THE BATTLE OF THE BEUNE.
LE GROS GUILLEM, at the head of fifty men, was on his way to chastise
the peasants of the Vézère Valley.
The number he had with him was not large, but he was unable to spare
more for this expedition. A sufficient garrison must be left in Domme.
Besides, to deal with peasants, a handful of soldiers with steel caps
and swords was certain to suffice; hitherto it had sufficed, and that at
all times. What was Del' Peyra? He had never distinguished himself in
feats of arms; no one had ever heard that he had taken them up at any
time. The dung-fork and the ox-goad befitted him. It was said he had
more than once ploughed his own land.
The men were mounted so as to make the _chevauchée_ as rapidly and
effectively as possible, without allowing those whom they were resolved
to attack time to bestir themselves and assemble to offer resistance. If
these Ste. Soure peasants did learn that the _ribauds_ were coming they
would flee to the rocks and hide themselves there. That they should
attempt resistance was not to be anticipated. Guillem had determined to
burn every house in the village, to devastate the fields, cut down all
the fruit-trees, and try whether fire and an escalade would enable him
to capture Le Peuch, the stronghold of the Del' Peyras, so that he might
be able to punish the chief offender, the Seigneur Ogier, as well as all
his retainers and vassals.
The Captain alone was silent and immersed in gloomy thoughts. The rest
of the Company were merry and indulged in banter. They were bound on an
expedition of all others best to their liking.
As they descended the valley of the Little Beune they passed under the
rock of Cazelles, and looked up with a laugh at the peasants who were
peering out of the holes of the cliff, much like jackdaws. Not a
bullock, not a sheep was left in the valley. The houses were deserted,
and probably everything that could be carried away had been transmitted
to the cave refuges.
"Look!" mocked one of the riders. "The fellows had such a scare the
other day at Ste. Soure that these villains at Cazelles have not yet
recovered confidence."
Where the Little Beune unites with the Great Beune the blended
calcareous waters ooze through bog in a dreamlike, purposeless manner
round a shoulder of rock that is precipitous, but which has a
sufficiency of solid ground at its feet to allow of a practicable way
being carried over this deposit.
The Beune and the Vézère are like two different types of character. The
latter never deviates from the direction it has resolved on taking
except when opposed by obstacles impossible to overleap, and these it
circumvents. It saws down every barrier it can; it never halts for a
moment; if it turns back in the direction it has been pursuing it is
solely that it may seek out a channel more direct and less tortuous. It
is so with men and women who have a clear conception of an object at
which they are aiming, some purpose in their lives.
With the Beune it is otherwise. It has no perceptible current; it does
not run; it has no flow; it slips down. It finds itself in a channel and
drifts along from one stagnation to another; it has had nothing whatever
to do with the formation of its channel. It does not even lie in a bed
of its own making. It is a bog and not a river--here and there spreading
into pools that wait for an impulse to be given them by the wind, by the
whisk of a heron's wing, to form the ripple that will carry some of its
water over the calcareous bar it has itself raised by its own inertness.
No one could say, looking at the Beune, in which direction it was
tending, and it does not seem to have any idea itself. Its sluggishness
accumulates obstacles; marsh grass is given time to throw out its
fibrous roots, and reeds to build up hurdles across the stream, and the
cretaceous particles settle at leisure into walls obstructing it;
consequently diverting it. It lurches stupidly from side to side and
then listlessly gives up every effort of advance. We stoop to drink of
the Vézère. We turn in disgust from the Beune.
On each side of the Vézère as it swings along is alluvial soil--beds of
the utmost richness that laugh with verdure, where the hay harvest is
gathered thrice in the year. In the equally broad valley of the Beune is
no pasture at all, nothing good, nothing but profitless morass. Where
the waters touch good soil they corrupt it. The crystal waters of the
Vézère nourish every herb they reach; the turbid ooze of the Beune
kills, petrifies all life that approaches it.
Is not this also a picture of certain characters? Characters!--save the
mark! Characterless individuals that we have seen, perhaps have to do
with, whom we avoid when possible.[4]
[4] Within the last five years a determined effort has been made
to reclaim the valley of the Beune. To do this, a channel
has been cut for the river, that has to be incessantly
cleared.
Hardly had the band of _routiers_ turned into the main valley, and the
foremost men had reached the cliff, before a horn was blown, and at once
a shower of stones was hurled from above the horsemen.
At the same moment they saw that the road before them was barricaded.
Trees had been felled and thrown across the track, and from behind this
barricade scowled black faces and flashed weapons.
Some of the horses reared, struck by the stones; some of the riders were
thrown to the ground. The horses, frightened, bounded from the road.
They could not turn, being pressed on by those behind; they rushed away
from the shower of stones into the level track of valley-bed on their
right, and at once foundered in the morass. There they plunged,
endeavoured to extricate themselves, and sank deeper. The semi-petrified
fibres through which their hoofs sank, held to their legs, and prevented
the beasts from withdrawing them. After a few frantic and fruitless
efforts they sank to their bellies and remained motionless, with that
singular stolidity that comes over a beast when it resigns itself to
circumstances which it recognises it has not the power to overcome.
The men who had been carried into the marsh threw themselves off. The
_routiers_ were wiser than were the knights at Agincourt. They did not
overburden themselves with defensive armour which would weigh them down
and render them incapable of movement. Most of their clothing was of
leather, with but a little steel over their breasts and shoulders. With
agility they threw themselves from their sinking horses, and waded to
the hard ground. At times they floundered deep, but were able to throw
themselves forward and where the surface was most precarious, advanced
like lizards, till they reached ground where the rushes showed that it
was sufficiently compact to sustain them upright.
Meanwhile, those in the rear who had halted when the first ranks were
broken and dispersed hesitated what to do. To push forward was to incur
the same fate, and their pride would not suffer them to retreat.
The Captain was behind. He was suffering greatly. His wounded feet had
begun to inflame; they were swollen and tortured by the compression of
his boots. He could not bear to rest his soles on the stirrup-irons. To
rise in his stirrups and hew with his great sword, as he had purposed,
was impossible. The pain he endured fevered his blood, churned his anger
to frenzy, which this unexpected check did not serve to moderate.
He had his wits about him, however, and he saw that those who held the
rock must be dislodged or no advance could be made.
Accordingly, he ordered a party of his men to dismount, peg their
horses, and ascend to where the peasants were threatening them with
their piles of stones.
This could be done--at all events attempted--from the lateral valley,
where the slope was moderate and densely overgrown with coppice.
Bitterly now did the leader regret that for a second time he had
underrated the spirit and the sagacity of his opponents. He ought to
have marched at the head of a larger contingent or have postponed his
attempt till a more suitable opportunity presented itself.
With his usual effrontery, Guillem had ridden across country by the
shortest way, through the lands of the Bishop of Sarlat, instead of
descending the Dordogne to the junction of the Vézère, and then
ascending the latter river to Ste. Soure.
He had not done this for two reasons--one was that the formidable Castle
of Beynac, in French hands, blocked the passage down the Dordogne; the
other was that he had measured and properly appreciated the incapacity
of the prelate: he knew the Bishop had not the men at his disposal to
send to contest his passage.
At this time his real danger lay, as he very well knew, in tidings of
his ride reaching the Castle of Commarques, hardly an hour's distance up
the valley of the Great Beune. This was a dependence of Beynac, and was
held for the French king.[5] What garrison was there he knew not, but it
was certain to be small. Nevertheless, even a small band of troopers or
experienced men-at-arms assailing him in rear while engaged in bursting
through this barrier of peasants before him might be more than
dangerous, it might prove disastrous.
[5] This splendid ruin--one of the finest in Périgord--has been
recently purchased by the Prince de Croye, who is engaged in
cutting and constructing roads to it, with the purpose of
restoring the castle as a residence. A charming residence it
is likely to prove to such as are mosquito-proof.
Resolved at all hazards to dislodge those on the height, he sent his
lieutenant up the steep hillside at the head of his trustiest men, or,
rather, as many of these as he could spare without breaking the ranks
directly opposed to those who watched and menaced from behind the
barricade.
But the task of storming the height was one that was difficult. Not only
was the party sent up it inadequate in numbers, not only were the
assailants inconvenienced by the steepness of the ascent, but their
weapons were not calculated to be effective in a tangle of chestnut,
rowan, and sloe laced about with ropes of bramble and clematis. They
carried swords; they were unprovided with pikes; whereas those who held
the height were armed with knives fastened to long poles, which they
could thrust with excellent effect at the men who were attacking. Time
was expended in the scramble; and the assailants were exhausted before
they came within sight of the eyes of those they were sent to dislodge.
In the brushwood the _routiers_ could not keep together; the many sprays
shooting up from stumps of felled chestnut separated them. They had to
hack their way through the tough chains of clematis, and they were
lacerated by the thorns of the sloe-bushes and the teeth of the wild
rose and blackberry-briar. They could not come to a hand-to-hand fight.
Their enemies calmly waited, watching them in their struggle, and drove
at them with their blades through the bushes, forcing them to spring
back to avoid death.
It took some time for the lieutenant in command to realise that he had
been dispatched on a task which he was incompetent to achieve. But when
he had determined this, he bade his men desist and retreat to the valley
below.
They had not retreated far on their way down before they saw that the
aspect of affairs below was greatly changed since they had started on
their scramble.
Behind the barricade had been ranged the charcoal-burners with their
forks, under the command of Ogier del' Peyra.
These had remained covered by their breastwork, expecting the enemy to
make a second attempt to advance along the road. When, however, this was
not done, and they saw them drawn up motionless, and shortly after heard
the shouts and cries from the height, then Ogier recognised that the
line of men before him was covering an attack on his son, who held the
rock.
He at once gave the signal to advance at a rush. With a shout of joy the
charcoal-burners burst over the barricade and charged along the road,
led by the Seigneur, and fell upon the double line of troopers.
A furious hand-to-hand mêlée ensued. The horses were alarmed by the
sable figures with black faces and hands who sprang at them, and
recoiled, not only from the sight, but also at their smell, producing
disorder. The struggle that ensued was hand to hand. No quarter was
asked and none was given. The _routiers_ were borne back, several had
fallen, but also many colliers rolled on the ground.
At this juncture, down from the hill, out from among the coppice leaped
the contingent that had failed to capture the height. It arrived at the
most critical moment, just as the horsemen were struggling to disengage
themselves and fly. They came upon the colliers in rear, they stopped
accessions to their ranks from behind. Now their blades served them
well, and the rout that had begun was arrested.
The arrival of this body of men startled the peasants. They did not
understand whence they had sprung; and they retreated.
"Turn! Back to Domme!" yelled the Captain.
The men recovered their horses, remounted, and still fighting, began the
retreat.
As they came under Cazelles a shower of projectiles was launched upon
them from above.
The peasants gave over the pursuit. They were incapable of keeping pace
with the horses.
And now, as they fell back, down from the height came Jean del' Peyra
with his men.
"Where is my father?" he asked eagerly, and looked round.
Old Ogier was nowhere to be seen.
"Search among the fallen!" ordered Jean in great alarm.
Every dead and dying man was examined.
Then came back a charcoal-burner, hot, for he had been running, and the
sweat streaming over his face had washed it into streaks, like those
that stain the face of the chalk cliffs.
"What--the Seigneur?" asked the man. "He is taken."
"Taken!"
"Aye, taken and carried away by the _rouffiens_."