THE RED CORNFIELD
'M. le Marquis, the Conde de Leyva begs for help urgently.'
'Tell him I have none to give,' de Rone made answer from his big black
charger Couronne. '_Sangdieu!_' he added under his breath, 'had we
been but three hours earlier the Bearnais was lost.'
The words were hardly out of his mouth when the cavalier to whom they
were addressed threw up his arms with a scream, and falling forward
from his horse, began to beat at the earth convulsively with his
hands, whilst he gasped out his life. As the death glaze was covering
his eyes, his empty saddle was filled by a figure that rose up like a
sprite through the dim smoke, and Belin's even voice was heard.
'Poor Garabay! But my horse was shot under me an hour ago, and this
one will do me excellently. Shall I carry your message, General?'
'I claim the honour. Marquis; do not deny me, Belin. I have been idle
too long,' and I pressed forward as I spoke.
'Oh, I yield to you, d'Auriac! there is work enough for me at the
other end; the bear of Aumale is dancing to a fine tune there,' and
Belin reined back, whilst de Rone nodded assent, with a meaning in his
look that I alone understood.
I needed no second bidding, but turning my Norman's rein, galloped
down the blazing line of battle. If I escaped through the day, which
to my mind was already lost, I knew full well that de Rone, smarting
under disappointment and chagrin at defeat, would be in no temper for
mercy, and would certainly keep his word to me.
There was not a doubt of it, but that the issue of the day was at a
crisis. On our extreme right d'Aumale and the exiles of France were
pitted against the Huguenot battalions, who went into battle with a
hymn on their lips, and had sworn by the faith for which so many of
them had died never to quit the field alive. Be sure they strove
bitterly there, for the hatreds of sixty years had met face to face on
their last field, and no quarter was asked or given. In the centre
Bouillon, the Turenne of other days, and Biron--men whose very names
were victory--led the attack, which was slowly but surely driving us
back into the river. At one time indeed the fiery marshal, with the
exception of the King perhaps the most brilliant cavalry leader of the
age, had all but laid hands on our standard, and so close was he to me
that I might have counted the jewels of the Order at his neck, and
clearly heard his deep '_Mordieu!_' as he slowly gave way before the
desperate rally that for the moment retrieved the day. But it was on
our left that the greatest danger lay. Henry's rapid movement during
the night had forestalled de Rone's plans, and had practically shut in
the left wing of the Leaguer general between two fires. For although
de Rethelois was penned into La Fere, yet his artillery had a long
reach and galled us in the rear, whilst the King, fully grasping the
situation, opened a heavy fire on our front, and that terrible battery
from the cornfield never ceased launching forth its messages of death.
These guns, no longer hidden by the tall corn-stalks, now beaten and
trampled down, and as red as the poppies that once starred them, were
in reality deciding the fortune of the day. Twice had de Leyva in
person brought the veteran regiments of Almagro and Algarve up to
their very muzzles, until the men could have touched them with their
Biscay pikes, and twice had they been flung back, but made good their
retreat, beating off the charge of Schomberg's reiters in so savage a
manner that the free commander was unable to rally his men for the
rest of the day.
I let my beast go with a loose head, and there was no need of the spur
to urge him to his utmost effort as he bore me to de Leyva. I found
him bare-headed and on foot, his face black with smoke and bleeding
from wounds. His _toison d'or_ had been shot away, though its jewelled
collar still clasped his neck, and his left arm hung useless by his
side. He stared at me when I gave him de Rone's answer, to which I
added the news that Garabay was dead. Then he laughed through his
cracked lips--a laugh that seemed to stick in the knot of his throat,
and making me no further reply, waved his sword in the air with a cry
on his men for yet another effort, and a forlorn hope at the guns. And
they who had never known defeat before answered to his call and came
up again--a line of men for whom the bitterness of death was passed. I
ought to have gone back to de Rone, but the lust of battle was on me,
and for me there was nothing in the world but the black guns behind
the continuous flashes, lightening through the thick smoke which the
wind was blowing in our faces. My brave horse was killed by a round
shot, and as I scrambled up and took my place by de Leyva's side, his
features relaxed and he said with a thin smile:
'I have had both my horses killed, Chevalier, or would offer you a
mount.'
'We will replace them from Schomberg's reiters,' and the bugles,
sounding the attack, cut short all further talk. It was win or lose
now--all was staked upon this hazard, and it was well for us that
Schomberg was broken, for to protect the men as far as possible from
the guns, de Leyva advanced in open files. There was to be no firing.
The work was to be all cold steel, and Bayonne knife and Biscay pike
were to make a last effort against the long, black, snarling guns,
behind which d'Aussonville's ordnance men yelped and danced with glee
as each discharge brought down its tale of the mangled and dead. But
up the long slope, never flinching, never swerving, one man stepping
where another fell, the veteran regiments marched, with their gallant
chief at their head. When about fifty paces away, the drift was so
thick that we could see nothing save the incessant flashes of light,
which possessed but power enough to show themselves. At this moment
the bugles rang out shrilly, the ranks closed up like magic, there was
one tremendous roar of artillery, and the half of us that were left
were in the battery. Here, on the red and slippery corn-stalks, the
devilry went on, and men fought more like beasts than human beings. As
the heaving mass swayed backwards and forwards, the strong breeze
lifted the smoke from the now speechless guns and showed that they
were won, but it also showed us another sight, and that was de Rone's
broken centre doubling back upon us in utter rout, and behind them a
silver line of shining helmets as the King's House charged, led by
Henry himself.
On they came, a dancing line of light, a gleam of shining swords, with
the white plume of the bravest of them full three lengths in front.
'_Vive le Roi!_' The breeze flung us the deep-mouthed cheer as they
broke through the mailed ranks of de Rone's own cuirassiers, and drove
horse and foot, knight and knave, in a huddled mob before them.
It may have been fancy, but I thought I saw in the press a dark figure
that suddenly turned the reins of a huge, black charger and flew at
the King. For an instant two bright sword blades crossed in the air,
and then the black horse plunged riderless into the grey spate of
smoke that the wind was bearing westwards, and a groan as of despair
fell on my ears.
'_Vive le Roi!_' Once again came the full-throated cry, and the bay
horse was galloping towards us, followed by the line of swords, no
longer shining, but dulled and red with the slaughter they had made.
From a heap of dead and dying that lay about two yards off me, a
figure, so hideous with wounds that it seemed barely human, rose to a
sitting posture, and then staggering to its feet, swayed backwards and
forwards, with the fragment of a sword still clutched in its hand.
With a supreme effort it steadied itself, and as the poor, mad eyes,
alive with pain, caught sight of the enemy, they lit again with the
fire of battle, and de Leyva's voice rang out strong and clear as of
old:
'The guns--the guns--turn them on the King!'
'They are spiked,' someone gave answer, with a grim, hopeless laugh.
As he heard this reply, de Leyva slipped sideways, and would have
fallen had I not sprang forward and supported him with my arm. He
leaned his smitten frame against me for a moment, and something that
was like a sob burst from him. But he recovered himself on the
instant, and with the strength so often given to those who are about
to die, pushed me aside with an oath, and shaking his broken blade in
the face of the advancing line, fell forwards in a huddled mass, a
dead man.
The next moment the enemy were on us. We met them with a row of pikes;
but what could we do, for we were few in number, weary with the long
struggle, and weak with wounds? The issue was never in doubt, and they
broke us at once. I have a vague memory of fighting for dear life
amidst a thunder of hoofs, and the hissing sweep of swords, but was
ridden down by some one, and all became dark around me.
* * * * *
When my mind came back, it was with the consciousness of rain that was
falling softly, and the cool drops plashed on my burning head with a
sensation of relief that I cannot describe. I suffered from an
intolerable thirst, and strove to rise that I might find means to
quench it; but found I was powerless to move, and writhed in my agony
in the rut amidst the corn-stalks wherein I had fallen. The rain was
but a passing shower, and when it ceased a light but cool breeze
sprang up. It was night, and a fitful moon shone through the uneasy
clouds that hurried to and fro overhead in the uncertain breeze, which
shifted its quarter as often as a child might change its mind. I
seemed to be alive only in the head, and began to wonder to myself how
long I was to lie there until death came, and with it the end of all
things. I began to wish it would come quickly, and there was a secret
whispering in my soul to pray--to pray to the God of whom I had never
thought since childhood--to entreat that Invisible Being, at whose
existence I had so often laughed, to stoop from above the stars and
end my pain, and I cursed myself for a white-livered cur that forgot
the Godhead in my strength, and in my weakness could almost have
shrieked to him for help. I pulled my fainting courage up, as I
thought that if there was no God, it was useless wasting my breath in
calling on him, whilst if, on the other hand, there was one, no prayer
of mine could go higher than my sword's point, were I to hold the
blade out at arm's length above me--and now that the end was coming, I
was not going to cringe and whimper. So my sinful pride caught me by
the heel as I lay there in my dolour.
A half-hour or so may have passed thus, and the moon was now almost
entirely obscured. Occasionally I could hear through the darkness
around me the moaning of some poor wounded wretch, and now and again
rose the shrill discordant shriek of a maimed horse, an awful cry of
pain, the effect of which those only who may have heard it can
understand. Soon a number of twinkling lights began to hover over the
plain. Sometimes they moved forward rapidly, sometimes they were
raised and lowered, and at other times stationary. Gradually two of
these lanthorns came closer to me, stopping about ten paces off, and
when I saw who bore them I knew at once they were death-hunters, and
that in a few moments the knife of one of these ghouls might end my
suffering. There were two of these fiends, a man and a woman, and as
they halted the man stooped: there was a choking cry for mercy, the
blow of a dagger, and a groan. The robber busied himself in searching
the dead man's person, and, in the silence that followed, the woman
with him threw up her head and laughed a horrid shrill laugh. It
pealed out with so eerie a sound that the death-hunter sprang to his
feet; but finding who it was, burst into the foulest language.
'_Sangdieu!_ Be still, fool,' he snarled, 'or you'll laugh another way
if I tickle you with my knife.'
'Oh, ho! The brave Mauginot,' answered the she-devil, 'you will tickle
me with your butcher knife--will you? I, too, can make you skip,' and
she shook a bright dagger in her long lean arm, but suddenly changing
her tone, 'Pouf!' she said, 'there is no use in squabbling, partner.
This is the sixth we have helped to hell to-night, and not a broad
piece amongst them. Holy Virgin! This is a field of paupers--let us
begone!' and to my joy she made as if to go.
'Stay Babette! what shines there?' and Mauginot ran forward a couple
of paces, and bending low wrenched something from a body, and then
stood up, holding it to the light.
I saw his face clearly, and saw also his prize. It was poor de Leyva's
collar of the Golden Fleece, and the blood-stained hand of the
_croquemort_ held it up to the lantern, and clinked the jewelled
links, whilst he feasted his eyes on the gold and gems. Over his
shoulders peered the pitiless features of his partner, and in her eyes
blazed all the bad light of avarice and murder. I almost held my
breath as I watched the eyes of the woman leave the jewel and turn on
the man with death in their look. As for him, he was unconscious of
the knife quivering in the nervous fingers behind him, and he chuckled
over his find.
'That is the collar of the _Toison d'Or_, Babette. _Sacre chien!_ But
I will wed you, and we will buy an estate and settle down, and you
will be Madame de Mauginot--hey! That carrion there must have been a
great prince--a field of paupers--bah! Give me more paupers like this.
I am sorry he is dead, Babette, I would like to have--Ah, _mon
Dieu!_--you devil! you devil!' for as he babbled on, his words were
cut short by Babette's knife, which was buried to the hilt between his
shoulder-blades, and he fell on his knees and then lurched on his face
stone dead. The murderess made a snatch at the jewel, which I saw her
conceal, and then with a mocking 'Adieu, M. _de_ Mauginot!' to her
victim, stepped over my body and moved out of sight, swinging her
lantern, and laughing low to herself.
As I watched this hideous scene, I for the moment forgot the pain of
my hurts; but they soon began to assert themselves in such a manner
that I longed for the relief that unconsciousness would afford, nor
indeed would I have been sorry if the night-hag, Babette, had come
back and put an end to me. My senses half failed me again, and I felt
myself tottering on the brink of delirium. I caught myself shouting
and speaking out aloud in a mad manner; but I had no power of stopping
myself. So the long hours of the night passed, and at last it was dawn
once more, and morning came.
Lying with my ear against the ground, I heard the dull beat of horses'
hoofs, growing louder and more distinct as they approached, and in a
little time the party, whoever they were, rode into the cornfield. For
a second my eyes were dazzled by the reflection of the sun on the
silver-plate of their armour; but I recovered myself with an effort,
and watched eagerly, intending to cry out for help as they passed me,
for my voice was too weak to reach where they were. There were two
ladies amongst them, and all appeared to be looking with much concern
and anxiety for some one. As they came closer I saw it was the King
himself, with Madame Gabrielle and another lady, doubtless of the
court, and a numerous retinue. Henry was mounted on his famous bay
charger; and, as he lifted his hat and looked silently around him, I
had good opportunity of observing the man who was without doubt the
most heroic figure of the age, and who united in himself the most
opposite extremes of character. I saw before me a spare figure, the
head covered with short black hair, a long hooked nose that fell over
the upper lip, and a sharp protruding chin, half hidden in a beard
tinged with grey. His long curled moustaches were white as snow, and
the story went that they had become so on the night when the Edicts of
Pacification were revoked by the last of the Valois. Under his bushy
eyebrows his keen restless eyes glittered like two beads, but for the
moment they seemed dilated with a soft light, and there was an
infinite sadness in them as he looked round the bloody field.
'I am afraid we search in vain, madame,' and a tall cavalier mounted
on a big bay addressed Madame de Beaufort. She nodded her head to him
sadly, and turned to the King.
'It is useless, sire, and I can bear this no longer--it is too
horrible--let us go.'
'_Mignonne_, you are right--this is no place for you. Roquelaure will
see you and your little friend there back, and I will come to you
soon--but now I have a letter to write--just a few lines to Bearn.'
The King spoke with a strong southern accent, and as he spoke leaned
forward and caressed Madame Gabrielle's hand. She, however, declined
to go. 'I will wait, sire, but it shall be with my eyes shut,' and the
King's mistress, whose cheeks were very pale, put her hand to her eyes
as if to shut out the sight around her. The lady with Madame de
Beaufort coming nearer at this time, I recognised my unknown Madame of
the outposts, who had evidently found her way back to her friends. But
it was with a bitter disappointment that I saw her in the company of
the duchess, and evidently in attendance on her. Madame was nothing to
me I thought, but I could not associate her with the fallen woman who
was the mistress of the King. I was learning the lesson that love
comes on a man like a thief in the night, and, unconsciously to
myself, Madame had climbed on a pinnacle in my heart, and the thought
that I had deceived myself in my estimate of her moved me to sudden
anger, and stilled the cry for help that was rising to my lips--I
would have no help from her and her friends.
In the meantime the King was busily engaged in writing his despatch on
a small tablet, which he rested on the pommel of his saddle, and as he
wrote he repeated the words aloud, and the purport of the note, which
was to de la Force at Pau, was to send him a dozen young peach-trees,
carefully packed in mould, each in a tin case one foot long, these to
be planted in his gardens of St. Germain.
As he was thus engaged, a little shrivelled old man pushed his horse
beside Madame de Beaufort, and said in mincing tones as hard as steel.
'Come, madame, your brother has met a soldier's death, and no
Frenchman can hope for a better--or he is safe and well somewhere. Dry
your tears, and rejoice at the glorious victory we have won.' The
duchess made some answer in a broken voice, and the King, hearing her,
stopped writing and put his tablet away.
'_M'amye!_ D'Ayen speaks rightly, though he speaks from the head. God
keep us from more scenes like this. As for your brother, de
C[oe]uvres, I will not rest till there is news of him; but now we can
do no more. Come, then--open your pretty eyes and we will go--there is
much on hand.'
I was a hot-headed fool and furious in those days, and I set my teeth
together grimly as they made ready to start, swearing I would rather
die than make the slightest signal for aid. They rode past quite close
to me--Gabrielle weeping at the King's bridle hand, and his Majesty
sucking at a nectarine he had pulled from his holster. Madame was
immediately behind, and as she came up to me, our eyes met with an
instant recognition. In a moment her cheek had crimsoned and paled,
and she reined in with a cry:
'Stop--halt!'
'It is Louis--Louis--O God, no!' exclaimed Madame de Beaufort,
swinging round, the glad note in her voice breaking as she saw I was
not her brother, de C[oe]uvres; but Madame had already dismounted and
was holding my head up, and gently passing a handkerchief over my
face.
They had all surrounded me now, and I heard quick orders given.
'He is past mending,' said d'Ayen, bending over me from his saddle, 'a
gentleman, too, it seems. Let him lie there--he will die very soon,
poor devil!'
'_Mon Dieu!_ No!' broke in the duchess, and Madame looked at the
speaker with a cold contempt.
'He is the only man living here,' and the strong accent of the
Bearnais came as from a distance; '_Ventre-saint-Gris!_ But they
fought like paladins, and Frenchman or foreigner, he shall be saved if
it can be done.'
'Sire,' said a soft voice, 'you are the true King of the brave.'
Then two men-at-arms raised me with a rough gentleness on their
crossed spears, and inflicted on me in their kindness the most
infinite torture. The King himself pressed a flask of wine to my lips,
and, as I drank greedily, two cool hands held up my head. Then we
moved on slowly, Madame refusing to ride, but walking by my side, and
supporting my burning head.