Читать книгу: «Chambers's Edinburgh Journal, No. 429», страница 2

THE WRECKER

On a certain part of the coast of Brittany, some years back, a gang of wreckers existed, who were the terror of all sailors. Ever on the look-out for the unfortunate vessels, which were continually dashed upon their inhospitable shores, their delight was in the storm and the blast; they revelled in the howling of fierce wind, and the lightning's glare was to them more delightful than the brightest show of fireworks to the dweller in large towns. Then they came out in droves, hung about the cliffs and rocks, hid in caverns and holes, and waited with intense anxiety for the welcome sight of some gallant ship in distress. So dreadful were the passions lit up in these men by the love of lucre, that they even resorted to infamous stratagems to lure vessels on shore. They would light false beacons; and strive in every way to delude the devoted bark to its destruction.

The village of Montreaux was almost wholly inhabited by men, who made wrecking their profession. It was a collection of miserable huts, built principally out of the broken materials of the various vessels driven on shore; and ostensibly inhabited by fishermen, who, however, rarely resorted to the deep, except when a long continuance of fine weather rendered their usual avocation less prosperous than usual. They consisted in all of about thirty families, wreckers, for the most part, from father to son, and even from mother to daughter—for women joined freely in the atrocious trade. Atrocious indeed! for murder necessarily accompanied pillage, and it rarely happened that many of the crew and passengers of the unfortunate vessels escaped alive. Bodies were indeed found along the shore; but even if they exhibited the marks of blows, the sea and the rocks got the credit of the deed.

The interior of the huts of the hamlet presented a motley appearance. Their denizens were usually clothed in all kinds of costume—from the peculiar garments of Englishmen, to the turbans, shawls, and petticoats of Lascars, Malays, and others. Cases of spirits, chests of tools, barrels of flour, piles of hams, cheeses, curious arms, spy-glasses, compasses, &c. were thrust into coffers and corners; while all the villagers were in the habit of spending money that certainly was not coined in France. The state of the good people of Montreaux was one of splendid misery; for, with all their ill-gotten wealth, their improvidence and carelessness was such, that they often wanted necessaries—so true is it that ill-got money is never well-spent money. A month of fine weather would almost reduce them to starvation, forcing them to sell to disadvantage whatever they still possessed.

This was not, however, the case with every one of them. A man dwelt among them, and had done so for many years, who seemed a little wiser and more careful than the rest of the community. His name was Pierre Sandeau. He was not a native of the place; but had long been established among them, and had at once shewn himself a worthy brother. He was pitiless, selfish, and cold. Less fiery than his fellows, he had an amount of caution, which made them feel his value; and a ready wit, which often helped them out of difficulties. His influence was soon felt, and he became a kind of chief. He was at last recognised as the head of the village, and the leader in all marauding expeditions. But the great source of his power was his foresight. He had always either money or provisions at hand, and was always ready to help one of his companions—for a consideration. In times of distress, he bought up all the stock on hand, and even sold on credit. In course of time, he had become rich, had a better house than the rest, and could, if he liked, have retired from business. But he seemed chained to his trade, and never gave any sign of abandoning his disgraceful occupation.

One day, however, he left Montreaux, and stayed away nearly a fortnight. When he came back, he was not alone: he was accompanied by a young and lovely girl—one of those energetic but sweet creatures, whose influence would be supreme with a good man. Madeleine Sandeau was eighteen—tall, well-proportioned, and exceedingly handsome; she was, moreover, educated. Her father had taken her from school, to bring her to his house, which, though so different from what she was used to, she presided over at once with ease and nature. Great was the horror of the young girl when she found out the character of the people around her. She remonstrated freely with her father as to the dreadful nature of his life; but the old man was cold and inexorable. 'He had brought her there to preside over his solitary house,' he said, 'and not to lecture him:' and Madeleine was forced to be silent.

She saw at once the utter futility of any attempt to civilise or humanise the degraded beings she associated with; and so she took to the children. With great difficulty, she formed a school, and made it her daily labour to instil not only words, but ideas and principles, into the minds of the young, unfledged wreckers. She gained the goodwill of the elders, by nursing both young and old during their hours of sickness, as well as by a slight knowledge of medicine, which she had picked up in a way she never explained, but which always made her silent and sad when she thought of it.

When a black and gloomy night came round, and the whole village was on foot, then Madeleine locked herself in her room, knelt down, and remained in prayer. Now and then she would creep to the window, look out, and interrogate the gloom. She never came forth to greet her father on his return from these expeditions. Her heart revolted even against seeing her parent under such circumstances, and towards morning she went to bed—rarely, however, to sleep.

On one occasion, after a cold and bitter day, the evening came on suddenly. Black clouds covered the horizon as with a funeral pall; the wind began to howl round the hamlet with fearful violence; and Madeleine shuddered, for she knew what was to be expected that night. Scarcely had the gale commenced, when Pierre rose, put on a thick pea-jacket and a sou'-wester, armed himself, and swallowing a glass of brandy, went out. He was the last to leave the village; all the rest had preceded him. He found them encamped in a narrow gorge, round a huge fire, carefully concealed behind some rocks. It was a cold, windy, wet night; but the wreckers cared not, for the wind blew dead on shore, and gave rich promise of reward for whatever they might endure.

A man lay on the look-out at the mouth of the gorge under a tarpaulin. He had a night-glass in his hand, with which he swept the dark horizon, for some time in vain. But the wind was too good to fail them, and the wreckers had patience.

It was really a terrible night. It was pitchy dark: not a star, nor one glimpse of the pale moon could be distinguished. The wind howled among the rocks, and cast the spray up with violence against the cliffs, which, however, in front of the gorge, gave way to a low sandy beach, forming the usual scene of the wreckers' operations. A current rushed into this narrow bight, and brought on shore numerous spars, boxes, and boats—all things welcome to these lawless men.

'A prize!' cried the look-out suddenly. 'A tall Indiaman is not more than a mile off shore. She is making desperate efforts to clear the point, but she won't do it. She is ours, lads!'

'Give me the glass!' exclaimed Pierre rising. The other gave him the telescope. 'Faith, a splendid brig!' said the patriarch with a sinister smile—'the finest windfall we have had for many a season. Jean, you must out with the cow, or perhaps it may escape us.'

The cow was an abominable invention which Pierre had taught his comrades. A cow was tied to a stake, and a huge ship's lantern fastened to its horns. This the animal tossed about in the hope of disengaging himself, and in so doing presented the appearance of a ship riding at anchor—all that could be seen on such nights being the moving light. By this means had many a ship been lured to destruction, in the vain hope of finding a safe anchoring-ground. The cow, which was always ready, was brought out, and the trick resorted to, after which the wreckers waited patiently for the result.

The Indiaman was evidently coming on shore, and all the efforts of her gallant crew seemed powerless to save her. Her almost naked masts, and her dark hull, with a couple of lanterns, could now plainly be distinguished as she rose and fell on the waters. Suddenly she seemed to become motionless, though quivering in every fibre, and then a huge wave washed clean over her decks.

'She has struck on the Mistral Rock,' said Pierre. 'Good! she will be in pieces in an hour, and every atom will come on shore!'

'They are putting out the boats,' observed Jean.

The wreckers clutched their weapons. If the crew landed in safety, their hopes were gone. But no crew had for many years landed in safety on that part of the coast: by some mysterious fatality, they had always perished.

Presently, three boats were observed pulling for the shore, and coming towards the sandy beach at the mouth of the gorge. They were evidently crammed full of people, and pulling all for one point. The boats approached: they were within fifty yards of the shore, and pulling still abreast. They had entered the narrow gut of water leading to the gorge, and were already out of reach of the huge waves, which a minute before threatened to submerge them. The wreckers extinguished the lantern on the cow's horn. There was no chance of the boats being able to put back to sea.

Suddenly a figure pushed through the crowd, and approached the fire near which Pierre Sandeau stood. It appeared to be one of the wreckers; but the voice, that almost whispered in the old man's ear, made him start.

'Father!' said Madeleine, in a low solemn voice, 'what are you about to do?'

'Fool! what want you here?' replied Pierre, amazed and angry at the same time.

'I come to prevent murder! Father, think what you are about to do? Here are fifty fellow-creatures coming in search of life and shelter, and you will give them death!'

'This is no place for you, Madeleine!' cried the other in a husky voice. 'Go home, girl, and let me never see you out again at night!'

'Away, Madeleine!—away!' said the crowd angrily.

'I will not away!—I will stay here to see you do your foul deed—to fix it on my mind, that day and night I may shout in your ears that ye are murderers! Father,' added she solemnly, 'imbrue your hands in the blood of one man to-night, and I am no child of yours. I will beg, I will crawl through the world on my hands, but never more will I eat the bread of crime!'

'Take her away, Pierre,' said one more ruffianly than the rest, 'or you may repent it.'

'Go, girl, go,' whispered Pierre faintly, while the wreckers moved in a body to the shore, where the boats were about to strike.

'Never!' shrieked Madeleine, clinging franticly to her father's clothes.

'Let me go!' cried Pierre, dragging her with him.

At that moment a terrible event interrupted their struggle. A man stood upright in the foremost boat, guiding their progress. Just as they were within two yards of the shore, this man saw the wreckers coming down in a body.

'As I expected!' he cried in a loud ringing voice. 'Fire!—shoot every one of the villains!'

A volley of small arms, within pistol-shot of the body of wreckers, was the unexpected greeting which these men received. A loud and terrible yell shewed the way in which the discharge had told. One-half of the pillagers fell on the stony beach, the other half fled.

Among those who remained was Madeleine. She was kneeling by her father, who had received several shots, and lay on the ground in agony.

'You were right, girl,' he groaned; 'I see it now, when it is too late, and I feel I have deserved it.'

'Better,' sobbed Madeleine, 'better be here, than have imbrued your hands in the blood of one of those miraculously-delivered sailors.'

'Say you so, woman?' said a loud voice near her. 'Then you are not one of the gang. I knew them of old, as well as their infernal cut-throat gorge, and pulled straight for it, but quite prepared to give them a warm reception.'

Madeleine looked up. She saw around her more than fifty men, three women, and some children. She shuddered again at the thought of the awful massacre which would have occurred but for the sailor's prudence.

'My good girl,' continued the man, 'we are cold, wet, and hungry; can you shew us to some shelter?'

'Yes; but do you bid some of your men carry my father, who, I fear, is dying.'

'It is no more than he merits,' replied the man; 'but for your sake I will have him taken care of.'

'It is what I merit,' said Pierre, in a strange and loud tone; 'but not from your hands, Jacques.'

'Merciful God!' cried the sailor, 'whose voice is that?'

'You will soon know; but do as your sister bids you, and then we can talk more at ease.'

Madeleine cast herself sobbing into her brother's arms, who, gently disengaging her, had a litter prepared for his father, and then, guided by Madeleine, the procession advanced on its way. An armed party marched at the head, and in a quarter of an hour the village of Montreaux was reached. It was entirely deserted. There were fires in the houses, and lamps lit, and even suppers prepared, but not a living thing. Even the children and old women on hearing the discharge of musketry, had fled to a cave where they sometimes took shelter when the coast-guard was sent in search of them.

The delighted sailors and passengers spread themselves through the village, took possession of the houses, ate the suppers, and slept in the beds, taking care, however, to place four sentries in well-concealed positions, for fear of a surprise. Madeleine, her father, her brother, the ship's surgeon, and a young lady passenger, came to the house of old Sandeau, who was put to bed, and his wounds dressed. He said nothing, but went to sleep, or feigned to do so.

Supper was then put upon the table, and the four persons above mentioned sat down, for a few minutes in silence. Jacques, the captain of the East-Indiaman, looked moody and thoughtful. He said not a word. Suddenly, however, he was roused by hearing the young surgeon of the Jeune Sophie speak.

'Madeleine,' said he, in a gentle but still much agitated tone of voice, 'how is it I find you here—you whom I left at St Omer?'

'Is this, then, the Madeleine you so often speak of?' cried the astonished sailor.

'It is. But speak, my dear friend.'

'Edouard, I am here because yonder is my father, and it is my duty to be where he is.'

'But why is your father here?' continued the other.

'I am here,' said the old man, fiercely turning round, 'because I am at war with the world. For a trifling error, I was dismissed the command of this very Jeune Sophie twelve years ago. I vowed revenge, and you see the kind of revenge I have selected.'

'Dear father,' said Madeleine gently, 'see what an escape you have had!'

'Besides,' interposed Jacques, 'there was no occasion for revenge. M. Ponceau, who had adopted me, searched for you far and wide, to give you another ship. They dismissed you in a moment of anger. They proved this, by giving me the command of the Jeune Sophie as soon as I could be trusted with it.'

'What is done is done,' said Pierre, 'and I am a wrecker! I have done wrong, but I am punished. Jacques, my boy, take away Madeleine; I see this life is not fit for her. If I recover, I shall remain, and become the trader of the village'–

'No, father, you must come with us,' observed Jacques sadly. 'You and I and Madeleine will find some quiet spot, where none will know of the past, and where we ourselves may learn to forget. I have already saved enough to support us.'

'And your wife, sir?' said the young lady, who had not hitherto spoken.

'Leonie, you can never marry me now. You are no fit mate for the son of a wrecker.'

'Jacques,' interposed the young surgeon, 'neither you nor Madeleine has any right to suffer for the errors of your father. I made the acquaintance of your sister at my aunt's school in St Omer. I loved her; and before I started on this journey, I had from her a half-promise, which I now call upon her to fulfil.'

'What say you, Madeleine?' said Jacques gravely.

'That I can never give my hand to a man whom I love too well to dishonour.'

'Madeleine, you are right, and you are a noble girl!' replied her brother.

'Children,' said the old man, with a groan, 'I see my crime now in its full hideousness; but I can at least repair part of the evil done. Now, listen to me. Let me see you follow the bent of your hearts, and be happy, and I will go where you will, for you will have forgiven your father. Refuse to do so, and I remain here—once a wrecker, always a wrecker. Come, decide!'

Madeleine held out her hand to Edouard, and Jacques to Leonie, his friend's sister, returning from the colony where her parents had died. The old man shut his eyes, and remained silent the rest of the evening.

Next day, conveyances were obtained from a neighbouring town, and the crew and passengers departed. The reunited friends remained at Montreaux, awaiting the recovery of Pierre, Jacques excepted, he being forced to go to Havre, to explain events to his owners. In ten days he returned. Old Sandeau was now able to be removed; and the whole party left Montreaux, which was then stripped by its owners, and deserted.

The family went to Havre. The father's savings as a captain had been considerable. United with those of Jacques, they proved sufficient to take a house, furnish it, and start both young couples in life. Edouard set up as a surgeon in Havre, his brother-in-law was admitted as junior partner into the house of Ponceau, and from that day all prospered with them. Old Sandeau did not live long. He was crushed under the weight of his terrible past; and his deathbed was full of horror and remorse.¹