The Story of Isaac Brock | Page 4

harbour of St. Peter's Port, separated by an arm of the sea, rose the Ortach Rock, between the Casquets and "Aurigny's Isle," a haunted spot, once the abode of a sorcerer named Jochmus. To secure quiet he would frequently visit this isolated place, in spite of the resident devil, the devil-fish, or the devil-strip of treacherous water which ran between.
He was not ten when, to the amazement of his friends in imitation of Leander but without the same inducements, he swam the half mile to the reefs of Castle Cornet and back again, through a boiling sea and rip-tides that ran like mill-races. This performance he repeated again and again. For milder amusement he would tramp to the water-lane that stole through the Moulin Huet, a bower of red roses and perfume, or walk by moonlight to the mystic cromlechs, where the early pagans and the warlocks and witches of later days flitted round the ruined altars.
Though Isaac was self-contained and resolute he had a restless spirit. Fearless, without a touch of the braggart, his courage was of the valiant order, the quality that accompanies a lofty soul in a strong body. For his constant courtesy and habit of making sacrifices for his friends, he was in danger of being canonized by his school-fellows.
About this time, shortly after his father's death, it was suggested he should leave the Queen Elizabeth School on the Island and study at Southampton. Here he tried his best, boy though he was, to live up to the standard of what he had been told were his obligations as a gentleman, acquiring, too, a little book-learning and much every-day knowledge.
Isaac's holidays, always spent in his beloved Guernsey, increased the thirst for adventure. The spirit of conquest, the controlling influence of his after life, grew upon him. Something accomplished, something done, was the daily rule. To scale an impossible cliff with the wings of circling sea-fowl beating in his face, to land a big conger eel without receiving a shock, to rescue a partridge from a falcon, to shoot a rabbit at fifty paces, to break a wild pony, or even to scan a complicated line in his syntax--these were achievements, small perhaps, but typical of his desire. His young soul was stirred; the blood coursed in his veins as the sap courses in the trees of the forest in spring; his mind, susceptible to the influences of nature, was strengthened and purified by these pursuits.
In the shelter of silent trossach, on wind-swept height, or on wildest, ever-restless sea, he would, as the mood seized him, take his solitary outings. These jaunts, he told his mother, gave him time to reflect and resolve. It was not strange that he selected a profession that presented the opportunities he craved.
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England with folded arms was at peace. The Treaty of Versailles had terminated the disastrous war with America. The independence of the "Thirteen States" had been recognized. The world was drawing a long breath, filling its fighting lungs, awaiting the death struggle with Napoleon for the supremacy of Europe. Yet the spirit of war lingered in the air. It even drifted on the breeze across the Channel to Guernsey, and filtered through the trees that crowned the Lion's Rock at Cobo. It invaded the valleys of the Petit Bot and stirred the bulrushes in the marshes of Havelet. The pulse of our hero throbbed with the subtle infection. Not with the brute lust for other men's blood, but with the instinct of the true patriot to shed, if need be, his own blood to maintain the right. He would follow the example of his ancestors and fight and die, if duty called him, in defence of king and country.
The sweet arrogance of youth uplifted him. Earth, air and water conspired to encourage him. To satisfy this unspoken craving for action he would, from his outlook on the Jerbourg crags--where bold Sir Hugh had sat for just such purpose years before--watch the Weymouth luggers making bad weather of it beyond the Casquets; or challenge in his own boat the rip-tides between Sark and Brechou, and the combers that romped between St. Sampson and the Isle of Herm.
There was no limit to this boy's hardihood and daring. The more furious the gale the more congenial the task. Returning from these frequent baptisms of salt water, his Saxon fairness and Norman freshness aglow with spray, he would loiter on the beach to talk to the kelp gatherers raking amid the breakers, and to watch the mackerel boats, reefed down, flying to the harbour for shelter. The crayfish in the pools would tempt him, he would try his hand at sand-eeling, or watch the surf men feed a devil-fish to the crabs. Then up the gray benches of the furrowed