LEGEND OF MOULIN HUET

LIZZIE A. FREETH

Guernsey:
Le Lievre, Printer, Star-Office,
10, Bordage Street.

1872.

CONTENTS

DEDICATION.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.

DEDICATION.

Though the story contained in the following pages has no connection with them, yet it is my wish to dedicate this little work to "The Conway Boys," and all those connected with that most invaluable institution, "H.M.S. Conway," lying at Rockferry, Birkenhead.

I have particular reason to speak well of the "Conway," as any "Boy" may know who may have been on board for the last five or six years, from the fact that two of my brothers, after passing a successful career under the careful teaching of the Rev. Henry O'Brien; L.L.D., Cork, continued to build on the good foundation laid, and left the "Conway" with credit both to their teachers and themselves. I shall always have pleasure in meeting with any "Conway Boy," and hearing of the good old ship to which I wish a long continuance of her success in preparing Boys creditably for one of the great sources of our national strength and wealth—"Our Merchant Navy."

I must just add a word of thanks to my friends in Guernsey and elsewhere, who so kindly encouraged and supported me when publishing on a former occasion, and whom I see, by reference to the subscription list, coming forward again—among some new friends—with a repetition of their kindness.

Montpelier, Guernsey, 1872.

CHAPTER I.

In the year 165–, when Cromwell had gained ascendancy in England and over the greater portion of the Channel Islands, there lived in Guernsey, at the Bay of Moulin Huêt, a miller of the name of Pierre Moullin. Unlike his class generally, he was a very morose man, hard in his dealings with the poor around him, and exceedingly unsympathizing in all his domestic relations, as will appear as our story unwinds itself. Before speaking of the family surroundings of Pierre Moullin we will glance at the circumstance which forms the basis of the present tale. Visitors to the Bay of Moulin Huêt, as well as to other parts of this and the surrounding Islands, may have observed a crimson appearance on the rocks, suggesting very sanguinary ideas, but for which, geologists doubtless, would be able to account in a very satisfactory manner. Looking at a portion of the original gully through which the water runs after passing through the mill wheel, we find that this crimson appearance is very visible, and as our purpose is not to raise scientific enquiries, we will take one of the fanciful reasons (of which there are two or three in existence), for this coloring on by the hand of Nature, which has so abundantly bedecked Guernsey in general, and Moulin Huêt in particular. Dipping into the Fairy lore of that part of the island, we find that many believe that some mischievous Fairies who annoyed the miller much with their nightly pranks were ground to pieces by the mill wheel becoming unfastened, and that their blood remains there to this day, as a warning to all others among the "good people" who might wish to vent their superfluous mischief in a like manner.

So much for the Fairy lore in the Moulin Huêt Chronicles; but we must turn our attention elsewhere to find out whose blood it was that thus dyed the watercourse of the Moulin Huêt Mill.

At the time of which we are speaking, (the opening of the year 165–) Pierre Moullin and his two children, a son and a daughter, lived in a house adjoining the mill, in fact, the same roof covered both mill and house, which were built facing the sea. The stream of water which turned the wheel was far more powerful than the present, as the old marks (still partially visible) denote. Pierre Moullin, like many of his fellow-islanders, was a strong adherent of Cromwell; his son Hirzel was also,—though perhaps he did not go quite as far as his father in his hatred of the Royalist party. He had nevertheless acquaintances among the Royalist soldiers who were quartered in the strong fortress at Jerbourg. One in particular he had made a great friend of—Charlie Heyward. Old Pierre often used to say he knew harm would come of this friendship, and felt his words were being proved true when he discovered that an attachment was springing up between his daughter Marguerite and the young soldier. On becoming aware of this his rage was unbounded, and he repeatedly said he would be the death of Charlie if he could manage it. He tried in every way to bring his son to his way of thinking, but though Hirzel did not much like the idea of his sister marrying a Royalist soldier, and besides which another friend and fellow-countryman of his Jacques Gaultier, was also much attached to the fair Marguerite, and had long persecuted her with his unwelcome attentions, still Hirzel would have done anything rather than have injured his friend Charlie, whom he liked well, though he did not like his principles. In Jacques Gaultier the old miller saw a ready tool towards gaining his wicked end of destroying Charlie. The latter did not think Pierre's hatred reached the extent it did, at the same time he was still aware there was no chance of his ever gaining the old man's consent to his marrying Marguerite.

One night Pierre sent his son to bring Jacques Gaultier saying, he wished to speak to him about taking some flour into the town next day. Jacques was only too delighted to get any excuse for going to the mill, and immediately said he would accompany Hirzel if he "would wait until he got something which he had been making for Marguerite."

"All right, Jacques, my boy, but look sharp, as the old man seems impatient to-night."

"Thy tone and way of speaking savour far more of the style of that base soldiery which our island is burdened with, than the tone of thy father's son should be," replied Jacques.

"Very well," said Hirzel, "I will promise to mend my ways, but do be quick, as I promised to walk with my sister at seven, and now it is nigh on half-past; and she says she needs my counsel much on a matter."

"Ah! thou art an impatient lad, but it would be worse with me were I in thy case; long till she'd ask me to walk with her, not I warrant were I dying for a look at her sweet face."

"Don't be down-hearted, Jacques, how know'st thou but that my sister may change her mind and look kindly on thee yet; wait till the Redcoats have gone down to the Castle, and then perhaps thy fishers' garb may find favour in her sight, but what hast thou got there? Some woman's trifles, which thou seem'st to understand better than I