THE NIGHT ATTACK.
Particular orders had been issued by the Count de Morseiul that no
offence should be given to the religious feelings of the Catholics:
and, in issuing his commands for the occupation of the little chapel
at the bottom of the hill, he had directed that the building
appropriated to the ceremonies of the church should not be entered,
except in case of necessity; the porch and the sacristy being taken
possession of, and the piece of consecrated ground around it, which
was strongly walled, affording a sort of fort, in which the men
constructed huts, or set up their tents.
They were accustomed, indeed, to abide in the forest, and found no
difficulty or discomfort in taking their night's rest where they were.
Three fine spreading yew trees, of unknown age and immense thickness,
afforded a pleasant shelter to many; and wine, which had been found
plentifully in the hamlet above, as well as in a little town at no
great distance, flowed liberally amongst a body of men who had fought
hard and marched long since the morning.
There was a great difference, however, to be remarked between them and
the religious insurgents of more northern countries; for though both
the sterner fanaticism which characterised Scotland and England not
long before, and the wilder imaginations and fanciful enthusiasms of
the far south were occasionally to be found in individuals, the great
mass were entirely and decidedly French, possessing the character of
light, and somewhat thoughtless gaiety, so peculiar to that
indifferent and laughter-loving nation.
Thus, though they had prayed earnestly, after having fought with
determination in the cause which to them was the cause of conscience,
they were now quite ready to forget both prayer and strife, till some
other cause should re-produce the enthusiasm which gave vigour to
either.
They sat in groups, then, round fires of an old apple tree or two
which they had pulled down, and drank the wine--procured, it must be
acknowledged, by various different means; but though they sang not, as
perhaps they might have done under other circumstances, nothing else
distinguished them from any other party of gay French soldiers
carousing after a laborious day.
Herval and Virlay, as the commanders of that peculiar body, had taken
possession of the little sacristy, and made themselves as comfortable
therein as circumstances admitted. They were both somewhat inclined to
scoff at, and do dishonour to every thing connected with the
ceremonies of the church of Rome; but the commands of the Count were
still sufficiently potent with them to prevent them from indulging
such feelings; and they remained conversing both over the events of
the day, and also over past times, without any farther insult to the
Roman Catholic faith than merely a scornful glance towards the
vestments of the priests, the rich purple and lace of which excited
their indignation even more than many articles of faith.
Several hours of the evening had thus worn away, and their
conversation, far from being like that of their men without, was sad,
dark, and solemn. The proximity of the convent had recalled to the
mind of Herval the situation of her he had loved; and though they
talked much of her fate, yet by some peculiar accident, which we shall
not attempt to explain, that subject, dark and painful as it was, did
not disturb his mental faculties as might have been expected. It
produced, however, both on him and on Virlay, that dark and profound
gloom, from which actions of a fierce and cruel nature more frequently
have birth, than even from the keen and active excitement of strife
and anger.
"Ay, and your child, too, Virlay," said Herval: "it is strange, is it
not, that we have not yet found her? I should not wonder if she were
in this very convent, up here upon the hill. The Count will not surely
want you to leave it unsearched, when we march to-morrow."
"It matters little whether he do or not," replied Virlay. "Search it I
will; and that as soon as it be grey day-light. My child I will have,
if she be in France: and, oh, Herval, how often, when we are near a
monastery or a convent, do I long to put a torch to the gate of it,
and burn it all to the ground!"
"No, no," replied Herval, "that would not do; you would be burning the
innocent with the guilty."
"Ay, true," answered Virlay, "and thus I might burn my own poor
child."
"Ay, or my Claire," replied Herval,--"that is to say, if she had been
living, poor thing! You know they shot her, Paul. They shot her to the
heart. But as I was saying, you might burn your own poor child, or the
child of many a man that loves his as well as you do yours."
"I wonder if she be in there," said Paul Virlay. "Why should I not
take ten or twelve men up, and make them open the gates and see?"
"Better wait till day," replied Herval; "better wait till day, Virlay.
They have thousands of places that you might miss in the night. Hark!
some one knocked at the door--Who is it? Come in!"
"Only a poor old woman," replied a voice from without, half opening
the door, "only a poor old woman soliciting charity and peace;" and a
minute after, with timid and shaking steps, a woman, dressed in a grey
gown like the portress of some convent, gradually drew herself within
the doorway, and crossed herself twenty times in a minute, as she
gazed upon the two Protestants sitting with the gloom of their late
conversation still upon their faces.
"What do you want, old woman?" said Herval sharply. "Don't you know
that you risk a great deal by coming out at this hour? My men are not
lambs, nor wood pigeons, nor turtle doves."
"Oh, Heaven bless you, Sir, I know that," replied the old lady, "and
in a great fright I am too: but after all I'm the least in a fright in
the convent; and Sister Bridget--when she came to me with her teeth
chattering in her head just after the men had come round and knocked
at the door, and swore they would burn the place to the ground before
morning--she talked so much about my courage, that I thought I had
some, and agreed to come down; and then when she had got me out, she
locked the wicket, and vowed I should not come in till I had been down
to do the errand. So I came quietly on, and through the little gate,
and got out of the way of the great gate, because I saw there were a
number of fires there; and when I saw a light under the sacristy door,
I said to myself, the officers will be in there, and they will be
gentler and kinder----"
"Well, and what was your errand when you did come?" demanded Herval
sharply.
"Why, Sir," replied the old woman, "we have a young lady amongst us--"
Paul Virlay started suddenly on his feet--"and a sweet young lady she
is too," continued the poor old nun, "as sweet a young lady and as
pretty as ever I set my eyes on, and she told our good lady mother,
the superior----"
"What is her name, woman?" cried Paul Virlay, advancing upon the poor
sister who retreated before him, but who still, with woman's intuitive
tact in such things, saw that she had got the advantage. "What is her
name, woman? It is my child! Oh, Herval, it is my child!"
"So she said to my lady mother," continued the good nun, as soon as
she could make her voice heard; "so she said to my lady mother, that
she was sure that if her father was in the Count of Morseiul's camp,
he would come up in a minute with a guard of men to protect the
convent--especially if he knew that we had been kind and good to her."
"Where is she?--Take me to her," cried Paul Virlay. "Woman, take me to
my child.--I will bring a guard,--I will protect you. Where is my poor
Margette?"
"Are you her father, then, Sir?" demanded the old woman. "Is your name
Monsieur Virlay?"
"Yes, yes, yes," cried he impetuously: "I am Paul Virlay, woman."
"Then, Sir," she replied, "if you will bring up a guard and undertake
to protect the convent, you can have the young lady, only pray----"
"I will take a guard," cried he; "do not be afraid, woman! Nobody
shall hurt you. I will take a guard," he continued speaking to Herval,
as if in excuse for taking away part of the men from an important
post, "I will take a guard for fear there should be men up there, and
they should want to keep Margette. The Count said, too, that the only
reason he did not occupy the convent was, that he did not like to
disturb the nuns. Now, when they ask it themselves, I may well go. You
can send for me in a moment if I be wanted."
"There is no fear of that," replied Herval; "go, in God's name, and
see your child."
Paul Virlay hastened away, drawing the old woman by the arm after him,
while Herval remained behind shaking his head, with a melancholy
motion, and saying, "He will see his child again, and she will cling
round his neck and kiss his cheek, and they will be happy: but I shall
never see my poor Claire, as long as I linger on upon this dull
world." He paused, and leaning his head upon his hand, plunged into
melancholy thought.
There was a little bustle without, while Virlay chose out such men as
he thought he could best depend upon, and then, that part of the camp
did not exactly sink into tranquillity, but the general noise of the
party was less. There was still loud talking amongst the men, and wine
seemed to have done its work too, as in one or two instances,
especially near the little sacristy, where the wilder and less
tractable of Herval's band had been placed to be under his own eye,
the psalms with which the evening had begun had deviated into gayer
songs; and he sat and listened gravely, while one of the men near the
door carolled to his comrades a light ditty.
SONG.
In the deep woods when I was young,
Sly the happy, happy sunshine stole.
Under the green leaves, where the birds sung,
And merry, merry music filled the whole;
For Mary sat there,
And all her care
Was to outsing the linnet,--Dear little soul!
Through the long grass, then would I steal,
In music and sunshine to have my part.
That no one was coming, seemed she to feel,
Till the warm kiss, made the sweet maid start.
Then would she smile,
Through her blushes the while,
And vow she did not love me,--Dear little heart!
The sunshine is stealing still through the trees.
Still in the green woods the gay birds sing,
But those leaves have fall'n by the wintry breeze,
And many birds have dropped, that were then on the wing,
All, all alone,
Beneath the cold stone,
Lies my sweet Mary!--Poor little thing!
Herval wept bitterly. It was one of the songs of his own youth, which
he had himself sung in many a joyous hour: a song which was the
master-key to visions of early happiness, and touching in its light
emptiness upon all the most painful themes of thought. The song, the
dear song of remembered happiness, sung at that moment of painful
bereavement, was like a soldier's child springing to meet its father
returning from the wars, and unconsciously plunging the arrow head
deeper into the wound from which he suffered.
As he thus sat and wept, he was suddenly roused by the sound of a
single musket shot at no great distance, and starting up, he listened,
when loud cries from the other side of the chapel caught his ear, and
he rushed out. All was dark; not a star was in the sky; but the air
was free from vapour, and looking towards the spot from which the
sounds proceeded, he could see a dark body moving rapidly along the
side of the hill, beyond the enclosure round the chapel. The shot that
had been fired was not returned, and hurrying up to the spot as fast
as possible, he clearly distinguished a column of infantry marching
along at a quick pace in that direction, and evidently seeking to
force its way between the convent and the chapel. There was none but a
single sentry in that direction--the man who had discharged his
musket--and Herval exclaimed in agony, "Good God, how is this? They
have been suffered to pass the morass and the stream!"
"I fired as soon as I saw them," replied the man; "but Virlay carried
off all the men from down below there, and marched them up to the
convent."
Herval struck his clenched hand against his brow, exclaiming, "Fool
that I was to suffer him!" Then rushing back as fast as possible, he
called all the rest of his troop to arms, and with the mere handful
that assembled in a moment, rushed out by the gate through which the
portress of the convent had entered, and attempted to cast himself in
the way of the head of the enemy's column.
It was in vain, however, that he did so. A company of light infantry
faced about, and met his first furious attack with a tremendous fire,
while the rest of the force moved on. The sound, however, of the
combat thus commenced, roused the rest of the camp, and the Count of
Morseiul, himself on foot, and at the head of a considerable body of
the most determined Huguenots, was advancing, ere five minutes were
over, not to repel the attack of the enemy--for by what he saw, Albert
of Morseiul instantly became aware, that, his camp being forced at the
strongest point, it was in vain to hope that the King's army could be
repulsed--but at least to cover the retreat of his troops with as
little loss as possible.
All the confusion of a night combat now took place, the hurrying up by
the dull and doubtful light; the cowardice that shows itself in many
men when the eye of day is not upon them; the rashness and emotion of
others, who indeed are not afraid, but only agitated; the mistakes of
friends for foes, and foes for friends; the want of all knowledge of
which party is successful in those points where the strife is going on
at a distance.
As far as it was possible in such circumstances, Albert of Morseiul
restored some degree of order and regularity to the defence. Relying
almost altogether upon his infantry, he held the royalists in check,
while he sent orders to some of the inferior commanders to evacuate
the camp in as orderly a manner as possible, gathering the horse
together upon the brow of the hill, so as to be ready when the
occasion served to charge and support the infantry. His particular
directions were despatched to Monsieur du Bar to maintain his post to
the last, as the Count well knew that the forces of the Chevalier
d'Evran were sufficient to attack the Huguenot camp on both sides at
once.
Such, indeed, had been the plan of the Chevalier; but it was not
followed correctly. He had placed himself at the head of the attack
upon the side of the convent, as by far the most hazardous and
difficult. The officer who commanded the other attack was a man of
considerable skill, but he had with him the Intendant of the province;
a personage as weak and presumptuous as he was cruel and bigoted: and
insisting upon it, that the officer at the head of the troops had made
a mistake in regard to the way, he entangled him in the morass, and
delayed him for more than an hour.
Had the attack on that side succeeded, as well as that on the side of
the chapel, the little force of the Huguenots must have been
absolutely annihilated, and had the attack there even commenced at the
same time that it began on the other side, the disasters of that night
must have been tenfold greater than they proved. As it was, the Count
de Morseiul had time to offer at least some resistance, and to
organise his retreat. A horse was soon brought to him, and perceiving
by the firing on the flank of the enemy's column, that Herval and his
men were striving desperately to retrieve the error which had been
committed, he called up a small body of horse, and making a gallant
charge at their head, drove back some of the infantry companies that
interposed between himself and the chapel, and opened a communication
with Herval and the men. Giving orders to the officer in command of
the horse to make another rapid charge, but not to entangle his men
too far, the Count himself rode down to Herval, to ascertain what was
proceeding in that quarter. He found the man covered with blood and
gunpowder, raging like a wolf in the midst of a flock.
"Herval," he exclaimed, "a great mistake has been committed. A handful
of men could have defended that bridge against an army."
"I know it, Count, I know it," replied Herval. "I have been a fool,
Virlay has been a madman. I should never have trusted him by himself.
It is time I should die."
"It is rather time, Herval," replied the Count, "that you should live
and exert your good sense to remedy what is amiss. Do you not see that
by spending your strength here you are doing no good, and losing your
men every minute? Gather them together: quick, and follow me. We want
support, there, upon the hill. The chapel is untenable now. Quick:
lose not a moment. Good God!" he said, "they are not charging as I
ordered, and in another moment we shall be cut off!"
It was indeed as he said. The young officer, to whom he had given the
command, was shot through the head at the very moment that he was
about to execute it. The charge was not made; the body which had been
driven back by the Count were rallied by the Chevalier d'Evran; the
infantry of the Huguenots, which had been guarding the heights,
wavered before the superior force brought against them; and by the
time that Herval's men were collected, a large body of foot interposed
between the Count de Morseiul and the spot where he had left his
troops. Nothing remained but to lead round Herval's little force by
the hollow-way on the edge of the morass, and climbing the steeper
part of the hill, by the road that led to the little hamlet and farm
houses, to rejoin the principal body of the Protestants there, and to
make one more effort to hold the hamlet against the advancing force of
the royalists, till Monsieur du Bar had time to draw off his troops.
Ere the Count, however, could reach the ground where he had fixed his
own head quarters, both the infantry and cavalry, which he had left,
had been driven back, and, by a terrible oversight, instead of
retiring upon the hamlet, had taken the way to the right, along which
the other bodies of troops had been ordered to retreat. The royalists
thus, at the time that the Count arrived, were pouring in amongst the
cottages and farm houses, and when he reached the little knoll
immediately behind the house, where he had left Clemence de Marly, he
was instantly assailed by a tremendous fire from behind the walls of
the court yard, and the lower windows of the house itself. He had no
troops with him but Herval's band, and a small body of foot which
arrived at that moment to his assistance from the Marquis du Bar, and
he paused for an instant in agony of heart, knowing and feeling that
it was utterly hopeless to attempt to retake the farmhouse, and enable
Clemence to effect her escape. The grief and pain of a whole life
seemed summed up in that one moment.
"I will not," he cried, in the rashness of despair, "I will not leave
her without an effort."
Herval was by his side. "Sir," he said, "I must not live over this
night. Let us advance at all risks."
The Count gave the order, and the men advanced gallantly, though the
enemy's fire was terrible. They were actually scaling the wall of the
court-yard, when suddenly a fire was opened upon them from the houses
and walls on either side. Herval fell over amidst the enemy, the
Count's horse dropped at once under him, and he felt himself drawn
forcibly out from beneath the dying animal, and carried along by the
men in full retreat from that scene of slaughter.
"Here is a horse, Count,--here is a horse," cried a voice near him.
"Mount, quick, and oh take care of my poor girl. She is on with the
troops before. I have lost you the battle, and know what must come of
it."
The Count turned and saw Paul Virlay by his side; but before he could
reply the man left the bridle in his hand, and rushed into the midst
of the enemy.
Springing on the charger's back the Count gazed round him. Herval's
band was all in confusion; but beginning to rally upon the body of
infantry sent by Du Bar. The hamlet was in full possession of the
enemy: the only means of communication between Du Bar and the troops
that were retreating was along the hill side. Albert of Morseiul saw
that if he did not maintain that line, his gallant friend would be cut
off, and, for the moment, casting from his mind all the other bitter
anxieties that preyed upon it, he hastened to occupy a little rising
ground, terribly exposed, indeed, to the enemy's fire, but which would
protect the flank of his friend's little corps, while they joined the
rest who were in retreat. That he was just in time was proved to
Albert of Morseiul, by the sound of a load cannonade, which commenced
from the very direction of Du Bar's quarters; and, sending that
officer orders to retreat directly, he remained, for twenty minutes,
repelling every charge of the enemy; and, by the example of his own
desperate courage and perfect self-command, seeming to inspire his men
with resolution unconquerable. In the mean time the Marquis du Bar
retreated before the other body of royalists which had now come up,
and having seen his men in comparative safety, rode back, with a small
body of horse, to aid the Count in covering the retreat. The royalists
now, however, had gained their object; the camp of the Huguenots was
in their hands; the slaughter on both sides had been dreadful,
considering the short space of time which the strife had lasted; the
country beyond was difficult and defensible, and the order for
stopping further pursuit was given as soon as no more resistance was
made in the Huguenot camp.