Jersey
6 January 1781
Midnight has come and St Helier lies under the heart-stopping spell of a freezing January night. The foul breath of the Jersey winter congeals on the lintels of a hundred homes, insinuating itself deep into the wood, promising a bitter morning. The embers of St Helier’s dying fires throw a smoky orange pall over the deserted streets, where the townsfolk rattle and cough in their beds. Many have drunk deeply, in celebration of Old Christmas Night under the ancient calendar. The skies above them blaze fiercely with the ice-blue stars of winter.
This is a night for huddling and nestling, in the little houses that smudge the flanks of the Town Hill. Up on its desolate summit, even the grazing sheep have flocked together for warmth. A gaggle of debtors wail from deep within the dank prison at Charing Cross, where the road passes under it at the western gateway to Town. At the other end of St Helier, Lieutenant-Governor Corbet is ensconced snugly in his lavish bedchamber in the Manoir de la Motte. The King’s popinjay snores fitfully, secure in the smug little kingdom of his dreams. In the early hours, a red moon rises over the orchards and the seigneurial doves murmur in their pigeon-house by the dirt track of Colomberie.
The earth in the frozen fields around La Motte Street is hard and unyielding and the Island’s beaches have been churned up by weeks of turbulent tides. Beyond the boatyards of Havre des Pas, far along the dark sweep of the coastline, lies La Rocque, with its spine of jagged, stark sea-rocks that could pierce the moon to shreds.
In this drowned world, the shoals and sands fall like fleeting visions, but twenty feet of surging black water can catch a man faster than he can run. This is a treacherous and deceitful reef. Anchoring places bristle with submerged rocks; gentle beaches glisten like false promises, only to splinter boats to shreds. Only a fool would dare land here, a star-crossed buccaneer so drunk on delusion that he cared nothing for the cost. A born gambler.
Baron de Rullecourt would appreciate the compliment.
He also believes it is worth paying to level the odds, and that there is no heart so loyal that it cannot be bought. So he bribed a traitor to lead the French boats in to Jersey, and show them the safest, most secret channels through the rocks. In the darkest watch of the night, Baron de Rullecourt and his mercenary army made landfall. They disembarked on the Banc de Vielet, half a league offshore, a reef ringed with rocks as sharp as broken glass. His soldiers moved like wraiths, marching across this strange lunar terrain, in towards the shores of Jersey. Low and slow, the soldiers crawled together, over the slimy sea-rocks, plunging through tidal channels, always making for the higher ground. His Legion of Luxembourg was a pack of proud irregulars; men who carried no regimental colours, and lived off the fat of the land.
As they clamber up the beach at Platte Rocque, they spy a guardhouse with four cannon. They approach it cautiously, ready to unleash hellfire by musket, but soon discover that the shot is not needed. The embers on the grate are stone dead and the watchtower lies abandoned, as empty as the broken bottles of Christmas grog on its table.
The soldiers check their supplies of rope, to ensure they can bind a sufficient number of hostages. Then they turn and advance west, tracing stealthily up the icy veins of the country lanes until they become great frozen arteries, closing in on their sleeping prey. The townsfolk of St Helier will slumber just a little while longer.
De Rullecourt reaches up to his breast, and fondles the scarlet sash which he keeps concealed here, close to his heart. This is the coveted Order of St Louis, his promised prize for seizing the Island, and he has taken the trouble of ordering the ribbon in advance.
Jersey is already in his pocket.
The story will be continued in the next episode of the History Islands. It also features in my first book, Jersey: The Hidden Histories, which is available as a Seaflower paperback and on Kindle.
