“From L’Oie, to warn you. . . .” he panted out. “A strong body of patriots from Fontenay and Niort are on the way. They must have reached Chantonnay by now.”
Louis said only two words: “With artillery?”
“I believe so.”
“Lend me your horse,” said Saint-Ermay sharply. And in a moment he was tearing up the road through the groups of startled peasants, to break up the council of war with news that rendered its deliberations useless. There was not a minute to lose. One thing only was determined—not to wait to be attacked, but to march to meet the enemy, a decision which was received outside with acclamations.
And so a few thousand undrilled peasants, miserably armed, marched off to battle under the conduct of five gentlemen, two of whom had never seen active service. Down the sunny road they went, full of fervour, chanting litanies, until the roll of the Republican drums came upon their ears. And on this they were split by their leaders into a main body, in the road, and two wings, one on either side, pursuing a parallel course in the embanked fields.
Thus it was that only a part of them—those in the road—fulfilled Sapinaud’s prediction, and would not face the hostile artillery. For while their comrades were racing for cover across the fields, the main body, pent between the high banks, perceptibly wavered as the first projectile burst from the blue-coated mass in front of them. It was the critical moment, and seeing it the younger Royrand, Royrand Bras-Coupé, trotted forward in front of the hesitating ranks. “Mes enfants, follow me! There is nothing to be afraid of!” he cried, turning in the saddle. The next instant he and his horse were hurled bodily across the road, and flung in one mangled wreck under the hedge.
The foremost ranks broke and turned. Gilbert, from the field on the right, saw it and ground his teeth. It was in vain that Sapinaud and the slain man’s brother urged, entreated; the tangible evidence of the power of artillery lay before the peasants in that crumpled mass at the side of the road. But even as they turned from it affrighted, huddling back like sheep, something like a miracle happened. Another cannon ball thudded into the bank; the spot was wet from a spring—mud flew in all directions. Ere the confusion had died away a peasant sprang from the breaking ranks. “Forward, les gars!” he cried in a voice of thunder; they have no more ammunition, they are firing with mud!” And carried away by his amazing idea the terrified men rallied, re-formed, began to advance, gained pace, poured along the road, and broke like a torrent on the Republican ranks.
Meanwhile Louis, to his no small disgust, had found himself told off, with a party of picked marksmen, to line a hedge on the left, two fields away. He had obeyed sighing, to find, when he got to his post, that it was no sinecure. Directly his presence was discovered the bank became a target. But he soon saw that his men were adepts at taking cover; and if his service in the bodyguard had not been a very serious training for war, it had taught him how to make himself obeyed, and he soon steadied down his recruits to their work. Their deference, indeed, amused him, when he considered that it was the first time that he, no less than they, had been under fire, while many of them, as poachers, were better shots than himself, and he nearly told them so.
At last, irritated by their well-directed fire, the Republicans trained one of their guns on the objectionable hedge. Louis, taking this as a compliment, leaped down from his post of observation, assuring his men that they were perfectly safe. It was not a fact, but it was stated with such cheerful confidence that, crouching behind the bank, the peasants waited undismayed for the report which never came. It was while they were thus waiting that the idea occurred to Saint-Ermay to creep along under shelter of the bank and to open fire again from a slightly different angle. In the execution of this manœuvre the sound of fierce cheering burst upon his ears. He scrambled to the top of the bank.