and with a fair wind from the sou’-west had skirted the coast, ridden lightly over the Banc des Violets, and shaped their course nor’-east. Guida kept the helm all the way, as she had been promised by Ranulph. It was still more than half tide when they approached the rocks, and with a fair wind there should be ease in landing.
No more desolate spot might be imagined. To the left, as you faced towards Jersey, was a long sand-bank. Between the rocks and the sand-bank shot up a tall, lonely shaft of granite with an evil history. It had been chosen as the last refuge of safety for the women and children of a shipwrecked vessel, in the belief that high tide would not reach them. But the wave rose up maliciously, foot by foot, till it drowned their cries for ever in the storm. The sand-bank was called “Ecriviere,” and the rock was afterwards known as the “Pierre des Femmes.”
Other rocks less prominent, but no less treacherous, flanked it—the Noir Sabloniere and the Grande Galere. To the right of the main island were a group of others, all reef and shingle, intersected by treacherous channels; in calm lapped by water with the colours of a prism of crystal, in storm by a leaden surf and flying foam. These were known as the Colombiere, the Grosse Tete, Tas de Pois, and the Marmotiers; each with its retinue of sunken reefs and needles of granitic gneiss lying low in menace. Happy the sailor caught in a storm and making for the shelter the little curves in the island afford, who escapes a twist of the current, a sweep of the tide, and the impaling fingers of the submarine palisades.
Beyond these rocks lay Maitre Ile, all gneiss and shingle, a desert in the sea. The holy men of the early Church, beholding it from the shore of Normandy, had marked it for a refuge from the storms of war and the follies of the world. So it came to pass, for the honour of God and the Virgin Mary, the Abbe of Val Richer builded a priory there: and there now lie in peace the bones of the monks of Val Richer beside the skeletons of unfortunate gentlemen of the sea of later centuries—pirates from France, buccaneers from England, and smugglers from Jersey, who kept their trysts in the precincts of the ancient chapel.
The brisk air of early autumn made the blood tingle in Guida’s cheeks. Her eyes were big with light and enjoyment. Her hair was caught close by a gay cap of her own knitting, but a little of it escaped, making a pretty setting to her face.
The boat rode under all her courses, until, as Jean said, they had put the last lace on her bonnet. Guida’s hands were on the tiller firmly, doing Jean’s bidding promptly. In all they were five. Besides Guida and Ranulph, Jean and Jean’s wife, there was a young English clergyman of the parish of St. Michael’s, who had come from England to fill the place of the rector for a few months. Word had been brought to him that a man was dying on the Ecrehos. He had heard that the boat was going, he had found Jean Touzel, and here he was with a biscuit in his hand and a black-jack of French wine within easy reach. Not always in secret the Reverend Lorenzo Dow loved the good things of this world.
The most notable characteristic of the young clergyman’s appearance was his outer guilelessness and the oddness of his face. His head was rather big for his body; he had a large mouth which laughed easily, a noble forehead, and big, short-sighted eyes. He knew French well, but could speak almost no Jersey patois, so, in compliment to him, Jean Touzel, Ranulph, and Guida spoke in English. This ability to speak English—his own English—was the pride of Jean’s life. He babbled it all the way, and chiefly about a mythical Uncle Elias, who was the text for many a sermon.
“Times past,” said he, as they neared Maitre Ile, “mon onc’ ‘Lias he knows these Ecrehoses better as all the peoples of the world—respe d’la compagnie. Mon onc’ ‘Lias he was a fine man. Once when there is a fight between de Henglish and de hopping Johnnies,” he pointed towards France, “dere is seven French ship, dere is two Henglish ship—gentlemen-of-war dey are call. Eh ben, one of de Henglish ships he is not a gentleman-of-war, he is what you call go-on-your-own-hook—privator. But it is all de same—tres-ba, all right! What you t’ink coum to pass? De big Henglish ship she is hit ver’ bad, she is all break-up. Efin, dat leetle privator he stan’ round on de fighting side of de gentleman-of-war and take de fire by her loneliness. Say, then, wherever dere is troub’ mon onc’ ‘Lias he is there, he stan’ outside de troub’ an’ look on—dat is his hobby. You call it hombog? Oh, nannin-gia! Suppose two peoples goes to fight, ah bah, somebody must pick up de pieces—dat is mon onc’ ‘Lias! He have his boat full of hoysters; so he sit dere all alone and watch dat great fight, an’ heat de hoyster an’ drink de cider vine.
“Ah, bah! mon onc’ ‘Lias he is standin’ hin de door dat day. Dat is what we say on Jersey—when a man have some ver’ great luck we say he stan’ hin de door. I t’ink it is from de Bible or from de helmanac—sacre moi, I not know. … If I talk too much you give me dat black-jack.”
They gave him the black-jack. After he had drunk and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, he went on:
“O my good-ma’m’selle, a leetle more to de wind. Ah, dat is right—trejous! … Dat fight it go like two bulls on a vergee—respe d’la compagnie. Mon onc’ ‘Lias he have been to Hengland, he have sing ‘God save our greshus King’; so he t’ink a leetle—Ef he go to de French, likely dey will hang him. Mon onc’ ‘Lias, he is what you call patreeteesm. He say, ‘Hengland, she is mine—trejous.’ Efin, he sail straight for de Henglish ships. Dat is de greates’ man, mon onc’ ‘Lias—respe d’la compagnie! he coum on de side which is not fighting. Ah bah, he tell dem dat he go to save de gentleman-of-war. He see a hofficier all bloodiness and he call hup: ‘Es-tu gentiment?’ he say. ‘Gentiment,’ say de hofficier; ‘han’ you?’ ‘Naicely, yank you!’ mon onc’ ‘Lias he say. ‘I will save you,’ say mon onc’ ‘Lias—‘I will save de ship of God save our greshus King.’ De hofficier wipe de tears out of his face. ‘De King will reward you, man alive,’ he say. Mon onc’ ‘Lias he touch his breast and speak out. ‘Mon hofficier, my reward is here—trejous. I will take you into de Ecrehoses.’ ‘Coum up and save de King’s ships,’ says de hofficier. ‘I will take no reward,’ say mon onc’ ‘Lias, ‘but, for a leetle pourboire, you will give me de privator—eh?’ ‘Milles sacres’—say de hofficier, ‘mines saeres—de privator!’ he say, ver’ surprise’. ‘Man doux d’la vie—I am damned!’ ‘You are damned trulee, if you do not get into de Ecrehoses,’ say mon onc’ ‘Lias—‘A bi’tot, good-bye!’ he say. De hofficier call down to him: ‘Is dere nosing else you will take?’ ‘Nannin, do not tempt me,’ say mon onc’ ‘Lias. ‘I am not a gourman’. I will take de privator—dat is my hobby.’ All de time de cannons grand—dey brow-brou! boum-boum!—what you call discomfortable. Time is de great t’ing, so de hofficier wipe de tears out of his face again. ‘Coum up,’ he say; ‘de privator is yours.’
“Away dey go. You see dat spot where we coum to land, Ma’m’selle Landresse—where de shingle look white, de leetle green grass above? Dat is where mon onc’ ‘Lias he bring in de King’s ship and de privator. Gatd’en’ale—it is a journee awful! He twist to de right, he shape to de left trough de teeth of de rocks—all safe—vera happee—to dis nice leetle bay of de Maitre Ile dey coum. De Frenchies dey grind dere teeth and spit de fire. But de Henglish laugh at demdey are safe. ‘Frien’ of my heart,’ say de hofficier to mon onc’ ‘Lias, ‘pilot of pilots,’ he say, ‘in de name of our greshus King I t’ank you—A bi’tot, good-bye!’ he say. ‘Tres-ba,’ mon onc’ ‘Lias he say den, ‘I will go to my privator.’ ‘You will go to de shore,’ say de hofficier. ‘You will wait on de shore till de captain and his men of de privator coum to you. When dey coum, de ship is yours—de privator is for you.’ Mon onc’ ‘Lias he is like a child—he believe. He ‘bout ship and go shore. Misery me, he sit on dat rocking-stone you see tipping on de wind. But if he wait until de men of de privator coum to him, he will wait till we see him sitting there now. Gache-a-penn, you say patriote? Mon onc’ ‘Lias he has de patreeteesm, and what happen? He save de ship of de greshus King God save—and dey eat up his hoysters! He get nosing. Gad’rabotin—respe d’la compagnie—if
