THE FOUR ROADS
“On the road that goes northward the red foemen ride;
On the road that goes west, hark, the sob of the tide!
To the east a false comrade—to the southward . . . who knows?
And high up in heaven the black night-wind blows. . . .
But I’m for the saddle; one cup and we part,
Though all roads of the world hold a sword for my heart!”
—_The Roads of the World._
But they never got to Les Herbiers.
On that strange daybreak march a better, if a more hazardous, idea had
occurred to Gilbert. Between him and Les Herbiers lay Les Quatre
Chemins, the cross-roads where the highway from Nantes to La Rochelle
cut that from Saumur to Les Sables. Though nothing but the tiniest
hamlet had grown up at their intersection, the spot was strategically
of immense importance, for a force holding it could prevent supplies
and help from coming southwards. Château-Foix knew that his little
troop could not hope to block the way against any large contingent,
but no such contingent could yet have been got together; and smaller
bodies, if they knew the route to be cut, would hesitate before
adventuring upon it. He consulted Louis; he took the opinion of the
leading peasants, and bivouacked that evening among the hedges of the
Bocage.
The risk which he had taken had been justified. Not only had the
setting up of the white standard attracted scores more peasants from
the district, but a concentration of the two other larger Royalist
contingents already on foot was imminent. Gilbert de Château-Foix had
the honour of first possession of what was afterwards to be the
headquarters of the army of the centre, but at this moment, the
morning after his arrival, he was sharing it with others. M. de
Sapinaud de la Verrie, fresh from his victories at Les Herbiers and
Tiffauges, had just marched in two thousand strong, and the two MM. de
Royrand were momentarily expected.
The newcomer, on his big grey horse, sat talking to Gilbert in the
road. He was a well-built, handsome man of five-and-fifty, with a face
at once gentle and energetic. A cloudless blue sky smiled over the
two and over the characteristically Vendean landscape. Among the
high-banked fields, each exactly like the other, an army could have
encamped without its presence being discovered. Nowhere was there a
landmark. And every bank was topped with trees, leafless now, or only
flushed with green, but soon to be capable of affording cover. The
Chevalier’s own men were scattered about, resting after their march,
but in a field on the other side of the nearest hedge Louis was
attempting to instil some elementary principles of warfare into the
heads of the most promising recruits from Chantemerle, while Sapinaud
told the Marquis how the men of Saint-Florent, under Cathelineau and
Stofflet, after capturing Chemillé, had, the day before, taken Cholet
itself.
As he finished Louis dismissed his recruits, and, clambering through
the hedge, jumped down into the road. Gilbert presented him, and Louis
saluted the old soldier.
“You were drilling your men, Monsieur le Vicomte?”
“A very hopeless task, sir,” responded Saint-Ermay, smiling ruefully.
“And if only we had arms! How does one do musketry drill with
pitchforks?”
“Our first brush with the Blues will provide us with muskets,” said
Gilbert. “That is how your men got theirs, is it not, Monsieur le
Chevalier?”
Sapinaud nodded. “When we entered Les Herbiers we had only scythes,
fowling-pieces, or clubs. But we got three of our guns there, and some
at Tiffauges.”
This was encouraging; but afterwards, as the three went towards the
little cottage which served as Gilbert’s headquarters, Sapinaud spoke
very gravely of the terrible difficulty of getting the peasants to
face artillery fire, and they discussed the alternatives of devoting a
few days to drilling them, or of risking an engagement in order to
give them confidence. They were about to enter, when there was seen
coming down the Saint-Fulgent road a fresh body of peasants headed by
two horsemen. The riders pressed on, and in a moment or two were
dismounting and shaking hands.
The elder M. de Royrand, a retired lieutenant-colonel of musketeers,
was a tall, vigorous old man; his brother, somewhat younger, bore, in
the empty sleeve pinned to his breast, a memento of the naval battle
at Ushant where he had lost the arm which once filled it. Both wore
the cross of Saint Louis.
Louis caught his cousin by the arm. “You will not need me,” he said.
“If you do, you can send for me. I had better keep an eye on these
three armies; perhaps they won’t get on together.”
And, going out, he found himself in converse with a peasant who had
accompanied the newcomers, and discovered that his name was Cougnon.
It was he who, having been elected by his comrades as their leader,
had conducted them to M. de Royrand.
“M. Charles de Royrand is full of valour and goodness,” said he in his
heavy patois. “We must always have a noble to lead us.”
“And what arms have you?” asked Louis.
“Clubs and pikes,” answered Cougnon, waving his hand at his troop,
nearly all young men. “They were enough to frighten the National Guard
at Saint Fulgent,” he added, seeing the Vicomte’s face fall a little.
Saint-Ermay left him and walked slowly down the road, whose banks were
lined with peasants. More solemn and determined than elated was their
gaze at him as he passed them, sitting or standing against the hedges,
some with their wide-brimmed hats of Sunday and holiday wear, some
with their everyday reddish woollen caps on their long hair, cut short
on the forehead but left long and unkempt behind. Some of them were
wearing coarse white or blue stockings, others long gaiters of
homespun, but hardly one possessed any other footgear than wooden
sabots. Under their short waistcoats of white flannel or of grey serge
the bulging shirt affected by the Vendean was sometimes covered by a
handkerchief wound round the waist. A few had these handkerchiefs
stuffed with cartridges. There was not a cartridge belt among them,
nor was Louis ever to see one worn, for when they got them from their
enemies they threw them away, preferring to keep their ammunition in
their pockets or in these sashes. Most of them were young, or at best
middle-aged, but Louis saw one old man whose years were marked less by
his lined face than by the old-fashioned little pieces of wood which
fastened his waistcoat in lieu of buttons.
Some of the insurgents were at their prayers, some polishing their
weapons, though few had weapons of any distinction to polish. There
were deadly scythe-blades lashed to poles, many pitchforks, clubs in
plenty, even pointed sticks—fowling-pieces of all descriptions, but
hardly a musket. Two young men were armed with old bayonets, still
rusty, fastened to what appeared to be broom handles; one or two had
brought hoes, and over the shoulder of a peasant who knelt with his
back to the observer hung a large sickle. But every man had his rosary
round his neck or dangling from a buttonhole, and on almost every
breast was pinned or sewn the symbol of the Sacred Heart.
The rustic levy did not look likely material, and the young officer of
the Maison du Roi with difficulty restrained himself from shrugging
his shoulders as he walked along to the actual cross-roads. Here,
round a rude Calvary, some fifty peasants were telling their beads. He
pulled off his hat and passed on. Down the Chantonnay road, along
which they had marched the day before, the breeze was lightly raising
little swirls of March dust. And away in the distance was a larger
cloud. Louis screwed up his eyes, shading them from the sun; then he
sprang up the nearest bank. Yes, it was a rider, and one who came on
so fast that the beat of his hoofs had been audible but a few moments
before he was upon the watcher. Louis jumped down and held up his
hand, and the man, seeing that he had to do with a gentleman, pulled
up.
“From L’Oie, to warn you. . . .” he panted out. “A strong body of
patriots from Fontenay and Niort are on the way. They must have
reached Chantonnay by now.”
Louis said only two words: “With artillery?”
“I believe so.”
“Lend me your horse,” said Saint-Ermay sharply. And in a moment he was
tearing up the road through the groups of startled peasants, to break
up the council of war with news that rendered its deliberations
useless. There was not a minute to lose. One thing only was
determined—not to wait to be attacked, but to march to meet the enemy,
a decision which was received outside with acclamations.
And so a few thousand undrilled peasants, miserably armed, marched off
to battle under the conduct of five gentlemen, two of whom had never
seen active service. Down the sunny road they went, full of fervour,
chanting litanies, until the roll of the Republican drums came upon
their ears. And on this they were split by their leaders into a main
body, in the road, and two wings, one on either side, pursuing a
parallel course in the embanked fields.
Thus it was that only a part of them—those in the road—fulfilled
Sapinaud’s prediction, and would not face the hostile artillery. For
while their comrades were racing for cover across the fields, the main
body, pent between the high banks, perceptibly wavered as the first
projectile burst from the blue-coated mass in front of them. It was
the critical moment, and seeing it the younger Royrand, Royrand
Bras-Coupé, trotted forward in front of the hesitating ranks. “Mes
enfants, follow me! There is nothing to be afraid of!” he cried,
turning in the saddle. The next instant he and his horse were hurled
bodily across the road, and flung in one mangled wreck under the
hedge.
The foremost ranks broke and turned. Gilbert, from the field on the
right, saw it and ground his teeth. It was in vain that Sapinaud and
the slain man’s brother urged, entreated; the tangible evidence of the
power of artillery lay before the peasants in that crumpled mass at
the side of the road. But even as they turned from it affrighted,
huddling back like sheep, something like a miracle happened. Another
cannon ball thudded into the bank; the spot was wet from a spring—mud
flew in all directions. Ere the confusion had died away a peasant
sprang from the breaking ranks. “Forward, les gars!” he cried in a
voice of thunder; they have no more ammunition, they are firing with
mud!” And carried away by his amazing idea the terrified men rallied,
re-formed, began to advance, gained pace, poured along the road, and
broke like a torrent on the Republican ranks.
* * * * * *
Meanwhile Louis, to his no small disgust, had found himself told off,
with a party of picked marksmen, to line a hedge on the left, two
fields away. He had obeyed sighing, to find, when he got to his post,
that it was no sinecure. Directly his presence was discovered the bank
became a target. But he soon saw that his men were adepts at taking
cover; and if his service in the bodyguard had not been a very serious
training for war, it had taught him how to make himself obeyed, and he
soon steadied down his recruits to their work. Their deference,
indeed, amused him, when he considered that it was the first time that
he, no less than they, had been under fire, while many of them, as
poachers, were better shots than himself, and he nearly told them so.
At last, irritated by their well-directed fire, the Republicans
trained one of their guns on the objectionable hedge. Louis, taking
this as a compliment, leaped down from his post of observation,
assuring his men that they were perfectly safe. It was not a fact, but
it was stated with such cheerful confidence that, crouching behind
the bank, the peasants waited undismayed for the report which never
came. It was while they were thus waiting that the idea occurred to
Saint-Ermay to creep along under shelter of the bank and to open fire
again from a slightly different angle. In the execution of this
manœuvre the sound of fierce cheering burst upon his ears. He
scrambled to the top of the bank.
“By God!” he exclaimed, “they have done it! No, wait a moment, men—we
may be of more use here.”
From the top of the bank he could see across the intervening fields
into the road, full of a mass of swarming, struggling men. The
peasants, using their scythes and pitchforks with deadly and
unexpected effect, were all over the Republican guns. Suddenly a whole
swarm of Republicans poured over the next hedge and came diagonally
across the field towards Saint-Ermay’s post. There was no need to
speculate whether they were merely fugitives flying from the strange
onslaught, or were seeking to take Royrand’s men in the rear. They had
more the appearance of the former.
“Now is your opportunity!” cried the Vicomte, and his marksmen poured
a devastating fire into the advancing cohort. About a dozen dropped;
they paused, taken by surprise, then came on again wildly, firing
their pistols at the bank.
“Steady, mes gars, steady!” said Louis quietly. “Give it them again
and they’ll turn.” As he spoke the peasant next him fell forward with
a groan, shot through the head, but the volley rang out with deadly
effect. It was enough: the disorganised mass broke and turned.
Louis’ sword flashed out in the sunlight. “Now for a little fun!” he
laughed as he leapt down from shelter, and without a second’s
hesitation his men rushed after him.
Driving the fugitives before them they reached the road, the scene of
an indescribable confusion—captured guns, slewed half round, the
artillerymen, where they had stood to them, lying dead with ghastly
scythe wounds, peasants snatching up the sorely-needed muskets and
cartridges, a Republican officer, with his back to the hedge,
defending himself against three assailants and falling, ere Louis
could get to him, with his brains blown out. Away on the right
Saint-Ermay distinguished a mounted figure that looked like Gilbert;
he seemed—if it were he—to be urging on his men towards a gentle
slope, where a handful of Republicans were re-forming. Many of the
fugitives, too, were making for this point, but a large proportion
were shot down as they ran, for every hedge now held some cunning
marksman, and Royrand’s men, turning against them the captured guns,
soon dislodged those who reached the point of vantage.
The pursuit raged down the high-road as far as the quiet little
village of Saint-Vincent-Sterlange with its legendary fountain, and
here, some two hours later, Château-Foix, riding to and fro in the
street trying to re-form his men, came on Louis engaged in the same
task. He said nothing, but as he passed held out his hand and caught
his cousin’s in a momentary fierce grip.
That night when, still further reinforced by Baudry d’Asson and the
three De Béjarry brothers, they took possession of Chantonnay, both
Sapinaud and Royrand thanked the Vicomte for the tenacity and judgment
with which he had held his post. But after Gilbert’s unspoken greeting
the veterans’ praise was oddly tasteless.
* * * * * *
And yet two days later, on Passion Sunday, a dispirited body of men
were straggling back in drenching rain along the high-road to Les
Quatre Chemins. It was the victors of March 15th, for whom the veteran
general De Marcé and the troops of the line had proved too strong. De
Marcé had found the Royalists drawn up to meet him a mile beyond
Chantonnay, and for six hours, in torrential rain, he had withstood
their attack. The peasants would not face his guns. In vain Sapinaud
and Royrand had led them against the artillery, in vain they had
showed them how to throw themselves on the ground and let the
projectiles pass over their heads, in vain the two Chantemerle had
recklessly exposed themselves. They could not achieve the impossible.
De Marcé was in Chantonnay, and they were marching back beaten to
their former camp.
Château-Foix with his contingent brought up the rear. By his side, at
the moment, walked Louis, holding to his stirrup leather; he had given
up his own horse to one of his followers, a young man named Toussaint
Lelièvre, whom, shot through the leg, he had contrived to bring into
safety under a considerable fire. The cousins were silent; they could
not discuss the conduct of their men in the midst of them, and there
was not much else to say. The rain streamed down Gilbert’s hair, for
he was bareheaded, making it of a polished blackness. At times he
raised a bandaged bridle hand and wiped away the drops falling into
his eyes. He was wet, hungry, dispirited, anxious . . . and yet not
unhappy. He looked down at the plodding figure by his side.
“Are you tired, Louis?” he asked in a low voice. “Take my horse for a
little.”
Louis raised a face not so wet but much dirtier; a bullet striking a
bank had bespattered him with mud, which the rain, partially washing
off, had transformed to an uniform grime.
“No, thanks,” he said with a sort of resigned cheerfulness. “Besides,
if I am, I can have my own back again; my protégé ought not really to
be riding, I suspect, but I thought it would spare the men’s carrying
him.” And they relapsed into silence.
Gilbert had arranged to bivouac at the hamlet of L’Oie, a little
nearer to Chantonnay, and consequently a more dangerous post. But
there was no alarm that night from the direction of Chantonnay, and
the wearied, disheartened peasants slept in peace. The Marquis, whose
injured hand kept him awake, lay long looking at his cousin, stretched
on a couple of chairs in the profound slumber of youth and fatigue.
The dawn saw them both afoot, somewhat in expectation of marching
orders from the Four Roads. But none came, and Gilbert, when he rode
over there, found the elder soldiers determined to give their men a
day’s rest and to attack De Marcé again on the morrow. Towards
evening, everything being quiet, the Marquis suggested to his cousin
the propriety of making a little reconnaissance from the slightly
rising ground to the north of their cantonments, a proposal to which
Louis readily assented.
They were mounting this slight eminence when, without warning,
Gilbert’s mare shied violently at a clump of bracken.
“What is it?” queried Louis, quieting Saladin.
Gilbert pulled up. “I will see,” he said, tossing his reins to his
cousin, and, dismounting, went back to the fern. “It is a woman—dead,
I fear,” he said over his shoulder. He went round to the other side of
the clump, stooped, and gave a violent exclamation.
Roused by his tone, Louis flung himself off Saladin, and, dragging the
two horses after him, came to the place.
He saw first the skirt of a green amazone, then the whole slim length
of the body of a woman, a young woman, lying on the slope, one arm
flung wide into the fern, the other crooked under her head. Only the
breast of the amazone was darkly stained. His eyes travelled to her
face. . . . “O my God!” he said softly, and the reins fell from his
fingers. Gilbert slowly raised himself, and took off his hat, his
eyes, too, riveted on the dead face of her who had been Célie
d’Espaze.
There was a faint smile on her discoloured lips. A tress of the bright
brown hair was caught in the dead bracken; a ruby glowed on the lace
at her throat; but for her look she seemed cast there to sleep. The
cold horror of the moment was broken by no words; it lasted like a
spell while Louis, baring his head, sank to his knees and buried his
face in his hands. Gilbert did not look at him. The gold and white
room, the white dress and the gold couch, and the voice saying,
“Reflect that in this changing world I may some day be needing help
from you. . . . Next time that you are in Paris, my friend . . .”
Instead of these he stood with Louis by the body of the “adventuress”
with whose society he had not long ago taunted him. If only he had not
said that. . . .
Louis raised his head at last, and taking the gauntleted hand that lay
near him in the bracken he kissed it reverently and laid it back
again. Then he turned a grey face on his cousin. “God knows how she
came by this,” he said hoarsely. “We cannot leave her here.”
“She must have died instantly,” said Gilbert, half to himself. “I will
go back and send a party. You will stay by her?”
Louis nodded without speaking, and Gilbert left him kneeling there.
They buried her that evening. In her grave-clothes she was more than
ever the nun of Gilbert’s first impression. Where Louis spent the
night Château-Foix did not enquire, but it was not in their room.
Months afterwards he learned the truth—and assumed that Louis knew it,
too. Madame d’Espaze had quarrelled some two months earlier with
Lecorrier, and had left him for a former admirer, the Marquis de
Beaulieu, a revolutionary noble who commanded the National Guard of
Montaigu. When the peasants took Montaigu De Beaulieu was killed, and,
since he was cordially detested, his château was sacked. His mistress
fled, alone; it was said in the direction of Châtillon. Further than
that nothing was known; neither how she came to have lost her horse,
nor whose the hand, Royalist or Republican, that shot her, nor what
she was doing so far away from Châtillon. There were moments when
Gilbert wondered whether she could possibly have been making for
Chantemerle—if indeed she had been aware of its proximity—but that he
should not know now. Her name was never mentioned again between Louis
and himself; but it was many days before he, at least, could pass a
clump of bracken without expecting to see its yellow fronds entangled
with a woman’s hair.