The springs of Baugé are realty marshes, or rather a marsh, above
which the road leading to Souday rises steeply. It is one of the most
abrupt ascents of this mountain forest.
The column of the "red-breeches," as Guérin called the soldiers, was
obliged to first cross the marsh and then ascend the steep incline.
Jean Oullier had reached the part of the road where it crosses this
bog on piles before the ascent begins. From there he had whistled to
Guérin, who found him apparently reflecting.
"What are you thinking of?" asked Guérin.
"I am thinking that perhaps this is a better place than the
crossways," replied Jean Oullier.
"Yes," said Guérin; "for here's a wagon behind which we can ambush."
Jean Oullier, who had not before noticed it, now examined the object
his companion pointed out to him. It was a heavy cart loaded with
wood, which the driver had left for the night beside the marsh,
fearing, no doubt, to cross the narrow causeway after dusk.
"I have an idea," said Jean Oullier, looking alternately at the cart
and at the hill, which rose like a dark rampart on the other side of
the bog. "Only, they must--"
He looked all about him.
"Who must? What?"
"The _gars_ must be here."
"They are here," said Guérin. "See, here's Patry, the two Gambier
brothers, and there are the Vieille-Vigne men and Joseph Picaut."
Jean Oullier turned his back so as not to see the latter.
It was true enough; the Chouans were flocking up on all sides. First
one and then another came from behind each bush and hedge. Soon they
were all collected.
"_Gars!_" said Jean Oullier, addressing them, "Ever since La Vendée
was La Vendée,--that is, ever since she has fought for her
principles,--her children have never been called upon to show their
courage and their faith more than they are to-day. If we cannot now
stop the march of Louis Philippe's soldiers great misfortunes will
happen; I tell you, my sons, that all the glory which covers the name
of La Vendée will be wiped out. As for me, I am resolved to leave my
bones in the bog of Baugé sooner than allow that infernal column of
troops to go beyond it."
"So are we, Jean Oullier!" cried many voices.
"Good! that is what I expected from men who followed us from Montaigu
to deliver me, and who succeeded. Come, to begin with, help me to drag
this cart to the top of the hill."
"We'll try," said the Vendéans.
Jean Oullier put himself at their head, and the heavy vehicle, pushed
from behind or by the wheels by some, while eight or ten pulled it by
the shafts, crossed the narrow causeway, and was hoisted rather than
dragged to the summit of the steep embankment. There Jean Oullier
wedged the wheels with stones to prevent it from running backward by
its own weight down the steep rise it had gone up with so much
difficulty.
"Now," he said, "put yourselves in ambush each side of the marsh, half
to the right, half to the left, and when the time comes,--that's to
say, when I shout 'Fire!'--fire instantly. If the soldiers turn to
pursue you, as I hope they may, retreat toward Grand-Lieu, striving to
lead them on as best you can away from Souday, which they are aiming
for. If, on the contrary, they continue their way we will all wait for
them at the Ragot crossways. There we must stand firm, and die at our
posts."
The Chouans instantly disappeared into their hiding-places on either
side the marsh, and Jean Oullier was left alone with Guérin.
Thereupon, he flung himself flat on his stomach with his ear to the
ground and listened.
"They are coming," he said. "They are following the road to Souday as
if they knew it. Who the devil can be guiding them, now that Pascal
Picaut is dead?"
"They must have found some peasant and compelled him."
"Then that's another we shall have to get rid of. If they once get
into the depths of the forest of Machecoul without a guide, not one of
them will ever return to Montaigu."
"Ah, _ça_, Jean Oullier!" exclaimed Guérin, suddenly. "You haven't any
weapon!"
"I!" said the old Vendéan, laughing between his teeth. "I've a weapon
that can bring down more men than your carbine; and in ten minutes, if
everything goes as I hope it will, there'll be plenty of guns to pick
up beside the marsh."
So saying, Jean Oullier again went up the ascent, which he had partly
descended to explain to the men his plan of battle, and reached the
cart. It was high time. As he gained the summit he heard on the
opposite hillside, which led down to the marsh, the sound of stones
rolling from the feet of horses, and he saw two or three flashes of
light from their iron shoes. The air was quivering, as it does in the
night-time, with the approach of a body of armed men.
"Come, go down and join the rest," he said to Guérin. "I stay here."
"What are you going to do?"
"You'll see presently."
Guérin obeyed. Jean Oullier crept under the cart and waited. Guérin
had hardly taken his place among his comrades when the two leading
chasseurs of the advanced-guard came upon the edge of the marsh.
Seeing the difficulties before them, they stopped and hesitated.
"Straight on!" cried a firm voice, although it had a feminine ring.
"Straight on!"
The two chasseurs advanced, and seeing the narrow causeway built on
piles they crossed it and began the ascent, coming nearer and nearer
to the cart, and, consequently, to Jean Oullier.
When they were twenty steps away from him, Jean Oullier, still beneath
the cart, hung himself by his hands to the axletree, and resting his
feet on the front bars of the wagon, remained quite motionless. The
chasseurs were presently beside the cart. They examined it carefully
from their saddles, and seeing, of course, nothing of the man beneath
it or anything else to excite distrust, they continued their way.
The main column was by this time at the edge of the marsh. The widow
Picaut passed first, then the general, then the chasseurs. The marsh
was crossed in that order.
But just as they reached the foot of the slope a thundering sound was
heard from the summit of the rise they were about to ascend; the
ground shook under their feet, and a sort of avalanche came tearing
down the hill with the rapidity of a thunderbolt.
"Stand aside!" cried Dermoncourt, in a voice which rose above that
horrible uproar.
Seizing the widow by the arm, he spurred his horse into the bushes.
The general's first thought was for his guide, who was, for the
moment, the most precious thing he had. The guide and he were safe.
But the soldiers for the most part did not have time to obey their
leader. Paralyzed by the strange noise they heard and not knowing what
enemy to look for, blinded by the darkness, and feeling danger
everywhere about them, they held to the road, where the cart (for of
course it was the cart, violently impelled by Jean Oullier from the
top of the steep embankment) cut its way through them like a monstrous
cannon-ball, killing those the wheels ran over, and wounding others
with its logs and splinters.
A moment of stupefaction followed this catastrophe, but it could not
check Dermoncourt.
"Forward, men!" he cried, "and let's get out of this cut-throat
place!"
At the same moment a voice, not less powerful than his own, called
out:--
"Fire, my _gars!_"
A flash issued from every bush on either side of the marsh and a rain
of balls came pelting down among the little troop. The voice that
ordered the volley resounded from its front, but the shots came from
its rear. The general, an old war-wolf, as sly and wary as Jean
Oullier himself, saw through the man[oe]uvre.
"Forward!" he cried; "don't lose time answering them. Forward!
forward!"
The column continued to advance, and in spite of the volleys which
followed it, reached the top of the hill.
While the general and his men were making the ascent Jean Oullier,
hiding among the underbrush, went rapidly down the hill and joined his
companions.
"Bravo!" said Guérin. "Ah! if we had only ten arms like yours and a
few such wood-carts as that we could get rid of this cursed army in a
very short time."
"Hum!" growled Jean Oullier, "I'm not as satisfied as you. I hoped to
turn them back, but we have not done it. It looks to me as if they
were keeping on their way. To the crossroads, now, and as fast as our
legs will take us!"
"Who says the red-breeches are keeping on their way?" asked a voice.
Jean Oullier went to the boggy path whence the voice had come, and
recognized Joseph Picaut. The Vendéan, kneeling on the ground, with
his gun beside him, was conscientiously emptying the pockets of three
soldiers whom Jean Oullier's mighty projectile had knocked over and
crushed to death. The wolf-keeper turned away with an expression of
disgust.
"Listen to Joseph," said Guérin, in a low voice to Jean Oullier. "You
had better listen to him, for he sees by night like the cats, and his
advice is not to be despised."
"Well, I say," said Joseph Picaut, putting his plunder into a canvas
bag he always carried with him,--"I say that since the Blues reached
the top of the embankment they haven't budged. You haven't any ears,
you fellows, or you would hear them stamping up there like sheep in a
fold. If you don't hear them, I do."
"Let us make sure of that," said Jean Oullier to Guérin, thus avoiding
a reply to Joseph.
"You are right, Jean Oullier, and I'll go myself," replied Guérin.
The Vendéan crossed the marsh, crept through the reeds, and went half
way up the ascent, crawling on his stomach like a snake among the
rocks, and gliding so gently under the bushes that they scarcely
stirred as he passed. When he was only about thirty paces from the
summit he stood up, put his hat on the end of a long stick, and waved
it above his head. Instantly a shot from the summit sent it spinning a
hundred feet below its owner.
"He was right," said Jean Oullier, who heard the shot. "But what is
hindering them? Is their guide killed?"
"Their guide is not killed," said Joseph Picaut, in a savage voice.
"Did you see him?" asked another voice, for Jean Oullier seemed
determined not to speak to Joseph Picaut.
"Yes," replied the Chouan.
"Did you recognize him?"
"Yes."
"Then it must be," said Jean Oullier, as if speaking to himself, "that
they wanted to get away from the marsh and bivouac behind those rocks,
where they are safe from our guns. No doubt they will stay there till
morning."
Presently a few lights were seen flickering on the height.
Little by little they increased in number and in size, until four or
five camp fires lit up with a ruddy glow the sparse vegetation which
grew among the rocks.
"This is very strange if their guide is still with them," said Jean
Oullier. "However, as they are certain to go by the Ragot crossways in
any case, take your men there, Guérin," he said to the Chouan, who by
this time had returned to his side.
"Very good," said the latter.
"If they continue their way, you know what you have to do; if, on the
contrary, they have really bivouacked up there, you can let them take
their ease beside their fires. It is useless to attack them."
"Why so?" asked Joseph Picaut.
Thus directly questioned as to his own order, Jean Oullier was forced
to reply.
"Because," he said, "it is a crime to uselessly expose the lives of
brave men."
"Say rather--"
"What?" demanded the old keeper, violently.
"Say 'Because my masters, the nobles whose servant I am, no longer
want the lives of those brave men.' Say that, and you'll tell the
truth, Jean Oullier."
"Who dares to say that Jean Oullier lies?" asked the wolf-keeper,
frowning.
"I!" said Joseph Picaut.
Jean Oullier set his teeth, but contained himself. He seemed resolved
to have neither friendship nor quarrel with the man.
"I!" repeated Picaut,--"I say that it is not out of love for our
bodies that you want to prevent us from profiting by our victory, but
because all you have made us fight for is to keep the red-breeches
from pillaging the castle of Souday."
"Joseph Picaut," replied Jean Oullier, calmly, "though we both wear
the white cockade we do not follow the same paths nor work for the
same ends. I have always thought that no matter how their opinions may
differ, brothers are brothers, and it grieves me to see the blood of
my brethren uselessly shed. As for my relation to my masters I have
always regarded humility as the first duty of a Christian, above all
when that Christian is a poor peasant, as I am, and as you are. Also I
consider obedience the most imperative duty of a soldier. I know that
you don't think as I do,--so much the worse for you! Under other
circumstances I might have made you repent for what you have just
said; but at this moment I do not belong to myself. You may thank God
for that."
"Well," said Joseph Picaut, sneering, "when you return into possession
of yourself you'll know where to find me, Jean Oullier; you won't have
far to look." Then, turning to the little troop of men, he went on:
"Now, if there are any among you who think it is folly to course the
hare when you can take it in its form, follow me."
He started as if to go. No one stirred; no one even answered him.
Joseph Picaut, seeing that total silence followed his proposal, made
an angry gesture and disappeared into the thicket.
Jean Oullier, taking Picaut's words for mere boastfulness, shrugged
his shoulders.
"Come, you fellows," he said to the Chouans, "be off to the Ragot
crossways, and quickly, too. Follow the bed of the brook to the
clearing at Quatre-Vents; from there it will take you fifteen minutes
to get to the crossways."
"Where are you going, Jean Oullier?" said Guérin.
"To Souday," said the wolf-keeper. "I must make sure that Michel did
his errand."
The little band departed obediently, following, as Jean Oullier told
them, the course of the rivulet. The old keeper was left alone. He
listened for a few moments to the sound of the water which the Chouans
splashed as they marched; but that noise soon mingled with the
rippling and dash of the little rapids, and Jean Oullier turned his
head in the direction of the soldiers.
The rocks on which the column had halted formed a chain, running from
east to west in the direction of Souday. On the east this chain ended
in a gentle slope, which came down to the rivulet up which the Chouans
had just passed in order to turn the encampment of the troops. On the
west it stretched for a mile and a half or more, and the nearer it
came to Souday the higher and more jagged grew the rocks, the steeper
and more denuded of vegetation were the slopes. On this side the
miniature mountain ended in an actual precipice formed by enormous
perpendicular rocks, which overhung the rivulet that washed their
base. Once or twice in his life Jean Oullier had risked the descent of
this precipice to gain upon a boar his dogs were pursuing. It was done
by a path scarcely a foot wide, hidden among the gorse and called the
Viette des Biques, meaning "the goat-path." The way was known to a few
hunters only. Jean Oullier himself had been exposed to such danger in
descending it that he considered it impossible that the troops should
attempt it in the darkness.
If the enemy's column intended to continue its aggressive movement on
Souday it must either take this goat-path, or meet the Chouans at the
Ragot crossways, or return upon its steps and follow the brook up
which the Chouans had just gone. All this seemed to throw the enemy
into his hands, and yet Jean Oullier, by a sort of presentiment, was
uneasy.
It seemed to him extraordinary that Dermoncourt had yielded to the
first attack and resigned so quickly and readily his evident intention
of advancing to Souday. Instead of continuing his own way to Souday,
as he had told Guérin he should, he remained where he was, watching
the heights, when suddenly he observed that the fires were going down
and the light they threw upon the rocks was growing fainter and
fainter.
Jean Oullier's decision was made in a moment. He darted along the same
path Guérin had taken to observe the enemy, and used the same tactics;
only, he did not stop, as Guérin had stopped, half-way up the ascent.
He continued to crawl up until he was at the foot of the blocks of
stone which surrounded the flat summit.
There he listened; he heard no noise. Then, rising cautiously to his
feet in a space between two large rocks, he looked before him and saw
nothing. The place was solitary. The fires were deserted; the furze
with which they were built was crackling and going out. Jean Oullier
climbed the rocks and dropped into the space where he had supposed the
soldiers were. Not a man was there.
He gave a terrible cry of rage and disappointment, and shouted to his
companions below to return and follow him. Then, with the swiftness of
a hunted deer, straining his iron muscles to the utmost, he rushed
along the summit of the rocks in the direction of Souday. No doubt
remained in his mind. Some unknown guide, unknown except to Joseph
Picaut, had led the soldiers to the Viette des Biques.
Notwithstanding the difficulties of the way, Jean Oullier, slipping on
the flat rocks covered with mosses, striking against the granite
blocks which rose in his path like sentinels, catching his feet in the
briers which tore his flesh as he rushed through them,--Jean Oullier,
we say, was not ten minutes in getting over the whole length of the
little chain. When he reached its extremity he climbed the last line
of rocks which overlooked the valley, and saw the soldiers.
They were just descending the slope of the hill, having risked the
path of the Viette des Biques. The line of their torches could be seen
filing cautiously along by the edge of the abyss. Jean Oullier clung
to the enormous stone on which he stood and shook it, hoping to detach
it and send it rolling on their heads. But all such efforts of mad
anger were powerless, and only a mocking laugh replied to his
imprecations. He turned round and looked behind him, thinking that
Satan himself could alone laugh thus. The laugher was Joseph Picaut.
"Well, Jean Oullier," he said, coming out of a clump of gorse, "my
scent was better than yours; you ought to have followed me. As it was,
you made me lose my time. I got here too late; and your friends will
be cooked in spite of me."
"My God! my God!" cried Jean Oullier, grasping his hair with both
hands. "Who could have guided them down that path?"
"Whoever did guide them down shall never come up again, either by this
path or any other," said Joseph Picaut. "Look at that guide now, Jean
Oullier, if you want to see her living."
Jean Oullier leaned forward once more. The soldiers had crossed the
rivulet and were gathered round the general. In the midst of them, not
a hundred paces from the two men, though separated from them by the
precipice, they saw a woman with dishevelled hair, who was pointing
out to the general with her finger the path he must now take.
"Marianne Picaut!" exclaimed Jean Oullier.
The Chouan made no answer, but he raised his gun to his shoulder and
slowly aimed it. Jean Oullier turned round when he heard the click of
the trigger, and as the Chouan fired he threw up the muzzle of the
gun.
"Wretch!" he cried; "give her time to bury your brother!"
The ball was fired into space.
"Damn you!" cried Joseph Picaut, furiously, seizing his gun by the
barrel, and giving a terrible blow with the stock on Jean Oullier's
head. "I treat Whites like you as I would Blues!"
In spite of his Herculean strength the blow was so violent that it
brought the old Vendéan to his knees; then, not able to maintain
himself in that position, he rolled over the edge of the precipice. As
he fell he caught instinctively at a tuft of gorze; but he soon felt
it yielding under the weight of his body.
Bewildered as he was, he did not altogether lose consciousness, and,
expecting every moment to feel the slender shoots which alone
supported him above the abyss give way, he commended his soul to God.
At that instant he heard shots from the gorse and saw through his
half-closed eyelids the flash of arms. Hoping that the Chouans had
returned, led by Guérin, he tried to call out, but his voice felt
imprisoned in his chest, and he could not raise the leaden hand which
seemed to hold the breath from his lips. He was like a man in a
frightful nightmare; and the pain the effort cost him was so violent
that he fancied--forgetting the blow he had received--that his
forehead was sweating blood.
Little by little his strength abandoned him. His fingers weakened, his
muscles relaxed, and the agony he endured became so terrible that he
believed he must voluntarily let go the branches which alone held him
above the void. Soon he felt himself attracted to the abyss below him
by an irresistible impulse. His fingers loosened their last hold; but
at the very moment when he imagined he should hear the air whistling
and whirling as he fell through it, and feel the jagged points of
rocks tearing his body as he passed, a pair of vigorous arms caught
him and bore him to a narrow platform which overhung the precipice at
a little distance.
He was saved! But he knew at once that the arms that were brutally
handling him were not those of friends.