STE. BARBE--AND AFTERWARDS
(1)
Just as on the day when he had first entered the cottage in Clouarnet
village to look for his friend, and had met his deadly foe, so now
Fortuné de la Vireville stood hesitating on the same threshold,
because he feared to find, already in possession, a Foe more deadly
still. As on that day, too, it seemed dark within, coming from
the brilliant sunshine outside. Was that why he put his hand for
a moment over his eyes?
On the floor by the wall, at the left of the door, under a cloak,
could be dimly seen the figure of an officer, lying very still.
Another sat by the empty hearth with his head between his hands.
Fortuné straightened himself, went in, and touched the man by the
hearth on the shoulder.
And René de Flavigny lifted the face of one who has come from a
great distance, across centuries of time, and saw him standing
there, powder-grimed, with sand on his clothes and in his hair,
and carrying his left hand thrust into his short blue embroidered
Breton vest. The sleeve of his coat bore, high up, a dark red stain.
"I was afraid for you," said La Vireville abruptly and rather
hoarsely. "I knew that your regiment. . . I went to Fort Penthièvre.
I had to step over the wounded, they are lying so thick there. . . .
Well, thank God you are safe!"
"Yes, I am safe," responded de Flavigny, in a dull voice.
"You are not touched at all?"
The Marquis shook his head. "What of you?" he asked.
La Vireville gave a sort of laugh. "Oh, as for us Chouans," he
said, replying in general terms, though he must have known that
the inquiry was particular, "those of us who did not run shared
the fate of Hector, and you know what that fate was. . . . We had
to go back with them under the range of the guns. God alone--if
He--knows what possessed d'Hervilly to give that order. He is
dying, they say----"
"Your arm!" exclaimed his friend, pointing to it. He seemed incapable
of prolonged speech.
"Only a flesh wound," replied La Vireville, glancing down at it
indifferently. "A splinter of shell, I think; I was knocked down
by one." He went and looked down at the dead officer by the wall,
and came back without saying anything. "I must get back to what
is left of my men. Poor Le Goffic is badly wounded. I only came
to make sure of your safety, René."
The Marquis was on his feet now. "But for one thing," said he,
suddenly finding speech, and pointing to the quiet figure under
the cloak, "I would rather be in his place."
"I can guess what that thing is," returned La Vireville, making
to go; "but though I have no son, like you, to live for, and the
man I have hated so long is dead--I think he saved my life--yet
I want to live . . . for to-morrow."
"_Will there be a to-morrow?_" asked the Marquis de Flavigny,
with sombre emphasis.
La Vireville, who was already half-way to the door, stopped dead,
and turned to face that question.
"No, René, perhaps not," said he very gravely, and there was a
silence.
"There is now only the fort between us and Hoche's advance," went
on the Marquis. "If that goes, we shall be swept into the sea."
"I know," replied the Chouan. He seemed to be waiting still for
something else to be said.
De Flavigny came up to him and took his hand. "Fortuné, I have
a great favour to ask of you, and I must ask you now, for I have
a presentiment that I shall never have another chance to make
the request."
"Ask," said his friend.
"I do not think that I shall ever see England again," went on the
Marquis. "If I do not, and you escape, I want you to promise me to
look after Anne. Don't refuse me, Fortuné! Mr. Elphinstone is an old
man, and when he dies there will be nobody of my blood--nobody of
our nationality even--about the boy, and he is French, and I should
wish him to remain French, although in exile. By my will he inherits
all I have, and nearly all his grandfather's property will eventually
come to him, so he will be well provided for. There is no one in the
world, after his grandfather, to whom I would rather commit him than
you. He is very fond of you--and, Fortuné, he has a kind of claim on
you already, since you did that for him which can never be forgotten,
though you will not allow me even to thank you for it!"
La Vireville had heard him silently to the end, looking down at
the beaten earth of the cottage floor. "But if we come to final
disaster, which, God knows, seems probable enough," he said quietly,
"it is not likely that I shall see England again either. Not that
I have any special presentiments about my own fate--one soon gets
rid of those en chouannant--but because I think, with you, that
we are in a desperate strait. Unless Puisaye, now that d'Hervilly
is dying . . . though I do not believe that Puisaye is the man to
save us. Yet we _may_ beat them off."
"Will you promise me, then, to do your utmost, if the worst happens,
to save yourself, for Anne's sake, if not for your own? Will you
promise me that, Fortuné?"
La Vireville looked him in the eyes and gripped the hand he held.
"Yes, I promise you that, René. So it be not inconsistent with
honour, I will do my best to save myself--and if you are killed,
and I live to return, Anne shall be my . . . son."
* * * * *
But how far off, how incongruous, in the midst of this welter of
blood and catastrophe, was the thought of that little boy, with
his confiding ways! Outside his own quarters at St. Pierre, Fortuné
met the surgeon who was attending to the Chouan wounded, and, going
in with him, displaced Grain d'Orge, who, looking like a necromancer,
was giving attentions of very doubtful value to the moaning Le
Goffic on his heap of seaweed.
"Monsieur Augustin," whispered the self-constituted leech, while
the surgeon examined the young Breton, "this is not a good place,
this Quiberon!"
"Your remark is very just, mon vieux!" returned La Vireville, half
sadly, half humorously. "You are not the first to make it, either.
Do you want to go back to the Côtes-du-Nord? There is the devil
of a deal of fighting before you if you wish to do that."
"Ma Doué, I am sure of it!" said Grain d'Orge with a chuckle. He
rubbed off some blood, presumably Le Goffic's, from his hands on
to his baggy breeches. "You and I, Monsieur Augustin, have seen
much of that--and of this too," he added, laying a grimy finger
on La Vireville's wounded arm. "And I know that _I_ shall see my
parish again, because the wise woman told me so before I left.
But not many of the others, perhaps."
A sudden compunction invaded La Vireville. It was his influence
which had led these children of Northern Brittany away from their
homes to perish in what was, to them, almost a foreign land.
"Listen to me, mon gars," he said. "If ever I give the word for
a sauve qui peut, for disbandment, in short, remember it is because
I am convinced that each man, separately, has a better chance for
his life than with the rest. If you gained the mainland, it would
be difficult to distinguish any of you from the inhabitants there,
to prove, indeed, that you had ever been in Quiberon at all."
Grain d'Orge's little eyes twinkled. "That is very true, Monsieur
Augustin. I will remember."
And La Vireville, as he bent down to hear what the surgeon thought
of Le Goffic, had a conviction that the wise woman had not been
wrong about Grain d'Orge, who, of incorruptible fidelity though
he was, had too much innate cunning not to succeed in saving his
own skin.
"I think he will do," said the surgeon, and gave directions. "The
rest--ah, but what have you there yourself, Monsieur? We will have
your coat off at once, if you please!"
"I am not made of porcelain," protested La Vireville. "I know what
it is--a flesh wound merely. I want my men all seen to first."
But to this the surgeon only responded by starting to slit up the
stained sleeve himself.
(2)
Shortly afterwards, when his wound had been probed and dressed,
and he found himself set, by the surgeon's orders, to sit a little
beside Le Goffic, La Vireville had time to think--or rather, the
scenes and sensations with which his brain was spinning began to
unroll themselves before him again.
And first, he was marching with his men over the sand and coarse
grass up towards Ste. Barbe. It was one o'clock in the morning,
and very dark. Six hundred Chouans they were altogether, with the
other bodies of the same composition, and, as d'Hervilly had told
him it would be, they were on the extreme right of the émigré
regiments. The régiment d'Hector--the régiment de la Marine--was
next them, on their left.
The sand, fine and white, muffled their footfalls, light, in any
case, as became those of intermittent poachers. Just behind La
Vireville was St. Four, who never spoke, in his British uniform.
But La Vireville had not thought of him; his brain had been busy
with what they were doing, or hoping to do.
And hope, indeed, had obstacles to surmount. Where, for instance,
were the large bodies of Chouans under Tinténiac and another, who
had been despatched several days ago into the interior for the
purpose of attacking Ste. Barbe simultaneously from the rear? To
anyone who knew Tinténiac as La Vireville did, their non-appearance
was very strange. They might yet come up in time. If they did not,
then d'Hervilly's refusal to postpone the attack for twenty-four
hours in order to allow of the landing of Sombreuil's division--still
out there in their transports in the bay--was deprived of its only
justification.
They marched on. Far away the fires of the Republican bivouacs were
visible through the darkness, at the foot of the rising ground
of Ste. Barbe. . . .
* * * * *
The scene shifted. It was dawn now. They were still advancing, having
passed the Republican outposts with scarcely a struggle, for the
enemy, acting no doubt on instructions, had abandoned them and had
fallen back on the strong entrenched camp. In that uncompromising
light of dawn La Vireville could see how strong they were--a long
line of entrenchments with two redoubts and several batteries,
bristling with four-pounders, and well provided with heavy guns and
mortars. And he knew instinctively that his Chouans were casting
sidelong glances at those sinister black mouths. It was not the
kind of thing that they liked or were accustomed to.
But he also perceived, with a leap of the heart, that there was a
much better thing to be done than attacking these in front. The
tide was out, and for that reason they had only to go on as they
were going, and they could turn the batteries and take them in
the rear. If only d'Hervilly would send orders to that end! For
d'Hervilly was away on the left with his own regiment, while Puisaye,
strangely enough, was with the rearguard.
He was just thinking of communicating his hopes to St. Four when
orders to halt came down from the head of the combined column,
where the officer in command, a grand seigneur, the Duc de Lévis,
could be seen on his horse. They halted.
La Vireville turned with a frown to St. Four, and read his own
uneasiness in his enemy's eyes. He nodded, and the officer of
Hector, saluting, disappeared.
"Are we going to attack now, Monsieur Augustin?" whispered Grain
d'Orge, coming up, carrying his musket in a fashion peculiar to
himself. "The sooner the better."
La Vireville knew that as well as he. He was quite aware that
you must keep the Chouan on the move, or watching from behind a
hedge--but not in the open, doing nothing, where his thoughts get
too much for him.
"I expect so," he returned. "Go back to your place."
Minutes passed. The dawn grew brighter in a pale, clear, tender
sky. The men began to fidget. Then--a relief--the order came to
march on. The column moved on a little, then stopped again.
Le Goffic came up--he who lay, looking like death, beside him now.
"Monsieur Augustin, the men are getting impatient--that is to say----"
"Tell them," interrupted La Vireville brutally, "that I have given
you orders to shoot instantly anyone who either stirs now, or who
refuses to stir when he is told to!"
For he knew what Le Goffic's euphemism meant.
And then at last St. Four came hurrying back, the sweat on his
face and tears of wrath in his eyes.
"D'Hervilly is mad--mad!" he gasped. "He is going to attack away
there on the left front by himself--with the left wing only. He
says Hector can 'come on afterwards!' Hector will be wiped out
if they go back now under the fire of the batteries to rejoin the
left wing . . . and so shall we be! But go back they will--there
is nothing else to do. My God, what insanity!"
If Hector went back, so must the Chouans, or be left in the air.
It was the death-knell of the little irregular force. Both men
knew it, and their faces were very grim as they stared at one
another for a moment. Then La Vireville turned away to give his
orders. So much for the sound, the obvious, plan of attacking
the batteries in the rear!
Before he had finished, the drums of the régiment d'Hector, on
their left, were beating the charge. . . .
* * * * *
Le Goffic groaned. His leader got up, and, as well as he could
with one arm in a sling, gave him a drink.
"Merci, maman!" said the young man, without opening his eyes.
* * * * *
There was a depression in the dunes, a sort of corridor between
two little eminences. Every clod of it, every blade of grass against
the young sky, La Vireville could see now if he shut his eyes. For
it was into that little sandy hollow of death, dominated as it
was by three batteries at half-cannon shot, that he and his men
had been obliged to follow the régiment d'Hector.
For a moment its image, as it rested with him, was blotted out
by the picture of a whirlwind, the flying Chouan column, broken
at the first thunder of the Republican guns. Fortuné saw again
the Duc de Lévis on his horse in the midst of the torrent, trying
vainly to rally the distracted peasants, and literally unable to
keep up with them at the gallop, so fast did they flee. How La
Vireville himself had succeeded in keeping his contingent together
he scarcely knew--yet they _had_ followed him. . . . There was cover
of a sort here, in the ravine, and cover they knew instinctively
how to utilise. But the fire was murderous.
"Courage, mes gars, this will soon be over, and then we can advance
again!" he had shouted, believing anything but what he had said.
It was worse, far worse, than the cannonade at Auray, but this time
his men could not run. They fell instead, and, raging inwardly,
he had watched one after another go down. . . . At last he saw Le
Goffic throw out his arms and stagger. Hastily he threw down his
empty musket (for he was firing like the rest) to go to him, and
as he did so, heard a cry behind him:
"Look out, La Vireville, look out!" The voice was St. Four's.
Concurrently there came the whistle of a shell, and Fortuné was
sent reeling a couple of yards forward--the result, as he instantly
realised, of a very rough push from his aide-de-camp. The next
moment there was a violent explosion, and, amid showers of sand,
he was hurled on to his back.
Half buried in sand and rubbish he struggled as quickly as he could
to his feet, and, rather dazed, looked round. Several of his men
began to run towards him, but his own gaze was fixed on the figure
of St. Four in his red uniform, lying motionless a few yards away.
La Vireville hurried to him. But there was no need of haste, nor
possibility of aid. The back of his head was blown away.
Whether St. Four had actually saved his life or no, his intention
of doing so seemed clear then to La Vireville, remembering how his
enemy had thrown himself against him when he had heard the shell
coming. He stood a second or two looking down at the man whom he
could not forgive. The brain that had planned and carried out his
betrayal now lay spilt on the sand at his feet. "But that does
not undo what he did?" Who was it had said that? . . . He stooped
and covered the terrible evidence of mortality with his handkerchief,
a red trickle coursing down his own wrist the while. . . .
* * * * *
Le Goffic in his unconsciousness was moaning and muttering again.
This time it was something about "Yvonne."
"Mon pauvre gars!" murmured La Vireville, bending over him. "I am
afraid you have your marching orders, whatever the surgeon may say."
* * * * *
How had Le Goffic been got here--how had any of them come alive
out of that place, where the sand was pitted with grapeshot like
dust after a thunderstorm? He could hardly tell even now. Long
after the order to retire should have come, the régiment d'Hector
and the little Chouan contingent, both fearfully reduced, had gone
on stoically firing and falling. . . . La Vireville had heard since
that d'Hervilly, the author of the disaster, had given the word
for retirement earlier, but that aide-de-camp after aide-de-camp
to whom it was entrusted had been shot down, and then d'Hervilly
himself received his own mortal wound. And when at last the order
reached them, the régiment d'Hector, whose losses had already been
so great, was obliged to sacrifice its company of cadets, boys of
fifteen and sixteen, before the manœuvre could be carried out.
Well, somehow they had got out of the slaughter. And, afterwards,
the cost of failure was counted--du Dresnay (René's regiment)
fearfully cut up, its lieutenant-colonel in command killed;
Hector--so valuable a corps by reason of the experienced naval
officers which it contained--reduced to half its effectives; and
in Loyal-Emigrant, out of a hundred and twenty veteran chevaliers
de St. Louis, only forty-five returned from the attack. Other
regiments had been less exposed--but all had suffered. . . .
La Vireville, still kneeling by Le Goffic, passed his hand over
his eyes as though to wipe away a vision. Seasoned as he was, the
past twelve hours had provided him with rather more in the way
of sensation than he could stomach. St. Four was dead. He himself
had promised, in certain circumstances, to be responsible for
Anne-Hilarion. Lastly, irretrievable disaster was moving swiftly
upon them. There was only Fort Penthièvre, as René had said, between
them and Hoche's advance.
And, suddenly, a couple of snatches of Anne-Hilarion's favourite
ballad floated up to Fortuné's brain from the region where, all
unconsciously, he must have stored them that afternoon when he
had heard it from the child's lips in the cave by Kerdronan. The
first related to some man, whose name did not revisit him, lying
drowned, fifty fathoms down, 'with the Scots lords at his feet.'
The second brought with it the same picture which it had conjured
up for him then--of the fisherman's young wife waiting in vain,
in her cottage on the shore, for the husband who had been sacrificed,
really, on the same altar as to-day's victims--and to-morrow's.
"O lang, lang may the maidens sit
Wi' their gowd kames in their hair,
A-waiting for their ain dear loves!
For them they'll see nae mair."
He cast a last look at Le Goffic, and, going to the door of the
shed, went forth into the sunshine and the suffering outside.