La Vireville nodded. "Give me the lantern." And with it he went forward to the little ranks, now pitifully depleted. "Mes gars," he cried, holding the lantern high, and running his eyes over the rows of familiar faces, "this is our last chance. We must help retake the fort. If it is not retaken, all is finished. But listen now. If I think that to fight any further is useless I shall give the word—Every man for himself." And he explained, as he had explained to Grain d'Orge, his reason for this course. "Do you understand, mes enfants, and will you follow me till I give that word?"
He was not sure that they would. But they had known and trusted and somewhat feared him long before their recent unforgettable experiences of artillery outside Auray and at Ste. Barbe. They shouted back their acquiescence.
"And then," yelled Grain d'Orge, putting in his word, "if M. Augustin is pleased with you, he will come back to us at Kerdronan, and we can go on again with that kind of fighting——"
"I wish to God that I had never brought them away from Kerdronan," thought La Vireville, as he turned away and put himself at their head.
(2)
They never reached the fort. The way towards it was blocked with the fruit of past mistakes, with masses of fugitives—mainly the dispossessed Bretons of the mainland, that unpropitious flotsam which the events of July the sixth had swept on to the peninsula—pouring away from the scene of calamity. The difficulty of struggling with a handful of men through this flood, all setting in the opposite direction, was enormous. It was almost impossible to keep together. However, they fought their way on, their heads down, buffeted by the wind and by the bodies of the fugitives, physically and morally disheartened, till at last the light of the wet, cheerless dawn was strong enough to show, in the distance, the grey bulk of Fort Penthièvre, looking doubly massive and formidable now that it was no longer in their hands. For, as La Vireville realised with a pang no less keen because it was anticipated, the golden lilies floated there no more. In their stead, flaring defiantly out in the wind and rain over counterscarp and glacis, was the red, white, and blue of the Republic.
"Halt!" cried La Vireville, and remained a moment staring at that significant sight. Then he called for Grain d'Orge.
"Mon vieux, the moment has come," he said sadly. "I give the word to disband. It is not right to sacrifice the rest of the men uselessly. Remember what I told you about the mainland. Try to get them all taken off in the boats of the English squadron, which will be possible if the wind goes down."
"But you, Monsieur Augustin, what will you do?" asked the old Chouan, seizing him by the hand. His eyes were glistening in most unfamiliar fashion, while with his other hand he fumbled inside his embroidered vest, finally drawing out thence a long, reddish-brown, hairy object, somewhat shrivelled, and tufted at the end.
"Take this, Monsieur le Chevalier," he urged, pressing it into his leader's hand. "It will certainly bring you back safe to Kerdronan. The wise woman gave it to me."