixed up with the enigma. A coincidence, perhaps a direct connec=
tion,
had been found between the departure of the Tamaulipas and the loss of the
Durande. At the wine-shop near the Dinan Gate, where Clubin thought himself
entirely unknown, he had been recognised. The wine-shop keeper had talked;
Clubin had bought a bottle of brandy that night. For whom? The gunsmith of =
St.
Vincent Street, too, had talked. Clubin had purchased a revolver. For what
object? The landlord of the "Jean Auberge" had talked. Clubin had
absented himself in an inexplicable manner. Captain Gertrais-Gaboureau had
talked; Clubin had determined to start, although warned, and knowing that he
might expect a great fog. The crew of the Durande had talked. In fact, the
collection of the freight had been neglected, and the stowage badly arrange=
d, a
negligence easy to comprehend, if the captain had determined to wreck the s=
hip.
The Guernsey passenger, too, had spoken. Clubin had evidently imagined that=
he
had run upon the Hanways. The Torteval people had spoken. Clubin had visited
that neighbourhood a few days before the loss of the Durande, and had been =
seen
walking in the direction of Pleinmont, near the Hanways. He had with him a
travelling-bag. "He had set out with it, and come back without it.&quo=
t;
The birds'-nesters had spoken: their story seemed to be possibly connected =
with
Clubin's disappearance, if instead of ghosts they supposed smugglers. Final=
ly,
the haunted house of Pleinmont itself had spoken. Persons who had determine=
d to
get information had climbed and entered the windows, and had found inside--=
what?
The very travelling-bag which had been seen in Sieur Clubin's possession. T=
he
authorities of the Douzaine of Torteval had taken possession of the bag and=
had
it opened. It was found to contain provisions, a telescope, a chronometer, a
man's clothing, and linen marked with Clubin's initials. All this in the go=
ssip
of St. Malo and Guernsey became more and more like a case of fraud. Obscure
hints were brought together; there appeared to have been a singular disrega=
rd
of advice; a willingness to encounter the dangers of the fog; a suspected n=
egligence
in the stowage of the cargo. Then there was the mysterious bottle of brandy=
; a
drunken helmsman; a substitution of the captain for the helmsman; a managem=
ent
of the rudder, to say the least, unskilful. The heroism of remaining behind
upon the wreck began to look like roguery. Clubin besides had evidently been
deceived as to the rock he was on. Granted an intention to wreck the vessel=
, it
was easy to understand the choice of the Hanways, the shore easily reached =
by swimming,
and the intended concealment in the haunted house awaiting the opportunity =
for
flight. The travelling-bag, that suspicious preparative, completed the
demonstration. By what link this affair connected itself with the other aff=
air
of the disappearance of the coast-guardman nobody knew. People imagined some
connection, and that was all. They had a glimpse in their minds of the
look-out-man, number 619, alongside of the mysterious Clubin--quite a tragic
drama. Clubin possibly was not an actor in it, but his presence was visible=
in
the side scenes.
The supposition of a wilful destruction of the
Durande did not explain everything. There was a revolver in the story, with=
no
part yet assigned to it. The revolver, probably, belonged to the other affa=
ir.
The scent of the public is keen and true. Its
instinct excels in those discoveries of truth by pieces and fragments. Stil=
l,
amidst these facts, which seemed to point pretty clearly to a case of barra=
try,
there were serious difficulties.
Everything was consistent; everything coherent;
but a basis was wanting.
People do not wreck vessels for the pleasure of
wrecking them. Men do not run all those risks of fog, rocks, swimming,
concealment, and flight without an interest. What could have been Clubin's
interest?
The act seemed plain, but the motive was puzzl=
ing.
Hence a doubt in many minds. Where there is no
motive, it is natural to infer that there was no act.
The missing link was important. The letter from
Rantaine seemed to supply it.
This letter furnished a motive for Clubin's
supposed crime: seventy-five thousand francs to be appropriated.
Rantaine was the Deus ex machinâ. He had
descended from the clouds with a lantern in his hand. His letter was the fi=
nal
light upon the affair. It explained everything, and even promised a witness=
in
the person of Ahier-Tostevin.
The part which it at once suggested for the
revolver was decisive. Rantaine was undoubtedly well informed. His letter p=
ointed
clearly the explanation of the mystery.
There could be no possible palliation of Clubi=
n's
crime. He had premeditated the shipwreck; the proofs were the preparations
discovered in the haunted house. Even supposing him innocent, and admitting=
the
wreck to have been accidental, would he not, at the last moment, when he had
determined to sacrifice himself with the vessel, have entrusted the seventy=
-five
thousand francs to the men who escaped in the long-boat. The evidence was
strikingly complete. Now what had become of Clubin? He had probably been the
victim of his blunder. He had doubtless perished upon the Douvres.
All this construction of surmises, which were =
not
far from the reality, had for several days occupied the mind of Mess Lethie=
rry.
The letter from Rantaine had done him the service of setting him to think. =
He
was at first shaken by his surprise; then he made an effort to reflect. He =
made
another effort more difficult still, that of inquiry. He was induced to lis=
ten,
and even seek conversation. At the end of a week, he had become, to a certa=
in
degree, in the world again; his thoughts had regained their coherence, and =
he
was almost restored. He had emerged from his confused and troubled state.
Rantaine's letter, even admitting that Mess
Lethierry could ever have entertained any hope of the reimbursement of his
money, destroyed that last chance.
It added to the catastrophe of the Durande this
new wreck of seventy-five thousand francs. It put him in possession of that
amount just so far as to make him sensible of its loss. The letter revealed=
to him
the extreme point in his ruin.
Hence he experienced a new and very painful
sensation, which we have already spoken of. He began to take an interest in=
his
household--what it was to be in the future--how he was to set things in ord=
er;
matters of which he had taken no heed for two months past. These trifling c=
ares
wounded him with a thousand tiny points, worse in their aggregate than the =
old
despair. A sorrow is doubly burdensome which has to be endured in each item,
and while disputing inch by inch with fate for ground already lost. Ruin is
endurable in the mass, but not in the dust and fragments of the fallen edif=
ice.
The great fact may overwhelm, but the details torture. The catastrophe which
lately fell like a thunderbolt, becomes now a cruel persecution. Humiliation
comes to aggravate the blow. A second desolation succeeds the first, with
features more repulsive. You descend one degree nearer to annihilation. The=
winding-sheet
becomes changed to sordid rags.
No thought is more bitter than that of one's o=
wn
gradual fall from a social position.
Ruin is simple enough. A violent shock; a cruel
turn of fate; a catastrophe once for all. Be it so. We submit, and all is o=
ver.
You are ruined: it is well; you are dead? No; you are still living. On the =
morrow
you know it well. By what? By the pricking of a pin. Yonder passer-by omits=
to
recognise you; the tradesmen's bills rain down upon you; and yonder is one =
of
your enemies, who is smiling. Perhaps he is thinking of Arnal's last pun; b=
ut
it is all the same. The pun would not have appeared to him so inimitable but
for your ruin. You read your own sudden insignificance even in looks of
indifference. Friends who used to dine at your table become of opinion that=
three
courses were an extravagance. Your faults are patent to the eyes of everybo=
dy; ingratitude
having nothing more to expect, proclaims itself openly; every idiot has
foreseen your misfortunes. The malignant pull you to pieces; the more malig=
nant
profess to pity. And then come a hundred paltry details. Nausea succeeds to
grief. You have been wont to indulge in wine; you must now drink cider. Two
servants, too! Why, one will be too many. It will be necessary to discharge
this one, and get rid of that. Flowers in your garden are superfluous; you =
will
plant it with potatoes. You used to make presents of your fruits to friends;
you will send them henceforth to market. As to the poor, it will be absurd =
to think
of giving anything to them. Are you not poor yourself? And then there is the
painful question of dress. To have to refuse a wife a new ribbon, what a
torture! To have to refuse one who has made you a gift of her beauty a trif=
ling
article; to haggle over such matters, like a miser! Perhaps she will say to=
you,
"What! rob my garden of its flowers, and now refuse one for my
bonnet!" Ah me! to have to condemn her to shabby dresses. The family t=
able
is silent. You fancy that those around it think harshly of you. Beloved fac=
es
have become clouded. This is what is meant by falling fortunes. It is to die
day by day. To be struck down is like the blast of the furnace; to decay li=
ke
this is the torture of the slow fire.
An overwhelming blow is a sort of Waterloo, a =
slow
decay, a St. Helena. Destiny, incarnate in the form of Wellington, has still
some dignity; but how sordid in the shape of Hudson Lowe. Fate becomes then=
a
paltry huckster. We find the man of Campo Formio quarrelling about a pair o=
f stockings;
we see that dwarfing of Napoleon which makes England less. Waterloo and St.
Helena! Reduced to humbler proportions, every ruined man has traversed those
two phases.
On the evening we have mentioned, and which was
one of the first evenings in May, Lethierry, leaving Déruchette to w=
alk
by moonlight in the garden, had gone to bed more depressed than ever.
All these mean and repulsive details, peculiar=
to
worldly misfortune; all these trifling cares, which are at first insipid, a=
nd
afterwards harassing, were revolving in his mind. A sullen load of miseries!
Mess Lethierry felt that his fall was irremediable. What could he do? What =
would
become of them? What sacrifices should he be compelled to impose on
Déruchette? Whom should he discharge--Douce or Grace? Would they hav=
e to
sell the Bravées? Would they not be compelled to leave the island? T=
o be
nothing where he had been everything; it was a terrible fall indeed.
And to know that the old times had gone for ev=
er!
To recall those journeys to and fro, uniting France with those numberless
islands; the Tuesday's departure, the Friday's return, the crowd on the qua=
y,
those great cargoes, that industry, that prosperity, that proud direct navi=
gation,
that machinery embodying the will of man, that all-powerful boiler, that sm=
oke,
all that reality! The steamboat had been the final crown of the compass; the
needle indicating the direct track, the steam-vessel following it. One
proposing, the other executing. Where was she now, his Durande, that mistre=
ss
of the seas, that queen who had made him a king? To have been so long the m=
an of
ideas in his own country, the man of success, the man who revolutionised
navigation; and then to have to give up all, to abdicate! To cease to exist=
, to
become a bye-word, an empty bag which once was full. To belong to the past,
after having so long represented the future. To come down to be an object o=
f pity
to fools, to witness the triumph of routine, obstinacy, conservatism,
selfishness, ignorance. To see the old barbarous sailing cutters crawling to
and fro upon the sea: the outworn old-world prejudices young again; to have
wasted a whole life; to have been a light, and to suffer this eclipse. Ah! =
what
a sight it was upon the waves, that noble funnel, that prodigious cylinder,
that pillar with its capital of smoke, that column grander than any in the =
Place
Vendôme, for on that there was only a man, while on this stood Progre=
ss.
The ocean was subdued; it was certainty upon the open sea. And had all this
been witnessed in that little island, in that little harbour, in that littl=
e town
of St. Sampson? Yes; it had been witnessed. And could it be that, having se=
en
it, all had vanished to be seen no more.
All this series of regrets tortured Lethierry.
There is such a thing as a mental sobbing. Never, perhaps, had he felt his
misfortune more bitterly. A certain numbness follows this acute suffering.
Under the weight of his sorrow he gradually dosed.
For about two hours he remained in this state,
feverish, sleeping a little, meditating much. Such torpors are accompanied =
by
an obscure labour of the brain, which is inexpressibly wearying. Towards the
middle of the night, about midnight, a little before or a little after, he =
shook
off his lethargy. He aroused, and opened his eyes. His window was directly =
in
front of his hammock. He saw something extraordinary.
A form was before the window; a marvellous for=
m.
It was the funnel of a steam-vessel.
Mess Lethierry started, and sat upright in his
bed. The hammock oscillated like a swing in a tempest. Lethierry stared. A
vision filled the window-frame. There was the harbour flooded with the ligh=
t of
the moon, and against that glitter, quite close to his house, stood forth, =
tall,
round, and black, a magnificent object.
The funnel of a steam-vessel was there.
Lethierry sprang out of his hammock, ran to the
window, lifted the sash, leaned out, and recognised it.
The funnel of the Durande stood before him.
It was in the old place.
Its four chains supported it, made fast to the
bulwarks of a vessel in which, beneath the funnel, he could distinguish a d=
ark
mass of irregular outline.
Lethierry recoiled, turned his back to the win=
dow,
and dropped in a sitting posture into his hammock again.
Then he returned, and once more he saw the vis=
ion.
An instant afterwards, or in about the time
occupied by a flash of lightning, he was out upon the quay, with a lantern =
in
his hand.
A bark carrying a little backward a massive bl=
ock
from which issued the straight funnel before the window of the Bravé=
es,
was made fast to the mooring-ring of the Durande. The bows of the bark
stretched beyond the corner of the wall of the house, and were level with t=
he
quay.
There was no one aboard.
The vessel was of a peculiar shape. All Guerns=
ey
would have recognised it. It was the old Dutch sloop.
Lethierry jumped aboard; and ran forward to the
block which he saw beyond the mast.
It was there, entire, complete, intact, standi=
ng
square and firm upon its cast-iron flooring; the boiler had all its rivets,=
the
axle of the paddle-wheels was raised erect, and made fast near the boiler; =
the brine-pump
was in its place; nothing was wanting.
Lethierry examined the machinery.
The lantern and the moon helped him in his
examination. He went over every part of the mechanism.
He noticed the two cases at the sides. He exam=
ined
the axle of the wheels.
He went into the little cabin; it was empty.
He returned to the engine, and felt it, looked
into the boiler, and knelt down to examine it inside.
He placed his lantern within the furnace, where
the light, illuminating all the machinery, produced almost the illusion of =
an
engine-room with its fire.
Then he burst into a wild laugh, sprang to his
feet, and with his eye fixed on the engine, and his arms outstretched towar=
ds
the funnel, he cried aloud, "Help."
The harbour bell was upon the quay, at a few p=
aces
distance. He ran to it, seized the chain, and began to pull it violently.
=
Gilliatt,
in fact, after a passage without accident, but somewhat slow on account of =
the
heavy burden of the sloop, had arrived at St. Sampson after dark, and nearer
ten than nine o'clock.
He had calculated the time. The half-flood had
arrived. There was plenty of water, and the moon was shining; so that he was
able to enter the port.
The little harbour was silent. A few vessels w=
ere
moored there, with their sails brailed up to the yards, their tops over, and
without lanterns. At the far end a few others were visible, high and dry in=
the
careenage, where they were undergoing repairs; large hulls dismasted and st=
ripped,
with their planking open at various parts, lifting high the ends of their
timbers, and looking like huge dead beetles lying on their backs with their
legs in the air.
As soon as he had cleared the harbour mouth,
Gilliatt examined the port and the quay. There was no light to be seen eith=
er
at the Bravées or elsewhere. The place was deserted, save, perhaps, =
by
some one going to or returning from the parsonage-house; nor was it possibl=
e to
be sure even of this; for the night blurred every outline, and the moonligh=
t always
gives to objects a vague appearance. The distance added to the indistinctne=
ss.
The parsonage-house at that period was situated on the other side of the
harbour, where there stands at the present day an open mast-house.
Gilliatt had approached the Bravées
quietly, and had made the sloop fast to the ring of the Durande, under Mess
Lethierry's window.
He leaped over the bulwarks, and was ashore.
Leaving the sloop behind him by the quay, he
turned the angle of the house, passed along a little narrow street, then al=
ong
another, did not even notice the pathway which branched off leading to the
Bû de la Rue, and in a few minutes found himself at that corner of the
wall where there were wild mallows with pink flowers in June, with holly, i=
vy,
and nettles. Many a time concealed behind the bushes, seated on a stone, in=
the
summer days, he had watched here through long hours, even for whole months,
often tempted to climb the wall, over which he contemplated the garden of t=
he
Bravées and the two windows of a little room seen through the branch=
es of
the trees. The stone was there still; the bushes, the low wall, the angle, =
as
quiet and dark as ever. Like an animal returning to its hole, gliding rather
than walking, he made his way in. Once seated there, he made no movement. He
looked around; saw again the garden, the pathways, the beds of flowers, the
house, the two windows of the chamber. The moonlight fell upon this dream. =
He
felt it horrible to be compelled to breathe, and did what he could to preve=
nt
it.
He seemed to be gazing on a vision of paradise,
and was afraid that all would vanish. It was almost impossible that all the=
se
things could be really before his eyes; and if they were, it could only be =
with
that imminent danger of melting into air which belongs to things divine. A =
breath,
and all must be dissipated. He trembled with the thought.
Before him, not far off, at the side of one of=
the
alleys in the garden, was a wooden seat painted green. The reader will reme=
mber
this seat.
Gilliatt looked up at the two windows. He thou=
ght
of the slumber of some one possibly in that room. Behind that wall she was =
no
doubt sleeping. He wished himself elsewhere, yet would sooner have died tha=
n go
away. He thought of a gentle breathing moving a woman's breast. It was she,=
that
vision, that purity in the clouds, that form haunting him by day and night.=
She
was there! He thought of her so far removed, and yet so near as to be almost
within reach of his delight; he thought of that impossible ideal drooping in
slumber, and like himself, too, visited by visions; of that being so long
desired, so distant, so impalpable--her closed eyelids, her face resting on=
her
hand; of the mystery of sleep in its relations with that pure spirit, of wh=
at
dreams might come to one who was herself a dream. He dared not think beyond,
and yet he did. He ventured on those familiarities which the fancy may indu=
lge
in; the notion of how much was feminine in that angelic being disturbed his=
thoughts.
The darkness of night emboldens timid imaginations to take these furtive
glances. He was vexed within himself, feeling on reflection as if it were
profanity to think of her so boldly; yet still constrained, in spite of
himself, he tremblingly gazed into the invisible. He shuddered almost with a
sense of pain as he imagined her room, a petticoat on a chair, a mantle fal=
len
on the carpet, a band unbuckled, a handkerchief. He imagined her corset with
its lace hanging to the ground, her stockings, her boots. His soul was among
the stars.
The stars are made for the human heart of a po=
or
man like Gilliatt not less than for that of the rich and great. There is a
certain degree of passion by which every man becomes wrapped in a celestial
light. With a rough and primitive nature, this truth is even more applicabl=
e.
An uncultivated mind is easily touched with dreams.
Delight is a fulness which overflows like any
other. To see those windows was almost too much happiness for Gilliatt.
Suddenly, he looked and saw her.
From the branches of a clump of bushes, already
thickened by the spring, there issued with a spectral slowness a celestial
figure, a dress, a divine face, almost a shining light beneath the moon.
Gilliatt felt his powers failing him: it was
Déruchette.
Déruchette approached. She stopped. She
walked back a few paces, stopped again, then returned and sat upon the wood=
en
bench. The moon was in the trees, a few clouds floated among the pale stars;
the sea murmured to the shadows in an undertone, the town was sleeping, a t=
hin
haze was rising from the horizon, the melancholy was profound. Déruc=
hette
inclined her head, with those thoughtful eyes which look attentive yet see
nothing. She was seated sideways, and had nothing on her head but a little =
cap
untied, which showed upon her delicate neck the commencement of her hair. S=
he
twirled mechanically a ribbon of her cap around one of her fingers; the half
light showed the outline of her hands like those of a statue; her dress was=
of
one of those shades which by night looked white: the trees stirred as if th=
ey
felt the enchantment which she shed around her. The tip of one of her feet =
was
visible. Her lowered eyelids had that vague contraction which suggests a te=
ar
checked in its course, or a thought suppressed. There was a charming indeci=
sion
in the movements of her arms, which had no support to lean on; a sort of fl=
oating
mingled with every posture. It was rather a gleam than a light--rather a gr=
ace
than a goddess; the folds of her dress were exquisite; her face which might
inspire adoration, seemed meditative, like portraits of the Virgin. It was
terrible to think how near she was: Gilliatt could hear her breathe.
A nightingale was singing in the distance. The
stirring of the wind among the branches set in movement, the inexpressible
silence of the night. Déruchette, beautiful, divine, appeared in the=
twilight
like a creation from those rays and from the perfumes in the air. That wide=
spread
enchantment seemed to concentre and embody itself mysteriously in her; she
became its living manifestation. She seemed the outblossoming of all that
shadow and silence.
But the shadow and silence which floated light=
ly
about her weighed heavily on Gilliatt. He was bewildered; what he experienc=
ed
is not to be told in words. Emotion is always new, and the word is always
enough. Hence the impossibility of expressing it. Joy is sometimes
overwhelming. To see Déruchette, to see herself, to see her dress, h=
er
cap, her ribbon, which she twined around her finger, was it possible to ima=
gine
it? Was it possible to be thus near her; to hear her breathe? She breathed!
then the stars might breathe also. Gilliatt felt a thrill through him. He w=
as
the most miserable and yet the happiest of men. He knew not what to do. His
delirious joy at seeing her annihilated him. Was it indeed Déruchette
there, and he so near? His thoughts, bewildered and yet fixed, were fascina=
ted
by that figure as by a dazzling jewel. He gazed upon her neck--her hair. He=
did
not even say to himself that all that would now belong to him, that before
long--to-morrow, perhaps--he would have the right to take off that cap, to
unknot that ribbon. He would not have conceived for a moment the audacity of
thinking even so far. Touching in idea is almost like touching with the han=
d.
Love was with Gilliatt like honey to the bear. He thought confusedly; he kn=
ew
not what possessed him. The nightingale still sang. He felt as if about to =
breathe
his life out.
The idea of rising, of jumping over the wall, =
of
speaking to Déruchette, never came into his mind. If it had he would
have turned and fled. If anything resembling a thought had begun to dawn in=
his
mind, it was this: that Déruchette was there, that he wanted nothing
more, and that eternity had begun.
A noise aroused them both--her from her
reverie--him from his ecstasy.
Some one was walking in the garden. It was not
possible to see who was approaching on account of the trees. It was the
footstep of a man.
Déruchette raised her eyes.
The steps drew nearer, then ceased. The person
walking had stopped. He must have been quite near. The path beside which was
the bench wound between two clumps of trees. The stranger was there in the
alley between the trees, at a few paces from the seat.
Accident had so placed the branches, that
Déruchette could see the newcomer while Gilliatt could not.
The moon cast on the ground beyond the trees a
shadow which reached to the garden seat.
Gilliatt could see this shadow.
He looked at Déruchette.
She was quite pale; her mouth was partly open,=
as
with a suppressed cry of surprise. She had just half risen from the bench, =
and
sunk again upon it. There was in her attitude a mixture of fascination with=
a
desire to fly. Her surprise was enchantment mingled with timidity. She had =
upon
her lips almost the light of a smile, with the fulness of tears in her eyes.
She seemed as if transfigured by that presence; as if the being whom she saw
before her belonged not to this earth. The reflection of an angel was in her
look.
The stranger, who was to Gilliatt only a shado=
w,
spoke. A voice issued from the trees, softer than the voice of a woman; yet=
it
was the voice of a man. Gilliatt heard these words:
"I see you, mademoiselle, every Sunday and
every Thursday. They tell me that once you used not to come so often. It is=
a
remark that has been made. I ask your pardon. I have never spoken to you; it
was my duty; but I come to speak to you to-day, for it is still my duty. It=
is
right that I speak to you first. The Cashmere sails to-morrow. This is why =
I have
come. You walk every evening in your garden. It would be wrong of me to know
your habits so well, if I had not the thought that I have. Mademoiselle, you
are poor; since this morning I am rich. Will you have me for your
husband?"
Déruchette joined her two hands in a
suppliant attitude, and looked at the speaker, silent, with fixed eyes, and
trembling from head to foot.
The voice continued:
"I love you. God made not the heart of ma=
n to
be silent. He has promised him eternity with the intention that he should n=
ot
be alone. There is for me but one woman upon earth. It is you. I think of y=
ou
as of a prayer. My faith is in God, and my hope in you. What wings I have y=
ou bear.
You are my life, and already my supreme happiness."
"Sir," said Déruchette,
"there is no one to answer in the house!"
The voice rose again:
"Yes, I have encouraged that dream. Heaven
has not forbidden us to dream. You are like a glory in my eyes. I love you
deeply, mademoiselle. To me you are holy innocence. I know it is the hour at
which your household have retired to rest, but I had no choice of any other
moment. Do you remember that passage of the Bible which some one read before
us; it was the twenty-fifth chapter of Genesis. I have thought of it often =
since.
M. Hérode said to me, you must have a rich wife. I replied no, I must
have a poor wife. I speak to you, mademoiselle, without venturing to approa=
ch
you; I would step even further back if it was your wish that my shadow shou=
ld
not touch your feet. You alone are supreme. You will come to me if such is =
your
will. I love and wait. You are the living form of a benediction."
"I did not know, sir," stammered
Déruchette, "that any one remarked me on Sundays and
Thursdays."
The voice continued:
"We are powerless against celestial thing=
s.
The whole Law is love. Marriage is Canaan; you are to me the promised land =
of
beauty."
Déruchette replied, "I did not thi=
nk I
did wrong any more than other persons who are strict."
The voice continued:
"God manifests his will in the flowers, in
the light of dawn, in the spring; and love is of his ordaining. You are
beautiful in this holy shadow of night. This garden has been tended by you;=
in
its perfumes there is something of your breath. The affinities of our souls=
do
not depend on us. They cannot be counted with our sins. You were there, tha=
t was
all. I was there, that was all. I did nothing but feel that I loved you.
Sometimes my eyes rested upon you. I was wrong, but what could I do. It was
through looking at you that all happened. I could not restrain my gaze. The=
re
are mysterious impulses which are above our search. The heart is the chief =
of
all temples. To have your spirit in my house--this is the terrestrial parad=
ise
for which I hope. Say, will you be mine. As long as I was poor, I spoke not=
. I
know your age. You are twenty-one; I am twenty-six. I go to-morrow; if you
refuse me I return no more. Oh, be my betrothed; will you not? More than on=
ce
have my eyes, in spite of myself, addressed to you that question. I love yo=
u;
answer me. I will speak to your uncle as soon as he is able to receive me; =
but I
turn first to you. To Rebecca I plead for Rebecca; unless you love me not.&=
quot;
Déruchette hung her head, and murmured:=
"Oh! I worship him."
The words were spoken in a voice so low, that =
only
Gilliatt heard them.
She remained with her head lowered as if by
shading her face she hoped to conceal her thoughts.
There was a pause. No leaf among the trees was
stirred. It was that solemn and peaceful moment when the slumber of external
things mingles with the sleep of living creatures; and night seems to liste=
n to
the beating of Nature's heart. In the midst of that retirement, like a harm=
ony
making the silence more complete, rose the wide murmur of the sea.
The voice was heard again.
"Mademoiselle!"
Déruchette started.
Again the voice spoke.
"You are silent."
"What would you have me say?"
"I wait for your reply."
"God has heard it," said
Déruchette.
Then the voice became almost sonorous, and at =
the
same time softer than before, and these words issued from the leaves as fro=
m a
burning bush:
"You are my betrothed. Come then to me. L=
et
the blue sky, with all its stars, be witness of this taking of my soul to
thine; and let our first embrace be mingled with that firmament."
Déruchette arose, and remained an insta=
nt
motionless, looking straight before her, doubtless in another's eyes. Then,
with slow steps, with head erect, her arms drooping, but with the fingers of
her hands wide apart, like one who leans on some unseen support, she advanc=
ed
towards the trees, and was out of sight.
A moment afterwards, instead of the one shadow
upon the gravelled walk, there were two. They mingled together. Gilliatt sa=
w at
his feet the embrace of those two shadows.
In certain moments of crisis, time flows from =
us
as his sands from the hour-glass, and we have no feeling of his flight. That
pair on the one hand, who were ignorant of the presence of a witness, and s=
aw
him not; on the other, that witness of their joy who could not see them, but
who knew of their presence--how many minutes did they remain thus in that m=
ysterious
suspension of themselves? It would be impossible to say. Suddenly a noise b=
urst
forth at a distance. A voice was heard crying "Help!" and the har=
bour
bell began to sound. It is probable that in those celestial transports of
delight they heard no echo of that tumult.
The bell continued to ring. Any one who had so=
ught
Gilliatt then in the angle of the wall would have found him no longer there=
.
=
=
Mess
Lethierry pulled the bell furiously, then stopped abruptly. A man had just
turned the corner of the quay. It was Gilliatt.
Lethierry ran towards him, or rather flung him=
self
upon him; seized his hand between his own, and looked him in the face for a
moment, silent. It was the silence of an explosion struggling to find an is=
sue.
Then pulling and shaking him with violence, and
squeezing him in his arms, he compelled him to enter the lower room of the
Bravées, pushed back with his heel the door which had remained half
opened, sat down, or sank into a chair beside a great table lighted by the
moon, the reflection of which gave a vague pallor to Gilliatt's face, and w=
ith
a voice of intermingled laughter and tears, cried:
"Ah! my son; my player of the bagpipe! I =
knew
well that it was you. The sloop, parbleu! Tell me the story. You went there,
then. Why, they would have burnt you a hundred years ago! It is magic! There
isn't a screw missing. I have looked at everything already, recognised ever=
ything,
handled everything. I guessed that the paddles were in the two cases. And h=
ere
you are once more! I have been looking for you in the little cabin. I rang =
the
bell. I was seeking for you. I said to myself, 'Where is he, that I may dev=
our
him?' You must admit that wonderful things do come to pass. He has brought =
back
life to me. Tonnerre! you are an angel! Yes, yes; it is my engine. Nobody w=
ill believe
it; people will see it, and say, 'It can't be true.' Not a tap, not a pin
missing. The feed-pipe has never budged an inch. It is incredible that there
should have been no more damage. We have only to put a little oil. But how =
did
you accomplish it? To think that the Durande will be moving again. The axle=
of
the wheels must have been taken to pieces by some watchmaker. Give me your =
word
that I am not crazy."
He sprang to his feet, breathed a moment, and
continued:
"Assure me of that. What a revolution! I
pinched myself to be certain I was not dreaming. You are my child, you are =
my
son, you are my Providence. Brave lad! To go and fetch my good old engine. =
In
the open sea, among those cut-throat rocks. I have seen some strange things=
in
my life; nothing like that. I have known Parisians, who were veritable demo=
ns,
but I'll defy them to have done that. It beats the Bastille. I have seen the
gauchos labouring in the Pampas, with a crooked branch of a tree for a plou=
gh and
a bundle of thorn-bushes for a harrow, dragged by a leathern strap; they get
harvests of wheat that way, with grains as big as hedgenuts. But that is a
trifle compared with your feats. You have performed a miracle--a real one. =
Ah!
gredin! let me hug you. How they will gossip in St. Sampson. I shall set to
work at once to build the boat. It is astonishing that the crank is all rig=
ht. Gentlemen,
he has been to the Douvres; I say to the Douvres. He went alone. The Douvre=
s! I
defy you to find a worse spot. Do you know, have they told you, that it's
proved that Clubin sent the Durande to the bottom to swindle me out of money
which he had to bring me? He made Tangrouille drunk. It's a long story. I'll
tell you another day of his piratical tricks. I, stupid idiot, had confiden=
ce
in Clubin. But he trapped himself, the villain, for he couldn't have got aw=
ay.
There is a God above, scoundrel! Do you see, Gilliatt, bang! bang! the iron=
s in
the fire; we'll begin at once to rebuild the Durande. We'll have her twenty=
feet
longer. They build them longer now than they did. I'll buy the wood from
Dantzic and Brême. Now I have got the machinery they will give me cre=
dit
again. They'll have confidence now."
Mess Lethierry stopped, lifted his eyes with t=
hat
look which sees the heavens through the roof, and muttered, "Yes, ther=
e is
a power on high!"
Then he placed the middle finger of his right =
hand
between his two eyebrows, and tapped with his nail there, an action which
indicates a project passing through the mind, and he continued:
"Nevertheless, to begin again, on a grand
scale, a little ready money would have been useful. Ah! if I only had my th=
ree
bank-notes, the seventy-five thousand francs that that robber Rantaine
returned, and that vagabond Clubin stole."
Gilliatt silently felt in his pocket, and drew=
out
something which he placed before him. It was the leathern belt that he had
brought back. He opened, and spread it out upon the table; in the inside the
word "Clubin" could be deciphered in the light of the moon. He th=
en
took out of the pocket of the belt a box, and out of the box three pieces o=
f paper,
which he unfolded and offered to Lethierry.
Lethierry examined them. It was light enough to
read the figures "1000," and the word "thousand" was al=
so
perfectly visible. Mess Lethierry took the three notes, placed them on the
table one beside the other, looked at them, looked at Gilliatt, stood for a
moment dumb; and then began again, like an eruption after an explosion:
"These too! You are a marvel. My bank-not=
es!
all three. A thousand pounds each. My seventy-five thousand francs. Why, you
must have gone down to the infernal regions. It is Clubin's belt. Pardieu! I
can read his vile name. Gilliatt has brought back engine and money too. The=
re will
be something to put in the papers. I will buy some timber of the finest
quality. I guess how it was; you found his carcase; Clubin mouldering away =
in
some corner. We'll have some Dantzic pine and Brême oak; we'll have a
first-rate planking--oak within and pine without. In old times they didn't
build so well, but their work lasted longer; the wood was better seasoned,
because they did not build so much. We'll build the hull perhaps of elm. El=
m is
good for the parts in the water. To be dry sometimes, and sometimes wet, ro=
ts
the timbers; the elm requires to be always wet; it's a wood that feeds upon
water. What a splendid Durande we'll build. The lawyers will not trouble me
again. I shall want no more credit. I have some money of my own. Did ever a=
ny
one see a man like Gilliatt. I was struck down to the ground, I was a dead =
man.
He comes and sets me up again as firm as ever. And all the while I was never
thinking about him. He had gone clean out of my mind; but I recollect
everything now. Poor lad! Ah! by the way, you know you are to marry
Déruchette."
Gilliatt leaned with his back against the wall,
like one who staggers, and said in a tone very low, but distinct:
"No."
Mess Lethierry started.
"How, no!"
Gilliatt replied:
"I do not love her."
Mess Lethierry went to the window, opened and
reclosed it, took the three bank-notes, folded them, placed the iron box on
top, scratched his head, seized Clubin's belt, flung it violently against t=
he
wall, and exclaimed:
"You must be mad."
He thrust his fists into his pockets, and excl=
aimed:
"You don't love Déruchette? What! =
was
it at me, then, that you used to play the bagpipe?"
Gilliatt, still supporting himself by the wall,
turned pale, as a man near his end. As he became pale, Lethierry became red=
der.
"There's an idiot for you! He doesn't love
Déruchette. Very good; make up your mind to love her, for she shall
never marry any but you. A devilish pretty story that; and you think that I
believe you. If there is anything really the matter with you, send for a
doctor; but don't talk nonsense. You can't have had time to quarrel, or get=
out
of temper with her. It is true that lovers are great fools sometimes. Come =
now,
what are your reasons? If you have any, say. People don't make geese of the=
mselves
without reasons. But, I have wool in my ears; perhaps I didn't understand.
Repeat to me what you said."
Gilliatt replied:
"I said, No!"
"You said, No. He holds to it, the lunati=
c!
You must be crazy. You said, No. Here's a stupidity beyond anything ever he=
ard
of. Why, people have had their heads shaved for much less than that. What! =
you
don't like Déruchette? Oh, then, it was out of affection for the old=
man
that you did all these things? It was for the sake of papa that you went to=
the
Douvres, that you endured cold and heat, and was half dead with hunger and
thirst, and ate the limpets off the rocks, and had the fog, the rain, and t=
he
wind for your bedroom, and brought me back my machine, just as you might br=
ing
a pretty woman her little canary that had escaped from its cage. And the
tempest that we had three days ago. Do you think I don't bear it in mind? Y=
ou
must have had a time of it! It was in the midst of all this misery, alongsi=
de
of my old craft, that you shaped, and cut, and turned, and twisted, and dra=
gged
about, and filed, and sawed, and carpentered, and schemed, and performed mo=
re
miracles there by yourself than all the saints in paradise. Ah! you annoyed=
me enough
once with your bagpipe. They call it a biniou in Brittany. Always the same =
tune
too, silly fellow. And yet you don't love Déruchette? I don't know w=
hat
is the matter with you. I recollect it all now. I was there in the corner;
Déruchette said, 'He shall be my husband;' and so you shall. You don=
't
love her! Either you must be mad, or else I am mad. And you stand there, and
speak not a word. I tell you you are not at liberty to do all the things you
have done, and then say, after all, 'I don't love Déruchette.' People
don't do others services in order to put them in a passion. Well; if you do=
n't
marry her, she shall be single all her life. In the first place, I shall wa=
nt
you. You must be the pilot of the Durande. Do you imagine I mean to part wi=
th
you like that? No, no, my brave boy; I don't let you go. I have got you now;
I'll not even listen to you. Where will they find a sailor like you? You ar=
e the
man I want. But why don't you speak?"
Meanwhile the harbour bell had aroused the
household and the neighbourhood. Douce and Grace had risen, and had just
entered the lower room, silent and astonished. Grace had a candle in her ha=
nd.
A group of neighbours, townspeople, sailors, and peasants, who had rushed o=
ut
of their houses, were outside on the quay, gazing in wonderment at the funn=
el
of the Durande in the sloop. Some, hearing Lethierry's voice in the lower r=
oom,
began to glide in by the half-opened door. Between the faces of two worthy =
old
women appeared that of Sieur Landoys, who had the good fortune always to fi=
nd
himself where he would have regretted to have been absent.
Men feel a satisfaction in having witnesses of
their joys. The sort of scattered support which a crowd presents pleases th=
em
at such times; their delight draws new life from it. Mess Lethierry suddenly
perceived that there were persons about him; and he welcomed the audience at
once.
"Ah! you are here, my friends? I am very =
glad
to see you. You know the news? That man has been there, and brought it back.
How d'ye do, Sieur Landoys? When I woke up just now, the first thing I spied
was the funnel. It was under my window. There's not a nail missing. They ma=
ke pictures
of Napoleon's deeds; but I think more of that than of the battle of Austerl=
itz.
You have just left your beds, my good friends. The Durande has found you
sleeping. While you are putting on your night-caps and blowing out your can=
dles
there are others working like heroes. We are a set of cowards and do-nothin=
gs;
we sit at home rubbing our rheumatisms; but happily that does not prevent t=
here
being some of another stamp. The man of the Bû de la Rue has arrived =
from
the Douvres rocks. He has fished up the Durande from the bottom of the sea;=
and
fished up my money out of Clubin's pocket, from a greater depth still. But =
how
did you contrive to do it? All the powers of darkness were against you--the
wind and the sea--the sea and the wind. It's true enough that you are a
magician. Those who say that are not so stupid after all. The Durande is ba=
ck
again. The tempests may rage now; that cuts the ground from under them. My
friends, I can inform you that there was no shipwreck after all. I have
examined all the machinery. It is like new, perfect. The valves go as easil=
y as
rollers. You would think them made yesterday. You know that the waste water=
is
carried away by a tube inside another tube, through which come the waters f=
rom
the boilers; this was to economise the heat. Well; the two tubes are there =
as
good as ever. The complete engine, in fact. She is all there, her wheels and
all. Ah! you shall marry her."
"Marry the complete engine?" asked S=
ieur
Landoys.
"No; Déruchette; yes; the engine. =
Both
of them. He shall be my double son-in-law. He shall be her captain. Good da=
y,
Captain Gilliatt; for there will soon be a captain of the Durande. We are g=
oing
to do a world of business again. There will be trade, circulation, cargoes =
of
oxen and sheep. I wouldn't give St. Sampson for London now. And there stands
the author of all this. It was a curious adventure, I can tell you. You wil=
l read
about it on Saturday in old Mauger's Gazette. Malicious Gilliatt is very
malicious. What's the meaning of these Louis-d'ors here?"
Mess Lethierry had just observed, through the
opening of the lid, that there was some gold in the box upon the notes. He
seized it, opened and emptied it into the palm of his hand, and put the han=
dful
of guineas on the table.
"For the poor, Sieur Landoys. Give those
sovereigns from me to the constable of St. Sampson. You recollect Rantaine's
letter. I showed it to you. Very well; I've got the bank-notes. Now we can =
buy
some oak and fir, and go to work at carpentering. Look you! Do you remember=
the
weather of three days ago? What a hurricane of wind and rain! Gilliatt endu=
red
all that upon the Douvres. That didn't prevent his taking the wreck to piec=
es,
as I might take my watch. Thanks to him, I am on my legs again. Old
'Lethierry's galley' is going to run again, ladies and gentlemen. A nut-she=
ll
with a couple of wheels and a funnel. I always had that idea. I used to say=
to
myself, one day I will do it. That was a good long time back. It was an idea
that came in my head at Paris, at the coffee-house at the corner of the Rue
Christine and the Rue Dauphine, when I was reading a paper which had an acc=
ount
of it. Do you know that Gilliatt would think nothing of putting the machine=
at
Marly in his pocket, and walking about with it? He is wrought-iron, that ma=
n; tempered
steel, a mariner of invaluable qualities, an excellent smith, an extraordin=
ary
fellow, more astonishing than the Prince of Hohenlohe. That is what I call a
man with brains. We are children by the side of him. Sea-wolves we may think
ourselves; but the sea-lion is there. Hurrah for Gilliatt! I do not know ho=
w he
has done it; but certainly he must have been the devil. And how can I do ot=
her
than give him Déruchette."
For some minutes Déruchette had been in=
the
room. She had not spoken or moved since she entered. She had glided in like=
a
shadow, had sat down almost unperceived behind Mess Lethierry, who stood be=
fore
her, loquacious, stormy, joyful, abounding in gestures, and talking in a lo=
ud voice.
A little while after her another silent apparition had appeared. A man atti=
red
in black, with a white cravat, holding his hat in his hand, stood in the
doorway. There were now several candles among the group, which had gradually
increased in number. These lights were near the man attired in black. His
profile and youthful and pleasing complexion showed itself against the dark
background with the clearness of an engraving on a medal. He leaned with his
shoulder against the framework of the door, and held his left hand to his
forehead, an attitude of unconscious grace, which contrasted the breadth of=
his
forehead with the smallness of his hand. There was an expression of anguish=
in
his contracted lips, as he looked on and listened with profound attention. =
The
standers-by having recognised M. Caudray, the rector of the parish, had fal=
len
back to allow him to pass; but he remained upon the threshold. There was
hesitation in his posture, but decision in his looks, which now and then met
those of Déruchette. With regard to Gilliatt, whether by chance or
design, he was in shadow, and was only perceived indistinctly.
At first Mess Lethierry did not observe Caudra=
y,
but he saw Déruchette. He went to her and kissed her fervently upon =
the
forehead; stretching forth his hand at the same time towards the dark corner
where Gilliatt was standing.
"Déruchette," he said, "=
we
are rich again; and there is your future husband."
Déruchette raised her head, and looked =
into
the dusky corner bewildered.
Mess Lethierry continued:
"The marriage shall take place immediatel=
y,
if it can; they shall have a licence; the formalities here are not very
troublesome; the dean can do what he pleases; people are married before they
have time to turn round. It is not as in France, where you must have bans, =
and
publications, and delays, and all that fuss. You will be able to boast of b=
eing
the wife of a brave man. No one can say he is not. I thought so from the day
when I saw him come back from Herm with the little cannon. But now he comes=
back
from the Douvres with his fortune and mine, and the fortune of this country=
. A
man of whom the world will talk a great deal more one day. You said once, 'I
will marry him;' and you shall marry him, and you shall have little childre=
n,
and I will be grandpapa; and you will have the good fortune to be the wife =
of a
noble fellow, who can work, who can be useful to his fellow-men; a surprisi=
ng
fellow, worth a hundred others; a man who can rescue other people's inventi=
ons,
a providence! At all events, you will not have married, like so many other
silly girls about here, a soldier or a priest, that is, a man who kills or a
man who lies. But what are you doing there, Gilliatt? Nobody can see you.
Douce, Grace, everybody there! Bring a light, I say. Light up my son-in-law=
for
me. I betroth you to each other, my children: here stands your husband, her=
e my
son, Gilliatt of the Bû de la Rue, that noble fellow, that great seam=
an;
I will have no other son-in-law, and you no other husband. I pledge my word=
to
that once more in God's name. Ah! you are there, Monsieur the Curé. =
You
will marry these young people for us."
Lethierry's eye had just fallen upon Caudray.<= o:p>
Douce and Grace had done as they were directed.
Two candles placed upon the table cast a light upon Gilliatt from head to f=
oot.
"There's a fine fellow," said Mess
Lethierry.
Gilliatt's appearance was hideous.
He was in the condition in which he had that
morning set sail from the rocks; in rags, his bare elbows showing through h=
is
sleeves; his beard long, his hair rough and wild; his eyes bloodshot, his s=
kin
peeling, his hands covered with wounds; his feet naked. Some of the blisters
left by the devil-fish were still visible upon his arms.
Lethierry gazed at him.
"This is my son-in-law," he said.
"How he has struggled with the sea. He is all in rags. What shoulders;
what hands. There's a splendid fellow!"
Grace ran to Déruchette and supported h=
er
head. She had fainted.
II
THE LEATHERN TRUNK
=
At
break of day St. Sampson was on foot, and all the people of St. Peter's Port
began to flock there. The resurrection of the Durande caused a commotion in=
the
island not unlike what was caused by the Salette in the south of France. Th=
ere
was a crowd on the quay staring at the funnel standing erect in the sloop. =
They
were anxious to see and handle the machinery; but Lethierry, after making a=
new
and triumphant survey of the whole by daylight, had placed two sailors aboa=
rd
with instructions to prevent any one approaching it. The funnel, however, f=
urnished
food enough for contemplation. The crowd gaped with astonishment. They talk=
ed of
nothing but Gilliatt. They remarked on his surname of "malicious
Gilliatt;" and their admiration wound up with the remark, "It is =
not
pleasant to have people in the island who can do things like that."
Mess Lethierry was seen from outside the house,
seated at a table before the window, writing, with one eye on the paper and
another on the sloop. He was so completely absorbed that he had only once
stopped to call Douce and ask after Déruchette. Douce replied,
"Mademoiselle has risen and is gone out." Mess Lethierry replied,
"She is right to take the air. She was a little unwell last night, owi=
ng
to the heat. There was a crowd in the room. This and her surprise and joy, =
and
the windows being all closed, overcame her. She will have a husband to be p=
roud
of." And he had gone on with his writing. He had already finished and
sealed two letters, addressed to the most important shipbuilders at
Brême. He now finished the sealing of a third.
The noise of a wheel upon the quay induced him=
to
look up. He leaned out of the window, and observed coming from the path whi=
ch
led to the Bû de la Rue a boy pushing a wheelbarrow. The boy was going
towards St. Peter's Port. In the barrow was a portmanteau of brown leather,
studded with nails of brass and white metal.
Mess Lethierry called to the boy:
"Where are you going, my lad?"
The boy stopped, and replied:
"To the Cashmere."
"What for?"
"To take this trunk aboard."
"Very good; you shall take these three
letters too."
Mess Lethierry opened the drawer of his table,=
took
a piece of string, tied the three letters which he had just written across =
and
across, and threw the packet to the boy, who caught it between his hands.
"Tell the captain of the Cashmere they ar=
e my
letters, and to take care of them. They are for Germany--Brême vi&aci=
rc;
London."
"I can't speak to the captain, Mess
Lethierry."
"Why not?"
"The Cashmere is not at the quay."
"Ah!"
"She is in the roads."
"Ay, true; on account of the sea."
"I can only speak to the man who takes the
things aboard."
"You will tell him, then, to look to the
letters."
"Very well, Mess Lethierry."
"At what time does the Cashmere sail?&quo=
t;
"At twelve."
"The tide will flow at noon; she will hav=
e it
against her."
"But she will have the wind," answer=
ed
the lad.
"Boy," said Mess Lethierry, pointing
with his forefinger at the engine in the sloop, "do you see that? Ther=
e is
something which laughs at winds and tides."
The boy put the letters in his pocket, took up=
the
handles of the barrow again, and went on his way towards the town. Mess
Lethierry called "Douce! Grace!"
Grace opened the door a little way.
"What is it, Mess?"
"Come in and wait a moment."
Mess Lethierry took a sheet of paper, and bega=
n to
write. If Grace, standing behind him, had been curious, and had leaned forw=
ard
while he was writing, she might have read as follows:--
"I have written to Brême for the
timber. I have appointments all the morning with carpenters for the estimat=
e.
The rebuilding will go on fast. You must go yourself to the Deanery for a
licence. It is my wish that the marriage should take place as soon as possi=
ble;
immediately would be better. I am busy about the Durande. Do you be busy ab=
out Déruchette."
He dated it and signed "Lethierry." =
He
did not take the trouble to seal it, but merely folded it in four, and hand=
ed
it to Grace, saying:
"Take that to Gilliatt."
"To the Bû de la Rue?"
"To the Bû de la Rue."
=
When
there is a crowd at St. Sampson, St. Peter's Port is soon deserted. A point=
of
curiosity at a given place is like an air-pump. News travel fast in small
places. Going to see the funnel of the Durande under Mess Lethierry's window
had been, since sunrise, the business of the Guernsey folks. Every other ev=
ent
was eclipsed by this. The death of the Dean of St. Asaph was forgotten,
together with the question of the Rev. Mr. Caudray, his sudden riches, and =
the
departure of the Cashmere. The machinery of the Durande brought back from t=
he
Douvres rocks was the order of the day. People were incredulous. The shipwr=
eck
had appeared extraordinary, the salvage seemed impossible. Everybody hasten=
ed
to assure himself of the truth by the help of his own eyes. Business of eve=
ry
kind was suspended. Long strings of townsfolk with their families, from the
"Vesin" up to the "Mess," men and women, gentlemen, mot=
hers
with children, infants with dolls, were coming by every road or pathway to =
see
"the thing to be seen" at the Bravées, turning their backs
upon St. Peter's Port. Many shops at St. Peter's Port were closed. In the C=
ommercial
Arcade there was an absolute stagnation in buying and selling. The Durande
alone obtained attention. Not a single shopkeeper had had a
"handsell" that morning, except a jeweller, who was surprised at =
having
sold a wedding-ring to "a sort of man who appeared in a great hurry, a=
nd
who asked for the house of the Dean." The shops which remained open we=
re
centres of gossip, where loiterers discussed the miraculous salvage. There =
was
not a foot-passenger at the "Hyvreuse," which is known in these d=
ays,
nobody knows why, as Cambridge Park; no one was in the High Street, then ca=
lled
the Grande Rue; nor in Smith Street, known then only as the Rue des Forges;
nobody in Hauteville. The Esplanade itself was deserted. One might have gue=
ssed
it to be Sunday. A visit from a Royal personage to review the militia at the
Ancresse could not have emptied the town more completely. All this hubbub a=
bout
"a nobody" like Gilliatt, caused a good deal of shrugging of the =
shoulders
among persons of grave and correct habits.
The church of St. Peter's Port, with its three
gable-ends placed side by side, its transept and its steeple, stands at the
water's side at the end of the harbour, and nearly on the landing place its=
elf,
where it welcomes those who arrive, and gives the departing "God
speed." It represents the capital letter at the beginning of that long
line which forms the front of the town towards the sea.
It is both the parish church of St. Peter's Po=
rt
and the chief place of the Deanery of the whole island. Its officiating
minister is the surrogate of the bishop, a clergyman in full orders.
The harbour of St. Peter's Port, a very fine a=
nd
large port at the present day, was at that epoch, and even up to ten years =
ago,
less considerable than the harbour of St. Sampson. It was enclosed by two e=
normous
thick walls, beginning at the water's edge on both sides, and curving till =
they
almost joined again at the extremities, where there stood a little white
lighthouse. Under this lighthouse, a narrow gullet, bearing still the two r=
ings
of the chain with which it was the custom to bar the passage in ancient tim=
es,
formed the entrance for vessels. The harbour of St. Peter's Port might be w=
ell
compared with the claws of a huge lobster opened a little way. This kind of
pincers took from the ocean a portion of the sea, which it compelled to rem=
ain
calm. But during the easterly winds the waves rolled heavily against the na=
rrow
entrance, the port was agitated, and it was better not to enter. This is wh=
at
had happened with the Cashmere that day, which had accordingly anchored in =
the
roads.
The vessels, during the easterly winds, prefer=
red
this course, which besides saved them the port dues. On these occasions the
boatmen of the town, a hardy race of mariners whom the new port has thrown =
out
of employment, came in their boats to fetch passengers at the landing-place=
or
at stations on the shore, and carried them with their luggage, often in hea=
vy
seas, but always without accident, to the vessels about to sail. The east w=
ind
blows off the shore, and is very favourable for the passage to England; the
vessel at such times rolls, but does not pitch.
When a vessel happened to be in the port,
everybody embarked from the quay. When it was in the roads they took their
choice, and embarked from any point of the coast near the moorings. The
"Havelet" was one of these creeks. This little harbour (which is =
the
signification of the word) was near the town, but was so solitary that it
seemed far off. This solitude was owing to the shelter of the high cliffs of
Fort St. George, which overlooked this retired inlet. The Havelet was
accessible by several paths. The most direct was along the water's side. It=
had
the advantage of leading to the town and to the church in five minutes' wal=
k,
and the disadvantage of being covered by the sea twice a day. The other pat=
hs
were more or less abrupt, and led down to the creek through gaps in the ste=
ep
rocks. Even in broad daylight, it was dusk in the Havelet. Huge blocks
overhanging it on all sides, and thick bushes and brambles cast a sort of s=
oft
twilight upon the rocks and waves below. Nothing could be more peaceful than
this spot in calm weather; nothing more tumultuous during heavy seas. There
were ends of branches there which were always wet with the foam. In the spr=
ing
time, the place was full of flowers, of nests, of perfumes, of birds, of
butterflies, and bees. Thanks to recent improvements, this wild nook no lon=
ger
exists. Fine, straight lines have taken the place of these wild features; m=
asonry,
quays, and little gardens, have made their appearance; earthwork has been t=
he
rage, and taste has finally subdued the eccentricities of the cliff, and the
irregularities of the rocks below.
=
It was
a little before ten o'clock in the morning. The crowd at St. Sampson, accor=
ding
to all appearance, was increasing. The multitude, feverish with curiosity, =
was
moving towards the north; and the Havelet, which is in the south, was more
deserted than ever.
Notwithstanding this, there was a boat there a=
nd a
boatman. In the boat was a travelling bag. The boatman seemed to be waiting=
for
some one.
The Cashmere was visible at anchor in roads, as
she did not start till midday; there was as yet no sign of moving aboard.
A passer-by, who had listened from one of the
ladder-paths up the cliffs overhead, would have heard a murmur of words in =
the
Havelet, and if he had leaned over the overhanging cliff might have seen, at
some distance from the boat, in a corner among the rocks and branches, where
the eye of the boatman could not reach them, a man and a woman. It was Caud=
ray and
Déruchette.
These obscure nooks on the seashore, the chosen
places of lady bathers, are not always so solitary as is believed. Persons =
are
sometimes observed and heard there. Those who seek shelter and solitude in =
them
may easily be followed through the thick bushes, and, thanks to the multipl=
icity
and entanglement of the paths, the granite and the shrubs which favour the
stolen interview may also favour the witness.
Caudray and Déruchette stood face to fa=
ce,
looking into each other's eyes, and holding each other by the hand.
Déruchette was speaking. Caudray was silent. A tear that had gathered
upon his eyelash hung there and did not fall.
Grief and strong passion were imprinted in his
calm, religious countenance. A painful resignation was there too--a resigna=
tion
hostile to faith, though springing from it. Upon that face, simply devout u=
ntil
then, there was the commencement of a fatal expression. He who had hitherto
meditated only on doctrine, had begun to meditate on Fate, an unhealthy
meditation for a priest. Faith dissolves under its action. Nothing disturbs=
the
religious mind more than that bending under the weight of the unknown. Life
seems a perpetual succession of events, to which man submits. We never know
from which direction the sudden blow will come. Misery and happiness enter =
or
make their exit, like unexpected guests. Their laws, their orbit, their
principle of gravitation, are beyond man's grasp. Virtue conducts not to
happiness, nor crime to retribution: conscience has one logic, fate another;
and neither coincide. Nothing is foreseen. We live confusedly, and from han=
d to
mouth. Conscience is the straight line, life is the whirlwind, which creates
above man's head either black chaos or the blue sky. Fate does not practise=
the
art of gradations. Her wheel turns sometimes so fast that we can scarcely
distinguish the interval between one revolution and another, or the link
between yesterday and to-day. Caudray was a believer whose faith did not
exclude reason, and whose priestly training did not shut him out from passi=
on.
Those religious systems which impose celibacy on the priesthood are not wit=
hout
reason for it. Nothing really destroys the individuality of the priest more
than love. All sorts of clouds seemed to darken Caudray's soul. He looked t=
oo
long into Déruchette's eyes. These two beings worshipped each other.=
There was in Caudray's eye the mute adoration =
of
despair.
Déruchette spoke.
"You must not leave me. I shall not have
strength. I thought I could bid you farewell. I cannot. Why did you come
yesterday? You should not have come if you were going so soon. I never spok=
e to
you. I loved you; but knew it not. Only that day, when M. Hérode rea=
d to
us the story of Rebecca, and when your eyes met mine, my cheeks were like f=
ire,
and I thought only of how Rebecca's face must have burnt like mine; and yet=
, if
any one had told me yesterday that I loved you, I might have laughed at it.
This is what is so terrible. It has been like a treason. I did not take hee=
d. I
went to the church, I saw you, I thought everybody there was like myself. I=
do
not reproach you; you did nothing to make me love you; you did nothing but =
look
at me; it is not your fault if you look at people; and yet that made me love
you so much. I did not even suspect it. When you took up the book it was a
flood of light; when others took it, it was but a book. You raised your eyes
sometimes; you spoke of archangels; oh! you were my archangel. What you said
penetrated my thoughts at once. Before then, I know not even whether I beli=
eved
in God. Since I have known you, I have learnt to pray. I used to say to Dou=
ce,
dress me quickly, lest I should be late at the service; and I hastened to t=
he
church. Such it was with me to love some one. I did not know the cause. I s=
aid
to myself, how devout I am becoming. It is from you that I have learnt that=
I
do not go to church for God's service. It is true; I went for your sake. You
spoke so well, and when you raised your arms to heaven, you seemed to hold =
my
heart within your two white hands. I was foolish; but I did not know it. Sh=
all
I tell you your fault? It was your coming to me in the garden; it was your
speaking to me. If you had said nothing, I should have known nothing. If you
had gone, I should, perhaps, have been sad, but now I should die. Since I k=
now
that I love you, you cannot leave me. Of what are you thinking? You do not =
seem
to listen to me."
Caudray replied:
"You heard what was said last night?"=
;
"Ah, me!"
"What can I do against that?"
They were silent for a moment. Caudray continu=
ed:
"There is but one duty left to me. It is =
to
depart."
"And mine to die. Oh! how I wish there wa=
s no
sea, but only sky. It seems to me as if that would settle all, and that our
departure would be the same. It was wrong to speak to me; why did you speak=
to
me? Do not go. What will become of me? I tell you I shall die. You will be =
far
off when I shall be in my grave. Oh! my heart will break. I am very wretche=
d;
yet my uncle is not unkind."
It was the first time in her life that
Déruchette had ever said "my uncle." Until then she had al=
ways
said "my father."
Caudray stepped back, and made a sign to the
boatman. Déruchette heard the sound of the boat-hook among the shing=
le,
and the step of the man on the gunwale of the boat.
"No! no!" cried Déruchette.
"It must be, Déruchette," rep=
lied
Caudray.
"No! never! For the sake of an
engine--impossible. Did you see that horrible man last night? You cannot
abandon me thus. You are wise; you can find a means. It is impossible that =
you
bade me come here this morning with the idea of leaving me. I have never do=
ne
anything to deserve this; you can have no reproach to make me. Is it by that
vessel that you intended to sail? I will not let you go. You shall not leav=
e me.
Heaven does not open thus to close so soon. I know you will remain. Besides=
, it
is not yet time. Oh! how I love you."
And pressing closely to him, she interlaced the
fingers of each hand behind his neck, as if partly to make a bond of her two
arms for detaining him, and partly with her joined hands to pray. He moved =
away
this gentle restraint, while Déruchette resisted as long as she coul=
d.
Déruchette sank upon a projection of the
rock covered with ivy, lifting by an unconscious movement the sleeve of her
dress up to the elbow, and exhibiting her graceful arm. A pale suffused lig=
ht
was in her eyes. The boat was approaching.
Caudray held her head between his hands. He
touched her hair with a sort of religious care, fixed his eyes upon her for
some moments, then kissed her on the forehead fervently, and in an accent
trembling with anguish, and in which might have been traced the uprooting of
his soul, he uttered the word which has so often resounded in the depths of=
the
human heart, "Farewell!"
Déruchette burst into loud sobs.
At this moment they heard a voice near them, w=
hich
said solemnly and deliberately:
"Why should you not be man and wife?"=
;
Caudray raised his head. Déruchette loo=
ked
up.
Gilliatt stood before them.
He had approached by a bye-path.
He was no longer the same man that he had appe=
ared
on the previous night. He had arranged his hair, shaved his beard, put on
shoes, and a white shirt, with a large collar turned over, sailor fashion. =
He
wore a sailor's costume, but all was new. A gold ring was on his little fin=
ger.
He seemed profoundly calm. His sunburnt skin had become pale: a hue of sick=
ly
bronze overspread it.
They looked at him astonished. Though so chang=
ed,
Déruchette recognised him. But the words which he had spoken were so=
far
from what was passing in their minds at that moment, that they had left no
distinct impression.
Gilliatt spoke again:
"Why should you say farewell? Be man and
wife, and go together."
Déruchette started. A trembling seized =
her
from head to foot.
Gilliatt continued:
"Miss Lethierry is a woman. She is of age=
. It
depends only on herself. Her uncle is but her uncle. You love each
other----"
Déruchette interrupted in a gentle voic=
e,
and asked, "How came you here?"
"Make yourselves one," repeated
Gilliatt.
Déruchette began to have a sense of the
meaning of his words. She stammered out:
"My poor uncle!"
"If the marriage was yet to be," said
Gilliatt, "he would refuse. When it is over he will consent. Besides, =
you
are going to leave here. When you return he will forgive."
Gilliatt added, with a slight touch of bittern=
ess,
"And then he is thinking of nothing just now but the rebuilding of his
boat. This will occupy his mind during your absence. The Durande will conso=
le
him."
"I cannot," said Déruchette, =
in a
state of stupor which was not without its gleam of joy. "I must not le=
ave
him unhappy."
"It will be but for a short time,"
answered Gilliatt.
Caudray and Déruchette had been, as it
were, bewildered. They recovered themselves now. The meaning of Gilliatt's
words became plainer as their surprise diminished. There was a slight cloud
still before them; but their part was not to resist. We yield easily to tho=
se
who come to save. Objections to a return into Paradise are weak. There was
something in the attitude of Déruchette, as she leaned imperceptibly
upon her lover, which seemed to make common cause with Gilliatt's words. Th=
e enigma
of the presence of this man, and of his utterances, which, in the mind of
Déruchette in particular, produced various kinds of astonishment, wa=
s a
thing apart. He said to them, "Be man and wife!" This was clear; =
if
there was responsibility, it was his. Déruchette had a confused feel=
ing
that, for many reasons, he had the right to decide upon her fate. Caudray
murmured, as if plunged in thought, "An uncle is not a father."
His resolution was corrupted by the sudden and
happy turn in his ideas. The probable scruples of the clergyman melted, and
dissolved in his heart's love for Déruchette.
Gilliatt's tone became abrupt and harsh, and l=
ike
the pulsations of fever.
"There must be no delay," he said.
"You have time, but that is all. Come."
Caudray observed him attentively; and suddenly
exclaimed:
"I recognise you. It was you who saved my
life."
Gilliatt replied:
"I think not."
"Yonder," said Caudray, "at the
extremity of the Banques."
"I do not know the place," said
Gilliatt.
"It was on the very day that I arrived
here."
"Let us lose no time," interrupted
Gilliatt.
"And if I am not deceived, you are the man
whom we met last night."
"Perhaps."
"What is your name?"
Gilliatt raised his voice:
"Boatman! wait there for us. We shall ret=
urn
soon. You asked me, Miss Lethierry, how I came to be here. The answer is ve=
ry
simple. I walked behind you. You are twenty-one. In this country, when pers=
ons
are of age, and depend only on themselves, they may be married immediately.=
Let
us take the path along the water-side. It is passable; the tide will not ri=
se
here till noon. But lose no time. Come with me."
Déruchette and Caudray seemed to consult
each other by a glance. They were standing close together motionless. They =
were
intoxicated with joy. There are strange hesitations sometimes on the edge of
the abyss of happiness. They understood, as it were, without understanding.=
"His name is Gilliatt," whispered
Déruchette.
Gilliatt interrupted them with a sort of tone =
of
authority.
"What do you linger for?" he asked.
"I tell you to follow me."
"Whither?" asked Caudray.
"There!"
And Gilliatt pointed with his finger towards t=
he
spire of the church.
Gilliatt walked on before, and they followed h=
im.
His step was firm; but they walked unsteadily.
As they approached the church, an expression
dawned upon those two pure and beautiful countenances, which was soon to be=
come
a smile. The approach to the church lighted them up. In the hollow eyes of
Gilliatt there was the darkness of night. The beholder might have imagined =
that
he saw a spectre leading two souls to Paradise.
Caudray and Déruchette scarcely took co=
unt
of what had happened. The interposition of this man was like the branch
clutched at by the drowning. They followed their guide with the docility of
despair, leaning on the first comer. Those who feel themselves near death
easily accept the accident which seems to save. Déruchette, more
ignorant of life, was more confident. Caudray was thoughtful. Déruch=
ette
was of age, it was true. The English formalities of marriage are simple,
especially in primitive parts, where the clergyman has almost a discretiona=
ry power;
but would the Dean consent to celebrate the marriage without even inquiring
whether the uncle consented? This was the question. Nevertheless, they could
learn. In any case there would be but a delay.
But what was this man? and if it was really he
whom Lethierry the night before had declared should be his son-in-law, what
could be the meaning of his actions? The very obstacle itself had become a
providence. Caudray yielded; but his yielding was only the rapid and tacit
assent of a man who feels himself saved from despair.
The pathway was uneven, and sometimes wet and
difficult to pass. Caudray, absorbed in thought, did not observe the occasi=
onal
pools of water or the heaps of shingle. But from time to time Gilliatt turn=
ed
and said to him, "Take heed of those stones. Give her your hand."=
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%'>III -=
THE
FORETHOUGHT OF SELF-SACRIFICE<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%'>
=
It
struck ten as they entered the church.
By reason of the early hour, and also on accou=
nt
of the desertion of the town that day, the church was empty.
At the farther end, however, near the table wh=
ich
in the reformed church fulfils the place of the altar, there were three
persons. They were the Dean, his evangelist, and the registrar. The Dean, w=
ho
was the Reverend Jaquemin Hérode, was seated; the evangelist and the
registrar stood beside him.
A book was open upon the table.
Beside him, upon a credence-table, was another
book. It was the parish register, and also open; and an attentive eye might
have remarked a page on which was some writing, of which the ink was not yet
dry. By the side of the register were a pen and a writing-desk.
The Reverend Jaquemin Hérode rose on
perceiving Caudray.
"I have been expecting you," he said.
"All is ready."
The Dean, in fact, wore his officiating robes.=
Caudray looked towards Gilliatt.
The Reverend Doctor added, "I am at your
service, brother;" and he bowed.
It was a bow which neither turned to right or
left. It was evident from the direction of the Dean's gaze that he did not
recognise the existence of any one but Caudray, for Caudray was a clergyman=
and
a gentleman. Neither Déruchette, who stood aside, nor Gilliatt, who =
was
in the rear, were included in the salutation. His look was a sort of
parenthesis in which none but Caudray were admitted. The observance of these
little niceties constitutes an important feature in the maintenance of orde=
r and
the preservation of society.
The Dean continued, with a graceful and dignif=
ied
urbanity:
"I congratulate you, my colleague, from a
double point of view. You have lost your uncle, and are about to take a wif=
e;
you are blessed with riches on the one hand, and happiness on the other.
Moreover, thanks to the boat which they are about to rebuild, Mess Lethierry
will also be rich; which is as it should be. Miss Lethierry was born in this
parish; I have verified the date of her birth in the register. She is of ag=
e, and
at her own disposal. Her uncle, too, who is her only relative, consents. You
are anxious to be united immediately on account of your approaching departu=
re.
This I can understand; but this being the marriage of the rector of the par=
ish,
I should have been gratified to have seen it associated with a little more
solemnity. I will consult your wishes by not detaining you longer than
necessary. The essentials will be soon complied with. The form is already d=
rawn
up in the register, and it requires only the names to be filled in. By the
terms of the law and custom, the marriage may be celebrated immediately aft=
er the
inscription. The declaration necessary for the licence has been duly made. I
take upon myself a slight irregularity; for the application for the licence
ought to have been registered seven days in advance; but I yield to necessi=
ty
and the urgency of your departure. Be it so, then. I will proceed with the =
ceremony.
My evangelist will be the witness for the bridegroom; as regards the witness
for the bride----"
The Dean turned towards Gilliatt. Gilliatt mad=
e a
movement of his head.
"That is sufficient," said the Dean.=
Caudray remained motionless; Déruchette=
was
happy, but no less powerless to move.
"Nevertheless," continued the Dean,
"there is still an obstacle."
Déruchette started.
The Dean continued:
"The representative here present of Mess
Lethierry applied for the licence for you, and has signed the declaration on
the register." And with the thumb of his left hand the Dean pointed to
Gilliatt, which prevented the necessity of his remembering his name. "=
The
messenger from Mess Lethierry," he added, "has informed me this
morning that being too much occupied to come in person, Mess Lethierry desi=
red
that the marriage should take place immediately. This desire, expressed
verbally, is not sufficient. In consequence of having to grant the licence,=
and
of the irregularity which I take upon myself, I cannot proceed so rapidly w=
ithout
informing myself from Mess Lethierry personally, unless some one can produce
his signature. Whatever might be my desire to serve you, I cannot be satisf=
ied
with a mere message. I must have some written document."
"That need not delay us," said Gilli=
att.
And he presented a paper to the Dean. The Dean took it, perused it by a gla=
nce,
seemed to pass over some lines as unimportant, and read aloud: "Go to =
the
Dean for the licence. I wish the marriage to take place as soon as possible=
. Immediately
would be better."
He placed the paper on the table, and proceede=
d:
"It is signed, Lethierry. It would have b=
een
more respectful to have addressed himself to me. But since I am called on to
serve a colleague, I ask no more."
Caudray glanced again at Gilliatt. There are
moments when mind and mind comprehend each other. Caudray felt that there w=
as
some deception; he had not the strength of purpose, perhaps he had not the =
idea
of revealing it. Whether in obedience to a latent heroism, of which he had =
begun
to obtain a glimpse; or whether from a deadening of the conscience, arising
from the suddenness of the happiness placed within his reach, he uttered no
word.
The Dean took the pen, and aided by the clerk,
filled up the spaces in the page of the register; then he rose, and by a
gesture invited Caudray and Déruchette to approach the table.
The ceremony commenced. It was a strange momen=
t.
Caudray and Déruchette stood beside each other before the minister. =
He
who has ever dreamed of a marriage in which he himself was chief actor, may
conceive something of the feeling which they experienced.
Gilliatt stood at a little distance in the sha=
dow
of the pillars.
Déruchette, on rising in the morning,
desperate, thinking only of death and its associations, had dressed herself=
in
white. Her attire, which had been associated in her mind with mourning, was
suited to her nuptials. A white dress is all that is necessary for the brid=
e.
A ray of happiness was visible upon her face.
Never had she appeared more beautiful. Her features were remarkable for
prettiness rather than what is called beauty. Their fault, if fault it be, =
lay
in a certain excess of grace. Déruchette in repose, that is, neither
disturbed by passion or grief, was graceful above all. The ideal virgin is =
the transfiguration
of a face like this. Déruchette, touched by her sorrow and her love,
seemed to have caught that higher and more holy expression. It was the
difference between the field daisy and the lily.
The tears had scarcely dried upon her cheeks; =
one
perhaps still lingered in the midst of her smiles. Traces of tears indistin=
ctly
visible form a pleasing but sombre accompaniment of joy.
The Dean, standing near the table, placed his
finger upon the open book, and asked in a distinct voice whether they knew =
of
any impediment to their union.
There was no reply.
"Amen!" said the Dean.
Caudray and Déruchette advanced a step =
or
two towards the table.
"Joseph Ebenezer Caudray, wilt thou have =
this
woman to be thy wedded wife?"
Caudray replied "I will."
The Dean continued:
"Durande Déruchette Lethierry, wilt
thou have this man to be thy wedded husband?"
Déruchette, in an agony of soul, spring=
ing
from her excess of happiness, murmured rather than uttered--
"I will."
Then followed the beautiful form of the Anglic=
an
marriage service. The Dean looked around, and in the twilight of the church
uttered the solemn words:
"Who giveth this woman to be married to t=
his
man?"
Gilliatt answered, "I do!"
There was an interval of silence. Caudray and
Déruchette felt a vague sense of oppression in spite of their joy.
The Dean placed Déruchette's right hand=
in
Caudray's; and Caudray repeated after him:
"I take thee, Durande Déruchette t=
o be
my wedded wife, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness an=
d in
health, to love and to cherish till death do us part; and thereto I plight =
thee
my troth."
The Dean then placed Caudray's right hand in t=
hat
of Déruchette, and Déruchette said after him:
"I take thee to be my wedded husband for
better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness or in health, to love =
and
to cherish till death do us part; and thereto I plight thee my troth."=
The Dean asked, "Where is the ring?"=
The
question took them by surprise. Caudray had no ring; but Gilliatt took off =
the
gold ring which he wore upon his little finger. It was probably the
wedding-ring which had been sold that morning by the jeweller in the Commer=
cial
Arcade.
The Dean placed the ring upon the book; then
handed it to Caudray, who took Déruchette's little trembling left ha=
nd,
passed the ring over her fourth finger, and said:
"With this ring I thee wed!"
"In the name of the Father, and of the So=
n,
and of the Holy Ghost," continued the Dean.
"Amen," said his evangelist.
Then the Dean said, "Let us pray."
Caudray and Déruchette turned towards t=
he
table, and knelt down.
Gilliatt, standing by, inclined his head.
So they knelt before God; while he seemed to b=
end
under the burden of his fate.
=
As
they left the church they could see the Cashmere making preparations for her
departure.
"You are in time," said Gilliatt.
They chose again the path leading to the Havel=
et.
Caudray and Déruchette went before,
Gilliatt this time walking behind them. They were two somnambulists. Their
bewilderment had not passed away, but only changed in form. They took no he=
ed
of whither they were going, or of what they did. They hurried on mechanical=
ly,
scarcely remembering the existence of anything, feeling that they were unit=
ed
for ever, but scarcely able to connect two ideas in their minds. In ecstasy=
like
theirs it is as impossible to think as it is to swim in a torrent. In the m=
idst
of their trouble and darkness they had been plunged in a whirlpool of delig=
ht;
they bore a paradise within themselves. They did not speak, but conversed w=
ith
each other by the mysterious sympathy of their souls. Déruchette pre=
ssed
Caudray's arm to her side.
The footsteps of Gilliatt behind them reminded
them now and then that he was there. They were deeply moved, but could find=
no
words. The excess of emotion results in stupor. Theirs was delightful, but
overwhelming. They were man and wife: every other idea was postponed to tha=
t.
What Gilliatt had done was well; that was all that they could grasp. They e=
xperienced
towards their guide a deep but vague gratitude in their hearts.
Déruchette felt that there was some mystery to be explained, but not
now. Meanwhile they accepted their unexpected happiness. They felt themselv=
es
controlled by the abruptness and decision of this man who conferred on them=
so
much happiness with a kind of authority. To question him, to talk with him
seemed impossible. Too many impressions rushed into their minds at once for
that. Their absorption was pardonable.
Events succeed each other sometimes with the
rapidity of hailstones. Their effect is overpowering; they deaden the sense=
s.
Falling upon existences habitually calm, they render incidents rapidly
unintelligible even to those whom they chiefly concern; we become scarcely
conscious of our own adventures; we are overwhelmed without guessing the ca=
use,
or crowned with happiness without comprehending it. For some hours Dé=
;ruchette
had been subjected to every kind of emotion: at first, surprise and delight=
at
meeting Caudray in the garden; then horror at the monster whom her uncle had
presented as her husband; then her anguish when the angel of her dreams spr=
ead
his wings and seemed about to depart; and now her joy, a joy such as she had
never known before, founded on an inexplicable enigma; the monster of last
night himself restoring her lover; marriage arising out of her torture; this
Gilliatt, the evil destiny of last night, become to-day her saviour! She co=
uld explain
nothing to her own mind. It was evident that all the morning Gilliatt had h=
ad
no other occupation than that of preparing the way for their marriage: he h=
ad
done all: he had answered for Mess Lethierry, seen the Dean, obtained the
licence, signed the necessary declaration; and thus the marriage had been
rendered possible. But Déruchette understood it not. If she had, she
could not have comprehended the reasons. They did nothing but close their e=
yes
to the world, and--grateful in their hearts--yield themselves up to the
guidance of this good demon. There was no time for explanations, and
expressions of gratitude seemed too insignificant. They were silent in their
trance of love.
The little power of thought which they retained
was scarcely more than sufficient to guide them on their way--to enable the=
m to
distinguish the sea from the land, and the Cashmere from every other vessel=
.
In a few minutes they were at the little creek=
.
Caudray entered the boat first. At the moment =
when
Déruchette was about to follow, she felt her sleeve held gently. It =
was
Gilliatt, who had placed his finger upon a fold of her dress.
"Madam," he said, "you are goin=
g on
a journey unexpectedly. It has struck me that you would have need of dresses
and clothes. You will find a trunk aboard the Cashmere, containing a lady's
clothing. It came to me from my mother. It was intended for my wife if I sh=
ould
marry. Permit me to ask your acceptance of it."
Déruchette, partially aroused from her
dream, turned towards him. Gilliatt continued, in a voice which was scarcely
audible:
"I do not wish to detain you, madam, but I
feel that I ought to give you some explanation. On the day of your misfortu=
ne,
you were sitting in the lower room; you uttered certain words; it is easy to
understand that you have forgotten them. We are not compelled to remember e=
very
word we speak. Mess Lethierry was in great sorrow. It was certainly a noble=
vessel,
and one that did good service. The misfortune was recent; there was a great
commotion. Those are things which one naturally forgets. It was only a vess=
el
wrecked among the rocks; one cannot be always thinking of an accident. But =
what
I wished to tell you was, that as it was said that no one would go, I went.
They said it was impossible; but it was not. I thank you for listening to m=
e a
moment. You can understand, madam, that if I went there, it was not with the
thought of displeasing you. This is a thing, besides, of old date. I know t=
hat
you are in haste. If there was time, if we could talk about this, you might
perhaps remember. But this is all useless now. The history of it goes back =
to a
day when there was snow upon the ground. And then on one occasion that I pa=
ssed
you, I thought that you looked kindly on me. This is how it was. With regar=
d to
last night, I had not had time to go to my home. I came from my labour; I w=
as
all torn and ragged; I startled you, and you fainted. I was to blame; peopl=
e do
not come like that to strangers' houses; I ask your forgiveness. This is ne=
arly
all I had to say. You are about to sail. You will have fine weather; the wi=
nd
is in the east. Farewell. You will not blame me for troubling you with these
things. This is the last minute."
"I am thinking of the trunk you spoke
of," replied Déruchette. "Why do you not keep it for your
wife, when you marry?"
"It is most likely, madam," replied
Gilliatt, "that I shall never marry."
"That would be a pity," said
Déruchette; "you are so good."
And Déruchette smiled. Gilliatt returned
her smile.
Then he assisted her to step into the boat.
In less than a quarter of an hour afterwards
Caudray and Déruchette were aboard the Cashmere in the roads.
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%'>V - T=
HE
GREAT TOMB
=
Gilliatt
walked along the water-side, passed rapidly through St. Peter's Port, and t=
hen
turned towards St. Sampson by the seashore. In his anxiety to meet no one w=
hom
he knew, he avoided the highways now filled with foot-passengers by his gre=
at
achievement.
For a long time, as the reader knows, he had h=
ad a
peculiar manner of traversing the country in all parts without being observ=
ed.
He knew the bye-paths, and favoured solitary and winding routes; he had the=
shy
habits of a wild beast who knows that he is disliked, and keeps at a distan=
ce.
When quite a child, he had been quick to feel how little welcome men showed=
in
their faces at his approach, and he had gradually contracted that habit of
being alone which had since become an instinct.
He passed through the Esplanade, then by the
Salerie. Now and then he turned and looked behind him at the Cashmere in the
roads, which was beginning to set her sails. There was little wind; Gilliatt
went faster than the Cashmere. He walked with downcast eyes among the lower
rocks at the water's edge. The tide was beginning to rise.
Suddenly he stopped, and, turning his back,
contemplated for some minutes a group of oaks beyond the rocks which concea=
led
the road to Vale. They were the oaks at the spot called the Basses Maisons.=
It
was there that Déruchette once wrote with her finger the name of
Gilliatt in the snow. Many a day had passed since that snow had melted away=
.
Then he pursued his way.
The day was beautiful; more beautiful than any
that had yet been seen that year. It was one of those spring days when May
suddenly pours forth all its beauty, and when nature seems to have no thoug=
ht
but to rejoice and be happy. Amidst the many murmurs from forest and villag=
e,
from the sea and the air, a sound of cooing could be distinguished. The fir=
st butterflies
of the year were resting on the early roses. Everything in nature seemed
new--the grass, the mosses, the leaves, the perfumes, the rays of light. The
sun shone as if it had never shone before. The pebbles seemed bathed in
coolness. Birds but lately fledged sang out their deep notes from the trees=
, or
fluttered among the boughs in their attempts to use their new-found wings.
There was a chattering all together of goldfinches, pewits, tomtits,
woodpeckers, bullfinches, and thrushes. The blossoms of lilacs, May lilies,
daphnes, and melilots mingled their various hues in the thickets. A beautif=
ul
kind of water-weed peculiar to Guernsey covered the pools with an emerald
green; where the kingfishers and the water-wagtails, which make such gracef=
ul little
nests, came down to bathe their wings. Through every opening in the branches
appeared the deep blue sky. A few lazy clouds followed each other in the az=
ure
depths. The ear seemed to catch the sound of kisses sent from invisible lip=
s.
Every old wall had its tufts of wallflowers. The plum-trees and laburnums w=
ere
in blossom; their white and yellow masses gleamed through the interlacing
boughs. The spring showered all her gold and silver on the woods. The new
shoots and leaves were green and fresh. Calls of welcome were in the air; t=
he
approaching summer opened her hospitable doors for birds coming from afar. =
It
was the time of the arrival of the swallows. The clusters of furze-bushes
bordered the steep sides of hollow roads in anticipation of the clusters of=
the
hawthorn. The pretty and the beautiful reigned side by side; the magnificent
and the graceful, the great and the little, had each their place. No note in
the great concert of nature was lost. Green microscopic beauties took their
place in the vast universal plan in which all seemed distinguishable as in
limpid water. Everywhere a divine fulness, a mysterious sense of expansion,
suggested the unseen effort of the sap in movement. Guttering things glitte=
red
more than ever; loving natures became more tender. There was a hymn in the
flowers, and a radiance in the sounds of the air. The wide-diffused harmony=
of
nature burst forth on every side. All things which felt the dawn of life in=
vited
others to put forth shoots. A movement coming from below, and also from abo=
ve,
stirred vaguely all hearts susceptible to the scattered and subterranean
influence of germination. The flower shadowed forth the fruit; young maidens
dreamed of love. It was nature's universal bridal. It was fine, bright, and
warm; through the hedges in the meadows children were seen laughing and pla=
ying
at their games. The fruit-trees filled the orchards with their heaps of whi=
te
and pink blossom. In the fields were primroses, cowslips, milfoil, daffodil=
s,
daisies, speedwell, jacinths, and violets. Blue borage and yellow irises
swarmed with those beautiful little pink stars which flower always in group=
s,
and are hence called "companions." Creatures with golden scales
glided between the stones. The flowering houseleek covered the thatched roo=
fs
with purple patches. Women were plaiting hives in the open air; and the bee=
s were
abroad, mingling their humming with the murmurs from the sea. Nature, sensi=
tive
to the touch of spring, exhaled delight.
When Gilliatt arrived at St. Sampson, the water
had not yet risen at the further end of the harbour, and he was able to cro=
ss
it dry-footed unperceived behind the hulls of vessels fixed for repair. A
number of flat stones were placed there at regular distances to make a
causeway.
He was not observed. The crowd was at the other
end of the port, near the narrow entrance, by the Bravées. There his
name was in every mouth. They were, in fact, speaking about him so much that
none paid attention to him. He passed, sheltered in some degree by the very
commotion that he had caused.
He saw from afar the sloop in the place where =
he
had moored it, with the funnel standing between its four chains; observed a
movement of carpenters at their work, and confused outlines of figures pass=
ing
to and fro; and he could distinguish the loud and cheery voice of Mess Leth=
ierry
giving orders.
He threaded the narrow alleys behind the
Bravées. There was no one there beside him. All curiosity was
concentrated on the front of the house. He chose the footpath alongside the=
low
wall of the garden, but stopped at the angle where the wild mallow grew. He=
saw
once more the stone where he used to pass his time; saw once more the wooden
garden seat where Déruchette was accustomed to sit, and glanced agai=
n at
the pathway of the alley where he had seen the embrace of two shadows which=
had
vanished.
He soon went on his way, climbed the hill of V=
ale
Castle, descended again, and directed his steps towards the Bû de la =
Rue.
The Houmet-Paradis was a solitude.
His house was in the same state in which he had
left it in the morning, after dressing himself to go to St. Peter's Port.
A window was open, through which his bagpipe m=
ight
have been seen hanging to a nail upon the wall.
Upon the table was the little Bible given to h=
im
in token of gratitude by the stranger whom he now knew as Caudray.
The key was in the door. He approached; placed=
his
hand upon it; turned it twice in the lock, put the key in his pocket, and
departed.
He walked not in the direction of the town, but
towards the sea.
He traversed his garden diagonally, taking the
shortest way without regard to the beds, but taking care not to tread upon =
the
plants which he placed there, because he had heard that they were favourites
with Déruchette.
He crossed the parapet wall, and let himself d=
own
upon the rocks.
Going straight on, he began to follow the long
ridge of rocks which connected the Bû de la Rue with the great natural
obelisk of granite rising erect from the sea, which was known as the Beast's
Horn. This was the place of the Gild-Holm-'Ur seat.
He strode on from block to block like a giant
among mountains. To make long strides upon a row of breakers is like walking
upon the ridge of a roof.
A fisherwoman with dredge-nets, who had been
walking naked-footed among the pools of sea-water at some distance, and had
just regained the shore, called to him, "Take care; the tide is
coming." But he held on his way.
Having arrived at the great rock of the point,=
the
Horn, which rises like a pinnacle from the sea, he stopped. It was the
extremity of the promontory.
He looked around.
Out at sea a few sailing boats at anchor were
fishing. Now and then rivulets of silver glittered among them in the sun: it
was the water running from the nets. The Cashmere was not yet off St. Samps=
on.
She had set her main-topsail, and was between Herm and Jethou.
Gilliatt rounded the rock, and came under the
Gild-Holm-'Ur seat, at the foot of that kind of abrupt stairs where, less t=
han
three months before, he had assisted Caudray to come down. He ascended.
The greater number of the steps were already u=
nder
water. Two or three only were still dry, by which he climbed.
The steps led up to the Gild-Holm-'Ur seat. He
reached the niche, contemplated it for a moment, pressed his hand upon his
eyes, and let it glide gently from one eyelid to the other--a gesture by wh=
ich
he seemed to obliterate the memory of the past--then sat down in the hollow,
with the perpendicular wall behind him, and the ocean at his feet.
The Cashmere at that moment was passing the gr=
eat
round half-submerged tower, defended by one sergeant and a cannon, which ma=
rks
the half way in the roads between Herm and St. Peter's Port.
A few flowers stirred among the crevices in the
rock about Gilliatt's head. The sea was blue as far as eye could reach. The
wind came from the east; there was a little surf in the direction of the is=
land
of Sark, of which only the western side is visible from Guernsey. In the
distance appeared the coast of France like a mist, with the long yellow str=
ips
of sand about Carteret. Now and then a white butterfly fluttered by. The bu=
tterflies
frequently fly out to sea.
The breeze was very slight. The blue expanse, =
both
above and below, was tranquil. Not a ripple agitated those species of serpe=
nts,
of an azure more or less dark, which indicate on the surface of the sea the
lines of sunken rocks.
The Cashmere, little moved by the wind, had set
her topsail and studding-sails to catch the breeze. All her canvas was spre=
ad,
but the wind being a side one, her studding-sails only compelled her to hug=
the
Guernsey coast more closely. She had passed the beacon of St. Sampson, and =
was
off the hill of Vale Castle. The moment was approaching when she would doub=
le
the point of the Bû de la Rue.
Gilliatt watched her approach.
The air and sea were still. The tide rose not =
by
waves, but by an imperceptible swell. The level of the water crept upward
without a palpitation. The subdued murmur from the open sea was soft as the=
breathing
of a child.
In the direction of the harbour of St. Sampson,
faint echoes could be heard of carpenters' hammers. The carpenters were
probably the workmen constructing the tackle, gear, and apparatus for remov=
ing
the engine from the sloop. The sounds, however, scarcely reached Gilliatt by
reason of the mass of granite at his back.
The Cashmere approached with the slowness of a
phantom.
Gilliatt watched it still.
Suddenly a touch and a sensation of cold caused
him to look down. The sea had reached his feet.
He lowered his eyes, then raised them again.
The Cashmere was quite near.
The rock in which the rains had hollowed out t=
he
Gild-Holm-'Ur seat was so completely vertical, and there was so much water =
at
its base, that in calm weather vessels were able to pass without danger wit=
hin
a few cables' lengths.
The Cashmere was abreast of the rock. It rose
straight upwards as if it had grown out of the water; or like the lengtheni=
ng
out of a shadow. The rigging showed black against the heavens and in the ma=
gnificent
expanse of the sea. The long sails, passing for a moment over the sun, beca=
me
lighted up with a singular glory and transparence. The water murmured
indistinctly; but no other noise marked the majestic gliding of that outlin=
e.
The deck was as visible as if he had stood upon it.
The steersman was at the helm; a cabin-boy was
climbing the shrouds; a few passengers leaning on the bulwarks were
contemplating the beauty of the scene. The captain was smoking; but nothing=
of
all this was seen by Gilliatt.
There was a spot on the deck on which the broad
sunlight fell. It was on this corner that his eyes were fixed. In this sunl=
ight
were Déruchette and Caudray. They were sitting together side by side,
like two birds, warming themselves in the noonday sun, upon one of those
covered seats with a little awning which well-ordered packet-boats provided=
for
passengers, and upon which was the inscription, when it happened to be an
English vessel, "For ladies only." Déruchette's head was
leaning upon Caudray's shoulder; his arm was around her waist; they held ea=
ch
other's hands with their fingers interwoven. A celestial light was discerni=
ble in
those two faces formed by innocence. Their chaste embrace was expressive of
their earthly union and their purity of soul. The seat was a sort of alcove,
almost a nest; it was at the same time a glory round them; the tender aureo=
la
of love passing into a cloud.
The silence was like the calm of heaven.
Caudray's gaze was fixed in contemplation.
Déruchette's lips moved; and, amidst that perfect silence, as the wi=
nd
carried the vessel near shore, and it glided within a few fathoms of the
Gild-Holm-'Ur seat, Gilliatt heard the tender and musical voice of
Déruchette exclaiming:
"Look yonder. It seems as if there were a=
man
upon the rock."
The vessel passed.
Leaving the promontory of the Bû de la R=
ue
behind, the Cashmere glided on upon the waters. In less than a quarter of an
hour, her masts and sails formed only a white obelisk, gradually decreasing
against the horizon. Gilliatt felt that the water had reached his knees.
He contemplated the vessel speeding on her way=
.
The breeze freshened out at sea. He could see =
the
Cashmere run out her lower studding-sails and her staysails, to take advant=
age
of the rising wind. She was already clear of the waters of Guernsey. Gillia=
tt
followed the vessel with his eyes.
The waves had reached his waist.
The tide was rising: time was passing away.
The seamews and cormorants flew about him
restlessly, as if anxious to warn him of his danger. It seemed as if some of
his old companions of the Douvres rocks flying there had recognised him.
An hour had passed.
The wind from the sea was scarcely felt in the
roads; but the form of the Cashmere was rapidly growing less. The sloop,
according to all appearance, was sailing fast. It was already nearly off the
Casquets.
There was no foam around the Gild-Holm-'Ur; no
wave beat against its granite sides. The water rose peacefully. It was near=
ly
level with Gilliatt's shoulders.
Another hour had passed.
The Cashmere was beyond the waters of Aurigny.=
The
Ortach rock concealed it for a moment; it passed behind it, and came forth
again as from an eclipse. The sloop was veering to the north upon the open =
sea.
It was now only a point glittering in the sun.
The birds were hovering about Gilliatt, utteri=
ng
short cries. Only his head was now visible. The tide was nearly at the full.
Evening was approaching. Behind him, in the roads, a few fishing-boats were
making for the harbour.
Gilliatt's eyes continued fixed upon the vesse=
l in
the horizon. Their expression resembled nothing earthly. A strange lustre s=
hone
in their calm and tragic depths. There was in them the peace of vanished ho=
pes,
the calm but sorrowful acceptance of an end far different from his dreams. =
By
degrees the dusk of heaven began to darken in them, though gazing still upon
the point in space. At the same moment the wide waters round the Gild-Holm-=
'Ur
and the vast gathering twilight closed upon them.
The Cashmere, now scarcely perceptible, had be=
come
a mere spot in the thin haze.
Gradually, the spot, which was but a shape, gr=
ew
paler.
Then it dwindled, and finally disappeared.
At the moment when the vessel vanished on the =
line
of the horizon, the head of Gilliatt disappeared. Nothing was visible now b=
ut
the sea.