THE EVE OF BATTLE.
It was the eve of the battle of Vannes; the battle of Vannes which,
waged on land and sea, was to decide the fate of Brittany, and,
consequently, of all Gaul, whether for liberty or enslavement. On this
memorable evening, in the presence of all the members of our family
united in the Gallic camp, except my brother Albinik, who had joined the
Gallic fleet in the bay of Morbihan, my father Joel, the brenn of the
tribe of Karnak, addressed me, his eldest born, Guilhern the laborer,
who now writes this account. He said to me:
"To-morrow, my son, is the day of battle. We shall fight hard. I am
old--you are young. The angel of death will doubtless carry me hence
first; perhaps to-morrow I shall meet in the other life my sainted
daughter Hena. Here, now, is what I ask of you, in the face of the
misfortunes which menace our country, for to-morrow the fortunes of war
may go with the Romans. My desire is that as long as our stock shall
last, the love of old Gaul and sacred memories of our fathers shall be
ever kept fresh in our family. If our children should remain free men,
the love of country, the reverence for the memory of their ancestors,
will all the more endear their liberty to them. If they must live and
die slaves, these holy memories will remind them, from generation to
generation, that there was a time when, faithful to their gods, valiant
in war, independent and happy, masters of the soil which they had won
from nature by severe toil, careless of death, whose secret they held,
the Gallic race lived, feared by the whole world, yet withal hospitable
to peoples who extended to them a friendly hand. These memories, kept
alive from age to age, will make slavery more horrible to our children,
and some day give them the strength to overthrow it. In order that these
memories may be thus transmitted from century to century, you must
promise by Hesus, my son, to be faithful to our old Gallic custom. You
must tenderly guard this collection of relics which I am going to
entrust you with; you must add to it; you must make your son Sylvest
swear to increase it in his turn, so that the children of your
grandchildren may imitate their fore-fathers, and may themselves be
imitated by their posterity. Here is the collection. The first roll
contains the story of all that has chanced to our family up to the
anniversary of my dear Hena's birthday, that day which also saw her die.
This other roll I received this evening about sunset from my son Albinik
the mariner. It contains the story of his journey across the burnt
territory, to the camp of Caesar. This account throws honor on the
courage of the Gaul, it throws honor on your brother and his wife,
faithful as they were, almost excessively so, to that maxim of our
fathers: 'Never did Breton commit treason.' These writings I confide to
you. You will return them to me after to-morrow's conflict if I survive.
If not, do you preserve them, or in lack of you, your brothers. Do you
inscribe the principal events of your life and your family's; hand the
account over to your son, that he may do as you, and thus on,
forever--generation after generation. Do you swear to me, by Hesus, to
respect my wishes?"
I, Guilhern the laborer, answered: "I swear to my father Joel, the brenn
of the tribe of Karnak, that I will faithfully carry out his desires."
The orders then given to me by my father, I have carried out to-day,
long after the battle of Vannes, and after innumerable misfortunes. I
make the recital or these misfortunes for you, my son Sylvest. It is not
with blood that I should write this narrative. No blood would run dry. I
write with tears of rage, hatred and anguish,--their source never runs
dry!
After my poor and well-beloved brother Albinik piloted the Roman fleet
into the bay of Morbihan, the following was the course of events on the
day of the battle of Vannes. It all took place under my own eyes--I saw
it all. Were I to have lived all the days I am to live in the next world
and into all infinity, yet will the remembrance of that frightful day,
and of the days; that followed it, be ever vivid before me, as vivid as
it is now, as it was, and as it ever will be.
Joel my father, Margarid my mother, Henory my wife, my two children
Sylvest and Syomara, as well as my brother Mikael the armorer, his wife
Martha, and their children, to mention only our nearest relatives, had,
like all the rest of our tribe, gathered in the Gallic camp. Our war
chariots, covered with cloth, had served us for tents until the day of
the battle at Vannes. During the night, the council, called together by
the Chief of the Hundred Valleys, and Tallyessin, the oldest of the
druids, had met. Several mountaineers of Ares, mounted on their tireless
little horses, were sent out in the evening to scout the area of the
conflagration. At dawn they hastened back to report that at six leagues'
distance from Vannes they saw the fires of the Roman army, encamped that
night in the midst of the ruins of the town of Morh'ek. The Chief of the
Hundred Valleys concluded that Caesar, to escape from the circle of
devastation and famine that was drawing in closer and closer upon his
army, had left the wasted country behind him by forced marches, and
intended to offer battle to the Gauls. The council resolved to advance
to meet Caesar, and to await him on the heights which overlooked the
river Elrik. At break of day, after the druids had invoked the blessings
of the gods, our tribe took up its march for its post in the battle.
Joel, mounted on his high-mettled stallion Tom-Bras, commanded the
_Mahrek-Ha-Droad_,[5] of which myself and my brother Mikael were
members, I as a horseman, Mikael as a foot-soldier. According to the
custom of the army, it was our duty to fight side by side, I on
horse-back, he afoot, and mutually support each other. The war chariots,
armed with scythes at the hubs, were placed in the center of the army,
with the reserve. In one of them were my mother and wife, the wife of
Mikael, and our children. Some young lads, lightly armed, surrounded the
chariots and were with difficulty holding back the great war-dogs,
which, after the example of Deber-Trud, the man-eater, were howling and
tugging at their leashes, already scenting battle and blood. Among the
young men of the tribe who were in the array, were two who had taken the
bond of friendship, like Julyan and Armel. Moreover, to make it more
certain that they would share the same fate, a stout iron chain was
riveted to their collars of brass, and fastened them together. The chain
as the symbol of their pledge of solidarity held them inseparable,
scathless, wounded, or dead.
On the way to our post in the battle, we beheld the Chief of the Hundred
Valleys passing at the head of the _Trimarkisia_.[6] He rode a superb
black horse, in scarlet housings; his armor was of steel; his helmet of
plated copper, which shone like the sun, was capped by the emblem of
Gaul, a gilded cock with half spread wings. At either side of the Chief
rode a bard and a druid, clad in long white robes striped with purple.
They carried no arms, but when the troops closed in to battle, then,
disdainful of danger, they stood in the front ranks of the combatants,
encouraging these with their words and their songs of war. Thus chanted
the bard at the moment when the Chief of the Hundred Valleys passed by
Joel's column:
"Caesar has come against us.
In a loud voice he asks:
'Do you want to be slaves?
Are ye ready?'
"No, we do not want to be slaves.
No, we are not ready.
Gauls!
Children of the same race,
Let us raise our standards on the mountains and pour down upon the plains.
March on!
March on against Caesar,
Joining in the same slaughter him and his army!
To the Romans!
To the Romans!"
As the bard sang this song, every heart beat with the ardor of
battle.[7]
As the Chief of the Hundred Valleys passed the troop at the head of
which was my father Joel, he reined in his horse and cried:
"Friend Joel, when I was your guest, you asked my name. I answered that
I was called _Soldier_ so long as our old Gaul should be under the
oppressor's scourge. The hour has come when we must show ourselves
faithful to the motto of our fathers: 'In all war, there is but one of
two outcomes for the man of courage: to conquer or to die.'[8] O, that
my love for our common country be not barren! O, that Hesus keep our
arms! Perhaps then the Chief of the Hundred Valleys will have washed off
the stain which covers a name he no longer dares to bear.[9] Courage,
friend Joel, the sons of your tribe are brave of the brave. What blows
will they not deal on this day which makes for the welfare of Gaul!"
"My tribe will strike its best, and with all its might," answered my
father. "We have not forgotten that song of the bards who accompanied
you, when the first war-cry burst from them in the forest of Karnak:
'Strike the Roman hard--strike for the head--still harder--strike!--The
Romans, strike!'"
With one voice the whole tribe of Joel took up the cry:
"Strike!--The Romans, strike!"