The Sugar Islands Page 6

‘The son of the Chevalier de Monterey does not play with the sons of labourers.’

  He was greeted with a derisive laugh.

  During the week he had rehearsed and re-rehearsed the scene. He had pictured in proud detail the flattering hush that would follow his announcement. They would be humble and abashed. They would understand and be respectful of his aloofness. They would admit his superiority. Yet here they were, grinning at him with their monkey faces. The son of the Chevalier, they mocked. And who had told him that he was that?

  His cheeks flushed scarlet. Angrily he stamped his foot.

  ‘I am,’ he cried. ‘I know I am.’

  They laughed the louder, as the scarlet deepened in his cheeks, and tears glittered in his eyes. It was the first time that they had seen Roger Vaisseau at a disadvantage. They were resolved to make the most of it.

  In a circle they stood taunting him. So he was the son of a chevalier. Would he like them to kiss his hand? Should they kneel before him? Would he deign to place the sole of his foot upon their necks? Where were his rings, they jeered, his feathered hat, the jewelled cross about his neck?

  His fists clenched tightly.

  ‘You don’t believe me, then we’ll ask my father.’

  In a group outside the church François Vaisseau was discussing with the worthies of the village such local matters as came under the jurisprudence of their weekly gatherings.. They had no great authority. The inspectors from Paris regulated the settlement of their taxes. But they liked to talk; they liked to sit around in their best clothes, solemnly agreeing or disagreeing with one another. Every Sunday for a couple of hours or so they would deliberate. Their deliberations were respected. Wives did not dare disturb them. In the village annals there was no precedent for the irruption into the sacrosanct circle of a hot-cheeked, wild-eyed infant, with a crowd of sniggering children at his heels; for the full-volumed thunder of infant lungs: ‘Father, tell them whose son I am.’

  ‘These children wouldn’t believe that I’m the son of the Chevalier de Monterey. Will you please, Father, tell them that I am.’

  It is not often that the members of a village assembly laugh. Laughs are out of place in that austere atmosphere. And it was less a laugh than a snigger that rippled through those venerable beards. François had boasted appropriately about his four months’ son. But there had been whispers. There had been suspicions. Now they knew.

  For a moment François Vaisseau did not realize what exactly lay behind this demand. His brain moved slowly. When it had travelled far enough for him to understand, he took three swift steps across the sward, swept Roger beneath his arm and staggered up the sun-parched gutter that led towards his home.

  Under a steady rain of blows Roger, rolled into a ball, his knees drawn high into his stomach, his arm wrapped round his head, lay without sound or movement. When his father with a kick and a last curse left him, he rose to his feet, shook himself, hobbled over to the fire, and knelt on one knee before it. There was not an inch unbruised upon his body. For days sleep would be an agony to him, but his head was held high, his lips were firm and his eyes bright.

  His father had not denied that he was the Chevalier’s son.

  Never again was he to make any reference to his father. Like a stored heirloom the knowledge of his birth remained shut within his heart. It gave him a sense of superiority over his surroundings and a distaste for them. As boyhood passed his contempt deepened for his home and for the life his parents and their neighbours were content to lead.

  §

  It was a hard and rugged life. The days of the kindly monarch who had wished for every peasant a fowl in his pot on Sundays were at an end. The era of the Sun King had dawned; Richelieu and Mazarin were preparing the way for Colbert and for Vauban. France and her possessions were to be bled so that Paris might impose her culture on the world. Through every district the flock of inspectors swarmed like bees over a garden, carrying away the honey of their spoils. The peasant bound to the soil, labouring under the caprice of chance, dependent upon favourable or unkindly seasons, upon the sun that ripened and the frost that withered the early grapes and the tender shoots, accepted mutely and uncomplainingly the demands made upon him first by the seigneurs and later by the centralized officialdom of Paris; accepted them as he would accept a succession of bad harvests, adopting the same protective measures. In summer you laid away the stores that would see you through the dark days of winter. You let the good harvest insure you against the bad. When the demands of the inspector grew oppressive you concealed your profits, hiding them in a stocking beneath the bed for the day when taxes would be increased. You were not going to invest your profits in any improvement of your property when these improvements would only be accepted by the intendant as a proof of increased prosperity, and as an excuse for heavier taxation.

  Right through his boyhood Roger listened to talk of tithes and taxes; listened to it contemptuously knowing that for his father and his half-brothers on the hill there were no such taxes, that their lives were free and unfettered of such cares.

  They called him a ne’er-do-well. He was; as resolute a ne’er-do-well as was to be found in a village well-stocked with ruffians. Whenever the chance came his way he would escape down the steep mountain roadway to Marseilles, to linger in the taverns beside the quay as long as his pennies and the charity of the sailors lasted. He was nowhere happier than in those dark little rooms, ranged on either side of the narrow, mounting streets, in which sailors would spend in five hours the labour of five months. With avid interest he would listen to the talk of ships and seamen. It was more romantic than any fairy-tale. To think that the carved and painted poops of the high galleons that rested so quietly now against the quay should have breasted and overcome the hostile seas; that those bags which bare-shouldered labourers were unloading from the holds had come from the lands of sunshine; that it was from Alexandria those spices came; from Cairo those rugs and feathers; that Persia had sent opium and rhubarb; Constantinople her wool and sheep; Venice her casks of wine; Algiers her leatherwork.

  Seated beside the sailors in those taverns he could not believe that these ordinary-looking men, with their rough clothes, hard faces, and slow voices, had encountered the innumerable perils of the sea: the hurricanes that lashed across the gulf of Lyons, the pirates of the Barbary coast, the hidden rocks of the Grecian Archipelago. As he stood on the quay when the ship sailed, with its volley of cheers and waving flags, he found it hard to believe that those dangers of which he had heard seamen talk were waiting behind the outline of the Château d’lf, that those very sailors who cheered so light-heartedly from the decks might be seeing for the last time the high cliffs, the narrow streets, the mounting houses.

  ‘Soon,’ he would think, ‘quite soon.’

  He had no doubt but that destiny would transport him into an ampler world. By that belief the despondency of his boyhood had been consoled. He was confident of fame and fortune. One day his father would be proud of him. Under his father’s eyes he would cover himself with glory. In different settings he had seen the moment. Sometimes it had been in battle; sometimes upon the sea; sometimes in some local brawl. But always the end had been the same. There had been that dignified figure pausing with a look of interest in his eyes, saying, ‘What is your name, young man?’ and himself replying, ‘They call me Vaisseau, but I am your son.’

  The road would stretch straight before him then. Men honoured their natural sons, when they were worth honouring. He would be sent as an officer to the wars, or to Paris as a courtier, with fine clothes and money in his purse. There would be an end to the long, dull days, to the monotony and drudgery of the vineyards and the terraced slopes.

  That was how he dreamed in boyhood.

  The same dream that had sustained him then was with him on the brink of manhood. An arrogant, surly figure he waited for his chance.

  §

  It came on the occasion of the biannual fair that was held a mile or two northwards of Marseilles. Li
ke other fairs it was the commercial monopoly of the priesthood; and in their eyes it was a commercial transaction simply; the means of marketing profitably the merchandise their ships had brought from the Levant. From all sections of the Midi and Provence came buyers to that fair, for the patrolling of lonely villages or the replenishing of city stores. But to the local peasantry the fair was a fair simply. They came to display their best dresses to their neighbours; to exchange gossip with their neighbours; to laugh and dance; to see the sideshows; the marionettes; the camel with the head of a horse and the eyes of a tiger; the two-trunked elephant; the three-footed monkey; the bearded dwarf; the woman who was too fat to cross her legs; the tattooed negress; the Abyssinian with distorted nostrils; the Arab with a ring hung from his lower lip. For three days and nights the fair continued; three days of bargaining, of drinking, of love-making, of quarrelling. The homes were few that did not at its close number one broken crown.

  It was on the second day that Roger got his chance. He was standing with some twenty others round the roped circle from which a bare-backed, sunburnt sailor, his hands upon his hips, the muscles standing high upon his arms and shoulders, was challenging anyone at the rate of twenty-five sous to five to stand up in the ring against him for five minutes. He was strong and brutal; with his nose squashed back like a negro’s upon his cheeks and his lips drawn thinly and tightly over toothless gums. There was not an ounce of fat on him. He weighed fourteen stone.

  ‘Come on, you yellow bellies,’ he called out. ‘I’m not asking you to beat me, to knock me down. Merely to stand on your feet here for five minutes. Just to protect yourselves; that’s all I’m asking you. And I’m offering twenty-five sous against five to the man who’s fit to do it.’

  With a hoarse, arrogant voice he bawled out his challenge.

  It was answered by a smooth, precise, and slightly mocking voice.

  ‘They’ve seen you here too often, Victor, I’m afraid. They’ve seen too many of their friends lose their five sous to you. It’s only strangers that’ll run the risk.’

  Roger turned at the sound of the voice; turned and gave a start. There, two yards away from him, was the tall, elegant figure, lined and stoutened a little now by middle age, but graceful enough still with its haughty manner and brocaded clothes, round which so many of his thoughts had centred. His father, and two yards away from him!

  And stepping over the ropes, he tossed the coppers into the ring.

  From behind him there was a murmur of surprise. Then a laugh. It was for this that the peasantry had waited.

  The boxer, his hands upon his hips, laughed too.

  ‘So this is what I get, this,’ he cried. ‘No, I’m sorry, but I really can’t. You take back those five sous of yours. You’ll go down so easily that you’ll discourage the others. I’d rather you went out of the ring; I really would.’

  It was the strategy that he invariably adopted. He would madden his opponents by his jibes till they would rush hot-blooded at him, to be the victims of his science. But his taunts went so near the truth this time that they might well have been accepted literally.

  Roger, tall, well-built and straight though he might be, looked weak and puny beside this rough-hewn giant. A fact that he himself knew well enough as he stood there in the ring, with the peasants tittering behind and the burly boxer straddling in front. He had not the slightest doubt that within three minutes he would be stretched senseless on the ground. He knew that he did not stand a chance.

  ‘All the same, I’ll make a show of it,’ he thought. ‘I’ll show them that I’m worth something.’

  His father’s eyes emboldened him.

  With an angry haste he tore off his jerkin and flung it on the ground.

  ‘Now,’ he said, and swung a right hook at his opponent’s jaw.

  A second later he was floundering on his hands and knees upon the grass, with the giant in assumed good nature laughing uproariously above him.

  Roger had not realized that so heavy a man could be so quick upon his feet. His opponent stepped back quickly. The swing had missed by a full foot. Its impetus had half swung him off his feet. While he was off his balance, the boxer had pushed him lightly but shrewdly on the shoulder.

  ‘Come now, come now,’ the boxer laughed, ‘that isn’t the way to fight. Don’t you think you’d better take that offer of mine, pick up those coins and run back with them to Mammy? You still can, you know. I don’t want to rob a baby.’

  His mind a mist, Roger stumbled to his feet. To be hurt, to be struck senseless, for that he had been prepared; but to be pushed over, to be laughed at, for that he had not bargained. I’ll show him,’ he thought. I’ll show him.’

  This time he was ready for his opponent’s speed. He knew that Victor, with his love of the crowd’s laughter, would try to repeat his effect. Once again Roger swung at his opponent’s jaw. Once again the boxer stepped back to dodge; but this time the swing had been no more than a feint. And as Victor stepped back, Roger came forward and crashed his left fist into the toothless, noseless face. It was a hard blow; hard enough to bark his knuckles. But it did not make Victor stop. It merely wiped from that brutal face the look of assumed geniality. Victor had not meant to be hit; he had not expected to be hit. He had planned to play with this raw stripling; to amuse the crowd at his expense; to make an exhibition of his own skill. It was his self-esteem that that blow had hurt. The thin lips set tighter over the toothless gums. A hard light came into the narrow eyes. ‘So that’s it, is it?’ he muttered. ‘Well, we’ll see.’

  He swayed forward, low-bent, his fists moving before his eyes. He half hit with his left, then with his right; then with unforeseen swiftness his left fist landed on the bridge of Roger’s nose. It was a stinging blow that brought the tears involuntarily into Roger’s eyes. Roger groped forward with his left. As he did so, Victor jolted his right fist into his side, three inches below the heart.

  It was the greatest agony that Roger had ever known. Every ounce of breath had been knocked out of his body. He lay on the ground, completely conscious, completely impotent. He could see with blurred eyes the grinning face of his opponent, could hear the peasants laughing and chatting together, could hear his father’s carefully cadenced, exquisitely bored voice: ‘That was too easy a job for you, I’m afraid’; could hear his own moans and whimpers as breath by agonizing breath the air fought its way back into his lungs. Of that of all things he was most ashamed. If only he had been hit senseless to the ground, to He like a log till people flung water over him. There would have been some glamour about such a beating. But to He on the ground, gasping and whimpering like a baby, in complete control of his senses. If only he could stop those groans. But he could not. They were wrung from him involuntarily. There was nothing to do but He there, the brutal, mocking face of his conqueror clear before his eyes, the sound of his conqueror’s voice ringing in his ears.

  ‘Come on, now, I’ve had enough of this,’ said Victor finally. ‘He’s spoiling my market snivelling there. Take him away, someone.’

  So they helped him up, some half-dozen of them, and carried him, still gasping and groaning, to the outside edge of the ring. He was too weak, too weary to protest. In limp silence he listened to their condolences, surrendering himself to their restoratives. Then, when breath had returned to his body and strength to his knees, he lifted himself from the ground and slunk slowly away to a booth where they sold drink.

  Dejectedly he sat upon a bench, a glass of wine beside him, gazing at the ground. So that was that, then. He had had his chance, and he had made himself ridiculous. He had been laughed at by a low prize-fighter, by ignorant, uncouth peasants, and in his father’s presence. He had not even given a creditable display of courage. He had just lain on the ground, whimpering like a baby. He had won his father’s contempt rather than respect. He had had his chance and he had missed it.

  It was while he sat there brooding, that a group of young men and women came up to him.

  ‘We’re just
going to start a dance,’ they told him. ‘Come and join us.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m tired.’

  But the party was not to be put off lightly. They were young, they were gay, they had been drinking.

  ‘No, no,’ they insisted, ‘you must come with us.’

  And when he again refused, one of the girls, a dark-eyed buxom wench, stepped forward. ‘You wait. I think I know how to make him.’ Her voice had a mischievous pitch to it.

  Seating herself upon Roger’s knee, she put an arm about his neck, ran her fingers through his hair and with her cheek close against his ear began to whisper.

  But Roger was in no mood for gallantry. Impatiently and roughly he pushed her away.

  ‘Oh, so it’s that way, is it?’

  With the drinker’s quick change of front she swung over to ill-humour. Her hands on her hips, her legs straddled, her eyes fiery, she stood before him.

  ‘I suppose you’re too high and mighty. You didn’t look half so grand half an hour ago when you were sprawling on the grass.’

  From behind her went up a shout of laughter. Delighted and emboldened by the applause she tossed her head back haughtily.

  ‘I suppose you think you’re a man because you can go into a ring and fight. You didn’t look much of a man there, I can tell you. You looked a baby blubbering on the ground.’

  It was more than Roger was prepared to stand. The crowd of gibbering young men and women swam before him. By his side there was a stool. He grabbed it up.

  ‘Child?’ he shouted. ‘I’ll show you,’ and flung the stool into the grinning crowd.

  There was a crack like splintered glass as the stool, flung straight and hard, landed in the group; a startled cry of agony; a gasp; a moan or two; then silence. After the silence there was a sudden buzz of whispering from down-peered faces, with the man in charge of the booth hitting Roger warningly on the shoulder.

  ‘Quit; quit fast before there’s trouble.’

  ‘What’s happened?’