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Updated: May 16, 2025
I can hear, now as I write, the uncouth croak from which Krok got his name, but which to us, in those awesome places, was sweeter than music. And I can hear the beating of his stick on the rocks to guide us in the dark, one blow to tell us where he was; two, to look out for difficulties; three, water.
He was said to be Spanish. He was said to be Scotch. Wherever he was born, he was by nature an honest man and faithful as a dog. My grandfather had taken a liking to him, and when he quitted the sea Krok followed him, and became his man and served him faithfully.
From a distant field, where they were busy with their hay, my grandfather and Krok saw us passing along the road, and straightened up and shaded their eyes with their hands, and then waved us heaps of good luck, and we jogged on along the road to the Eperquerie. It was a day of days a perfect Midsummer Day.
He and Krok gave me all they had to give; and, without vainglory, but simply as grateful testimony to their goodness, I think that at two-and-twenty I knew as much as any of my age in Sercq, and more than most. I knew too that there were things I did not know, and did not care to know, and for that, and all the higher things, I have to thank my dear mother and my grandfather.
"Young blood must have its chance, you know. And change of pasture is good for young calves, as Jeanne Falla says." "Hasn't he had change enough?" "Where is Philip?" "Down vraicking with Krok in Saignie. A big drift came in this morning, and we want all we can get for the fields." "Give them a hand, Phil, and then bring your grandfather along. And I'll talk to your mother."
Truly when it all came back on me like that I felt inclined at times to loose my hold and have done with life. And then the thought of Carette, and my mother, and my grandfather, and Krok, would brace me to further precarious clinging with a warming of the heart, but chiefly the thought of Carette, and the good-bye she had waved to me from the point of Brecqhou.
There, in the mythical legendary past of Bohemia had dwelt the shadowy Libuscha, daughter of Krok, wife of King Premysl, foundress of Prague, who, when wearied of her lovers, was accustomed to toss them from those heights into the river.
Krok pondered all this, and then, pointing ahead to the bristle of rocks in front and to himself, and then to me and the wounded man and to Jersey, I understood that he would land on the Ecréhous and build the shelter, while I took the wounded man on to Jersey to find a doctor. And that chimed well with my ideas.
He could neither read nor write at that time, and his only vocal expression was a hoarse croak like the cawing of a crow, and this, combined with ample play of head and hand and facial expression and hieroglyphic gesture, formed his only means of communication with his surroundings. The sailors called him Krok, from the sound he made when he tried to speak, and Krok he remained.
And your boat is safe in the top nook of Port du Moulin, all covered over with sailcloth and gorse. Krok and I did it, and he will soak it for ten days before you come home, and have it all ready for you." "The dear old Krok!" "Oh, we have taken very great care of it, I assure you. But maybe you will be too grown-up to care for it by the time you get back." "Perhaps!"
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