Even in these days there are few good roads in La Vendée, and those
few have been made since 1832, that is, since the period of which we
are now writing. This lack of roads was the principal strength of the
insurgents in the great war. Let us say a word on those that then
existed, concerning ourselves only with those on the left bank of the
Loire.
They were two in number. The first went from Nantes to Rochelle,
through Montaigu; the second from Nantes to Paimb[oe]uf by the
Pélerin, following almost continuously the banks of the river.
Besides these two main highways, there were other secondary or cross
roads; these went from Nantes to Beaupréau through Vallet, from Nantes
to Mortagne, Chollet, and Bressuire by Clisson, from Nantes to
Sables-d'Olonne by Légé, and from Nantes to Challans by Machecoul. To
reach Machecoul by either of these roads it was necessary to make a
long detour, in fact, as far round as Légé; thence along the road from
Nantes to Sables-d'Olonne, following that until it was crossed by the
road to Challans, by which the traveller retraced his way to
Machecoul.
The general knew too well that the whole success of his expedition
depended on the rapidity with which it was conducted to be willing to
resign himself to so long a march. Besides, none of these roads were
favorable for military operations. They were bordered by deep ditches,
gorse, bushes of all kinds, and trees; in many places they were sunken
between high banks with hedges at the top. Such roads, under
any of these conditions, were favorable for ambuscades; the little
advantage they offered in no way counterbalanced their risks. The
general therefore determined to follow a cross-country road which led
to Machecoul by Vieille-Vigne and shortened the way by over four
miles.
The system of encampments the general had adopted since coming to La
Vendée had familiarized his soldiers with the nature of the land and
given them a good eye for dangerous places. The captain in command of
the infantry knew the way as far as the Boulogne river; but from that
point it was necessary to have a guide. It was plain that Jean Oullier
would not be willing to show the way, and another man was therefore
obtained on whose fidelity they could rely.
The general in deciding on the cross-road took every precaution
against a surprise. Two chasseurs, pistol in hand, went first to
reconnoitre the way for the column; while a dozen men on each side of
the road examined the gorse and the bushes which lined it everywhere
and sometimes overtopped it. The general marched at the head of his
little troop, in the midst of which he had placed Jean Oullier.
The old Vendéan, with his wrists bound, was mounted behind a chasseur;
for greater security a girth had been passed around his body and
buckled across the breast of the soldier before him; so that Jean
Oullier if he could even have freed his hands could not escape his
bonds to the rider before him. Two other chasseurs rode to the left
and right with special orders to watch him carefully.
It was about six in the evening when the detachment left Montaigu;
they had fifteen miles to do, and, supposing that those fifteen miles
took five hours, they ought to be at the château de Souday by eleven.
The hour seemed favorable to the general for his plans. If Courtin's
report was correct, if he had not been misled in his conclusions, the
leaders of the last Vendéan movement were now assembled at Souday to
confer with the princess, and it was likely that they would not have
left the château before his arrival. If this were so, nothing could
prevent him from capturing them all by one throw of the net.
After marching for half an hour, that is, to a distance of about a
mile and a half from Montaigu, just as the little column was passing
the crossway of Saint-Corentin they came upon an old woman in rags,
who was praying on her knees before a wayside crucifix. At the noise
the column made she turned her head, and then, as if impelled by
curiosity, she rose and stood beside the road to see it pass. The
gold-laced coat of the general seemed to give her the idea of begging,
and she muttered the sort of prayer with which beggars ask for alms.
Officers and soldiers, preoccupied with other matters, and growing
surly as the twilight deepened, passed on without attending to her.
"Your general took no notice of that poor woman who asked for bread,"
said Jean Oullier to the chasseur who was on his right.
"Why do you think so?" said the soldier.
"Because he did not give her anything. Let him beware. Whoso repulses
the open palm must fear the closed fist, says the proverb. Harm will
happen to us."
"If you take that prediction to yourself, my good man, you are not
mistaken, inasmuch as you are already in peril."
"Yes, and that is why I would like to conjure it away."
"How can you?"
"Feel in my pocket for me and take out a piece of money."
"What for?"
"To give to that old woman, and then she'll share her prayers between
me who give the alms and you who enable her to get them."
The chasseur shrugged his shoulders; but superstitions are singularly
contagious, and those attached to ideas of charity are more so than
others. The soldier, while pretending to be above such nonsense,
thought he ought not to refuse to do the kindness Jean Oullier asked
of him, which might, moreover, bring down the blessing of Heaven on
both of them.
The troop was at this moment wheeling to the right into the sunken
road which leads to Vieille-Vigne. The general stopped his horse to
watch the men file past him, and see with his own eyes that all the
arrangements he had ordered were carried out; it thus happened that he
saw Jean Oullier speaking to the chasseur, and he also saw the
soldier's action.
"What do you mean by letting the prisoner speak to strangers on the
road?" he said sharply.
The chasseur related what had happened.
"Halt!" cried the general; "arrest that woman, and search her."
The order was instantly obeyed, but nothing was found on the old
beggar-woman but a few pieces of copper money, which the general
examined with the utmost care. In vain did he turn and re-turn the
coins; nothing could he find in the least suspicious about them. He put
the coins in his pocket, however, giving to the old woman a five-franc
piece in exchange. Jean Oullier watched the general's actions with a
sarcastic smile.
"Well, you see," he said in a low voice but loud enough for the
beggar-woman to hear him without losing a single word, "you see the
poor alms of a _prisoner_" (he emphasized the word) "have brought you
luck, old mother; and that's another reason still why you should
remember me in your prayers. A dozen _Ave Marias_ said for him will
greatly help the salvation of a poor devil."
Jean Oullier raised his voice as he said the last words.
"My good man," said the general to Jean Oullier when the column had
resumed its march, "in future you must address yourself to me when you
have any charity to do; I'll recommend you to the prayers of those you
want to succor; my mediation won't do you any harm up above, and it
may spare you many an annoyance here below. As for you, men,"
continued the general, speaking gruffly to his cavalry, "don't forget
my orders in future; for the harm will fall upon yourselves, and I
tell you so!"
At Vieille-Vigne they halted fifteen minutes to rest the infantry. The
Chouan was placed in the centre of the square, so as to isolate him
completely from the population which flocked inquisitively about the
troop. The horse on which Jean Oullier was mounted had cast a shoe,
and was, moreover, tired with its double burden. The general picked
out the strongest animal in the squadron to take its place. This horse
belonged to one of the troopers in the front rank, who, in spite of
the greater exposure to danger where he was, seemed very reluctant to
change places with his comrade.
The man was short, stocky, vigorous, with a gentle but intelligent
face; and was quite devoid of the cavalier manner which characterized
his comrades. During the preparations for this change, which was made
by the light of a lantern (by that time the night was very dark) Jean
Oullier caught sight of the face of the man behind whom he was to
continue his way; his eyes met those of the soldier, and he noticed
that the latter lowered his.
Again the column started, taking every precaution; for the farther
they advanced, the thicker grew the bushes and the coverts beside the
road; consequently the easier it became to attack them. The prospect
of danger to be met and weariness to be endured, on roads which were
little better in many places than beds of water-courses strewn with
rocks and stones, did not lessen the gayety of the soldiers, who now
began, after recovering from their first surliness at nightfall, to
find amusement in the idea of danger, and to talk among themselves
with that liveliness which seldom deserts a French soldier for any
length of time. The chasseur behind whom Jean Oullier was mounted
alone took no part in the talk, but was thoughtful and gloomy.
"Confound you, Thomas," said the trooper on the right, addressing him,
"you never have much to say for yourself, but to-day, I will declare,
one would think you were burying the devil."
"At any rate," said the one to the left, "he has got him on his back.
You ought to like that, Thomas, for you are half a Chouan yourself."
"He's a whole Chouan, I'm thinking; doesn't he go to mass every
Sunday?"
The chasseur named Thomas had no time to answer these twittings, for
the general's voice now ordered the men to break ranks and advance
single file, the way having become so narrow and the bank on each side
so steep that it was impossible for two horsemen to ride abreast.
During the momentary confusion caused by this man[oe]uvre Jean Oullier
began to whistle in a low key the Breton air "The Chouans are men of
heart."
At the first note the rider quivered. Then, as the other troopers were
now before and behind them, Jean Oullier, safe from observation, put
his mouth close to the ear of the one behind whom he was mounted.
"Ha! you may be as silent as you like, Thomas Tinguy," he whispered;
"I knew you at once, and you knew me."
The soldier sighed and made a motion with his shoulders which seem to
mean that he was acting against his will. But he made no answer.
"Thomas Tinguy," said Jean Oullier, "do you know where you are going?
Do you know where you are taking your father's old friend? To the
pillage and destruction of the château de Souday, whose masters have
been for years and years the benefactors of your family."
Thomas Tinguy sighed again.
"Your father is dead," continued Jean Oullier.
Thomas made no reply, but he shuddered in his saddle; a single word
escaped his lips and reached the ears of Jean Oullier:--
"Dead!"
"Yes, dead," replied the Chouan; "and who watched beside his dying bed
with your sister Rosine and received his last sigh? The two young
ladies from Souday whom you know well, Mademoiselle Bertha and
Mademoiselle Mary; and that at the risk of their lives, for your
father died of a malignant fever. Not being able to save his life,
angels that they are they stayed beside him to ease his death. Where
is your sister now, having no home? At the château de Souday. Ah!
Thomas Tinguy, I'd rather be poor Jean Oullier, whom they'll shoot
against a wall, than he who takes him bound to execution."
"Hush! Jean, hush!" said Thomas Tinguy, with a sob in his voice; "we
are not there yet--wait and see."
While this little colloquy was passing between Jean Oullier and the
son of the older Tinguy, the ravine through which the little column
was moving began to slope downward rapidly. They were nearing one of
the fords of the Boulogne river.
It was a dark night without a star in the sky; and such a night, while
it might favor the ultimate success of the expedition, might also, on
the other hand, hinder its march and even imperil it in this wild and
unknown country.
When they reached the ford they found the two chasseurs who had been
sent in advance, awaiting them, pistol in hand. They were evidently
uneasy. The ford, instead of being a clear, shallow stream rippling
over pebbles, was a dark and stagnant body of water, washing softly
against a rocky bank.
They looked on all sides for the guide whom Courtin had agreed should
meet them at this point. The general gave a loud call. A voice
answered on the opposite shore,--
"Qui vive?"
"Souday!" replied the general.
"Then you are the ones I am waiting for," said the guide.
"Is this the ford of the Boulogne?" asked the general.
"Yes."
"Why is the water so high?"
"There's a flood since the last rains."
"Is the crossing possible in spite of it?"
"Damn it! I don't know. I have never seen the river as high as this. I
think it would be more prudent--"
The guide's voice suddenly stopped, or rather seemed to turn into a
moan. Then the sound of a struggle was plainly heard, as if the feet
of several men were tussling on the pebbles.
"A thousand thunders!" cried the general, "our guide is being
murdered!"
A cry of agony replied to the general's exclamation and confirmed it.
"A grenadier up behind every trooper!" cried the general. "The captain
behind me! The two lieutenants stay here with the rest of the troop,
the prisoner, and his three guards. Come on, and quickly too!"
In a moment the seventeen chasseurs had each a grenadier behind him.
Eighty grenadiers, the two lieutenants, the prisoner and his three
guards, including Tinguy, remained on the right bank of the river. The
order was executed with the rapidity of thought, and the general,
followed by his chasseurs and the seventeen grenadiers behind them,
plunged into the bed of the river.
Twenty feet from the shore the horses lost foothold, but they swam for
a few moments and reached, without accident, the opposite bank. They
had hardly landed when the grenadiers dismounted.
"Can you see anything?" said the general, trying himself to pierce the
darkness that surrounded the little troop.
"No, general," said the men with one voice.
"Yet it was certainly from here," said the general, as if speaking to
himself, "that the man answered me. Look behind the bushes, but
without scattering; you may find his body."
The soldiers obeyed, searching round a radius of some hundred and
fifty feet. But they returned in about fifteen minutes and reported
that they could see nothing, and had found no traces of the body.
"You saw absolutely nothing?" asked the general.
One grenadier alone came forward, holding in his hand a cotton cap.
"I found this," he said.
"Where?"
"Hooked to a bush."
"That's our guide's cap," said the general.
"How do you know?" asked the captain.
"Because the men who attacked him would have worn hats," replied the
general, without the slightest hesitation.
The captain was silent, not daring to ask further; but it was evident
that the general's explanation had explained nothing to his mind.
Dermoncourt understood the captain's silence.
"It is very simple," he said; "the men who have just murdered our
guide have followed us ever since we left Montaigu for the purpose of
rescuing the prisoner. The arrest must be a more important matter than
I thought it was. These men who have followed us were at the fair, and
wore hats, as they always do when they go to the towns; whereas our
guide was called from his bed suddenly by the man who sent him to us,
and he would of course put on the cap he was in the habit of wearing;
it may even have been on his head as he slept."
"Do you really think, general," said the captain, "that those Chouans
would dare to come so near our line of march?"
"They have come step by step with us from Montaigu; they have not let
us out of their sight one single instant. Heavens and earth! people
complain of our inhumanity in this war, and yet at every step we are
made to feel, to our cost, that we have not been inhuman enough. Fool
and simpleton that I have been!"
"I understand you less and less, general," said the captain, laughing.
"Do you remember that beggar-woman who spoke to us just after we left
Montaigu?"
"Yes, general."
"Well, it was that old hag who put up this attack. I wanted to send
her back into the town; I did wrong not to follow my own instinct; I
should have saved the life of this poor devil. Ah! I see now how it
was done. The _Ave Marias_ for which the prisoner asked have been
answered here."
"Do you think they will dare to attack us?"
"If they were in force it would have been done before now. But there
are only six or eight of them at the most."
"Shall I bring over the men on the other bank, general?"
"No, wait; the horses lost foothold and the infantry would drown.
There must be some better ford near by."
"You think so, general?"
"Damn it! I'm sure."
"Then you know the river?"
"Never saw it before."
"Then why--?"
"Ah! captain, it is easy to see that you didn't go through the great
war, as I did,--that war of savages, in which we had to go by
induction. These Vendéan fellows were not posted here on this side of
the river in ambuscade at the moment when we came up on the other:
that is clear."
"For you, general."
"Hey! bless my soul,--clear to anybody! If they had been posted there,
they would have heard the guide and killed him or captured him before
we came; consequently the band were on our flank as we came along."
"That is probably so, general."
"And they must have reached the bank of the river just before us. Now
the interval between the time we arrived and halted and the moment our
guide was attacked was too short to allow of their making a long
detour to another ford--no, they must have forded close by."
"Why couldn't they have crossed here?"
"Because a peasant, especially in these interior regions, hardly ever
knows how to swim. The ford is close at hand, that is certain. Send
four men up the river and four men down. Quick! We don't want to die
here, especially in wet clothes."
At the end of ten minutes the officer returned.
"You are right, general," he said; "three hundred yards from here
there's a small island; the trunk of a tree joins it with the other
bank, and another trunk with this side."
"Good!" said the general; "then they can get across without wetting a
cartridge."