WHEN RICHARD DELANCEY next had occasion to appear in the High Street at Poole, he had the novel sensation of being famous. He was not exactly popular but neither was he a person to be ignored. Ladies nudged each other, glancing his way, and men of substance stared more openly, grumbling a little perhaps about young men who seemed to be too clever by half. Although aware of being the centre of attention, Delancey was far from feeling self-assured. His early successes had been due to his abilities being unknown and underrated. Now that he was thought to be ruthless and subtle his opponents would be forewarned and cautious. There would be no more accidental encounters like that with the Four Brothers of Shoreham. After fruitless cruising he would be back in Portsmouth by June, unemployed as before and as poor as ever.
Emerging from the stationers with his latest purchase—a copy of the Naval Atalantis by “Nauticus Junior” published in 1788—Delancey almost collided with Mr Withers.
“Ah, glad to see you, Captain! You must realize, I suppose, that everyone here is talking about you and that every gossip is eager for information.”
“I suspect, sir, that they chiefly want to know when I am going.”
“Some folk are a little apprehensive. . . . But here is a young lady who wishes to attract your attention. Heaven forbid that I should stand in her way! Good morning, Miss Hill! May I ask what has brought you to Poole?”
It was Louisa, as pretty as ever and as lacking in diffidence. “La, Mr Withers, I came in the hope of seeing you. But I’ll confess that the shops of Poole are a minor attraction, amazingly better than ours at Dorchester. Mr Delancey! How pleasant that we should meet like this! The truth is that I hoped to fall in with you, knowing that the Rose is in port. I wish you joy of your recent success.” “Your servant, Miss Hill—and thank you.”
“I will leave you two,” said Mr Withers, “but I shall be jealous if you flirt too much.”
“We shall be discretion itself,” replied Louisa, “for all the world knows that Mr Withers is my beau and I dare not risk losing his regard.”
After Mr Withers had gone Louisa produced a letter which came, as she explained, from Mr Early. “Knowing that I was to be in Poole today, he asked me to act as messenger.”
“I am vastly obliged to you, Miss Hill,” said Delancey, pocketing the letter, “and as obliged again to Mr Early for entrusting the missive to so charming a bearer.” Louisa dropped a little curtsey and they walked slowly on together. She looked about her as she chattered, missing nothing and glad to be seen in company with a man so much in the day’s news.
“You come from Guernsey, do you not?” said Louisa at the haberdasher’s door. “My cousin Harriet is engaged to an officer that was recently there—Mr Nash of the 42nd. It seems, however, that his regiment is to go overseas. Her last letter from him was dated from a transport at anchor in the Downs. He did not say so in so many words but I fancy that the regiment is going to the West Indies. Harriet still hopes that the order will be countermanded but in this she may be disappointed. His serving in the Indies may cause a broken engagement. At four and twenty, and with fifteen thousand in the funds, she can’t be expected to wait for ever.”
Delancey agreed in deploring long engagements. Louisa asked him what book he had bought and sniffed a little when she saw the title.
“I had thought it might be a novel. I have just read the Mysteries of Udolpho by Mrs Radcliffe and enjoyed it amazingly. Do you ever read novels, Mr Delancey—or only books on voyages and navigation?”
“I have read some novels but none, as yet, by Mrs Radcliffe. On your recommendation I shall hasten to procure the latest.”
“Pray do so, Mr Delancey. Now I must match a ribbon for my aunt. Goodbye and do not fail to call when next you come ashore.”
After parting from Louisa, Delancey opened the letter she had brought him and stood in a doorway to read it.
Dorchester,
March 9th, 1795
Dear Sir,
I write to congratulate you, first of all, on your success in attempting to suppress illicit trade on the Dorset coast. You have shown yourself to be an active officer in this temporary appointment and I am amazed to think that you have been denied the promotion in the navy to which, from your known abilities, you would seem to be entitled. Nor does it seem to me that the customs service has any great future to offer you. Had I any interest at the Admiralty I should not hesitate to exert it on your behalf. While having no such influence it happens to be in my power to serve you perhaps in another direction. I have friends in Guernsey, some of whom are partners in the ownership of a private man-of-war called the Nemesis of fourteen guns, built for the purpose, and commanded until recently by Mr Perelle. Having been fortunate on his last cruise, Mr Perelle has yielded to his wife’s entreaty and agreed to live ashore, which he can now afford to do. There is thus a captain’s vacancy and I have reason to believe that my friends in Guernsey will accept my nomination. Should you consent to serve as master of the Nemesis I think you will have a good prospect of success, she being fast, well-armed and well-manned. I have already written to my friends in St Peter Port, being sanguine enough to count on your acceptance. Take passage in the packet from Weymouth and call on Mr Elisha Jeremie (another whist player) at his house in St Martin’s. You will be kindly received and I shall look forward to hearing that you think well of the Nemesis. I have entrusted this letter to my fair cousin Louisa Hill and you may care to leave your answer at No 30 in the High Street. Trusting to receive a favourable reply,
I have the honour to remain, Sir,
Your most obliged ser’t,
John Early.
Having read the letter once, Delancey went back over it, mentally underlining the more significant words: “temporary,” “no great future,” “friends in Guernsey.” The letter really paid him a high compliment. As a threat to the free-traders he had to be removed and the best way to do this was to offer him a better appointment. If he refused there would be some other way of dealing with him, the easier to arrange in that his present command was merely temporary. There would be no profit for him if he remained, the goods being sent to places outside his cruising area. As for the Nemesis, she clearly belonged to Early, although managed by his Guernsey agents. She was a regular privateer, with some captures to her credit, and the offer was genuine. Early knew all about him, that much was evident and he appreciated Delancey’s skill as a whist player. On only one point was Delancey in doubt. Did Louisa mention Mrs Radcliffe’s novel in order to convey some other message or was that a chance reference to Louisa’s own tastes in literature? Very much on impulse, Delancey turned back to the stationers and asked for a copy of the Mysteries of Udolpho. One was produced at once, the stationer observing that it was much in demand, and Delancey returned to the Rose with books to read and a decision to make. Without much hesitation he decided to accept Mr Early’s offer.
Three days later the Rose sailed for Weymouth. From there she sailed, without Delancey, for Cowes, bearing her acting commander’s letter of resignation. Robert Lane, as acting commander, called for three cheers as the cutter left the quayside and Delancey stood for a moment at the salute. He knew that he had been a success and that he had even been popular. He felt a twinge of regret but remembered, as he turned away, that his was now to be a different trade. His career in the revenue service had come to an abrupt end, not through any failure on his part but through his being too competent. Nothing he had done would add to his reputation as a naval officer but the episode had added greatly to his self-confidence. He had seen an opportunity and grasped it. He had proved himself as a secret agent, as a commander, as a tactician. Without being uniformly successful, he had been treated by his opponents with respect. They had thought it worth their while to buy him off. The result was the prospect of a new and attractive command, the privateer Nemesis. He lost no time, therefore, in making his way to the packet which would sail for Guernsey that afternoon. As he watched her slip out of the harbour with the old town on one side, the wooded hillside on the other, he had the holiday sensation of leaving the seamanship to those responsible. For once he could admire the sunlight on the sail of a passing lugger without wondering about her possible activities. The sea was pale green in the light but shadowed with cloud and flecked with foam. The old packet was being held close to the southerly wind but was sagging to leeward. If the mainsail could be made to stand flatter . . . but that, for once, was not his business.
Pacing the deck, Delancey tried to remember all he knew about privateering. He recalled vaguely that Letters of Marque were issued to vessels of two distinct species. In one class were ordinary armed merchantmen, shipping a cargo, which could sail without convoy and which might snap up a prize if the opportunity offered. Far fewer in number were the real privateers, sailing without a cargo and being regularly armed and manned for war. Some of these had been designed for commerce, and especially for the slave trade, but others were designed as men-of-war and had never been anything else. Several of these were based on Guernsey and more—he had been told—on Alderney. Privateer owners and officers were often, if not always, highly respectable men. There was nothing illegal about their business, he realized, but it could degenerate into piracy. The commander of a private man-of-war might thus be tempted to attack ships not under the enemy flag; neutral ships or (worst of all) ships under the British flag. The fact that the temptation was there was no proof, of course, that many succumbed to it. Most privateer officers kept within the letter of the law and regarded piracy as disgraceful—and, anyway, as highly dangerous.
The passage from Weymouth to Guernsey was prolonged by adverse winds and Delancey was glad to have brought some books with him. What he would have liked was a book on privateering but none, so far as he knew, had ever been published. The works he had available were those he had bought at Poole. The Naval Atalantis he found to be a collection of short biographies. The flag officers and captains portrayed were many of them painted in the brightest colours. Other characters were blackened, perhaps without much reason and certainly without any particular knowledge. He had to allow, nevertheless, that some of the sketches were at least amusing. He had to smile at the reference to Admiral Digby who had retired to live in his mansion near Weymouth. “And there let us leave him in his retreat from that honourable profession in which he was never calculated to shine with any great credit to himself or his country.” He was interested to note that a future flag officer had once commanded the Guernsey—a warship’s name that was new to him. Then he hunted for the names of officers with whom he had served, if only to the point of having seen them. Rear-Admiral the Hon. J. Leveson-Gower had barely more than a page: “The haughty demeanor, ill-judged consequence and illiterate superciliousness of this officer, unhappily for him, obscure some professional virtues. . . .” That, he thought, could be near the truth. What did the author say about Macbride? He was Irish, of course, and had been a member of Parliament for Plymouth. His private hobby was cock-fighting and—what was this?—”Not less a champion in the field of Venus than in that of Mars, the gallant captain was always a welcome guest where beauty held its court, generally carrying his conquests with equal success in either field. . . .” Good heavens! This was no description of the overworked man Delancey had seen at his littered desk. Of the officers mentioned some had enjoyed a belated success, he noted, their abilities having been overlooked for years. There was Vice-Admiral Milbanke, for example, whose career provided a striking instance of “merit, when sacrificed to pique or prejudice, may long lay dormant and disregarded.” That was true enough but, in his own case, did the merit exist? Did he really seek distinction in battle or did he merely want to make his fortune and live ashore? If he were to believe “Nauticus Junior” there were officers who had gained affluence in a day There was Captain Finch of the Porcupine (20)—hardly more heavily armed than the Nemesis—who captured a homeward-bound French Indiaman “so richly laden that he was ever afterwards distinguished by the appellation of the Goldfinch, his brother Seymour being also a captain in the navy.” As fortunate and more deserving it seemed, was another officer and one whom Delancey had actually met. This was Captain Henry Trollope who had commanded, as lieutenant, a cutter named the Kite. When war began with the Netherlands—at the end of 1780—the Kite swooped on the Dutch merchantmen, unaware many of them that hostilities had begun—and made a series of valuable captures. The author paid tribute to Trollope’s enterprise and added that “His manners in private life are correspondent with the excellence of his public character; and that he diffuses with liberality, in the milder scenes of retirement, the ample fortune which he acquired by his professional labours.”
Putting the book aside, Delancey asked himself what exactly he was trying to do. Until recently he had done no more than make a living, and that with difficulty enough. Now he was to have a command and the chance of making his fortune. If he succeeded, would that be enough? Or would he feel that he had failed in his profession, fallen short of what he should have achieved? At the moment he could picture himself a Guernsey landowner with shipowning interests and some town property, a Jurat of the Royal Court, a man for everyone to greet with respect at Chief Pleas or on market day If that were attainable, was that sufficient? One idea left with him from reading the Naval Atalantis was based upon the example of the Kite. The origin of Trollope’s fortune had been a sudden outbreak of war against a new opponent. French shipping had been adjusted to wartime conditions, having assumed a pattern of convoys, quick passages in bad visibility, warning signals from the shore and every sort of caution. The Dutch had been neutral, much to their own profit, carrying goods that no one would now entrust to ships under the French flag. There was a declaration of war, changing the whole picture. The new situation was known at once in the home ports and was quickly conveyed to the cruisers and privateers. Completely ignorant were the laden merchantmen homeward bound from the Indies, following the usual trade routes and keeping only a casual lookout. Their guns, so far from being loaded, would not even be run out. Their gun-decks would be cluttered with barrels and bales and cabin partitions. Their small arm chests would be buried under crates and boxes. They would need half an hour to clear for action and ten minutes (or less) would be all the time they would actually have.
So far as war with the Netherlands was concerned, Delancey knew that history had just repeated itself. Conquered by France, the Netherlands had recently become the Batavian Republic, Dutch ships being liable to seizure from February but many of them actually seized during the previous month. For this harvest Delancey came too late, but, apart from that, Delancey’s Letter of Marque did not extend to operations against the Dutch, who were still regarded as a friendly people suffering from French oppression. There was nothing to be done in that direction. Spain, however, was still at peace. Now if that country were to be dragged into war on the French side, as might seem quite probable, a privateer could do well on the Spanish coast, especially if her commander were there before war were declared. For a really dramatic success the first need was to anticipate the outbreak of war, the second need to obtain early news of it. Given those conditions anything would be possible, even the capture of a register ship with treasure enough to establish one’s fortune. In a pleasant daydream Delancey saw himself as a landowner, a country gentleman, allied by marriage to the nobility. He had then to remind himself that he was just as likely to end in ignominious defeat, discredited and wounded or even taken prisoner. Privateer owners could be prosperous enough, or so he had heard, but how many captains ended in possession of a country estate? Fewer, he guessed, than the number killed in action.
From the Naval Atalantis Delancey turned to the Mysteries of Udolpho. He was somewhat impatient with the early chapters, turning quickly over the pages until Emily, the heroine, reached the Castle of Udolpho. If there were mysteries this was her moment to encounter them. He had to admit that the scene at nightfall was well described and that Emily had some reason to feel apprehensive. A first gateway was flanked by towers over which grass and wild plants grew, having taken root among the mouldering stones. The carriage passed through a gloomy outer court.
“Another gate delivered them into the second court, grass-grown and more wild than the first, where, as she surveyed through the twilight its desolation—its lofty walls overtopped with bryony, moss and nightshade, and the embattled towers that rose above— long suffering and murder came to her thoughts. One of these instantaneous and unaccountable convictions, which sometimes conquer even strong minds, impressed her with its horror.”
Turning over the pages Delancey realized that there was no shortage of either mystery or horror. He found himself thinking of D’Auvergne’s Castle of Navarre. There was nothing Gothic about that, he supposed, and yet he felt envy of anyone who had so romantic a background. His own name was sufficiently romantic but he had never heard of any Delancey being either famous or noble. There were the American Delanceys, folk he had actually met in New York, but he had no great desire to claim them as kinsfolk. His pride of ancestry must clearly centre upon his mother’s family. She had been an Andros and with that name was associated some idea of former consequence. So far as Guernsey was concerned, however, the Andros family had almost ceased to exist. He resolved, though, to make inquiries when the opportunity offered. He would not turn out to be the missing heir; of that he felt tolerably certain. He did feel, however, that a touch of the romantic would be welcome.
Once ashore again at St Peter Port, Delancey asked about His Highness, the Prince of Bouillon, only to be told that his former chief was now stationed in Jersey. When he inquired about the Nemesis he was told that she was in harbour. And there indeed she was, apparently under repair with nobody on board but caulkers and riggers; a fine little ship, nevertheless.
She was ship-rigged with good lines, well equipped and well maintained. She could have been a king’s ship, one of the smaller sloops built in about 1780, but measured only 270 tons. But for smaller dimensions she might have been a sister ship to the Savage or the Thorn, both of sixteen guns. There was nothing smart about her appearance but Delancey’s heart warmed to her at once. He felt certain that she would look lovely under sail. Leaving her with some reluctance he next learnt that Mr Elisha Jeremie was not in town that day but might be found in St Martin’s parish. Deciding to leave that pilgrimage until the morrow, he took a room at the Albion Inn, hiring a porter to carry his sea-chest up from the packet. On the way there he was hailed in the street by Sam Carter:
“Good to see you, Captain!” said Sam. “Welcome back to Guernsey! I hear tell that you are now in a different line of business.”
There was no mistaking the sincerity of this greeting and Delancey remembered that he and Sam were no longer opposed. They met for supper that night and drank the health of John Early, who was employing them both. From the friendly conversation which followed it was evident that the free-trader was doing well. France was in a confused state, that could not be denied, but prices were rising and trade was brisk. Sam was a mine of information on Channel shipping but was rather doubtful about the success likely to be achieved by the Nemesis. There were too many warships around and too few prizes of any value. Delancey and Carter agreed to act together whenever it should prove possible.
Later that evening Delancey was greeted by a Mr Le Page who remembered him as a schoolfellow.
“All the island was talking about you last year, Mr Delancey. The story was that you were called out by an officer of the garrison and that you ran him through, not so much as to kill him but enough to teach him a lesson. Or was that all mere gossip?”
“Such a meeting did take place, sir.”
“Well, that’s what we heard. There are a few of us can remember you as a boy and we were all on your side. These young army officers behave as if the island belongs to them. But you put one of them in his place and we were all glad to hear about it.”
Delancey was surprised but pleased to find that he was something of a local hero, the fight being remembered and nothing said about his subsequently leaving the island. He later came to realize that any privateer commander was a hero in St Peter Port.
Next day Delancey set out for St Martin’s and for Les Câches, the place where Mr Elisha Jeremie was said to be living. Whether he actually owned the property or not (and Delancey had heard conflicting stories about that) he was certainly in residence and expecting Delancey’s visit.
The house had been built early in the century and stood back at the end of an avenue, with meadows on either side and an orchard beyond. A servant showed Delancey into the parlour where he was presently joined by Mr Jeremie. Their conversation was in French.
“Mr Delancey? Your servant sir. I was forewarned by Mr Early that you were to be expected and I am happy to welcome you to this house.”
Elisha Jeremie was an elderly and pompous gentleman, short, plump and red in the face. It soon became apparent that he was the managing owner of the Nemesis. Like almost any other privateer she was owned by a syndicate but with one more active partner deputed to act for the rest. In this capacity Mr Jeremie took himself very seriously and behaved on this occasion as if Delancey’s appointment was merely under consideration. Although privately convinced that John Early’s decision had been final, Delancey assumed the role of an applicant, answering Mr Jeremie’s questions with a proper humility.
“I notice, sir, that your name is Richard Andros Delancey. I would suppose from your middle name that you are related to the Guernsey family that lived here at Les Câches during the reign of George II?”
“My mother was an Andros, sir, and cousin, I believe, to James Andros, whose death I remember.”
“James lived here and was colonel of the South Regiment of Militia. But the Andros family were connected over a much longer period with another place in the north of the island.”
“I never heard that, sir.”
“The Delancey name is not as well known.”
“I should suppose not, sir.”
“No, not well known at all. But you hold a commission in the navy and have spent some years at sea?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have been in action?” “Yes, sir.”
“But you have never before served in a private man-of-war, Mr Delancey?”
“No, sir.”
“Then you must realize that a ship like the Nemesis is not like a king’s ship, bound to seek the enemy in battle. Her role is different in that she is expected to yield a profit. Her owners have been to considerable expense in building, arming, equipping and provisioning the ship and they hope to see a return on their outlay.”
“No doubt, sir. And I should be right to conclude, surely, that they also want to play their part in bringing the war to a successful conclusion?”
There was a minute or two of silence before Mr Jeremie replied.
“The owners are loyal to the king and his enemies are undoubtedly theirs. You must recall, however, that their means are limited. It is not to be supposed that they can pursue a naval campaign at their own cost. It is the return on each cruise that must pay for the next.”
“And how can the ship’s commander be certain of making such a profit?”
“It is a matter of precise calculation, sir. Let us suppose that you have sighted a ship and recognized her as French. Having made an estimate of her strength and her value as a prize, you have to set down three figures: her sale value, ship and cargo taken together; the damage you are likely to sustain in making the capture, and the damage she will sustain before she is taken. If the last two figures exceed the first, you will let her alone.”
“I understand, sir.”
“I realize, of course, that your estimates cannot be infallible. You can recognize her port of origin, however, and the trade for which she was designed. You can count her gun ports and you can see whether she is laden or in ballast. Your success must then depend on the nicety of your calculations and the energy and resolution you display in attacking a vessel which you have judged to be worth capturing.”
“Just so, Mr Jeremie.”
“Certain mistakes are too commonly made, especially by young men who are new to the business. After a cruise perhaps of months, with no prize taken of any sort, a privateer commander will sometimes lose patience and make an ill-advised attempt to capture a ship of a force superior to his own. Rather than return empty-handed he will convince himself that the attempt is justified. With what result? He returns empty-handed, as he would have done in any event, but with his sails shot to pieces, his rigging knotted or spliced, a hole or two between wind and water and his pumps barely able to keep his ship afloat. You may suppose that the owners of the ship will express their disapprobation in the strongest terms.”
“With good reason, sir, I must confess.”
“It is also incumbent upon the commander to remember that the noise of gunfire is often undesirable. You will seldom have the whole of the English Channel to yourself. A prolonged action may attract the attention of enemy cruisers. Worse still, perhaps, it may bring to the scene another privateer under our own flag, offering assistance but claiming a half of the prize. Where possible the capture should be made by boarding and without gunfire, no damage being done to either ship.”
“Very true, Mr Jeremie.”
“You have also to understand that, while your crew will be large enough to man the first prizes you take, you will be progressively weakened by your own success; one attempt too many, launched with insufficient force might lead to your own capture and nullify the results of your previous good fortune. The wise commander should know when he has done enough.”
“He should indeed, sir, and I take your point.”
Delancey was somewhat repelled by the strictly commercial approach to what had seemed, from a distance, a more romantic vocation. He grasped, nevertheless, that Mr Jeremie’s advice was based on common sense. No conceivable victory at sea would justify a commander whose owners were left bankrupt. When his chance came to ask questions he asked about the officers already appointed; who were they and of what quality and experience? On this point, however, Mr Jeremie referred him to Mr Perelle.
“You may have heard that the Nemesis was highly successful on her last cruise. War with Holland had just begun and there were great opportunities. Mr Perelle made the most of them and decided to quit the sea. He is now a part-owner of the Nemesis and the man best able to inform you about both ship and crew. He lives at Portinfer in the Vale Parish and I suggest you call on him tomorrow.”
Delancey followed this advice and found himself next day in a part of the island which was strange to him. He knew his way round St Martin’s and St Andrew’s. He was not entirely lost in Câtel or the Forest, but St Sampson’s, like Torteval, represented a foreign territory where French was spoken with a different accent. As for the Vale proper, that other island beyond the bridge at St Sampson’s, he had never been there in his life. Portinfer was not as remote as that, and he had seen the place from the sea when out fishing as a boy, but he had only a vague idea of how to reach it from St Peter Port. In the end he obtained a lift in a farm cart to Cobo and walked up the coast from there.
It was a good day for a walk, sunny at the moment but with patches of cloud and some darkness over the sea to the westward. It was a lovely stretch of coast, flat and fringed with rocks. Delancey remembered that Cobo granite was of a blue colour and valued for quoins and lintels and gateposts. He saw some quarries that were being worked but the only dwellings were four low-built thatched cottages. He was finally directed to a farmhouse which indicated a higher level of prosperity; the property, he learnt, of the man he was seeking.
Mr Perelle was a typical Guernseyman, short and sturdy, suspicious at first but soon ready to help. He spoke highly of the Nemesis but was rather more guarded on the subject of her officers.
“Mr Le Vallois, first lieutenant, is a good seaman but rheumatic and would have retired by now if he had not lost his money that time his house burnt down. Mr Rouget, second lieutenant, is brave in action and a fair navigator. He has been in trouble, though; not here but in England. He has always been honest with me, mind you, but I shouldn’t put temptation in his way. Mr Hubert is lieutenant of marines. . . .”
“He is what?” asked Delancey
“Lieutenant of marines. We sometimes give that rank to a young man who is ready to fight but knows nothing of seamanship. He leads a few landsmen who are given muskets and bayonets. Hubert is a bit wild and daren’t go ashore here on account of his debts. He stays aboard as watchman. Young Duquemin, the midshipman, has also to keep out of sight, having got a St Saviour’s girl with child. If he were found ashore he might be made to marry her.”
“And the boatswain?”
“We call him the gunner. Will Carré is a good man when sober, none better. You’ll need to see that he gets no more than his share.”
From this and further conversation Delancey came to realize that a privateer was manned by men who had some special reason for going to sea. There was something to be said against all of them (himself included).
For his return journey on foot Delancey was given directions by Perelle but found them difficult to follow. Instead of following the coast back to Cobo he was to strike inland by Vingtaine de l’Epine—a great saving, he was told, in distance. The lanes and footpaths were confusing, however, there were few people to be seen and he soon lost all but a very general sense of direction. The day had begun well but the sky was now overcast and the light was failing as the afternoon went on. He met with an old man who told him to go by way of the garenne. He followed where the old man pointed but the word “garenne” was strange to him. He came, however, to an area of gorse and bracken, bounded by an artificial ditch, and guessed that this was it; a warren, in fact, reserved for rabbits. Heartened by this discovery, he pushed on, losing what little path there had been but finding a gap in a belt of trees. Passing through, he found himself moving uphill through undergrowth towards a ruinous building. There was the cawing of rooks but no sound of cattle or dogs, no sign of habitation. Looking up the hill, however, from what could have been a moat, he saw what seemed to be a crumbling battlement, a ruined tower, a gothic window. All was overgrown and derelict but the building had been a sort of castle; no, a fortified manor house. To one side was the ivy-covered fragment of an old chapel with the graveyard covered by brambles and nettles. In that failing light the ruin looked threatening and sinister. It reminded him of something he had seen—or rather, more truly, of something he had read. . . . All was still as he came to the gothic doorway which was blocked by some rough pieces of timber. He stood for a minute, wondering what to expect—the jangling of an ancient bell, the hooting of an owl? Suddenly he remembered—the Castle of Udolpho!
As he stood, wondering at the strange chance by which he had stumbled on the place, there was a flash of lightning and a distant noise of thunder. At the same time there was a stirring of the trees and a renewed cawing of the rooks. There was clearly going to be a thunderstorm. Turning aside from the ruined building he walked up the hill to the left and presently found himself on a path which improved until he came across a cart-shed and cow-house, the outbuildings of a farm. As the first heavy drops of rain fell he turned aside for shelter. He was presently joined in the cart-shed by an old countryman who had been working in an adjacent field and was equally seeking shelter. After greeting each other, they exchanged views on the weather, each convinced that the storm would soon pass. With the rain now drumming on the thatch overhead, Delancey resolved to stay where he was until the rainstorm had passed. To pass the time he asked the old countryman about the ruins he had passed. Did he know what the building had been?
“What, the old manor house? That’s Anneville Manor, sir. You saw the old doorway?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s where the tenants still meet in Chief Pleas. Yes, sir, that’s the old manor and the Chapel of St Thomas, centuries old as people say.”
“To whom does it belong?”
“Well, sir, the fief has always belonged to the Andros family They have been the Seigneurs as far back as anyone can remember. But they sold the land long since and the building now belongs to Mr Mahy— that is, to old Mr Mahy, not to Mr Elias Mahy of Le Valnord but to his father who used to be the blacksmith. A strong place, the old house must have been; made to hold, I reckon, against the French.”
“So Anneville is, by tradition, the Andros home in Guernsey?”
“Why, yes, sir. They must have owned it for hundreds of years.”
“What an extraordinary story!”
“Why, sir?”
“I expressed myself badly What is extraordinary is not the existence of this old place, known only to a handful of neighbours but the chance of one in a thousand that brought me here. Andros is one of my names. This place could easily have been my home!”