Sir Isumbras at the Ford

by D. K. Broster

There was no time to do more than to curse this extraordinary defection. The mist was breaking before the full daylight, and turning once more to rain, as the Comte de Sombreuil took command, disposing his little force in line, from the régiment de Rohan on the extreme right, the side of the sea, to du Dresnay (de Flavigny's regiment) on the left, by the windmill. He threw out, too, a company of the newcomers in advance, and posted two regiments of them in the rear. But some of these just-landed corps had not more than three cartridges to a man; one of the rearguard regiments, in fact, had none at all until its neighbour shared with it. And they were not the only bodies either who had to share their ammunition. Cartridges there were in plenty for all, but their distribution had not been finished before the surprise of the fort. . . .

La Vireville, in the ranks of that veteran corps, Loyal-Emigrant, learnt this fact with a sort of resignation. And what were they waiting for now? he asked himself. With the brave and disciplined troops at Sombreuil's command he might well have attacked Humbert's cautiously advancing column with the bayonet. When he at last ordered the advance it was too late, for hardly had the émigrés begun to go forward when an officer, arriving in haste from the left wing, announced that the soldiers of du Dresnay and d'Hervilly, after killing some of their officers, had gone over to the enemy. The Republicans were in possession of the windmill height, and indeed their guns were already beginning a murderous cannonade from that eminence. The Royalists had therefore no choice but to beat a retreat. Word spread that Sombreuil intended to retire to the Fort Neuf, on the shore south-east of Port Haliguen, and there surrender upon terms. When La Vireville heard this he made a grimace, for he happened to know what the 'fort' was like.

So they began their last withdrawal, still slowly and in good order, but forced all the time by the lack of cartridges to go through the bitter farce of taking aim without firing; and were thus driven gradually down to the extremity of the peninsula and the sea. The shore was covered with fugitives, mostly peasants and Chouans, running towards the Fort Neuf or trying desperately to get a place in the overcrowded boats of the English squadron, which, despite the high sea that was running, had been hard at work, but were now being obliged to abandon their efforts. And it was now that La Vireville, sword in hand—for he could not use a musket—came suddenly on an officer lying, wrapped about in a cloak, in a little dip in the sandhills. Two soldiers stood near him, looking down at him. Fortuné had no time to wonder who it was, for he saw at once the drawn features of René de Flavigny.

He stopped and knelt down by him among the coarse grass and the sea-pinks. On the scarlet of the English tunic, with its black facings, no blood was visible, but the grey of the Marquis's face was evidence enough of what had happened. His eyes were closed, and La Vireville half thought him unconscious.

"Where are you hit, René?" he asked quietly.

De Flavigny opened his eyes. "Shot in the back," he said in a faint voice. "But . . . it would be of no account . . . if only . . . O my God! It was my own men!" He raised a trembling hand and put it over his eyes. "O my God!" he said again.

"You must be got off to the English fleet without delay," said La Vireville with decision, though his heart sank. "How did you come here?"

"We carried him, mon officier," replied one of the soldiers, coming forward and saluting, and La Vireville saw that he was a sergeant of du Dresnay. "We will try to get him into a boat—but it will be very difficult. They are nearly all gone back to the ships."

"For God's sake do your best, however!" urged the Chouan.

"It is useless, Fortuné," whispered de Flavigny. "You see I was right. Remember your promise. . . . Kiss me . . . and kiss Anne for me." And, as La Vireville bent and kissed him, he relapsed into unconsciousness.