The Return to Rochelle
The conference was brief. "Have you seen Count Louis?" I asked their
leader.
"No, monsieur, but we will help you to find him. Forward, brave boys;
another blow for the Cause!"
They replied with a cheer--oh, how those Englishmen cheered!--and we
raced on together, French and English, side by side, and death all
around us. I glanced at Roger; he had been wounded again, but there was
no time to speak.
The retreat in this part of the field had not become general; numbers of
soldiers in tolerably good order were still battling stubbornly, and
presently we reached the remnant of several troops of cavalry.
In front of them was the venerable Count of St. Cyr, his snow-white
beard sweeping to his waist.
"My lord," I said, riding up, "can you tell me where to find Count Louis
of Nassau?"
"Farther on the right, monsieur," he replied courteously; "but you will
find it difficult to reach him. Ah, here they come!" and, glancing
ahead, I perceived a cloud of horsemen preparing to swoop down upon us.
"Pray, my lord," pleaded his chaplain, who was close by, "say something
to encourage your troops. They are faint and weary with fighting, and
the odds against them are terrible."
The stout-hearted warrior turned to his followers. "Brave men need no
words!" he cried; "do as you see me do!" and they greeted his speech
with frantic cheers.
"You will be lucky to meet Count Louis after this!" cried Roger, as I
returned to my men.
The royalists swept forward, threatening to engulf us as the wild sea
swallows a tiny boat, and I must admit that my heart sank at sight of
them. But I was in the company of brave men, and following the flag of
as brave a leader as could be found in all France.
He glanced round at us; there was a proud smile on his resolute face;
his eyes glowed with fiery ardour.
"Charge, my children!" he cried, "and strike a last blow for St. Cyr!"
He pressed his horse's sides with the spurs, and waving his sword dashed
forward, his battle-cry, "St. Cyr!" ringing out high and clear. It was a
sight to make one weep, and yet feel proud that one's country could
produce such a hero.
Forward we went, and the air was filled with cries of "St Cyr! For the
Admiral! Hurrah! Hurrah!" as we plunged into the midst of the press.
"Forward, my children!" cried St Cyr, as he carved a passage for
himself through the throng; "forward!"
He was a splendid rider and a skilful swordsman, but his enemies closed
round him thickly. Savage blows rained upon him from every side, and at
last, with a "Fight on, my children!" the gallant veteran sank bleeding
to the ground. Montcontour cost France numerous brave men but none
braver than the chivalrous St. Cyr.
His fall, instead of dispiriting his followers, roused them to fury! No
one asked or gave quarter; it was a fight to the death, and when finally
we succeeded in breaking through the royalist horse, half of our number
lay lifeless on the plain. Some there were--St. Cyr's personal
attendants notably--so fired with grief and anger at the death of their
beloved chief that they were for turning back and renewing the combat.
This, however, was stark madness, so we galloped on, with the royalists
like sleuth-hounds on our track.
Presently they slackened their pace, and then abandoned the pursuit, for
we were approaching our cavalry, commanded by Count Louis of Nassau.
"You are welcome, brave hearts!" he exclaimed, "every man is needed,"
and his troops cheered us vigorously.
"My lord," I said, riding up and saluting, "I have come from the
Admiral; he begs that you will cover the retreat, for unless you can do
so all is lost."
"Where is the Admiral, monsieur?"
"My lord, when the centre broke, he was carried away by the rush. He
has been wounded in the head, and I fear seriously."
"Did you leave him in safety?"
"He was surrounded by his bodyguard; at least, by all those who were
left alive."
"Will the centre rally, think you?"
"There is no centre; it is a scattered mob. I fear there is no army
except the troops you have here. The left, I am sure, has given way."
He was about to reply when a cavalier galloped up to us. His horse's
sides were flaked with spume, and the gallant beast quivered in every
limb. The rider was deathly pale; one arm hung down limply, his side was
stained with blood. He rolled from side to side, having scarcely
sufficient strength to keep his seat in the saddle.
He endeavoured to salute Count Louis, while I, leaning forward, placed
my arm round his waist to support him.
"My lord," he said, "the Admiral----" and stopped helpless.
"'Tis one of Coligny's gentlemen," I exclaimed, "he has come on the same
errand as myself. There were three or four of us."
The wounded cavalier looked into my face. "Le Blanc!" he said feebly;
"it is all right," and with that his head fell forward, and he dropped
dead across his horse's neck.
"A brave and gallant gentleman!" exclaimed Count Louis. "France should
be proud of her sons!"
Lifting him from his horse, we laid him on the plain and turned away.
On that awful day no one had leisure for sorrow; the sorrow would come
afterwards.
It was useless now attempting to return to the Admiral, so I joined my
English comrade.
"You are hurt?" I said anxiously.
"A trifle; no more. Where is Bellièvre?"
"With the Admiral. Coligny is badly wounded. We have lost the battle."
"There is time to gain the victory yet!"
"You do not understand. The army is gone; it is a mere mob, utterly
helpless; we are the only troops left. The royalists are slaying at
their pleasure."
"In that case," said he gravely, "we have serious work before us. Who
was the noble old man killed in the last charge?"
"The Count of St. Cyr, one of the bravest gentlemen in the Huguenot
army. It will grieve the Admiral sorely to hear of his death."
"He was a splendid soldier. Ah, the bugles are sounding. Edmond, my
friend, I fear the worst of the day is still to come."
My English friend was right. What had gone before was the play of
children compared with what followed. We had the whole force of Anjou's
army opposed to us. Hour after hour we retreated, fighting every step of
the way. Of the eighteen thousand Huguenots who had marched out to
battle it seemed as if we alone remained. Again and again the royalists
bore down in overwhelming numbers; their heavy guns ploughed lanes
through our ranks; the arquebusiers pelted us with bullets unceasingly;
the horsemen charged with desperate fury.
But in spite of everything we held together; for if we once gave way the
doom of our beloved general was sealed.
"Remember, brave hearts," cried Count Louis, "that we are fighting for
the Admiral! We must die for Coligny!"
He himself displayed the most wonderful bravery; nothing daunted him;
beset by death on every hand he remained cool and resolute, rallying us
after every onset, rousing the faint-hearted by his own indomitable
courage.
At last the blessed darkness came to our relief. The rain of bullets
ceased; we no longer heard the thundering beat of galloping horses in
our rear, were no longer called to face about in order to repel some
fierce cavalry charge. The pursuit had stopped; the victors had returned
to celebrate their triumph.
We marched on in the darkness of the night, gloomy and weary. Some were
too tired and dispirited even to talk; others--but only a few--grumbled
bitterly at their leaders, telling each other that if this or that had
been done, we should have gained the victory. Many of the poor fellows
were badly hurt; some sank exhausted to the ground, from which they
would never rise again.
At Parthenay we overtook the Admiral and the few troops he had been able
to collect. When morning came, Felix was one of the first to meet me,
and I had never seen him so down-hearted. His bright smile, his happy,
cheery looks had all gone; he hung his head in shame.
"It is terrible, Edmond," he said; "the Cause is ruined, and we are
disgraced. I would rather we had all died on the field."
"Nonsense!" I replied, endeavouring to hearten him; "we are of far more
use alive than dead. And to be beaten is not to be disgraced. Had you
seen the Count of St. Cyr die you would not use that word. But what of
our chief? Is he seriously wounded?"
"His jaw is broken by a pistol-shot."
"Yet I warrant he has not given way to despair!"
"No," he replied with something of his old brightness, "a Coligny does
not despair."
"Nor does a Bellièvre!" I returned smiling. "We shall rally the runaways
in a few days, and Coligny will command an army again."
The defeat was, however, a heavier one than I guessed, and only Anjou's
folly saved us from utter destruction. Instead of hunting us down with
his whole force he turned aside to besiege St. Jean d'Angely, and thus
gave our leaders time to form fresh plans. Strong garrisons were sent to
defend Niort and Angoulême, while the main part of the beaten army
retired to Rochelle.
It was a dismal entry into the town. The citizens came to meet us, the
men sullen and downcast, the women white-faced and weeping. Many were
searching eagerly among the war-worn band for the dear ones they would
never meet again on earth. On that dreadful day scores of women learned
for the first time that they were already widowed, and that their
helpless little ones were fatherless.
Opposite the hotel I perceived Jeanne and my mother, and on seeing me
their faces lit up with happy smiles. I could not go to them then, but
the instant my duties permitted I ran again into the street. They were
still in the same place, waiting.
"I thank God for this blessing, my son," said my mother. "I feared I had
lost you for ever. Let us hasten home; you are weary and faint."
"But are you not hurt, Edmond?" cried my pretty sister. "Oh, how my
heart ached at sight of those poor wounded men! They must have suffered
torture on their long march!"
"Did Jacques not find you?" my mother asked presently.
"Yes, he was with me at the beginning of the last battle, but I have not
seen him since. He may have escaped though, for all that; numbers
besides ourselves got away. Bellièvre is safe, and so is Roger Braund.
They have acted like heroes!"
"I saw them both," said Jeanne, blushing prettily; "Monsieur Braund has
been wounded."
"Yes," I replied laughing, "he will need a skilful nurse. But where is
my father? Is he not still in Rochelle?"
"No," said Jeanne with a sigh, "an order came from the Admiral three
weeks ago for him to take fifty men to St. Jean d'Angely. I know it is
selfish, but I wish Edmond, oh, I wish he could have stayed with us. It
seems to me there is no safety outside the walls of Rochelle."
"Rochelle may be as dangerous as any other place," I remarked, not
caring to let them know that Monseigneur was marching on St. Jean
d'Angely. "But here we are at the house; does my aunt still keep her
room?"
"Yes," replied Jeanne with a smile, "though I believe her illness is
more fanciful than real. But she is very good and kind, and we humour
her fancies."
It was very pleasant to be home again; to see the loving looks and to
receive the tender caresses of my mother and sister. They were eager to
hear what had happened, and the tears came to their eyes as I described
the sufferings of my gallant comrades. They were brave, too, and instead
of being crushed by our defeat looked forward to happier times.
"Perhaps the king will stop the cruel war," said my mother hopefully,
"and let us worship God in peace. How can he think we wish to harm our
beautiful France? We ask so little; surely he could grant us our modest
request.
"I believe he would if it were not for his mother," I said, "and she is
afraid of the Guises. They are hand in glove with the Pope and the
Spaniards."
"Will Monseigneur try to capture Rochelle?" asked Jeanne.
"It is very likely, but he will not succeed; Rochelle can never be taken
by an enemy."
I stayed very late with them that night, for there were many things to
talk about, and they were so glad to see me that even at the end I was
loth to depart.
The next day my comrades, who purposely stayed away on the previous
evening, accompanied me home, and were made much of by my mother and
Jeanne.
These occasional visits were like oases in a dreary desert. We tried to
banish all thoughts of the war, and to talk as cheerfully as if there
were no misery in the land. But for Felix and me these days of happy
idleness speedily came to an end. There was much to be done, and Coligny
needed our services. Instead of being cast down by his reverse at
Montcontour, our leader was already planning a gigantic scheme which
should help to repair our broken fortunes.
Meanwhile the garrison at St. Jean d'Angely was offering a splendid
resistance to the enemy. Anjou was pressing the siege with vigour, King
Charles himself was in the trenches--I never held, as some of my
comrades did, that the king was a coward--but the handful of troops
defied the royal brothers and all their force.
One morning as our chief came from his chamber, the ante-room being
filled with his gentlemen and the leaders of the army, he stopped and
laid his hand with a kindly touch on my shoulder.
"My young friend," he said, "we are all proud of your father. The
reports from St. Jean d'Angely declare that he is the very heart of the
defence."
"I thank you, my lord, for your kind words," I stammered, blushing
crimson with pride, for to hear my father thus honoured was far sweeter
than any praise of myself could have been.
And a day or two later Rochelle was ringing with his name. Men lauded
his courage and prowess, speaking of him almost as if he were our
beloved leader himself.
Heading a body of troops in the early morning, he had sallied forth,
destroyed a big gun, and driven the besiegers pell-mell from the
trenches. Anjou had scowled angrily, but King Charles was reported to
have declared it a most brilliant feat of arms.
It was a proud day for all of us, but our joy was shortly changed to
mourning. Coligny, with most of his attendants, had left Rochelle for
Saintes; the rest of us, with two hundred troopers, were to depart the
next day. I had spent the evening at home, and accompanied by Felix had
returned to the hotel.
"Is that you, Le Blanc?" cried one of my comrades. "What means this
treasonable correspondence with the enemy?" and he handed me a sealed
packet.
"For me?" I exclaimed, taking it in surprise. "Where does it come from?"
"Ah," said he, laughing merrily, "that is a nice question to ask! One of
Monseigneur's rascals brought it under a flag of truce to the officer at
the gate, and he sent it here. I should have put you under arrest, and
forwarded the correspondence to the Admiral."
I looked at the letter curiously, and with a vague feeling of
uneasiness. It bore my name, but the handwriting was unfamiliar. "One of
Anjou's troopers!" I muttered.
I walked slowly away, still accompanied by Felix and carrying the packet
in my hand. I had no idea of the sender, nor of the contents, yet
strangely enough, when we reached our room, my fingers trembled so much
that I could hardly break the seal.
"What is it?" asked Felix anxiously. "What do you fear?"
"Nothing," I replied with a forced laugh; "I am foolish; that is all."
Yes, there was my name in crabbed letters; I glanced from it to the foot
of the page: the letter was signed, "Renaud L'Estang."
"L'Estang!" I muttered, "L'Estang! Why, that is the name of my
adventurer. Of course he is with Anjou; but why should he write to me?
Perhaps 'tis to thank me again, or to tell me something about Cordel!
Ah, yes, that would be it. He must have gathered some fresh information
concerning the rascally lawyer!"
I gave a deep sigh of relief, yet studiously avoided what he had
written. But this was childish folly! Courage! What had I to fear?
Cordel had already done his worst. We had lost our estates--it mattered
little who gained them.
"Monsieur, you once did me a priceless service. I have never
forgotten--shall never forget----"--"Just as I thought," I remarked
aloud, "the poor fellow still feels under an obligation to
me!"--"Believe me, monsieur, it is with poignant grief I write this
brief note."--"Ah," I continued, "he has discovered some fresh villainy.
Well, well, it is of little consequence."--"I have been with Monseigneur
at St. Jean d'Angely----"
"D'Angely!" I cried; "Felix, he has been at the siege. Read it, my
friend, my eyes swim, I cannot see the letters, they all run into one
another."--"Your father was the bravest."--"Oh, Felix, Felix, do you
understand? How can I tell them? How can I comfort them? And I must ride
away in the morning and leave them to their grief! Read it to me slowly,
dear friend, while I try to think."