The Lady of the Mount

by Frederic Stewart Isham

  CHAPTER XII

  AT THE COCKLES

  A rugged mass of granite, rent by giant fissures, and surrounded byrocks and whirlpools, the Norman English isle, so-called "Key to theChannel," one hundred miles, or more, northwest of the Mount, had fromtime immemorial offered haven to ships out of the pale of French ports.Not only a haven, but a home, or that next-best accommodation, anexcellent inn. Perched in the hollow of the mighty cliff and reachedby a flight of somewhat perilous stone stairs, the Cockles, for so theancient tavern was called, set squarely toward the sea, and opened wideits shell, as it were, to all waifs or stormy petrels blown in from thefoamy deep.

  Good men, bad men; Republicans, royalists; French-English,English-French, the landlord--old Pierre Laroche, retired sea-captainand owner of a number of craft employed in a dangerous, but profitable,occupation--received them willingly, and in his solicitude for theircreature comforts and the subsequent reckoning, cared not a jot fortheir politics, morals, or social views. It was enough if the visitorhad no lenten capacity; looked the fleshpots in the face and drank ofhis bottle freely.

  The past few days the character of old Pierre's guests had left someroom for complaint on that score. But a small number of the crew ofthe swift-looking vessel, well-known to the islanders, and now tossingin the sea-nook below, had, shortly after their arrival toward dusk ofa stormy day, repaired to the inn, and then they had not called fortheir brandy or wine in the smart manner of seamen prepared forunstinted sacrifice to Bacchus. On the contrary, they drank quietly,talked soberly, and soon prepared to leave.

  "Something has surely gone wrong," thought their host. "Why did notyour captain come ashore?" he asked. "Not see his old friend, PierreLaroche, at once! It is most unlike him."

  And on the morrow, the islanders, or English-French, more or lessprivateersmen themselves, were equally curious. Where had the shipcome from? Where was it going? And how many tons of wine, bales ofsilk and packages of tobacco, or "ptum," as the weed was called, had itcaptured? Old Pierre would soon find out, for early that day, despitethe inclemency of the weather, he came down to the beach, and, followedby a servitor, got into a small boat moored close to the shore.

  "He is going aboard!"

  "Who has a better right? His own vessel!"

  "No; Andre Desaurac--the Black Seigneur's! They say he long ago paidfor it from prizes wrested from the Governor of the Mount."

  "At any rate, old Pierre entered into a bargain to build the boat forhim--"

  "And added to his wealth by the transaction."

  Later that morning the old man came ashore, but, according to habit,preserved a shrewd silence; in the afternoon a small number of the crewlanded to take on stores and ammunition--of which there was ever aplentiful supply at this base; that night, however, all, includingtheir master, betook themselves to the Cockles.

  "Glad to see you ashore, _mon capitaine_!" Pierre Laroche, standing atthe door, just beyond reach of the fierce driving rain, welcomed theBlack Seigneur warmly; but the young man, one of whose arms seemedbound and useless, cut short his greetings; tossed bruskly aside hisdark heavy cloak, and called for a room where he might sit in privatewith a companion. This person the landlord eyed askance; nevertheless,with a show of bluff heartiness, he led the way to a small chamber,somewhat apart, but overlooking the long low apartment, the generaleating and drinking place of the establishment, now filled by the crewand a number of the islanders.

  "Your _capitaine_ has been hurt? How?" A strapping, handsome girl,clad in red and of assured mien, passing across the room, paused toaddress a man of prodigious girth, who drank with much gusto from ahuge vessel at his elbow.

  "Did not your father, Pierre Laroche, tell you?"

  "He? No; all he thinks of is the money."

  "Then must _le capitaine_ speak for himself, Mistress Nanette."

  "You are not very polite, Monsieur Gabarie," she returned, tossing herhead; "but I suppose there is a reason; you have been beaten. In anencounter with the Governor's ships? Did you sink any of them? Itwould be good news for us islanders."

  "_You_ islanders!" derisively.

  "Yes, islanders!" she answered defiantly. "But tell me; a number ofyou wear patches, which make you look very ugly. They wereacquired--how?"

  "In a little clerical argument!" growled the poet.

  She glanced toward the secluded apartment; its occupants--the subjectof their conversation, and a priest, a feeble-looking man of aboutseventy, whose delicate, sad face shone white and out-of-keeping inthat adventuresome company. "At any rate, the Black Seigneur hasn'tlost his good looks!"

  "Take care _you_ don't lose your heart!"

  "Bah!" Her strong bold eyes swept back. "Much good it would do me!"

  "And for that reason--"

  "Messieurs!" the landlord's voice broke in upon them; "behold!" itseemed to say, as pushing through the company, he preceded a lanky ladwho bore by their legs many plucked fowls and birds--woodcock, wildduck, cliff pigeons--and made his way to the great open fireplace atone end of the room. There, bending over the glowing embers, thelandlord deliberately stirred and spread them; then, reaching for a barof steel, he selected a poulet from the hand of the lanky attendant andprepared to adjust it; but before doing so, prodded it with his finger,surveyed it critically, and held it up for admiring attention.

  "Who says old Pierre Laroche doesn't know how to care for his friends?What think you of it, my masters?"

  "Plump as the King's confessor," muttered the poet.

  "Or your King himself!" said one of the islanders.

  "On with the King! Skewer the King!" exclaimed a fierce voice.

  "And then we'll eat him!" laughed the girl, showing her white teeth.

  "Thoughtless children!" From his place at the table in the small roomadjoining, the priest, attracted by the grim merriment of theislanders, looked down to regard them; the red fire; the red gown.

  "Here, at least, will you find a safe asylum, Father," said hiscompanion, the Black Seigneur, in an absent tone; "a little rough,perhaps, to suit your calling--"

  "The rougher, the more suitable--as I've often had occasion to learnsince leaving Verranch."

  "Since being driven from it, you mean!" shortly.

  "Ah, those revolutionary documents--placed in my garden!"

  "To make you appear--you, Father!--a sanguinary character!" But theother's laugh rang false.

  "Alas, such wickedness! But I was too content; the rose-coveredcottage too comfortable; its garden, an Eden! It was more meet Ishould be driven forth; go out into the highways, where I found--suchmisery! I reproached myself I had not sought it sooner--voluntarily.From north to south peasants dying, women and children starving, no oneto administer the last rites--on every side, work, work for the outcastpriest! For ten years it has occupied him--a blessed privilege--"

  "And then," the young man, who had seemed absorbed in other thoughts,hardly listening, looked mechanically up, "you came back?"

  "A weakness of age! To see the old place once more! The littlechurch; God's acre at its side; to stand on the hill at Verranch andlook out a last time over the beautiful vale toward the Mount!"Briefly he paused. "Yet I am glad I yielded to the temptation;otherwise should I not have met your old servant, Sanchez; who told meall--how you had long been looking for me, and arranged our meeting forthat day--on the island of Casque!"

  "But not," the young man's demeanor at once became intent; his eyesgleamed with sudden fierce lights, "for what followed!"

  The priest sighed. "Shall I ever forget it? The terrible night, thetroop-ship, the killed and wounded. And the poor fellows takenprisoners! I can not but think of them and their fate. What will itbe?"

  The other did not answer; only impatiently moved his injured arm and,regarding him, the down-turned, dark countenance, the knit brows,quickly the priest changed the subject of conversation.

  In the large room some one began to play, and before the fire, wherenow the birds were turni
ng and the serving-lad, with a long spoon wasbasting, the dark-browed girl started to dance. At the side of thehearth old Pierre smoked stolidly, gazed at the coals, anddreamed--perhaps of the past, and dangers he had himself encountered,or of the present, and his ships scattered--where?--on profitable, ifprecarious errands. Somberly, in no freer mood than on the occasion oftheir first visit to the inn, the crew looked on; but a tall,savage-appearing islander soon matched her step; a second took hisplace; from one partner to another she passed--wild, reckless men whosetouch she did not shun; yet it might have been noticed her eyes turnedoften, through wreaths of smoke, mist-like in the glare and glimmer ofdips and torches, toward the Black Seigneur.

  Why--her gaze seemed to say--did he not join them, instead of sittingthere with a priest? She whirled to the threshold; her flushed facelooked in. "Are you saying a mass for the souls of your men who werecaptured?"

  "I see," he returned quietly, "you have been gossiping."

  "A woman's privilege!" she flashed back. "But how did it happen? Andnot only your arm," more sharply regarding him, "but your head! Ifancy if I were to push back a few locks of that thick hair I shoulddiscover--it must have been a pretty blow you got, my SeigneurSolitude!" He made no reply and she went on. "You, who I thought werenever beaten! By a mere handful of troops, too! Did you have to runaway very fast? If I were a man--"

  "Your tongue would be less sharp," he answered coolly, the black eyesindifferent.

  "Much you care for my tongue!" she retorted.

  "No?"

  "No!" she returned mockingly, when above the din of voices, thecrackling of the fire, and the wild moaning of the wind in the chimney,a low, but distinct and prolonged call was heard,--from somewherewithout, below.

  "What is that?" Quickly Nanette turned; superstitious, after thefashion of most of her people, a little of the color left her cheek.Again was it wafted to them, nearer, plainer! "The voices of dead menfrom the sea!"

  "More like some one on the steps who would like to get in--somefisherman who has just got to shore!" said old Pierre Laroche, wakingup and emptying his pipe. "Throw open the door. The stones areslippery--the night dark--"

  One of the crew obeyed, and, as the wind entered sharply, and thelights flickered and grew dim, there half staggered, half rushed fromthe gloom, the figure of a man, wild, wet, whose clothes were torn andwhose face was freshly cut and marked with many livid signs of violence.

  "Sanchez!" From his place the Black Seigneur rose.

  The others looked around wonderingly; some with rough pity. "What'sthe matter, man?" said one. "You look as if you had had a bad fall."

  "Fall!" Standing in the center of the room, where he had come to asudden stop, the man gazed, bewildered, resentful, about him; thenabove the circle of questioning faces, his uncertain look lifted;caught and remained fixed on that of the Black Seigneur. "Fall?" herepeated, articulating with difficulty. "No; I had--no fall--but Iwill speak--with my master--alone!"