One in a Thousand; or, The Days of Henri Quatre

by G. P. R. James

"Ah, sire!" cried Schomberg; "in restoring me the honour which your words took from me, you now take from me life, for I should be unworthy if I did not cast it away in your service; and if I had a thousand, I should wish to pour them forth at the feet of such a king."

"No, no!" said Henry, again embracing him; "spend your blood, Schomberg, as I will mine, when there is need of it; but still keep it as long as you can, for the service of your master. And now, my friends, we will all do our duty. St. Real, my friend, to your post! Schomberg, farewell! Monsieur de Vicq, have the kindness to tell the Baron de Biron to advance the squadrons on the right for about two hundred paces; for I see the front of the enemy begin to shake, and the battle must be no longer delayed than sufficient to enable us to get the sun and wind behind us, otherwise we shall be blinded with the smoke and glare."

Henry now rode back to his squadron; and St. Real returned to the head of his own forces, which had by this time been reinforced, according to the king's command, by James's horse arquebusiers. Here the young leader, now well accustomed to scenes of battle and victory, fixed his eyes upon the squadron of the king; and though anxious, with all the fire of a chivalrous heart, to take an active share in the coming contest, he yet determined to observe to the letter the orders he had received; well knowing that they had been dictated by experience and skill, such as he had not the vanity to believe he himself possessed. Although the thought of danger or the thrill of fear never crossed his bosom for a moment, yet the countenance of St. Real was grave and sad. No man felt more for the suffering people of his native country, no one regretted more deeply every fresh act of the great tragedy which day after day deluged France with blood; but at the present moment, it must be owned, St. Real's feelings were personal. He thought of Eugenie de Menancourt; and his heart sunk, when, contemplating the loss of the present battle, he suffered imagination to dwell on all to which she might be exposed if the League were triumphant. Her real situation he knew not, nor had he more than a vague idea of the circumstances that attended her flight from Paris, for nought but rumours of the event had reached him during his long service with the royal army. But on that very morning he had learned from a trumpet, who had brought him an insulting defiance from his cousin D'Aubin, that the vassals of Menancourt were now led by the Count; that Eugenie was still a fugitive from her home; and that it was generally supposed amongst the Leaguers she had sought refuge with him. These tidings, at least, taught him to believe that she was unprotected in the wide world with which she was so little fitted to cope; and the letter of his cousin showed him that misery and violence waited her, if fortune favoured the arms of those who had already oppressed her.

Such thoughts called a pang into his bosom, and a cloud upon his brow; but feeling that even his individual exertion might aid in winning a field on which so much was staked, he sternly bent his thoughts to the events immediately before him, and watched, as we have said, the squadron of the king with steadfast and eager attention. Scarcely had the monarch rejoined that squadron, when the army was put in motion; and taking its left as a centre, wheeled a little, so as to gain the advantage of the sun and wind. When this was completed, the troops again halted in a position decidedly better than the former ground; and the next moment, a horseman, riding from the side of the king, galloped at full speed to the artillery. Only four cannon and two culverines were on the ground upon the side of Henry IV; but they instantly opened against the enemy, and were recharged and fired with such rapidity, that ere Mayenne could bring his guns to bear, those of the Royalists had nine times poured death and confusion into the midst of his ranks. The squadrons of the League could be seen to shake and waver under that terrible fire; and horseman after horseman, parting from the spot where Mayenne and his officers were placed, galloped up to the tardy cannoneers, as if to hasten them in the execution of their duty. An ill-directed volley at length followed; and at the same moment the light cavalry of the League advanced to charge the left of the Royalists. They were met, however, half way, by the impetuous D'Aumont; whose squadron, passing through them like a thunderbolt, turned and charged them again. The battle then became general; troop after squadron was hurried into the fight; the smoke rolled in heavy masses over the plain; and one of the dense clouds thereof, sweeping between the troops of St. Real and the squadron of the king, for several minutes prevented the young noble from seeing aught but indistinct forms of dark whirling masses, now lost, now appearing again in the white wreaths of vapour. Anxious to fulfil his charge exactly, he led his squadron a few yards in advance; and at the same moment the smoke clearing away, allowed him to perceive the principal mass of the enemy, in which appeared the standard, or cornet, as it was called, of the Duke of Mayenne, in the very act of charging the small square of cavalry headed by the king.

Wheeling the horse arquebusiers which had been joined to the troops of St. Real, upon the flank of the advancing column, the English officer who commanded them poured a volley into the ranks of the Leaguers, which shook them severely; but still they came on at a thundering pace, numbering nearly two thousand men; and the handful of gallant gentlemen who surrounded the monarch were soon lost to the sight. The heart of St. Real beat quick for his king; but the moment after, the dark and struggling mass of Leaguers seemed rent by some mighty power within. It reeled, it wavered; the clash of arms grew louder and louder, and the flashing of pistols and the shouts of the combatants were more distinctly heard where St. Real sat. The next moment forth burst the unbroken squadron of the king, and wheeling rapidly, the white plume pressed onward against the very front of the repulsed enemy.

At that instant, however, Count Egmont, the brave but unworthy son of a noble and patriotic father, cast himself in the way of the horsemen of the League, who were in the very act of turning their bridles to fly; rallied them with words of fire and indignation, and brought them back in fury to the charge. Already somewhat disarrayed by the fierceness of the combat, the king's squadron was broken in every part; and though the white plume was still seen towering over the thickest of the strife, St. Real felt that he had abstained enough, and led on his squadron to the support of the monarch. In the very act of charging, however, he observed a strong body of horse draw out from behind a little wood, called La Haye des Prés, on the left of the army of the League, and bear directly down upon him. A moment's glance showed him the arms of Aubin and Menancourt; and the next instant he beheld his cousin giving the order to charge. St. Real instantly halted, so as not to expose his flank; and the troops of his cousin galloped furiously towards him, till they were within the distance of a hundred yards, when some hesitation was seen in their ranks.

"Thank God!" thought St. Real; "his heart is touched, and he will seek some other foe."

But the next moment this hope was done away, and the hesitation was otherwise explained. The forces of Aubin approached still nearer, but at a slower pace; and at length the whole of the horsemen levied on the lands of Menancourt halted short.

"Charge!" cried D'Aubin, with a gesture of furious indignation. "Traitors, do you refuse to charge?" And galloping across the front, he struck the headmost horseman of that troop a blow with his clenched gauntlet that made him reel in the saddle. The man instantly recovered himself, and shouting "For St. Real! for St Real! Vive Henri Quatre!" galloped forward, followed by all the rest of the vassals of Menancourt, who ranged themselves in good order by the troops of the young Marquis.

The forces composed of D'Aubin's own followers, small in proportion, had halted in some disarray while their leader had crossed them to chastise the refractory trooper; and they now found themselves suddenly opposed to a body of more than double their own number. D'Aubin himself, it would seem, was taken by surprise, although it was evident that the defection of the retainers of De Menancourt was a premeditated act, and although he had long remarked a coolness in their service, and a disposition to quarrel with his own followers. He paused then in doubt, glaring with eyes of rage and hatred over the powerful squadron before him. Then whispering a word to his lieutenant, he rode two or three yards forward, and shaking his clenched fist, exclaimed, "St. Real, you are a traitor, and have practised on my troops; but I will meet you yet, and force you to give me reason." Thus saying, he turned his horse and rejoined his troops, who were already slowly, and in better order than before, withdrawing from the perilous position in which they stood.