The Battle Of The Strong, Complete - Gilbert Parker
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Now and again other birds, dark, quick-winged, low-flying, shot in among
the white companies of sea-gulls, stretching their long necks, and
turning their swift, cowardly eyes here and there, the cruel beak
extended, the body gorged with carrion. Black marauders among blithe
birds of peace and joy, they watched like sable spirits near the nests,
or on some near sea rocks, sombre and alone, blinked evilly at the tall
bright cliffs and the lightsome legions nestling there.
These swart loiterers by the happy nests of the young were like spirits
of fate who might not destroy, who had no power to harm the living, yet
who could not be driven forth: the ever-present death-heads at the feast,
the impressive acolytes by the altars of destiny.
As the Hardi Biaou drew near the lofty, inviolate cliffs, there opened up
sombre clefts and caverns, honeycombing the island at all points of the
compass. She slipped past rugged pinnacles, like buttresses to the
island, here trailed with vines, valanced with shrubs of unnameable
beauty, and yonder shrivelled and bare like the skin of an elephant.
Some rocks, indeed, were like vast animals round which molten granite had
been poured, preserving them eternally. The heads of great dogs, like the
dogs of Ossian, sprang out in profile from the repulsing mainland;
stupendous gargoyles grinned at them from dark points of excoriated
cliff. Farther off, the face of a battered sphinx stared with unheeding
look into the vast sea and sky beyond. From the dark depths of mystic
crypts came groanings, like the roaring of lions penned beside the caves
of martyrs.
Jean had startled Guida with his suggestions of war between England and
France. Though she longed to have Philip win glory in some great battle,
yet her first natural thought was of danger to the man she loved--and the
chance too of his not coming back to her from Portsmouth. But now as she
looked at this scene before her, there came again to her face the old
charm of blitheness. The tides of temperament in her were fast to flow
and quick to ebb. The reaction from pain was in proportion to her
splendid natural health.
Her lips smiled. For what can long depress the youthful and the loving
when they dream that they are entirely beloved? Lands and thrones may
perish, plague and devastation walk abroad with death, misery and beggary
crawl naked to the doorway, and crime cower in the hedges; but to the
egregious egotism of young love there are only two identities bulking in
the crowded universe. To these immensities all other beings are audacious
who dream of being even comfortable and obscure--happiness would be a
presumption; as though Fate intended each living human being at some one
moment to have the whole world to himself. And who shall cry out against
that egotism with which all are diseased?
So busy was Guida with her own thoughts that she scarcely noticed they
had changed their course, and were skirting the coast westerly, whereby
to reach Havre Gosselin on the other side of the island. There on the
shore above lay the seigneurie, the destination of the Hardi Biaou.
As they passed the western point of the island, and made their course
easterly by a channel between rocky bulwarks opening Havre Gosselin, they
suddenly saw a brig rounding the Eperquerie. She was making to the
south-east under full sail. Her main and mizzen masts were not visible,
and her colours could not be seen, but Jean's quick eye had lighted on
something which made him cast apprehensive glances at his wife and Guida.
There was a gun in the stern port-hole of the vanishing brig; and he also
noted that it was run out for action.
His swift glance at his wife and Guida assured him that they had not
noticed the gun.
Jean's brain began working with unusual celerity. He was certain that the
brig was a French sloop or a privateer. In other circumstances, that in
itself might not have given him much trouble of mind, for more than once
French frigates had sailed round the Channel Isles in insulting strength
and mockery; but at this moment every man knew that France and England
were only waiting to see who should throw the ball first and set the red
game going. Twenty French frigates could do little harm to the island of
Sark; a hundred men could keep off an army and navy there; but Jean knew
that the Admiralty yacht Dorset was sailing at this moment within half a
league of the Eperquerie. He would stake his life that the brig was
French and hostile and knew it also. At all costs he must follow and
learn the fate of the yacht.
If he landed at Havre Gosselin and crossed the island on foot, whatever
was to happen would be over and done, and that did not suit the book of
Jean Touzel. More than once he had seen a little fighting, and more than
once shared in it. If there was to be a fight--he looked affectionately
at his carronades--then he wanted to be within seeing or striking
distance.
Instead of running into Havre Gosselin, he set for the Bec du Nez, the
eastern point of the island. His object was to land upon the rocks of the
Eperquerie, where the women would be safe whatever befell. The tide was
running strong round the point, and the surf was heavy, so that once or
twice the boat was almost overturned; but Jean had measured well the
currents and the wind.
This was one of the most exciting moments in his life, for, as they
rounded the Bec du Nez, there was the Dorset going about to make for
Guernsey, and the brig, under full sail, bearing down upon her. Even as
they rounded the point, up ran the tricolour to the brig's mizzen-mast,
and the militant shouts of the French sailors came over the water.
Too late had the little yacht with her handful of guns seen the danger
and gone about. The wind was fair for her; but it was as fair for the
brig, able to outsail her twice over. As the Hardi Biaou neared the
landing-place of the Eperquerie, a gun was fired from the privateer
across the bows of the Dorset, and Guida realised what was happening.
As they landed another shot was fired, then came a broadside. Guida put
her hands before her eyes, and when she looked again the main-mast of the
yacht was gone. And now from the heights of Sark above there rang out a
cry from the lips of the affrighted islanders: "War--war--war--war!"
Guida sank down upon the rock, and her face dropped into her hands. She
trembled violently. Somehow all at once, and for the first time in her
life, there was borne in upon her a feeling of awful desolation and
loneliness. She was alone--she was alone--she was alone that was the
refrain of her thoughts.
The cry of war rang along the cliff tops; and war would take Philip from
her. Perhaps she would never see him again. The horror of it, the pity of
it, the peril of it.
Shot after shot the twelve-pounders of the Frenchman drove like dun hail
at the white timbers of the yacht, and her masts and spars were flying.
The privateer now came drawing down to where she lay lurching.
A hand touched Guida upon the shoulder. "Cheer thee, my dee-ar," said
Maitresse Aimable's voice. Below, Jean Touzel had eyes only for this
sea-fight before him, for, despite the enormous difference, the
Englishmen were now fighting their little craft for all that she was
capable. But the odds were terribly against her, though she had the
windward side, and the firing of the privateer was bad. The carronades on
her flush decks were replying valiantly to the twelve-pounders of the
brig. At last a chance shot carried away her mizzenmast, and another
dismounted her single great gun, killing a number of men. The carronades,
good for only a few discharges, soon left her to the fury of her
assailant, and presently the Dorset was no better than a battered
raisin-box. Her commander had destroyed his despatches, and nothing
remained now but to be sunk or surrender.
In not more than twenty minutes from the time the first shot was fired,
the commander and his brave little crew yielded to the foe, and the
Dorset's flag was hauled down.
When her officers and men were transferred to the Frenchman, her one
passenger and guest, the Rev. Lorenzo Dow, passed calmly from the gallant
little wreck to the deck of the privateer, with a finger between the
leaves of his book of meditations. With as much equanimity as he would
have breakfasted with a bishop, made breaches of the rubric, or drunk
from a sailor's black-jack, he went calmly into captivity in France,
giving no thought to what he left behind; quite heedless that his going
would affect for good or ill the destiny of the young wife of Philip
d'Avranche.
Guida watched the yacht go down, and the brig bear away towards France
where those black wasps of war were as motes against the white sands.
Then she remembered that there had gone with it one of the three people
in the world who knew her secret, the man who had married her to Philip.
She shivered a little, she scarcely knew why, for it did not then seem of
consequence to her whether Mr. Dow went or stayed, though he had never
given her the marriage certificate. Indeed, was it not better he should
go? Thereby one less would know her secret. But still an undefined fear
possessed her.
"Cheer thee, cheer thee, my dee-ar, my sweet dormitte," said Maitresse
Aimable, patting her shoulder. "It cannot harm thee, ba su! 'Tis but a
flash in the pan."
Guida's first impulse was to throw herself into the arms of the
slow-tongued, great-hearted woman who hung above her like a cloud of
mercy, and tell her whole story. But no, she would keep her word to
Philip, till Philip came again. Her love--the love of the young, lonely
wife, must be buried deep in her own heart until he appeared and gave her
the right to speak.
Jean was calling to them. They rose to go. Guida looked about her. Was it
all a dream-all that had happened to her, and around her? The world was
sweet to look upon, and yet was it true that here before her eyes there
had been war, and that out of war peril must come to her.
A week ago she was free as air, happy as healthy body, truthful mind,
simple nature, and tender love can make a human being. She was then only
a young, young girl. To-day-she sighed.
Long after they put out to sea again she could still hear the affrighted
cry of the peasants from the cliff-or was it only the plaintive echo of
her own thoughts?
"War--war--war--war!"
IN FRANCE--NEAR FIVE MONTHS AFTER
CHAPTER XIX
"A moment, monsieur le duc."
The Duke turned at the door, and looked with listless inquiry into the
face of the Minister of Marine, who, picking up an official paper from
his table, ran an eye down it, marked a point with the sharp corner of
his snuff-box, and handed it over to his visitor, saying:
"Our roster of English prisoners taken in the action off Brest."
The Duke, puzzled, lifted his glass and scanned the roll mechanically.
"No, no, Duke, just where I have marked," interposed the Minister.
"My dear Monsieur Dalbarade," remarked the Duke a little querulously, "I
do not see what interest--"
He stopped short, however, looked closer at the document, and then
lowering it in a sort of amazement, seemed about to speak; but, instead,
raised the paper again and fixed his eyes intently on the spot indicated
by the Minister.
"Most curious," he said after a moment, making little nods of his head
towards Dalbarade; "my own name--and an English prisoner, you say?"
"Precisely so; and he gave our fellows some hard knocks before his
frigate went on the reefs."
"Strange that the name should be my own. I never heard of an English
branch of our family."
A quizzical smile passed over the face of the Minister, adding to his
visitor's mystification. "But suppose he were English, yet French too?"
he rejoined.
"I fail to understand the entanglement," answered the Duke stiffly.
"He is an Englishman whose name and native language are French--he speaks
as good French as your own."
The Duke peevishly tapped a chair with his stick. "I am no reader of
riddles, monsieur," he said acidly, although eager to know more
concerning this Englishman of the same name as himself, ruler of the
sovereign duchy of Bercy.
"Shall I bid him enter, Prince?" asked the Minister. The Duke's face
relaxed a little, for the truth was, at this moment of his long life he
was deeply concerned with his own name and all who bore it.
"Is he here then?" he asked, nodding assent.
"In the next room," answered the Minister, turning to a bell and ringing.
"I have him here for examination, and was but beginning when I was
honoured by your Highness's presence." He bowed politely, yet there was,
too, a little mockery in the bow, which did not escape the Duke. These
were days when princes received but little respect in France.
A subaltern entered, received an order, and disappeared. The Duke
withdrew to the embrasure of a window, and immediately the prisoner was
gruffly announced.
The young Englishman stood quietly waiting, his quick eyes going from
Dalbarade to the wizened figure by the window, and back again to the
Minister. His look carried both calmness and defiance, but the defiance
came only from a sense of injury and unmerited disgrace.
"Monsieur," said the Minister with austerity, "in your further
examination we shall need to repeat some questions."
The prisoner nodded indifferently, and for a brief space there was
silence. The Duke stood by the window, the Minister by his table, the
prisoner near the door. Suddenly the prisoner, with an abrupt motion of
the hand towards two chairs, said with an assumption of ordinary
politeness:
"Will you not be seated?"
The remark was so odd in its coolness and effrontery, that the Duke
chuckled audibly. The Minister was completely taken aback. He glanced
stupidly at the two chairs--the only ones in the room--and at the
prisoner. Then the insolence of the thing began to work upon him, and he
was about to burst forth, when the Duke came forward, and politely moving
a chair near to the young commander, said:
"My distinguished compliments, monsieur le capitaine. I pray you accept
this chair."
With quiet self-possession and a matter-of-course air the prisoner bowed
politely, and seated himself, then with a motion of the hand backward
towards the door, said to the Duke: "I've been standing five hours with
some of those moutons in the ante-room. My profound thanks to
monseigneur."
Touching the angry Minister on the arm, the Duke said quietly:
"Dear monsieur, will you permit me a few questions to the prisoner?"
At that instant there came a tap at the door, and an orderly entered with
a letter to the Minister, who glanced at it hurriedly, then turned to the
prisoner and the Duke, as though in doubt what to do.
"I will be responsible for the prisoner, if you must leave us," said the
Duke at once.
"For a little, for a little--a matter of moment with the Minister of
War," answered Dalbarade, nodding, and with an air of abstraction left
the room.
The Duke withdrew to the window again, and seated himself in the
embrasure, at some little distance from the Englishman, who at once got
up and brought his chair closer. The warm sunlight of spring, streaming
through the window, was now upon his pale face, and strengthened it,
giving it fulness and the eye fire.
"How long have you been a prisoner, monsieur?" asked the Duke, at the
same time acknowledging the other's politeness with a bow.
"Since March, monseigneur."
"Monseigneur again--a man of judgment," said the Duke to himself, pleased
to have his exalted station recognised. "H'm, and it is now June--four
months, monsieur. You have been well used, monsieur?"
"Vilely, monseigneur," answered the other; "a shipwrecked enemy should
never be made prisoner, or at least he should be enlarged on parole; but
I have been confined like a pirate in a sink of a jail."
"Of what country are you?"
Raising his eyebrows in amazement the young man answered:
"I am an Englishman, monseigneur."
"Monsieur is of England, then?"
"Monseigneur, I am an English officer."
"You speak French well, monsieur."
"Which serves me well in France, as you see, monseigneur."
The Duke was a trifle nettled. "Where were you born, monsieur?"
There was a short pause, and then the prisoner, who had enjoyed the
other's perplexity, said:
"On the Isle of Jersey, monseigneur."
The petulant look passed immediately from the face of the Duke; the
horizon was clear at once.
"Ah, then, you are French, monsieur!"
"My flag is the English flag; I was born a British subject, and I shall
die one," answered the other steadily.
"The sentiment sounds estimable," answered the Duke; "but as for life and
death, and what we are or what we may be, we are the sport of Fate." His
brow clouded. "I myself was born under a monarchy; I shall probably die
under a Republic. I was born a Frenchman; I may die--"
His tone had become low and cynical, and he broke off suddenly, as though
he had said more than he meant. "Then you are a Norman, monsieur," he
added in a louder tone.
"Once all Jerseymen were Normans, and so were many Englishmen,
monseigneur."
"I come of Norman stock too, monsieur," remarked the Duke graciously, yet
eyeing the young man keenly.
"Monseigneur has not the kindred advantage of being English?" added the
prisoner dryly.
The Duke protested with a deprecatory wave of the fingers and a flash of
the sharp eyes, and then, after a slight pause, said: "What is your name,
monsieur?"
"Philip d'Avranche," was the brief reply; then with droll impudence: "And
monseigneur's, by monseigneur's leave?"
The Duke smiled, and that smile relieved the sourness, the fret of a face
which had care and discontent written upon every line of it. It was a
face that had never known happiness. It had known diversion, however, and
unusual diversion it knew at this moment.
"My name," he answered with a penetrating quizzical look, "--my name is
Philip d'Avranche."
The young man's quick, watchful eyes fixed themselves like needles on the
Duke's face. Through his brain there ran a succession of queries and
speculations, and dominating them all one clear question-was he to gain
anything by this strange conversation? Who was this great man with a name
the same as his own, this crabbed nobleman with skin as yellow as an
orange, and body like an orange squeezed dry? He surely meant him no
harm, however, for flashes of kindliness had lighted the shrivelled face
as he talked. His look was bent in piercing comment upon Philip, who,
trying hard to solve the mystery, now made a tentative rejoinder to his
strange statement. Rising from his chair and bowing, he said, with shrewd
foreknowledge of the effect of his words:
"I had not before thought my own name of such consequence."
The old man grunted amiably. "My faith, the very name begets a towering
conceit wherever it goes," he answered, and he brought his stick down on
the floor with such vehemence that the emerald and ruby rings rattled on
his shrunken fingers.
"Be seated--cousin," he said with dry compliment, for Philip had remained
standing, as if with the unfeigned respect of a cadet in the august
presence of the head of his house. It was a sudden and bold suggestion,
and it was not lost on the Duke. The aged nobleman was too keen an
observer not to see the designed flattery, but he was in a mood when
flattery was palatable, seeing that many of his own class were arrayed
against him for not having joined the army of the Vendee; and that the
Revolutionists, with whom he had compromised, for the safety of his lands
of d'Avranche and his duchy of Bercy, regarded him with suspicion.
Between the two, the old man--at heart most profoundly a Royalist--bided
his time, in some peril but with no fear. The spirit of this young
Englishman of his own name pleased him; the flattery, patent as it was,
gratified him, for in revolutionary France few treated him with deference
now. Even the Minister of Marine, with whom he was on good terms, called
him "citizen" at times.
All at once it flashed on the younger man that this must be the Prince
d'Avranche, Duc de Bercy, of that family of d'Avranche from which his own
came in long descent--even from the days of Rollo, Duke of Normandy. He
recalled on the instant the token of fealty of the ancient House of
d'Avranche--the offering of a sword.
"Your Serene Highness," he said with great deference and as great tact,
"I must first offer my homage to the Prince d'Avranche, Duc de Bercy--"
Then with a sudden pause, and a whimsical look, he added: "But, indeed, I
had forgotten, they have taken away my sword!"
"We shall see," answered the Prince, well pleased, "we shall see about
that sword. Be seated." Then, after a short pause: "Tell me now,
monsieur, of your family, of your ancestry."
His eyes were bent on Philip with great intentness, and his thin lips
tightened in some unaccountable agitation.
Philip instantly responded. He explained how in the early part of the
thirteenth century, after the great crusade against the Albigenses, a
cadet of the house of d'Avranche had emigrated to England, and had come
to place and honour under Henry III, who gave to the son of this
d'Avranche certain tracts of land in Jersey, where he settled. Philip was
descended in a direct line from this same receiver of king's favours, and
was now the only representative of his family.
While Philip spoke the Duke never took eyes from his face--that face so
facile in the display of feeling or emotion. The voice also had a lilt of
health and vitality which rang on the ears of age pleasantly. As he
listened he thought of his eldest son, partly imbecile, all but a lusus
naturae, separated from his wife immediately after marriage, through whom
there could never be succession--he thought of him, and for the millionth
time in his life winced in impotent disdain. He thought too of his
beloved second son, lying in a soldier's grave in Macedonia; of the
buoyant resonance of that by-gone voice, of the soldierly good spirits
like to the good spirits of the prisoner before him, and "his heart
yearned towards the young man exceedingly." If that second son had but
lived there would be now no compromising with this Republican Government
of France; he would be fighting for the white flag with the golden lilies
over in the Vendee.
"Your ancestors were mine, then," remarked the Duke gravely, after a
pause, "though I had not heard of that emigration to England.
However--however! Come, tell me of the engagement in which you lost your
ship," he added hurriedly in a low tone. He was now so intent that he did
not stir in his seat, but sat rigidly still, regarding Philip kindly.
Something in the last few moments' experience had loosened the puckered
skin, softened the crabbed look in the face, and Philip had no longer
doubt of his friendly intentions.
"I had the frigate Araminta, twenty-four guns, a fortnight out from
Portsmouth," responded Philip at once. "We fell in with a French frigate,
thirty guns. She was well to leeward of us, and the Araminta bore up
under all sail, keen for action. The Frenchman was as ready as ourselves
for a brush, and tried to get the weather of us, but, failing, she
shortened sail and gallantly waited for us. The Araminta overhauled her
on the weather quarter, and hailed. She responded with cheers and
defiance--as sturdy a foe as man could wish. We lost no time in getting
to work, and, both running before the wind, we fired broadsides as we
cracked on. It was tit-for-tat for a while with splinters flying and
neither of us in the eye of advantage, but at last the Araminta shot away
the main-mast and wheel of the Niobe, and she wallowed like a tub in the
trough of the sea. We bore down on her, and our carronades raked her like
a comb. Then we fell thwart her hawse, and tore her up through her
bowline-ports with a couple of thirty-two-pounders. But before we could
board her she veered, lurched, and fell upon us, carrying away our
foremast. We cut clear of the tangle, and were making once more to board
her, when I saw to windward two French frigates bearing down on us under
full sail. And then--"
The Prince exclaimed in surprise: "I had not heard of this," he said.
"They did not tell the world of those odds against you."
"Odds and to spare, monsieur le due! We had had all we could manage in
the Niobe, though she was now disabled, and we could hurt her no more. If
the others came up on our weather we should be chewed like a bone in a
mastiff's jaws. If she must fight again, the Araminta would be little fit
for action till we cleared away the wreckage; so I sheered off to make
all sail. We ran under courses with what canvas we had, and got away with
a fair breeze and a good squall whitening to windward, while our decks
were cleared for action again. The guns on the main-deck had done good
service and kept their places. On the quarter-deck and fo'castle there
was more amiss, but as I watched the frigates overhauling us I took heart
of grace still. There was the creaking and screaming of the
carronade-slides, the rattling of the carriages of the long
twelve-pounders amidships as they were shotted and run out again, the
thud of the carpenters' hammers as the shot-holes were plugged--good
sounds in the ears of a fighter--"