“And where will they have their camp?
Says the Shan Van Vocht;
Where will they have their camp?
Says the Shan Van Vocht.
On the Curragh of Kildare,
The boys they will be there,
With their pikes in good repair,
Says the Shan Van Vocht.
To the Curragh of Kildare,
The boys they will repair,
And Lord Edward will be there,
Says the Shan Van Vocht.”
_The Shan Van Vocht._
The chiefs of the Veneti had laid hands on the Roman officers on a
sudden impulse, and now they had Cæsar against them, Cæsar who had
conquered the Helvetii, Ariovistus and the Germans, the Belgic League!
This would be a war like no other war; but still, the rest of the
Aremorican cantons were bound by the strongest oaths, they knew that the
freedom of the Veneti was theirs as well; and the towns were strong, the
ships were many, the young fighters were keen and eager for battle; and
they had the sea behind them, the tides and the storms, and Mananaun the
Sea-god! Yet they tried to get what help they could before the war began
in earnest. They did not expect it from the rest of Gaul; the Belgians
were broken and powerless, and the Aquitanians and strong tribes to the
south-east had little more liking for them than for the Romans; only a
few young men came to join them from other parts. But as soon as any
ship could sail the Atlantic they sent for help to Britain; yet that
must of necessity mean a long delay.
Kormiac was none too easy to deal with that winter; sometimes he was
terribly anxious; he would wander about the place, full of forebodings,
finding nothing right; then Fiommar and Meromic would keep out of his
way, and the servants would follow him, trembling--no one’s life was
safe. Other times, when he had good news, or if he’d met with a lucky
omen, he would be just as far the other way, certain of victory, ready
to dare anything, defy the world; then his two children would ask him
for things they wanted, and usually get them. This way Meromic had got
his new sword, the sword he had longed for and imagined since he was a
child, but never seen till one day a trading ship had brought it, and it
was laid out on the top of the half-opened bales in the hall of
Kormiac’s house. Meromic came in and saw it, and said, “Oh, father!” and
picked it up and thrust with it at an imaginary Roman. It had belonged
to a chief somewhere in Spain, but he must have had it from the South;
it was three feet of iron, with a wavy pattern on the blade, the hilt
gold, lightly engraved with queer Eastern beasts that Meromic did not
know, and the scabbard dyed leather, gold-tipped and gold-ringed.
Kormiac had laughed, seeing his boy with the great sword; he paid for it
in bar silver and two she-slaves. The sword had a Spanish name, meaning
the gold lightning, but Meromic gave it a name of his own: Ar-roud, the
very red, “because,” he said, “it will be very red soon!” Fiommar had
got something out of that ship-load too, a necklace of round crystals,
as big as thrushes’ eggs, threaded on copper wire. But that was the last
time Kormiac was in such a good temper.
By the middle of April the Roman invasion had begun; the Veneti met the
advancing legions with skirmishing and ambushes; when they were driven
back they simply vanished among the rocks and heather of their own wild
country. Cæsar did not dare to leave any of the big coast towns on his
left flank, between him and his base. He had to lay siege to them one by
one, and that took time, let alone that he got little good of it: the
towns were often on islands or peaks of rock sticking out into the sea;
they were impossible to starve, because food was always being sent them
by ship, and when, after much labour, he had made a breach in the walls,
the defenders would be sailing off from the other side. And the
legionaries could never get accustomed to the tides, the piled waves
racing in over those wide sands, to destroy their works or cut them off
and drown them within sight of their comrades; and the Gauls took every
advantage of this. So it went on through the spring and early summer,
with no gain to the Romans, and the rest of Gaul beginning to wonder
whether, after all, Cæsar was as invincible as they had thought.
Kormiac had sent word by the first ship that went to Britain; his
messengers were to find Gandoc, tell him what straits the Veneti were
in, and that any delay might be fatal. Meromic had written a letter; if
Gandoc could not read it, one of the Druids would be able. It said that,
if he valued his marriage, he was to send at once, men and gold and
iron, but men most of all, a ship-load of fighters with him at their
head, to make war under the eyes of his bride! When he came, the letter
said, he should be married at once: Fiommar would be ready the same day.
The ship had sailed out on a fine morning, late in March, with the wolf
head carved on its prow, and scarlet-dipped sails. Now it was almost
May. Fiommar woke every morning, thinking perhaps she had lain her last
night alone, and all day she would have an eye towards the beach, and
every shout would startle her away from the loom down to the hall door
to see if her husband was yet come. Wives and daughters of the chiefs
from near by, her cousins often, came to visit her with presents of
woven stuff and ornaments, all hoping that the wedding might chance to
be the day they came; every week the war went on they looked up to her
more: these Britons would mean so much! Her father was away at the
Council a great deal of the time, and left her entirely mistress of the
house; even he now treated her as if she was a grown woman, not a little
girl; and she enjoyed it.
Meromic came back from time to time; the fighting was never far away,
but the house was safe so long as the town of Rodec, south along the
coast, was still defying the enemy. She had been desperately unhappy the
first time he went; she could not sleep at night for thinking of him
among the Roman swords. But she did not tell her father or her women
what she was feeling, she had to be proud and light-hearted, true
battle-loving daughter of the Wolf. So it was on secret beaches, under
lonely spikes of cliff, that she would kneel and pray aloud for him, and
beat her forehead on the ground, and throw her jewels out to
sea--anything to buy his safety from the jealous Gods!
He had come home for the first time, and for a little she thought he was
not changed at all. He wanted to do all the old things, to go sailing
and birds’-nesting with her, to tease the hounds and frighten the maids,
and climb up into the rafters to catch bats; but besides that there was
a new bit of him that she couldn’t quite get at. “Did you kill any one?”
she asked. He nodded. “What was it like?”
“I didn’t think what it was like. I was afraid of being killed myself
all the time.”
“But doesn’t it make you happy--fighting?”
“Well, yes, I expect so. But I don’t like waiting; one’s always waiting
for hours first. I’m almost sure I like the rest, though.”
“Tell me really.”
“I can’t--not you; girls don’t understand.”
“I would. Oh, Meromic, do! You always tell me things.”
“But I’m a man now. Besides, it’s all in the songs.”
“The songs get made afterwards; and anyway it’s not them I care
about--it’s you!” But he never really told her much; only, before he
went back, he gave her something to keep safe for him: a head, very
dried-up and smoke-blackened, with dark hair; she looked at it with some
awe.
“Is it a Roman? Did you kill him yourself?”
“Yes, he’s an officer; we cut him off from his men, so then I asked to
be left to fight it out with him, and they did. There’s only a short
reach to the Roman sword, and I had Ar-roud; I wish you could have seen
me!”
“Oh, so do I! But I’ll keep it very safe, Meromic; I’ll hang it in my
own room.”
The next time he came back she saw less of him, because he had two
friends with him. One was his cousin Louaven, a rather older man, with
reddish hair and a thick, short beard; he had bracelets of heavy bronze
on both arms, and round his neck a flat bronze collar set with blue
glass. The other was a new-comer, whom Kormiac welcomed very warmly:
Molhir of the Carnutes who had not been in Aremorica for nearly four
years, but had now come to fight with them against the Romans. He told
them how things had gone in his country, how the Carnutic republic had
been forced by Cæsar to accept a king, one Tasgetius, a man of noble
family, but a friend to the Romans, and no friend to the great Order of
Druids which centred in his land, and which had given education and a
colouring of life to Molhir and many of his friends.
“Indeed,” he had said, “it would hardly be safe for me to show myself in
my own country now.”
“All the more welcome to ours!” said Kormiac, and he had out his best
wine.
Fiommar watched him from under her thick eyelashes; Molhir was a fine,
tall young man, with the druid wreath round his helmet and the patterned
border woven into his cloak, but otherwise dressed and armed like the
rest. Looking at him regretfully, she wondered if she would like Gandoc
any better when he came this time; it was his long, tangly beard, she
decided: how could any girl bear being kissed by a scarecrow like that?
But the Britons never shaved. She liked Molhir; even Louaven was not so
bad; only no one had ever asked what her wishes were. But Gandoc: when
he came--_when_--it was nearly two months since the ship had gone, and
no answer. Perhaps he had been calling up his men from all over the
country; perhaps he had been away on a journey when the messengers got
to his house; perhaps--oh, but surely he must _want_ to come! Even if
I’m not beautiful, she said to herself and tossed a lock of hair over
her shoulder, even if I’m not at all beautiful--and every one says I
am--he can’t dare to go against father! And there’s my dowry (she
thought of the locked chests all along the wall of her room), oh, he
can’t not be coming!
She listened again to the talk, because it was about this same man of
hers: “They’re due any day now,” said her father; then Louaven: “We
shall want them--every man; the Romans are bringing up new forces all
the time.” Molhir joined in: “One always despises them at first, but
somehow they’re not to be driven out once they’ve got their foot on to
one’s land. Perhaps you’ll be luckier. I wish more of my people would
see that the only way of getting them out of the whole country is to
join with you.” “I wish they would too,” said Kormiac with a deep sigh,
and Fiommar noticed suddenly how much whiter his hair had grown of
late; she wondered if he and Meromic were as certain as they sounded
that Gandoc was coming; they had said nothing to her, but then why
should they? If he didn’t come--they mightn’t be able to beat the
Romans, they might get beaten themselves, they, the Veneti, the free
Cantons! He must come! Oh, she thought, if only he’d come and get
killed, then I shouldn’t ever have to go away to Britain or leave father
and Meromic; perhaps I should have a baby, but I wouldn’t mind that--I
think I should like it--if only I hadn’t got to have it among strangers;
if it was a boy ... she lost herself among speculations. The party at
the table broke up.
* * * * *
Louaven stood on the parapet of the town wall of Rodec, leaning on his
spear and looking inland; his leather tunic blew against his knees and
he shivered a little, but he knew it would be hot enough after the sun
had risen an hour or two. He peered down, screwing up his eyes and
trying hard to see across those two miles to the mainland. The walls and
roofs and doors of Rodec, grey and brown and white, were piled and
heaped up the sides of a great rock that rose full in the middle of
western-facing Rodec bay. At high tide it was an island with a wide
stretch of tumbling waves between it and the coast; sometimes in winter
it was an island for days together. But always in fair weather there was
a safe three hours when the tide was out and one could cross to it along
a causeway of stone blocks, with wagon ruts worn in the top and sea-weed
and barnacles growing along the sides. It was low tide now, and a
legion camped on the shore opposite.
The light grew and grew till the Roman camp fires were yellow smears
instead of stars. He turned to the inner side of the wall where two or
three sleepers lay, wrapped in thick bear skins, and called softly,
“Meromic!” Meromic woke, rubbed his eyes, and was on his feet with a
jump and up on to the wall beside Louaven. They looked out together,
whispering; presently the sun rose above the line of the downs, and
threw long shadows and clear light on to all the tangled walls of Rodec;
Meromic drew Ar-roud and held it high over his head for the blessing of
Lugh. There was little to be seen clearly, but it was certain there was
some movement forward in the camp. Louaven frowned: the tide was still
far out, a dancing line along the sand, and the Romans had time if they
chose to use it; he wished they could attack themselves, but the
garrison of Rodec was not strong enough to go out against a whole
legion.
About half-way between the causeway and the waves there was a little
group of rocks with pools among them, flat, dazzling mirrors to the sun;
Meromic blinked at them, considering something; then he touched Louaven
on the arm: “I’ve a plan.”
For some minutes they talked together; at last Louaven nodded: “Very
well. But you will be careful, Meromic? Whatever happens, don’t leave
yourself too late; if a few get past with you, we’ll be there to meet
them! You’re sure you know your way?”
“Oh yes; and I can jump, but they’ll be heavy-armed, they won’t be able.
Even if it’s not a whole cohort, it’ll put the others off.”
He took off his cloak and armour, left Ar-roud for his cousin to take
care of, and made all his preparations; from the far side of the island
he set sail alone in a little boat of stretched leather, and landed an
hour later three miles down the coast.
About high tide, the Legate heard that a fisher-boy had something to
tell him: the boy was brought before him, a long-legged thing with tar
on his face, dressed in a torn grey shirt, and an old sheep-skin; he
twisted his hands together and said he wanted money. The Legate gave him
money and spoke to him gently; he offered to guide the Romans into Rodec
by a new way that the garrison would never be guarding; he pointed it
out.
“But the quicksands?”
“I go round them: it’s the place I used to dig sand-eels for bait. The
tide would be right at dusk to-day.”
“The tide will have turned by then, and the quicksands will be
spreading; better wait a day or two till it’s at its lowest in the
evening.”
“As you like, sir, but I warn you one thing, it should be done at once
if it’s to be done at all: they say there’s two thousand men waiting up
north in Lugdenn for the word to march.”
The fisher-boy wept that he was betraying his country, and was promised
more gold if he guided them safely to Rodec. The Legate decided to
feign an attack along the causeway that evening; this would keep all
the garrison busy there, while one cohort went round by the new way, got
into the town, and fell on the Gauls from behind.
Meromic loved being a fisher-boy and speaking with a country accent and
pretending not to understand when the officers talked Latin, and he had
the money tied into a knot in his shirt. But now--he had one eye on the
tide and quickened his pace a little: this would be dangerous. The young
tribune beside him fingered his silky, black moustache, and passed down
word that the men were to follow him three deep; they were a picked
cohort of veterans, steady, reliable men, who were always chosen for a
piece of special work like this. Meromic glanced over his shoulder at
the battle on the causeway, but could make out very little: the sunset
was glowing orange behind the black mass of Rodec: he felt the cool,
firm sand underfoot. Then he splashed through the first of the pools,
and his toes sunk slightly in the bottom. He could hear from the
changing tone of the waves that the tide was beginning to come in
quicker; he hurried along the rocks, the tribune could hardly keep up
with him. His bare feet were steady as he jumped or clung, but the Roman
soldiers with their nailed boots were slipping all the time. His heart
throbbed so that he could hardly think of anything else, but he went on
calmly; he got to the end of the chain of rocks, with a hundred yards or
so of sand between him and the foot of Rodec crags. He looked back; the
last of the cohort were getting among the pools now; there was a splash
and a cry from behind: the tribune looked back too, frowning: they must
make no noise or they would be heard from the town!
Then Meromic took a breath, leapt and ran. He heard a shout, and feet
after him, then the whirr of a javelin; he ducked his head and ran
harder; he felt the sand yielding like sand in a dream, and saw the film
of damp over it. He was nearly at the far rocks: suddenly it yielded
altogether, he was in up to his knees, first one leg, then the other; he
made a plunge forward, hoping to drag out on to firm ground, but he only
felt it give again. The sea roared in his ears as each wave ran foaming
nearer. And Rodec was so close! Oh, if only--a splash on the wet beside
him, a black streak, a rope! He grabbed and had it. Louaven called: he
twisted it under his arms as it pulled taut; the sand sucked at his
knees and ankles; the rope dragged him forward in jerks on his face, he
choked on a mouthful of salt water. He tugged at a bunch of sea-weed,
felt hard stone, and then Louaven’s strong hands under his armpits,
hoisting him up; he fell flat on the rock with his arms out, panting.
After a minute or two Louaven touched his shoulder: “Look.” He sat up
and looked: in the gathering dusk the wave crests showed white, the sand
greyish; and on that further group of rocks the little, scrambling,
troubled figures, the glint of armour. “And the men who were after me?”
Louaven pointed; there was something dark red half buried in the sand, a
helmet crest. As he watched, two of the men on the rocks tried to run
back towards the shore; they seemed to get shorter and shorter, they
waved their arms.... Meromic gave a little gasp; he heard the oncoming
waves, the splash and rush on the sand, sea-gulls crying, and through it
all the confused voices of the cohort. The waves were almost up to the
rock now; some of the men started singing. And the two Gauls went back
into Rodec.
That saved the town for a month or so; the Legate waited till Cæsar
could come himself to deal with the barbarians. And they hoped every day
that their British allies would be over; they were nearly worn out
themselves. Meromic got home again about midsummer, saying to himself
that his brother-in-law would surely be there by now. He rode up to the
house and shouted in the courtyard, as he always did. But no one ran out
to hold his stirrup and bid him welcome. He dismounted and tied his
horse to the ring in the wall, pushed open the door, and walked into the
hall. He very nearly fell over Fiommar; she was lying on the floor, her
hair and hands full of rushes, her dress torn half off her shoulders;
she was so still that he was frightened. He pulled her up and found she
was only too exhausted to move; her eyes were swollen and red, her hot
face sticky with tears like a child’s.
“Fiommar! What’s the matter? Tell me, quick!”
She answered low: “Gandoc. He’s not coming.”
Meromic let her go suddenly, and she fell back limp to the floor; he sat
down himself, hearing his horse fidget and stamp in the sun outside; at
last he spoke: “When did you hear?”
Fiommar, still on the ground, lifted her head a little. “This morning.”
“But why?” She only answered with more tears. “Fiommar, you must tell
me! Come, get up; it’s no fault of yours.”
“Oh, don’t you think so?” She got to her knees.
“No, of course not.”
“Father did. Well, I’ll tell you. The ship came in, but--but--oh,
Meromic, there are just a few swords and some bar iron, but no men,
nothing else, only a message--not even a letter!--to say he was sorry,
but he had his own fighting to do in Britain and couldn’t send men or
come till it was over, but he was sure we’d win, and then----”
“What? Go on!”
“Only that father wasn’t to trouble to keep me for him. I wish I was
dead!”
“Don’t, don’t, poor sweetheart! What did father do? Where is he?”
“He’s at the Council. He got angry all over--you know--and then he said
it was all my fault, and he beat me with a dog-whip till I fell down.”
“Oh, God, I’d have stopped that! It was none of your doing: he chose
Gandoc himself.”
“That’s what I thought. But I ought to have made him love me, then he’d
have come. But I never tried.”
“I don’t know; it must be hard being a woman. Did anything else happen?”
“No. Only every one thinks like father, even my own women. But that
doesn’t matter. What will you do without them?”
“More than I can tell; we wanted them so badly. God, if I could find
that man I’d have his eyes out!” And he began walking about the room,
kicking up the rushes and fingering the hilt of Ar-roud.
Kormiac the Wolf came back from the Council that evening, and they sat
late over the supper table; Louaven had heard the news and rode over
about sunset, and the three talked it all out: the way the Romans were
gradually wearing them down, the loss of material that could not be
replaced, and how their trade with the far North had dwindled to nothing
now the young men were all at the war. Kormiac was very gloomy; he could
see nothing ahead and wished with all his heart he had never touched
those officers. Louaven had heard rumours that the Roman fleet was
nearly ready. “But a sea-fight!” said Meromic. “We couldn’t ask anything
better. They’ll not beat us at our own game, whatever happens on land!”
His cousin was not so hopeful, but still there were possibilities about
it. The lamps were burnt out when they rose from their talk, but nothing
was really settled.
Meromic kissed his father’s hand and went off to his room. Suddenly he
thought he would see if Fiommar was asleep, and pushed the curtain
aside; she saw him and gave a little eager cry: “Oh, Meromic, what’s
going to happen?”
He shook his head: “Nothing’s certain,” and sat down on the bed beside
her; she covered his shoulders with a blanket. “You’re cold!” he said,
feeling her thin, soft arms against his cheek.
She didn’t answer, but after a minute or two began talking to him in a
whisper: “After the war, we’ll run away together and find an island all
by itself somewhere, and make a house out of stones, and thatch it with
whin, and have a fire in the middle and heaps of fern to lie on and tell
stories; and you’ll be king there and I’ll be queen--oh, I can’t go on!
It’s your turn, Meromic.”
He took it up: “And we’ll be able to be any beasts we like. I shall be
the Wolf, of course, and you can be a sea-gull--that’s what you like,
isn’t it, Fiommar?--and I’ll catch deer and carry them off over my back,
and you must dive for fish ...” he hesitated and stopped. “I can’t go on
either. It’s no good. Perhaps there won’t be any after the war.”
“Can’t you see it?”
“No.”
“Nor can I--now.”
“I’d like to kill that man five different ways and smash his house to
bits and take his cattle! I’d burn him on a damp fire, and I’d hang him
on a tree for the crows to get at, and----”
“Oh don’t, what’s the use? Oh, Meromic, it’s all too awful!” She started
crying again, and then he did too, though he tried hard to stop himself.
After that he thought he was tired enough to go to sleep at once, but he
couldn’t; he lay awake, wondering how it would all end, wishing it
weren’t true, and then the birds began outside, and then it got light.
And at last he jumped up and shook himself, and went off to the beach
and had a long swim; that was the first time in his life he’d not slept
for a whole night.
Rodec fell late in July; Cæsar had pushed out long walls to keep the
tide back, and the defences of the town were not strong enough to stand
against his siege engines. Most of the garrison escaped safely by sea,
Meromic with a slight wound in his leg which he was very proud of; he
went home and found the old men and the women hurrying about with loads
of turf to make thick walls round the house; he told them it was no use
trying to defend it, but neither his father nor his sister would go.
While he was arguing with them, news came that the Roman fleet had been
sighted coming north under full sail. He was overjoyed at this:
“There’ll be no need to defend the house! We’ve got them this time! Oh,
they can’t know--they wouldn’t walk blindfold into the trap! My God,
we’ll have them clear out of the country by the end of the month!” He
gave a wild yell that made every one turn round and stare at him as he
leapt into the air, waving Ar-roud!
Even his father felt an enormous relief; he wondered at first if it were
really possible, but another message confirmed the first, and then
Louaven and Molhir came hurrying up to the house, shouting to their men,
laughing, singing scraps of songs, their bright eyes full of excitement
and confidence. Kormiac looked at his son with a heightened colour: the
end was in sight, they had beaten Cæsar if they won this battle, and how
could they not win it? From all accounts there were not more than a
hundred ships in the Roman fleet and these for the most part small,
light things, with no spread of sail, but rowed by slaves or pressed men
from the Province. While all the time their own fleet lay waiting in the
sheltered coves of the bay five miles to the north: big, fine, sea-going
beauties! Their towering prows had often faced the Atlantic waves, and
surely they were a match for these Roman galleys! Two hundred there
were, and more, with all the youth and strength of the Veneti, the best
of the Cantons, hurrying aboard, good sailors and good fighters, knowing
their own sea, its winds and tides and rocks--the Romans were mad!
Kormiac’s five ships were being got ready on the beach below the house;
all had the wolf-head crest on sails and prow; three of them were big
trading ships, decked over with pine planks, with room for over a
hundred fighting men, as well as the sailors. Louaven was to have one,
Kormiac’s younger brother the second, and Meromic the third; he would
take Molhir, who knew nothing about sea-fighting, with him. The other
two ships were smaller, one a sailing-ship, and one a little open-decked
boat with rowers instead of sails; this was commanded by a young vassal
chief of Kormiac’s, and they all laughed at him for having nothing
better. Under the hot sun the new-tarred planks dripped on to the sand;
fresh cordage was put on to the sails wherever it was needed and the
leather was looked over carefully for weak places; arms were stored in
the holds, and the men assembled on the beach, each with food enough for
a day or two.
Up at the house, Fiommar was helping Meromic to arm; he had bathed in
hot water and combed his hair, and put on a clean linen shirt; for a
sea-fight he would not wear heavy armour or anything on his feet. But he
had an iron helmet with a flat peak over his neck behind; the open jaws
of the Wolf in bronze and gold rose above it; his coat was leather,
strengthened with bronze plates on the shoulders, and he wore the
gold-hilted Ar-roud at his right side, and a dagger at his left. Fiommar
burnished every gold bracelet and ring he had, and for luck she put an
arm-ring of hers on to his wrist; last of all came his great golden
necklace. She clasped her hands, looking him up and down, and then
suddenly went on her knees in front of him, crying, “Oh, you’re the
Pride of the Islands now!”
He laughed and kissed her, then took up his shield, saying, “See you’ve
a feast ready for us when we come home!” But yet he was just a little
anxious; on the way down to the beach with Molhir he said, “If only we
were leaving any one behind us! If this doesn’t go as it should, we’ve
no one to fall back on, and they’d be defenceless at home.”
“Yes,” said Molhir, “the Britons would have been right for that.”
Meromic nodded and pulled up a big parsley plant from the side of the
track, and began twisting the stem.
“I know,” said Molhir, noticing. “If that was only him!”
The men cheered them as they came in sight, and shouted, “Up, the Wolf!”
The tide was rising and two of the ships were afloat already. It took a
little time hoisting the sails, but soon they were swelling and moving
slowly out as they felt the land-wind behind them. Kormiac had ridden
down, and sat silently on his horse, watching them away; all at once
Fiommar came running, her arms full of flowers, yellow and red and
white, and jumped into her own little boat, rowed after them and caught
them up, and threw bunches inboard with both hands. The men reached out
to catch the flowers, and wreathed them on the Wolf’s head and crowned
themselves, till they got out of the lee of the cliffs, and the sails
filled, they went on faster, and Fiommar and her boat were left behind,
bobbing in the petal-strewn wake. She and her father waited on the beach
till the five ships were out of sight behind the islands; then they
turned, and he went off to the Council-house, and she went home,
shivering a little and silent, thinking of the Roman camp that was not
so far off round the bay.
* * * * *
The Venetan fleet was having the best of it all across the two miles of
strongly-running waves; the Roman galleys could only save themselves by
dodging quickly, with all hands set to row, while the Gallic ships were
slowly coming about, shifting their great leather sails, turning like
islands. The scarlet flag on the Roman admiral’s galley flitted about
like a hunted deer with Kormiac’s three wolf ships chasing it. Meromic
stood on the high prow of the foremost, with drawn sword, ready to leap
and board as soon as they came near enough; he could see the admiral in
his purple cloak on the deck of the galley in front of him, and he
thought: there! there! oh, if only it could be me who killed him! and
vowed all manner of things if he could accomplish it. But it was an
uncertain day; the wind was gusty, sometimes in one quarter, sometimes
veering half round to another, and then, for minutes at a time, dying
away to nothing.
Suddenly the galley stopped dead, and spun round to meet them with a
churning of oars; Meromic shouted back to his steersman, they ran up on
the landward side of the galley, closed and boarded. For five minutes it
was wild hand-to-hand fighting; Meromic hardly knew what he was doing;
he felt the shock of thrown darts and then the weight of them on his
shield; he was alone for a moment on a slippery deck, facing his
enemies, then his men were beside him, rushing on with him. He struck
and struck against locked shields, he only saw the circle round him,
swords and spears and faces, the purple cloak was lost. Then there was a
great cry from his own ship, Molhir calling him to come back quick! He
ran to the side, jumped for a hand, and all at once was up where he
could see: this was why the galley had turned! They had hooked a sickle
at the end of a long pole on to the halyard that held up his great main
sail; he shouted to grapple and stick to the galley, not let her pull
away! But it was too late; the galley was backing with all her oars. He
sprang at the mast and climbed, straining to be in time and get the
blade unhooked!
But as he climbed it cut and the sail fell, sweeping him off on to the
deck; he was pinned on his back between huge folds of leather, with his
right arm under the yard; he screamed with pain and fright, felt the
deck tip under him and a wave wash up salt over his face. For a minute
he lay choking in the dark, tugging to get his arm free, then the yard
shifted a little, he got it out with a wrench that made him scream again
and crawled into daylight. He saw at once what had happened: the ship
was half over on to her side, the waves were sweeping across her, and
she was at the mercy of the galley. As he got to his knees he was
knocked over again by a rush of Roman soldiers; he saw his men
surrendering right and left, and shouted at them furiously; a soldier
turned on him with dripping steel, and then he realized with terror that
his right arm was useless. Trying to draw his own sword, he stumbled
back, tripped on the low rail of the ship, and was head over heels in
the water, gasping and spluttering and striking out away into the open.
On the slope of a wave he clutched a floating spar, and held on to it
with his left hand, biting his lip as the salt water stung his torn
right shoulder.
From there he could see the struggle on his own deck and, when he was
lifted on a wave crest, the whole wide stretch of battle. What had
happened to him had happened to half the Venetan fleet; the rest were
turning in confusion to fly. He hardly understood at first; he had his
eyes mostly on his own ship; once he saw Molhir fighting bareheaded at
the stern, but a wave rising between them hid him for a moment, and
after that he had disappeared. One of his men passed him, swimming
feebly; he called out to ask how things were going; the man turned his
head: “They’re all over us; I nearly----” and then blood poured out of
his mouth, his eyelids flickered, and he sank. Then Meromic knew the
Romans had won the battle; he thought sickly of his home, his father,
his sister; he wondered if they would try to defend the house; he
thought of all he ought to have done, he and the others: they should
have had rowers, of course, rowers ... and bowmen.... His head was
whirling, the sky swung up and down, he felt himself falling sideways
through the water and hugged the spar, trying to keep his face above
the waves. All at once he noticed that the sea was flattening out, he
was being buffeted less by the spray: the wind had dropped again. The
landward drift of the current was pulling at him, away and away from the
battle; he let himself go to it.
The Roman army, camped on the cliffs, could see all that was going on in
the bay; Cæsar was there himself and had watched the disastrous
beginning of the fight changed in a moment to victory. From that height
the bay seemed only rippled, with little, coloured ships sliding across
it; the sounds were mostly blown away; the battling men were less real
than the butterflies on the thick heather by Cæsar’s feet; but yet he
knew all they were suffering, he felt himself every change in the day
from morning to sundown. After the first surprise and alarm he saw
impatiently how the Venetan ships were escaping, scudding ahead of the
galleys that chased them; they would be all safe away by nightfall,
hiding in a hundred creeks and inlets, and the battle must be fought
again! But then suddenly, like a word from the Gods, the calm had
fallen, and Cæsar knew his star was with him yet. The sailing ships lay
helpless, dispersed half over the bay; the galleys could take their
time, row up to them, board and capture them one by one. It was all over
by sunset; here, as everywhere, Cæsar was the conqueror.
The tide swept in and in through the mouth of the bay, carrying with it
wreckage, masts, planks, oars, tangles of rope and sail, bodies of Gaul
and Roman, and drifting with them Meromic and his spar. He had been in
the water hours now, numb, bleeding hours, with the coast-line only
ever so little changed each time he looked up at it. At first he had
felt his leather coat dragging at him, but he had managed to slip it off
and fasten his sword-belt again, while he was still strong enough; it
sank at once. Sometimes he had swum a little, but mostly he had just
rested on his spar, wondering how long it would be before he got too
weak to hold on to it; the sun had scorched his head at the beginning,
but later he had not felt it. After a long space of drifting he raised
his head and saw the dark shape of land high and near on his right; he
breathed deeply, let go the spar, and started swimming across the
current. For all his efforts, it had almost carried him past when
suddenly he felt bottom; he waded in, pulled himself up above high-tide
mark, and lay flat, thinking dizzily how solid the ground was. Above him
the evening sky was pale with stars; he stared at them, trying to get
clear in his head whether he was east or south of the bay; before he
could be certain, they all went black; he spent that night cold on the
sand, half asleep, half fainting, but still free, free and in his own
country.
He woke in the morning very thirsty, and got to his feet, clinging to a
rock and looking out to sea; he seemed to know this beach and yet he
couldn’t be sure--that slope?--that outline of crag--where? He went on,
and all at once heard a trickle of fresh water and turned eagerly
towards it; and there was the spring and the rowan tree, everything fell
into its place: he was on Crabland all the time. He drank deep at the
spring, and sat down beside it; he felt so strong at first, strong
enough to climb up and look round for any help. He saw the empty bay,
the wreckage of ships and hopes; he knew well how far it was from here
to the mainland: he could never swim it now with this aching, bleeding
arm that he was hardly able to move. He grew thirsty again and went back
to the spring; watching the water sliding along over the dark green
weeds, hearing its changing voice, he did not think, did not hope, did
not dream; before he had made up his mind about anything, it was evening
again ... and night ... and morning; he would never leave Crabland now,
he would die here quietly, he would be done with pain and hunger, it
would all go out, the soft withdrawal of a long tide.