Arnaud’s first care was to gather up the scattered threads of the
Vaudois powers, and to unite them, as far as might be, into one cord--a
cord which should be firm enough to hold out against the sharp tension
that must come.
He had himself been to Holland to confer with William of Orange, the
hope of the Protestant world. To him he had unfolded the Waldenses’
darling project, a project that seemed wild and hopeless enough when put
into words. But Dutch William’s soldierly heart warmed as he listened,
and for once he threw his diplomatic caution to the winds, as he said:
‘Try it, and may God prosper you! If events that I foresee come
straightly off the reel, I may be presently in a position to give you
aid, a better position than I have now. Go on! trust in yourselves, and
trust in God!’
Arnaud recalled those concluding words many and many a time in the
months that followed. It would not be timorous and divided hearts that
would win the end they held in view; it must be brotherly trust in one
another, devoted trust in their fathers’ God, that alone could lift them
on victoriously.
It was on the 16th of August, 1689, that the rendezvous was fixed on the
wooded shores of the upper lake. The summer foliage was thick upon the
forest, dense enough to hide the bands of men who came trooping there
from all parts of Switzerland. They had to avoid the eyes not only of
enemies, but of friends; the magistrates of Chillon and Aigle and Nyon
were all on the watch to stop the passage of the Vaudois, as they had
stopped the former attempt; but so quietly did they gather, so
carefully did they keep their counsel, that the deep woods sheltered
more than nine hundred men before the sun went down that day, and that
without any suspicion having been excited amongst the Swiss.
Nine hundred men; a small army to attempt the conquest of the valleys,
where the soldiers of Savoy were holding the passes, the bridges, and
the forts. Undisciplined and ill-armed they were, without stores or
means of transport, and without money. Well they knew the dangers that
were before them, the privations and fatigues, the scorching heat of the
low-lying lands, the bitter snows of the mountains; but in all that
crowd of resolute men there was not one who quailed or shrunk.
‘Father,’ said Gaspard, standing by the old man’s side and watching the
rugged face wistfully as he spoke, ‘Father, wilt thou not abide here,
and let me strike thy blow as well as mine own? This arm is surely
strong enough; and the thought of thee here, and my mother and Rénée
yonder, will nerve it to double strength. Can it not be so? Wilt thou
not return in peace to Geneva?’
Henri Botta shook his head; his words were few at any time, fewest when
deeply moved.
‘Nay,’ he said; ‘the sons of the Vaudois are but a remnant now, each
hand must do its best. Our cause is just. As Israel of old seized sword
and buckler to keep hold of the land the Lord had given, so we will
fight for the land where our fathers held high the standard of the truth
which is in Christ Jesus, the land which is our rightful heritage.’
Gaspard would have urged his point yet further, but the old man would
not hear; and in his heart the son knew how impossible it was
that Henri should stay at Geneva, feebly trying in loneliness and
longing-heartedness to accomplish the task that should earn his daily
sustenance. The worn-out body would flag and utterly fail if he were
left behind while the rest marched out to regain, if so it might be,
their fatherland. And yet, worn and aged as he was, how was he to battle
through the dangers that lay before Arnaud and his band?
The sun set; the sweet summer night was silent and serene; the water
lapped the flowering rushes and broke in ripples against the rocky
shore; a star or two shone in the gleaming sky, and beyond the far
horizon-line the shimmer of moonlight was creeping up the east.
The men stood in groups among the trees, strange thoughts thronging
about their hearts--a solemn sense of present peril, and eager longings
to take the first step of their great enterprise; but they stood quietly
for the most part. Such times as these are not times for talk, and the
trouble-trained Vaudois had learned to possess their souls in silence.
It was two hours from midnight; presently a voice broke over the
stillness--it was the leader, Arnaud, and his words were words of
prayer. Kneeling there in the shadow of the trees, his eyes lifted to
that growing eastern radiance, he poured out his pleadings--he asked for
Divine help where other help was small and scant; for Divine guidance
where a guiding hand would be so sorely needed; for Divine strength to
fill the failing hands and brace the feeble knees. ‘Thou hast helped our
fathers throughout the long ages, O God of our hope! help us still,
according to Thine ancient promises. Be favourable to the simple and the
needy, and preserve the souls of the poor; that our tongues may talk of
Thy righteousness, and the mountains bring peace to Thy people!’
Gaspard heard the deep tones of his father’s ‘Amen.’ The old man’s face
showed sharp against the gleam of the sky, and upon it was a look that
silenced Gaspard’s fears. Henri Botta was asking for the strength that
is greater than all human powers, the strength that is never denied. One
sharp pang shot through Gaspard’s heart, and then the bitterness of his
anxiety was gone for ever. Failure, death itself might be before them;
but he felt, he knew, that God would care for His aged servant, and lift
him safely to the shores of that country where the nations shall be
healed.
Across the still stretches of the Geneva water, over the sleeping lake
into the shadow of the further shores; then, landing on the Savoy side,
and marshalling their ranks in such brave battle-front as they could
show, these nine hundred men began their march.
Their historian[B] says: ‘They were a small company to attack Savoy--a
company, on the other hand, far too numerous for the slender means of
sustenance to be found in the by-places through which they intended to
go; an untrained assemblage formed of persons of every age, hardened, it
is true, by toil, but yet strangers to military discipline and
manœuvres. What would become of them as they pressed on, forcing
their way against an armed resistance, through inhospitable tracts and
deep defiles, by the sides of precipices, and over rocks crowned with
eternal snow? Now alone on the strand of the lake they have just
crossed, they tread on the soil they are about to bathe with their sweat
and their blood. No illusion deceives them; the hard reality, with its
dangers and privations, is before their eyes, stern as the truth. But no
one draws back. The prize of the conflict seems to them worthy of the
highest sacrifices; it is a terrestrial home, to the recollection of
which they have attached their faith and hope of salvation in Christ
Jesus. In setting out, sword in hand, to reconquer it their hearts are
at ease, for their cause is just.... They desire to remain under the
observation of God, the righteous Judge, and beneath His holy
protection. They hope to repeat on their march, and in every encounter,
“Jehovah is our Banner.” ’
[B] Antoine Monastier.
* * * * *
The blessed summer-time brought beauty once more to the valleys. The
flowers shone again in the deserted gardens, and the garlanded leaves of
vines hid the breaches in the shattered walls of Rora.
Madeleine Botta came of sturdy mountain race, and her vigour came again
to her with the throbbing, teeming life of the summer world. It was
Rénée now whose strength flagged, Rénée whose eyes were lustreless, and
whose footsteps were slow.
The months, long weary months, had told on her courage and broken her
spirit; it was in the spring of 1687 when the thunderbolt of desolation
had fallen on her home, when the house-master and Emile and her own
Gaspard had gone out to keep the barricades. It was high summer-time
when Gaspard had crept away from their cave shelter, and she had dashed
the tears from her eyes, that her vision might hold him, clear and
unbedimmed, until he had turned that sharp angle of rock where the
broken bridge lay damming up the stream. It was again the summer when
Madeleine lay so nigh to death, and she, in lowliness and sore distress,
fought with the fever that threatened to rob her of her ‘mother.’
And now again it was summer-time. Was the brightness but empty mockery?
Was the sunshine to gladden all the world save the homes of the Vaudois,
and the heart of Rénée Janavel?
Madeleine watched her in silence. She knew something, and guessed more,
of this heart-sickness that weighed upon the girl’s elastic nature until
her Rénée seemed as limp and nerveless as one of the unpropped vines in
yonder ravaged valley. She did not sympathise nor seek by word of
counsel to probe or heal the hurt. She waited with the trustful patience
that was part of her character until her spoken sympathy could be
followed out by help.
Some semblance of peace had come to the country-side; the professors of
the ‘new religion’ had been driven out with sword and with fire: and
there must needs be cessation of persecution when none are left to be
persecuted. Even such refugees and stragglers as had hidden in the
mountains had mostly perished or been seized ere this, and even the
priests and preaching friars were content with their finished work, and
let their energy in heretic-hunting slacken down.
Madeleine and Rénée ventured occasionally into the empty villages, and
walked abroad upon the upper slopes, even by daylight. There were some
cottagers dwelling on the foot-road to Casiana, who, although Romanists,
were as friendly as they dared to be; and from them Madeleine now and
then heard stray scraps of intelligence; she had been kind to them in
years gone by, and even the fury of the death-decrees that had desolated
the valleys had not quite extinguished their memories of gratitude.
Indeed, during the last winter they had given more than kind
words--many a great cake of black-bread, many a bag of chestnuts and
handful of barley-meal had found its way to the refuge on the cliff; and
when the two women had expostulated they would be told that it was but
part of the produce of their own lands, which had been divided amongst
the Catholics by the duke. ‘And,’ the kindly words would finish with,
‘and, if you are so very particular, Henri and Gaspard shall pay us for
all when they come back again.’
But Rénée shuddered when she heard that: she had hoped for long and
long, but now her hope was dead. Neither the house-master nor Gaspard
would ever come back!--so she believed, in her dreary despair.
In the long June days Madeleine heard news which made her decide on
trying to light again the dead hope in Rénée’s heart. Some rumours of
what was happening in the great centres of life, in Paris, and Vienna,
and Turin, penetrated as far as Luserna, and echoes reached the friendly
cottage on the Casina road, and finally were heard by Madeleine.
Savoy was stripped of troops; the duke had need of all his soldiers in
Piedmont; the King of France was fighting with the emperor and the
Dutch; and the Vaudois were massed in the cantons of Switzerland,
looking with longing eyes at the hill-ranges of their native land.
‘Child,’ said Madeleine, ‘once, long months ago, you spoke of creeping
away to the Swiss country, to live in security where God has granted
freedom to serve Him unchidden. Do you remember, dear? and how I felt I
could not face the weary journey, nor bear to see you go alone? And----
’
‘Mother!’--the interruption came with a flash of the girl’s old
spirit--‘mother! would it be possible for me to have left you?’
‘Dear child! but there is now no question of leaving me--we will go
together, Rénée; and it may be we shall find our dear ones yonder; and
God’s sun shall shine upon my eventide in those blessed lands where
there is yet the daylight of His truth.’
[Illustration: BREAD FOR THE WAYFARERS.]