The Return to Rochelle
The conference was brief. "Have you seen Count Louis?" I asked their leader.
"No, monsieur, but we will help you to find him. Forward, brave boys; another blow for the Cause!"
They replied with a cheer—oh, how those Englishmen cheered!—and we raced on together, French and English, side by side, and death all around us. I glanced at Roger; he had been wounded again, but there was no time to speak.
The retreat in this part of the field had not become general; numbers of soldiers in tolerably good order were still battling stubbornly, and presently we reached the remnant of several troops of cavalry.
In front of them was the venerable Count of St. Cyr, his snow-white beard sweeping to his waist.
"My lord," I said, riding up, "can you tell me where to find Count Louis of Nassau?"
"Farther on the right, monsieur," he replied courteously; "but you will find it difficult to reach him. Ah, here they come!" and, glancing ahead, I perceived a cloud of horsemen preparing to swoop down upon us.
"Pray, my lord," pleaded his chaplain, who was close by, "say something to encourage your troops. They are faint and weary with fighting, and the odds against them are terrible."
The stout-hearted warrior turned to his followers. "Brave men need no words!" he cried; "do as you see me do!" and they greeted his speech with frantic cheers.
"You will be lucky to meet Count Louis after this!" cried Roger, as I returned to my men.
The royalists swept forward, threatening to engulf us as the wild sea swallows a tiny boat, and I must admit that my heart sank at sight of them. But I was in the company of brave men, and following the flag of as brave a leader as could be found in all France.
He glanced round at us; there was a proud smile on his resolute face; his eyes glowed with fiery ardour.
"Charge, my children!" he cried, "and strike a last blow for St. Cyr!"
He pressed his horse's sides with the spurs, and waving his sword dashed forward, his battle-cry, "St. Cyr!" ringing out high and clear. It was a sight to make one weep, and yet feel proud that one's country could produce such a hero.
Forward we went, and the air was filled with cries of "St Cyr! For the Admiral! Hurrah! Hurrah!" as we plunged into the midst of the press.
"Forward, my children!" cried St Cyr, as he carved a passage for himself through the throng; "forward!"
He was a splendid rider and a skilful swordsman, but his enemies closed round him thickly. Savage blows rained upon him from every side, and at last, with a "Fight on, my children!" the gallant veteran sank bleeding to the ground. Montcontour cost France numerous brave men but none braver than the chivalrous St. Cyr.
His fall, instead of dispiriting his followers, roused them to fury! No one asked or gave quarter; it was a fight to the death, and when finally we succeeded in breaking through the royalist horse, half of our number lay lifeless on the plain. Some there were—St. Cyr's personal attendants notably—so fired with grief and anger at the death of their beloved chief that they were for turning back and renewing the combat.
This, however, was stark madness, so we galloped on, with the royalists like sleuth-hounds on our track.
Presently they slackened their pace, and then abandoned the pursuit, for we were approaching our cavalry, commanded by Count Louis of Nassau.
"You are welcome, brave hearts!" he exclaimed, "every man is needed," and his troops cheered us vigorously.
"My lord," I said, riding up and saluting, "I have come from the Admiral; he begs that you will cover the retreat, for unless you can do so all is lost."
"Where is the Admiral, monsieur?"
"My lord, when the centre broke, he was carried away by the rush. He has been wounded in the head, and I fear seriously."
"Did you leave him in safety?"
"He was surrounded by his bodyguard; at least, by all those who were left alive."
"Will the centre rally, think you?"
"There is no centre; it is a scattered mob. I fear there is no army except the troops you have here. The left, I am sure, has given way."
He was about to reply when a cavalier galloped up to us. His horse's sides were flaked with spume, and the gallant beast quivered in every limb. The rider was deathly pale; one arm hung down limply, his side was stained with blood. He rolled from side to side, having scarcely sufficient strength to keep his seat in the saddle.
He endeavoured to salute Count Louis, while I, leaning forward, placed my arm round his waist to support him.
"My lord," he said, "the Admiral——" and stopped helpless.
"'Tis one of Coligny's gentlemen," I exclaimed, "he has come on the same errand as myself. There were three or four of us."
The wounded cavalier looked into my face. "Le Blanc!" he said feebly; "it is all right," and with that his head fell forward, and he dropped dead across his horse's neck.
"A brave and gallant gentleman!" exclaimed Count Louis. "France should be proud of her sons!"
Lifting him from his horse, we laid him on the plain and turned away. On that awful day no one had leisure for sorrow; the sorrow would come afterwards.
It was useless now attempting to return to the Admiral, so I joined my English comrade.
"You are hurt?" I said anxiously.
"A trifle; no more. Where is Bellièvre?"
"With the Admiral. Coligny is badly wounded. We have lost the battle."
"There is time to gain the victory yet!"
"You do not understand. The army is gone; it is a mere mob, utterly helpless; we are the only troops left. The royalists are slaying at their pleasure."
"In that case," said he gravely, "we have serious work before us. Who was the noble old man killed in the last charge?"
"The Count of St. Cyr, one of the bravest gentlemen in the Huguenot army. It will grieve the Admiral sorely to hear of his death."
"He was a splendid soldier. Ah, the bugles are sounding. Edmond, my friend, I fear the worst of the day is still to come."
My English friend was right. What had gone before was the play of children compared with what followed. We had the whole force of Anjou's army opposed to us. Hour after hour we retreated, fighting every step of the way. Of the eighteen thousand Huguenots who had marched out to battle it seemed as if we alone remained. Again and again the royalists bore down in overwhelming numbers; their heavy guns ploughed lanes through our ranks; the arquebusiers pelted us with bullets unceasingly; the horsemen charged with desperate fury.
But in spite of everything we held together; for if we once gave way the doom of our beloved general was sealed.
"Remember, brave hearts," cried Count Louis, "that we are fighting for the Admiral! We must die for Coligny!"
He himself displayed the most wonderful bravery; nothing daunted him; beset by death on every hand he remained cool and resolute, rallying us after every onset, rousing the faint-hearted by his own indomitable courage.
At last the blessed darkness came to our relief. The rain of bullets ceased; we no longer heard the thundering beat of galloping horses in our rear, were no longer called to face about in order to repel some fierce cavalry charge. The pursuit had stopped; the victors had returned to celebrate their triumph.
We marched on in the darkness of the night, gloomy and weary. Some were too tired and dispirited even to talk; others—but only a few—grumbled bitterly at their leaders, telling each other that if this or that had been done, we should have gained the victory. Many of the poor fellows were badly hurt; some sank exhausted to the ground, from which they would never rise again.
At Parthenay we overtook the Admiral and the few troops he had been able to collect. When morning came, Felix was one of the first to meet me, and I had never seen him so down-hearted. His bright smile, his happy, cheery looks had all gone; he hung his head in shame.
"It is terrible, Edmond," he said; "the Cause is ruined, and we are disgraced. I would rather we had all died on the field."
"Nonsense!" I replied, endeavouring to hearten him; "we are of far more use alive than dead. And to be beaten is not to be disgraced. Had you seen the Count of St. Cyr die you would not use that word. But what of our chief? Is he seriously wounded?"
"His jaw is broken by a pistol-shot."
"Yet I warrant he has not given way to despair!"
"No," he replied with something of his old brightness, "a Coligny does not despair."
"Nor does a Bellièvre!" I returned smiling. "We shall rally the runaways in a few days, and Coligny will command an army again."
The defeat was, however, a heavier one than I guessed, and only Anjou's folly saved us from utter destruction. Instead of hunting us down with his whole force he turned aside to besiege St. Jean d'Angely, and thus gave our leaders time to form fresh plans. Strong garrisons were sent to defend Niort and Angoulême, while the main part of the beaten army retired to Rochelle.
It was a dismal entry into the town. The citizens came to meet us, the men sullen and downcast, the women white-faced and weeping. Many were searching eagerly among the war-worn band for the dear ones they would never meet again on earth. On that dreadful day scores of women learned for the first time that they were already widowed, and that their helpless little ones were fatherless.
Opposite the hotel I perceived Jeanne and my mother, and on seeing me their faces lit up with happy smiles. I could not go to them then, but the instant my duties permitted I ran again into the street. They were still in the same place, waiting.
"I thank God for this blessing, my son," said my mother. "I feared I had lost you for ever. Let us hasten home; you are weary and faint."
"But are you not hurt, Edmond?" cried my pretty sister. "Oh, how my heart ached at sight of those poor wounded men! They must have suffered torture on their long march!"
"Did Jacques not find you?" my mother asked presently.
"Yes, he was with me at the beginning of the last battle, but I have not seen him since. He may have escaped though, for all that; numbers besides ourselves got away. Bellièvre is safe, and so is Roger Braund. They have acted like heroes!"
"I saw them both," said Jeanne, blushing prettily; "Monsieur Braund has been wounded."
"Yes," I replied laughing, "he will need a skilful nurse. But where is my father? Is he not still in Rochelle?"
"No," said Jeanne with a sigh, "an order came from the Admiral three weeks ago for him to take fifty men to St. Jean d'Angely. I know it is selfish, but I wish Edmond, oh, I wish he could have stayed with us. It seems to me there is no safety outside the walls of Rochelle."
"Rochelle may be as dangerous as any other place," I remarked, not caring to let them know that Monseigneur was marching on St. Jean d'Angely. "But here we are at the house; does my aunt still keep her room?"
"Yes," replied Jeanne with a smile, "though I believe her illness is more fanciful than real. But she is very good and kind, and we humour her fancies."
It was very pleasant to be home again; to see the loving looks and to receive the tender caresses of my mother and sister. They were eager to hear what had happened, and the tears came to their eyes as I described the sufferings of my gallant comrades. They were brave, too, and instead of being crushed by our defeat looked forward to happier times.
"Perhaps the king will stop the cruel war," said my mother hopefully, "and let us worship God in peace. How can he think we wish to harm our beautiful France? We ask so little; surely he could grant us our modest request.
"I believe he would if it were not for his mother," I said, "and she is afraid of the Guises. They are hand in glove with the Pope and the Spaniards."
"Will Monseigneur try to capture Rochelle?" asked Jeanne.
"It is very likely, but he will not succeed; Rochelle can never be taken by an enemy."
I stayed very late with them that night, for there were many things to talk about, and they were so glad to see me that even at the end I was loth to depart.
The next day my comrades, who purposely stayed away on the previous evening, accompanied me home, and were made much of by my mother and Jeanne.
These occasional visits were like oases in a dreary desert. We tried to banish all thoughts of the war, and to talk as cheerfully as if there were no misery in the land. But for Felix and me these days of happy idleness speedily came to an end. There was much to be done, and Coligny needed our services. Instead of being cast down by his reverse at Montcontour, our leader was already planning a gigantic scheme which should help to repair our broken fortunes.
Meanwhile the garrison at St. Jean d'Angely was offering a splendid resistance to the enemy. Anjou was pressing the siege with vigour, King Charles himself was in the trenches—I never held, as some of my comrades did, that the king was a coward—but the handful of troops defied the royal brothers and all their force.
One morning as our chief came from his chamber, the ante-room being filled with his gentlemen and the leaders of the army, he stopped and laid his hand with a kindly touch on my shoulder.
"My young friend," he said, "we are all proud of your father. The reports from St. Jean d'Angely declare that he is the very heart of the defence."
"I thank you, my lord, for your kind words," I stammered, blushing crimson with pride, for to hear my father thus honoured was far sweeter than any praise of myself could have been.
And a day or two later Rochelle was ringing with his name. Men lauded his courage and prowess, speaking of him almost as if he were our beloved leader himself.
Heading a body of troops in the early morning, he had sallied forth, destroyed a big gun, and driven the besiegers pell-mell from the trenches. Anjou had scowled angrily, but King Charles was reported to have declared it a most brilliant feat of arms.
It was a proud day for all of us, but our joy was shortly changed to mourning. Coligny, with most of his attendants, had left Rochelle for Saintes; the rest of us, with two hundred troopers, were to depart the next day. I had spent the evening at home, and accompanied by Felix had returned to the hotel.
"Is that you, Le Blanc?" cried one of my comrades. "What means this treasonable correspondence with the enemy?" and he handed me a sealed packet.
"For me?" I exclaimed, taking it in surprise. "Where does it come from?"
"Ah," said he, laughing merrily, "that is a nice question to ask! One of Monseigneur's rascals brought it under a flag of truce to the officer at the gate, and he sent it here. I should have put you under arrest, and forwarded the correspondence to the Admiral."
I looked at the letter curiously, and with a vague feeling of uneasiness. It bore my name, but the handwriting was unfamiliar. "One of Anjou's troopers!" I muttered.
I walked slowly away, still accompanied by Felix and carrying the packet in my hand. I had no idea of the sender, nor of the contents, yet strangely enough, when we reached our room, my fingers trembled so much that I could hardly break the seal.
"What is it?" asked Felix anxiously. "What do you fear?"
"Nothing," I replied with a forced laugh; "I am foolish; that is all."
Yes, there was my name in crabbed letters; I glanced from it to the foot of the page: the letter was signed, "Renaud L'Estang."
"L'Estang!" I muttered, "L'Estang! Why, that is the name of my adventurer. Of course he is with Anjou; but why should he write to me? Perhaps 'tis to thank me again, or to tell me something about Cordel! Ah, yes, that would be it. He must have gathered some fresh information concerning the rascally lawyer!"
I gave a deep sigh of relief, yet studiously avoided what he had written. But this was childish folly! Courage! What had I to fear? Cordel had already done his worst. We had lost our estates—it mattered little who gained them.
"Monsieur, you once did me a priceless service. I have never forgotten—shall never forget——"—"Just as I thought," I remarked aloud, "the poor fellow still feels under an obligation to me!"—"Believe me, monsieur, it is with poignant grief I write this brief note."—"Ah," I continued, "he has discovered some fresh villainy. Well, well, it is of little consequence."—"I have been with Monseigneur at St. Jean d'Angely——"
"D'Angely!" I cried; "Felix, he has been at the siege. Read it, my friend, my eyes swim, I cannot see the letters, they all run into one another."—"Your father was the bravest."—"Oh, Felix, Felix, do you understand? How can I tell them? How can I comfort them? And I must ride away in the morning and leave them to their grief! Read it to me slowly, dear friend, while I try to think."