“By God!” he exclaimed, “they have done it! No, wait a moment, men—we may be of more use here.”
From the top of the bank he could see across the intervening fields into the road, full of a mass of swarming, struggling men. The peasants, using their scythes and pitchforks with deadly and unexpected effect, were all over the Republican guns. Suddenly a whole swarm of Republicans poured over the next hedge and came diagonally across the field towards Saint-Ermay’s post. There was no need to speculate whether they were merely fugitives flying from the strange onslaught, or were seeking to take Royrand’s men in the rear. They had more the appearance of the former.
“Now is your opportunity!” cried the Vicomte, and his marksmen poured a devastating fire into the advancing cohort. About a dozen dropped; they paused, taken by surprise, then came on again wildly, firing their pistols at the bank.
“Steady, mes gars, steady!” said Louis quietly. “Give it them again and they’ll turn.” As he spoke the peasant next him fell forward with a groan, shot through the head, but the volley rang out with deadly effect. It was enough: the disorganised mass broke and turned.
Louis’ sword flashed out in the sunlight. “Now for a little fun!” he laughed as he leapt down from shelter, and without a second’s hesitation his men rushed after him.
Driving the fugitives before them they reached the road, the scene of an indescribable confusion—captured guns, slewed half round, the artillerymen, where they had stood to them, lying dead with ghastly scythe wounds, peasants snatching up the sorely-needed muskets and cartridges, a Republican officer, with his back to the hedge, defending himself against three assailants and falling, ere Louis could get to him, with his brains blown out. Away on the right Saint-Ermay distinguished a mounted figure that looked like Gilbert; he seemed—if it were he—to be urging on his men towards a gentle slope, where a handful of Republicans were re-forming. Many of the fugitives, too, were making for this point, but a large proportion were shot down as they ran, for every hedge now held some cunning marksman, and Royrand’s men, turning against them the captured guns, soon dislodged those who reached the point of vantage.
The pursuit raged down the high-road as far as the quiet little village of Saint-Vincent-Sterlange with its legendary fountain, and here, some two hours later, Château-Foix, riding to and fro in the street trying to re-form his men, came on Louis engaged in the same task. He said nothing, but as he passed held out his hand and caught his cousin’s in a momentary fierce grip.
That night when, still further reinforced by Baudry d’Asson and the three De Béjarry brothers, they took possession of Chantonnay, both Sapinaud and Royrand thanked the Vicomte for the tenacity and judgment with which he had held his post. But after Gilbert’s unspoken greeting the veterans’ praise was oddly tasteless.
And yet two days later, on Passion Sunday, a dispirited body of men were straggling back in drenching rain along the high-road to Les Quatre Chemins. It was the victors of March 15th, for whom the veteran general De Marcé and the troops of the line had proved too strong. De Marcé had found the Royalists drawn up to meet him a mile beyond Chantonnay, and for six hours, in torrential rain, he had withstood their attack. The peasants would not face his guns. In vain Sapinaud and Royrand had led them against the artillery, in vain they had showed them how to throw themselves on the ground and let the projectiles pass over their heads, in vain the two Chantemerle had recklessly exposed themselves. They could not achieve the impossible. De Marcé was in Chantonnay, and they were marching back beaten to their former camp.