Chapter XXXIX: The Four Roads

“On the road that goes northward the red foemen ride;
On the road that goes west, hark, the sob of the tide!
To the east a false comrade—to the southward . . . who knows?
And high up in heaven the black night-wind blows. . . .
But I’m for the saddle; one cup and we part,
Though all roads of the world hold a sword for my heart!”
—_The Roads of the World._

But they never got to Les Herbiers.

On that strange daybreak march a better, if a more hazardous, idea had occurred to Gilbert. Between him and Les Herbiers lay Les Quatre Chemins, the cross-roads where the highway from Nantes to La Rochelle cut that from Saumur to Les Sables. Though nothing but the tiniest hamlet had grown up at their intersection, the spot was strategically of immense importance, for a force holding it could prevent supplies and help from coming southwards. Château-Foix knew that his little troop could not hope to block the way against any large contingent, but no such contingent could yet have been got together; and smaller bodies, if they knew the route to be cut, would hesitate before adventuring upon it. He consulted Louis; he took the opinion of the leading peasants, and bivouacked that evening among the hedges of the Bocage.

The risk which he had taken had been justified. Not only had the setting up of the white standard attracted scores more peasants from the district, but a concentration of the two other larger Royalist contingents already on foot was imminent. Gilbert de Château-Foix had the honour of first possession of what was afterwards to be the headquarters of the army of the centre, but at this moment, the morning after his arrival, he was sharing it with others. M. de Sapinaud de la Verrie, fresh from his victories at Les Herbiers and Tiffauges, had just marched in two thousand strong, and the two MM. de Royrand were momentarily expected.

The newcomer, on his big grey horse, sat talking to Gilbert in the road. He was a well-built, handsome man of five-and-fifty, with a face at once gentle and energetic. A cloudless blue sky smiled over the two and over the characteristically Vendean landscape. Among the high-banked fields, each exactly like the other, an army could have encamped without its presence being discovered. Nowhere was there a landmark. And every bank was topped with trees, leafless now, or only flushed with green, but soon to be capable of affording cover. The Chevalier’s own men were scattered about, resting after their march, but in a field on the other side of the nearest hedge Louis was attempting to instil some elementary principles of warfare into the heads of the most promising recruits from Chantemerle, while Sapinaud told the Marquis how the men of Saint-Florent, under Cathelineau and Stofflet, after capturing Chemillé, had, the day before, taken Cholet itself.

As he finished Louis dismissed his recruits, and, clambering through the hedge, jumped down into the road. Gilbert presented him, and Louis saluted the old soldier.

“You were drilling your men, Monsieur le Vicomte?”

“A very hopeless task, sir,” responded Saint-Ermay, smiling ruefully. “And if only we had arms! How does one do musketry drill with pitchforks?”

“Our first brush with the Blues will provide us with muskets,” said Gilbert. “That is how your men got theirs, is it not, Monsieur le Chevalier?”

Sapinaud nodded. “When we entered Les Herbiers we had only scythes, fowling-pieces, or clubs. But we got three of our guns there, and some at Tiffauges.”

This was encouraging; but afterwards, as the three went towards the little cottage which served as Gilbert’s headquarters, Sapinaud spoke very gravely of the terrible difficulty of getting the peasants to face artillery fire, and they discussed the alternatives of devoting a few days to drilling them, or of risking an engagement in order to give them confidence. They were about to enter, when there was seen coming down the Saint-Fulgent road a fresh body of peasants headed by two horsemen. The riders pressed on, and in a moment or two were dismounting and shaking hands.

The elder M. de Royrand, a retired lieutenant-colonel of musketeers, was a tall, vigorous old man; his brother, somewhat younger, bore, in the empty sleeve pinned to his breast, a memento of the naval battle at Ushant where he had lost the arm which once filled it. Both wore the cross of Saint Louis.

Louis caught his cousin by the arm. “You will not need me,” he said. “If you do, you can send for me. I had better keep an eye on these three armies; perhaps they won’t get on together.”

And, going out, he found himself in converse with a peasant who had accompanied the newcomers, and discovered that his name was Cougnon. It was he who, having been elected by his comrades as their leader, had conducted them to M. de Royrand.

“M. Charles de Royrand is full of valour and goodness,” said he in his heavy patois. “We must always have a noble to lead us.”

“And what arms have you?” asked Louis.

“Clubs and pikes,” answered Cougnon, waving his hand at his troop, nearly all young men. “They were enough to frighten the National Guard at Saint Fulgent,” he added, seeing the Vicomte’s face fall a little.

Saint-Ermay left him and walked slowly down the road, whose banks were lined with peasants. More solemn and determined than elated was their gaze at him as he passed them, sitting or standing against the hedges, some with their wide-brimmed hats of Sunday and holiday wear, some with their everyday reddish woollen caps on their long hair, cut short on the forehead but left long and unkempt behind. Some of them were wearing coarse white or blue stockings, others long gaiters of homespun, but hardly one possessed any other footgear than wooden sabots. Under their short waistcoats of white flannel or of grey serge the bulging shirt affected by the Vendean was sometimes covered by a handkerchief wound round the waist. A few had these handkerchiefs stuffed with cartridges. There was not a cartridge belt among them, nor was Louis ever to see one worn, for when they got them from their enemies they threw them away, preferring to keep their ammunition in their pockets or in these sashes. Most of them were young, or at best middle-aged, but Louis saw one old man whose years were marked less by his lined face than by the old-fashioned little pieces of wood which fastened his waistcoat in lieu of buttons.

Some of the insurgents were at their prayers, some polishing their weapons, though few had weapons of any distinction to polish. There were deadly scythe-blades lashed to poles, many pitchforks, clubs in plenty, even pointed sticks—fowling-pieces of all descriptions, but hardly a musket. Two young men were armed with old bayonets, still rusty, fastened to what appeared to be broom handles; one or two had brought hoes, and over the shoulder of a peasant who knelt with his back to the observer hung a large sickle. But every man had his rosary round his neck or dangling from a buttonhole, and on almost every breast was pinned or sewn the symbol of the Sacred Heart.

The rustic levy did not look likely material, and the young officer of the Maison du Roi with difficulty restrained himself from shrugging his shoulders as he walked along to the actual cross-roads. Here, round a rude Calvary, some fifty peasants were telling their beads. He pulled off his hat and passed on. Down the Chantonnay road, along which they had marched the day before, the breeze was lightly raising little swirls of March dust. And away in the distance was a larger cloud. Louis screwed up his eyes, shading them from the sun; then he sprang up the nearest bank. Yes, it was a rider, and one who came on so fast that the beat of his hoofs had been audible but a few moments before he was upon the watcher. Louis jumped down and held up his hand, and the man, seeing that he had to do with a gentleman, pulled up.

“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.

“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.

Château-Foix with his contingent brought up the rear. By his side, at the moment, walked Louis, holding to his stirrup leather; he had given up his own horse to one of his followers, a young man named Toussaint Lelièvre, whom, shot through the leg, he had contrived to bring into safety under a considerable fire. The cousins were silent; they could not discuss the conduct of their men in the midst of them, and there was not much else to say. The rain streamed down Gilbert’s hair, for he was bareheaded, making it of a polished blackness. At times he raised a bandaged bridle hand and wiped away the drops falling into his eyes. He was wet, hungry, dispirited, anxious . . . and yet not unhappy. He looked down at the plodding figure by his side.

“Are you tired, Louis?” he asked in a low voice. “Take my horse for a little.”

Louis raised a face not so wet but much dirtier; a bullet striking a bank had bespattered him with mud, which the rain, partially washing off, had transformed to an uniform grime.

“No, thanks,” he said with a sort of resigned cheerfulness. “Besides, if I am, I can have my own back again; my protégé ought not really to be riding, I suspect, but I thought it would spare the men’s carrying him.” And they relapsed into silence.

Gilbert had arranged to bivouac at the hamlet of L’Oie, a little nearer to Chantonnay, and consequently a more dangerous post. But there was no alarm that night from the direction of Chantonnay, and the wearied, disheartened peasants slept in peace. The Marquis, whose injured hand kept him awake, lay long looking at his cousin, stretched on a couple of chairs in the profound slumber of youth and fatigue.

The dawn saw them both afoot, somewhat in expectation of marching orders from the Four Roads. But none came, and Gilbert, when he rode over there, found the elder soldiers determined to give their men a day’s rest and to attack De Marcé again on the morrow. Towards evening, everything being quiet, the Marquis suggested to his cousin the propriety of making a little reconnaissance from the slightly rising ground to the north of their cantonments, a proposal to which Louis readily assented.

They were mounting this slight eminence when, without warning, Gilbert’s mare shied violently at a clump of bracken.

“What is it?” queried Louis, quieting Saladin.

Gilbert pulled up. “I will see,” he said, tossing his reins to his cousin, and, dismounting, went back to the fern. “It is a woman—dead, I fear,” he said over his shoulder. He went round to the other side of the clump, stooped, and gave a violent exclamation.

Roused by his tone, Louis flung himself off Saladin, and, dragging the two horses after him, came to the place.

He saw first the skirt of a green amazone, then the whole slim length of the body of a woman, a young woman, lying on the slope, one arm flung wide into the fern, the other crooked under her head. Only the breast of the amazone was darkly stained. His eyes travelled to her face. . . . “O my God!” he said softly, and the reins fell from his fingers. Gilbert slowly raised himself, and took off his hat, his eyes, too, riveted on the dead face of her who had been Célie d’Espaze.

There was a faint smile on her discoloured lips. A tress of the bright brown hair was caught in the dead bracken; a ruby glowed on the lace at her throat; but for her look she seemed cast there to sleep. The cold horror of the moment was broken by no words; it lasted like a spell while Louis, baring his head, sank to his knees and buried his face in his hands. Gilbert did not look at him. The gold and white room, the white dress and the gold couch, and the voice saying, “Reflect that in this changing world I may some day be needing help from you. . . . Next time that you are in Paris, my friend . . .” Instead of these he stood with Louis by the body of the “adventuress” with whose society he had not long ago taunted him. If only he had not said that. . . .

Louis raised his head at last, and taking the gauntleted hand that lay near him in the bracken he kissed it reverently and laid it back again. Then he turned a grey face on his cousin. “God knows how she came by this,” he said hoarsely. “We cannot leave her here.”

“She must have died instantly,” said Gilbert, half to himself. “I will go back and send a party. You will stay by her?”

Louis nodded without speaking, and Gilbert left him kneeling there.

They buried her that evening. In her grave-clothes she was more than ever the nun of Gilbert’s first impression. Where Louis spent the night Château-Foix did not enquire, but it was not in their room.

Months afterwards he learned the truth—and assumed that Louis knew it, too. Madame d’Espaze had quarrelled some two months earlier with Lecorrier, and had left him for a former admirer, the Marquis de Beaulieu, a revolutionary noble who commanded the National Guard of Montaigu. When the peasants took Montaigu De Beaulieu was killed, and, since he was cordially detested, his château was sacked. His mistress fled, alone; it was said in the direction of Châtillon. Further than that nothing was known; neither how she came to have lost her horse, nor whose the hand, Royalist or Republican, that shot her, nor what she was doing so far away from Châtillon. There were moments when Gilbert wondered whether she could possibly have been making for Chantemerle—if indeed she had been aware of its proximity—but that he should not know now. Her name was never mentioned again between Louis and himself; but it was many days before he, at least, could pass a clump of bracken without expecting to see its yellow fronds entangled with a woman’s hair.