there came a long moaning sound from the tide, not loud but rather mysterious and distant—a plaint, a threatening, a warning, a prelude?
A dull labourer, returning from late toil, felt it, and raised his head in a perturbed way, as though some one had brought him news of a far-off disaster. A midwife, hurrying to a lowly birth-chamber, shivered and gathered her mantle more closely about her. She looked up at the sky, she looked out over the sea, then she bent her head and said to herself that this would not be a good night, that ill-luck was in the air. “The mother or the child will die,” she said to herself. A ‘longshoreman, reeling home from deep potations, was conscious of it, and, turning round to the sea, snarled at it and said yah! in swaggering defiance. A young lad, wandering along the deserted street, heard it, began to tremble, and sat down on a block of stone beside the doorway of a baker’s shop. He dropped his head on his arms and his chin on his knees, shutting out the sound and sobbing quietly.
Yesterday his mother had been buried; to-night his father’s door had been closed in his face. He scarcely knew whether his being locked out was an accident or whether it was intended. He thought of the time when his father had ill-treated his mother and himself. That, however, had stopped at last, for the woman had threatened the Royal Court, and the man, having no wish to face its summary convictions, thereafter conducted himself towards them both with a morose indifference.
The boy was called Ranulph, a name which had passed to him through several generations of Jersey forebears—Ranulph Delagarde. He was being taught the trade of ship-building in St. Aubin’s Bay. He was not beyond fourteen years of age, though he looked more, so tall and straight and self-possessed was he.
His tears having ceased soon, he began to think of what he was to do in the future. He would never go back to his father’s house, or be dependent on him for aught. Many plans came to his mind. He would learn his trade of ship-building, he would become a master-builder, then a shipowner, with fishing-vessels like the great company sending fleets to Gaspe.
At the moment when these ambitious plans had reached the highest point of imagination, the upper half of the door beside him opened suddenly, and he heard men’s voices. He was about to rise and disappear, but the words of the men arrested him, and he cowered down beside the stone. One of the men was leaning on the half-door, speaking in French.
“I tell you it can’t go wrong. The pilot knows every crack in the coast. I left Granville at three; Rulle cour left Chaussey at nine. If he lands safe, and the English troops ain’t roused, he’ll take the town and hold the island easy enough.”
“But the pilot, is he certain safe?” asked another voice. Ranulph recognised it as that of the baker Carcaud, who owned the shop. “Olivier Delagarde isn’t so sure of him.”
Olivier Delagarde! The lad started. That was his father’s name. He shrank as from a blow—his father was betraying Jersey to the French!
“Of course, the pilot, he’s all right,” the Frenchman answered the baker. “He was to have been hung here for murder. He got away, and now he’s having his turn by fetching Rullecour’s wolves to eat up your green-bellies. By to-morrow at seven Jersey ‘ll belong to King Louis.”
“I’ve done my promise,” rejoined Carcaud the baker; “I’ve been to three of the guard-houses on St. Clement’s and Grouville. In two the men are drunk as donkeys; in another they sleep like squids. Rullecour he can march straight to the town and seize it—if he land safe. But will he stand by ‘s word to we? You know the saying: ‘Cadet Roussel has two sons; one’s a thief, t’other’s a rogue.’ There’s two Rullecours—Rullecour before the catch and Rullecour after!”
“He’ll be honest to us, man, or he’ll be dead inside a week, that’s all.”
“I’m to be Connetable of St. Heliers, and you’re to be harbour-master—eh?”
“Naught else: you don’t catch flies with vinegar. Give us your hand—why, man, it’s doggish cold.”
“Cold hand, healthy heart. How many men will Rullecour bring?”
“Two thousand; mostly conscripts and devil’s beauties from Granville and St. Malo gaols.”
“Any signals yet?”
“Two—from Chaussey at five o’clock. Rullecour ‘ll try to land at Gorey. Come, let’s be off. Delagarde’s there now.”
The boy stiffened with horror—his father was a traitor! The thought pierced his brain like a hot iron. He must prevent this crime, and warn the Governor. He prepared to steal away. Fortunately the back of the man’s head was towards him.
Carcaud laughed a low, malicious laugh as he replied to the Frenchman.
“Trust the quiet Delagarde! There’s nothing worse nor still waters. He’ll do his trick, and he’ll have his share if the rest suck their thumbs. He doesn’t wait for roasted larks to drop into his mouth—what’s that!” It was Ranulph stealing away.
In an instant the two men were on him, and a hand was clapped to his mouth. In another minute he was bound, thrown onto the stone floor of the bakehouse, his head striking, and he lost consciousness.
When he came to himself, there was absolute silence round him-deathly, oppressive silence. At first he was dazed, but at length all that had happened came back to him.
Where was he now? His feet were free; he began to move them about. He remembered that he had been flung on the stone floor of the bakeroom. This place sounded hollow underneath—it certainly was not the bakeroom. He rolled over and over. Presently he touched a wall—it was stone. He drew himself up to a sitting posture, but his head struck a curved stone ceiling. Then he swung round and moved his foot along the wall—it touched iron. He felt farther with his foot-something clicked. Now he understood; he was in the oven of the bakehouse, with his hands bound. He began to think of means of escape. The iron door had no inside latch. There was a small damper covering a barred hole, through which perhaps he might be able to get a hand, if only it were free. He turned round so that his fingers might feel the grated opening. The edge of the little bars was sharp. He placed the strap binding his wrists against these sharp edges, and drew his arms up and down, a difficult and painful business. The iron cut his hands and wrists at first, so awkward was the movement. But, steeling himself, he kept on steadily.
At last the straps fell apart, and his hands were free. With difficulty he thrust one through the bars. His fingers could just lift the latch. Now the door creaked on its hinges, and in a moment he was out on the stone flags of the bakeroom. Hurrying through an unlocked passage into the shop, he felt his way to the street door, but it was securely fastened. The windows? He tried them both, one on either side, but while he could free the stout wooden shutters on the inside, a heavy iron bar secured them without, and it was impossible to open them.
Feverish with anxiety, he sat down on the low counter, with his hands between his knees, and tried to think what to do. In the numb hopelessness of the moment he became very quiet. His mind was confused, but his senses were alert; he was in a kind of dream, yet he was acutely conscious of the smell of new-made bread. It pervaded the air of the place; it somehow crept into his brain and his being, so that, as long as he might live, the smell of new-made bread would fetch back upon him the nervous shiver and numbness of this hour of danger.
As he waited, he heard a noise outside, a clac-clac! clac-clac! which seemed to be echoed back from the wood and stone of the houses in the street, and then to be lifted up and carried away over the roofs and out to sea—clac-clac!
