Chapter XLV: Thermopylæ

“Ah, not in vain, although in vain.
. . . . . .
The hours ebb fast of this one day
When blood may yet be nobly shed.”
—A. H. CLOUGH, _Peschiera_.

It was not yet dawn. In the darkness of the Bois des Amourettes (the name held a horrible irony), huddled together for warmth, wet to the skin with the frozen rain, worn out with hunger and with the long retreat from Normandy, all that the terrible catastrophe at Le Mans had left of the Vendean host waited for the dawn and death. Eighty thousand souls, men, women, and children, they had crossed the Loire sixty-five days ago; a bare six thousand now remained to die in this corner of Brittany, hemmed in between two rivers and the sea.

To-morrow, which they should never see, was Christmas Eve. Yesterday morning, with the Republicans on their heels, they had marched into the little town of Savenay; last night they had taken up their stand on the rising ground above it, and all through the hours of darkness, like birds of prey, the legions of the Republic had gathered, twenty thousand strong, under great names, Marceau, Tilly, Westermann, Kléber, to exterminate the forlorn remnant of a once victorious foe. And they, too, waited for the dawn. . . .

In the extreme eastern corner of the wood, at the very end of the Vendean lines, near a miserable fire, which the rain had half extinguished, a young man was sitting against a tree with the head of another on his knees. The prostrate man was wrapped in what appeared to be part of the hangings of a bed, flowered brown and yellow; he who was sitting up wore what had once been the brilliant uniform of a _garde-du-corps_, tattered now and faded beyond all recognition. A blood-stained and very dirty rag was tied round his forehead, and his hair fell unkempt about his shoulders; he looked pinched with cold and fatigue, but his eyes were steady. It was Louis de Saint-Ermay. Round the two, clad, some of them, in the most fantastic garments, some merely in their rags, lay all that remained of the three hundred and fifty odd men who, nine months before, had called on the Marquis de Château-Foix to lead them to victory. There were just thirteen.

As he sat there waiting in the fine cold rain, warm only where the weight of the wounded man and a little of his covering lay across his knees, there swept before the Vicomte all the issues of the past four months. Since Gilbert had died in his arms, what a rosary of disasters had been theirs to tell! It had been a chaplet of desperate fighting, the ebb and flow of a bitter tide, a contest fought and refought over every foot of Vendean soil; but the beads, as they slipped in memory through the fingers, spoke only of the gradual quenching of the light of victory, of the appearance of disunion, of their double defeat at La Tremblay and at Cholet in mid-October, with Bonchamps and Lescure mortally wounded, and, as its consequence, the thrice fatal decision to leave their own province and to press on northwards of the Loire. Then that never-to-be-forgotten crossing of the wide river, with the smoke of their burning villages behind them, Bonchamps’ death on the further bank, and Lescure’s, horribly protracted, on the march through Maine. And the march itself, a slow serpent of a column miles in length, hampered with old and wounded, with children and women, the exodus of an entire people, with a young man of one-and-twenty for its leader. Then, when Normandy was reached at last, the abortive attack on the port of Granville, unsuccoured by the aid from England for which they had hoped; and after that, the agonising retreat, marked by combats at every halting-place, with forces dwindling day by day, till the final overthrow at Le Mans, with its whirlwind of slaughter. . . . And as if that were not enough, for those who survived it the scenes on the bank of the Loire, when the remnant attempted to recross the river to die in Vendée and found it impossible for want of boats, when, by a cruel mistake, Stofflet and La Rochejaquelein traversed it with a handful of followers, only to fall, probably, into the hands of the enemy on the other side. Then, their general separated from them for ever and their last hope of safety vanished, the influx of the courage of despair which bade most of them turn to bay and die here, sword in hand.

And from these red visions Louis’ thoughts went still further backwards. Centuries ago he had led a pleasant and irresponsible life in Paris, agreeably gilded by danger and intrigue, but not shot through, like this existence, in every hour, every minute, at every footstep with the need for endurance. Centuries ago he and Gilbert had stood with an Englishman at the parting of the ways at Candé; how well—though distantly—he had remembered it the other day, when they marched through the place. And the peasant whom centuries ago he had watched talking at midnight with Gilbert and La Rouërie he had seen since, riding into Laval to join them, his Chouans behind him. These memories, woven of threads which seemed to be torn from different existences, were confusing, phantasmagoric. How far away seemed even that amazing night when Gilbert had given up to him his claim, when he had welcomed with joy the call to arms, before he had learnt what that call was to mean.

But Gilbert’s weight in his hold, his head on his breast, his own kisses, the look on his face when he lay dead, those things were always near. It was partly for them, for all that made Gilbert’s memory dear and sacred to him, that he had followed to this bitter end the failing fortunes of the cause, instead of throwing down a sword grown blunted, and turning, as he might have done at Granville, to find safety—and something more—across the sea. He had never really contemplated that alternative, but he had thought to himself once or twice that, if there were such a thing as a meeting beyond the grave, Gilbert would approve him. And in that case the moment of approbation was very near now.

Louis was not disturbed at the prospect; he had faced it too often. And amid the wreck of everything that makes a man’s life, of family ties, of high and warlike hopes, of love itself, he had retained a kind of serenity—a gift not always to be found in conjunction with a brilliant and reckless courage such as his, and proportionately the more valuable in the hour of disaster. Yet Gilbert was dead; M. des Graves was gone—killed or taken at Le Mans, he knew not which—he should never see Lucienne now. She would be making holly wreaths in England to-day. . . .

He shivered suddenly, and gently removing the head of his wounded follower from his knee, replaced the coverlet over him, and, getting to his feet, began to pace up and down to keep warm. The doglike eyes of Toussaint Lelièvre followed him from the ground as he went. Here and there a head was raised to look at him. But not all were sleeping or pretending to sleep. Many were on their knees; and under a tree two young men, finishing a long conversation, gave each other the kiss of farewell.

It grew a little lighter. Louis beat his arms about him and tried to whistle an air, but his lips were too stiff. Like everybody else, he was wet to the bone, for his uniform was more than threadbare, and he had no cloak. But only two things mattered now: this nerve-trying waiting for a death to which one was resigned—and Lucienne. . . . He thrust a hand beneath his coat and felt her miniature on his breast. Into whose possession would it fall . . . afterwards? “But I shan’t be worth stripping,” he thought to himself, looking down at his rags. At the last he would kiss it; that was the only farewell he could make.

Presently out of the cold gloom came riding a dim form. “Is that you, M. de Saint-Ermay?”

Louis drew himself up and saluted. Bernard de Marigny leant his tall figure from the saddle. “How many men have you left, Monsieur?”

“Fourteen,” replied the Vicomte; “and one wounded.”

Marigny made a gesture. “Not enough! We are going to attack directly it is light. Since they are three to one it is better than waiting for them. If you had had fifty men I would have given you the forlorn hope. As it is you must stay here. I shall place a couple of guns in this corner of the wood, with your men and those of M. des Nouhes. You will not be able to hold it long, but remain as long as possible, and then—save the guns if you can.”

“Very good, mon général,” replied Louis tranquilly, though he was conscious of a surprisingly keen pang of disappointment. “Who will lead the forlorn hope then?”

“La Roche-Saint-André, probably.”

“Lucky devil!” observed Louis. “He will have a chance to get warm.”

Marigny turned his horse. “We shall all be equally cold to-night,” he said significantly. “Good-bye, Saint-Ermay.” He wrung Louis’ hand and rode back.

And as the light filtered a little more rapidly through the leafless tree, drawing on to the fatal dawn, the wood began to stir. Some even made shift to relight the dead fires and to cook their last meal. Louis’ outward preparation for death consisted in tearing a strip of shabby silver lace from his sleeve and tying back his hair with it. Marigny’s two cannons came up, and with them a score of Des Nouhes’ men from Les Aubiers, La Rochejaquelein’s country. Louis shook hands with their commander, who wore a woman’s petticoat pinned about his breast, and sabots. Then he went towards his own little contingent.

“My children,” he said, “we have come to our last fight. Let us show the Angevins here that we are as much men as they, and die as Monsieur le Marquis would have had us. For myself, I give you my word of honour that I will stay by the guns as long as there is ammunition left.”

He went round to shake hands with the little group, but they all demanded permission to embrace him, and Toussaint Lelièvre clung to him passionately, whispering hoarse and broken words: “If only I could die for you, M. Louis! . . .”

“Eh, mon ami,” said Saint-Ermay, disengaging himself, “we have all got to die some time, and this, apparently, is the hour. The only thing that matters is the manner of our dying.”

The young Vendean looked at him with his eyes full of tears. “If you fall,” he said almost fiercely, “I will save you. . . .”

And from the hillside came through the dawn the first sudden rattle of musketry.

* * * * * *

Louis wiped the sweat from his forehead with his frayed scarlet cuff, and leant a moment breathless against the gun which he had been helping to drag nearer to the edge of the copse. He had no cause to complain of cold now. “How many more rounds?” he asked.

Panting, begrimed, blood-stained, the four men at the gun looked at him. “Three,” said the eldest solemnly, and the voice of Toussaint Lelièvre added sharply: “Monsieur le Vicomte, you are wounded!”

Louis shrugged his shoulders, and glanced down carelessly at the gash above his knee, whence the blood was coursing unheeded into his high boot. “Three? Carefully then, mes enfants. . . .”

In front, between them and Savenay, could be seen a blue and white mass, advancing slowly but steadily, and firing as it came. A little behind it, to the left, almost motionless, was visible a body of horsemen—the hussars of Westermann, the man who knew no pity. The gun roared. Louis looked a moment longer through the twigs, and then, catching up a musket, knelt down again on the dead leaves and went on firing.

The leaden sky, the cold rain, the position of the gun on the edge of a wood, all seemed a replica of three hours ago. Yet all was changed. The day was lost, and the wood was not the same. When first the Vendeans attacked with the fury of despair, they had driven in the outposts of the château of Touchelais, but afterwards they had been slowly forced back on to the Bois des Amourettes, where Marigny’s battery had checked for a time Marceau’s onset. In their corner of the wood Louis’ men and Des Nouhes’ Angevins, ravaged by the grape-shot, fell, re-formed, fell faster. At last it was impossible to hold the wood any longer. Even then they saved the guns.

And then they were down in Savenay, and Savenay was a nightmare—a repetition of the unspeakable carnage of Le Mans. By every inlet flooded through the united columns of Marceau and Kléber, Tilly and Canuel. And first Louis was in the square by the church, always with the guns, holding a street full of hussars in check. Then, in some inexplicable fashion, a torrent of fugitives tore both him and Des Nouhes away from their men, and they were flung to the other side of the square, right under the hoofs of a squadron of dragoons who came like a whirlwind out of another street. Des Nouhes was sabred at Saint-Ermay’s side, and in a doorway Louis saw a boy of fourteen, Armand de Beaurepaire, cut to pieces with the Comte, his grandfather, because he would not surrender. But death would none of him—only a dragoon slashed at him as he struggled to rise. After that he had tried to work his way back across the tossing square to the guns, inwardly thanking God that, at least, the women and children were gone—he could not bear to see that again. . . . He caught sight of a fresh stream of fugitives. Half of them were women. From the sleeve of one of them, quite young, and by her face of gentle birth, protruded a dripping stump. . . . And a red fury banished his frozen calm. At the tail of the press was Marigny, on horseback, in his hand the white standard Madame de Lescure had once embroidered for him. Louis had wrestled through to him, had caught at his bridle and cried in a breaking voice that there were still women in the town, and Marigny, death in his face, had replied that he was trying to get them out by the Guérande road. . . . And not long after that, profiting by the diversion caused by Fleuriot and Donnissan, who, disdaining to fly, had opened a passage back into Savenay with the bayonet, they had succeeded in getting the two guns out of the shambles, along the road. More nightmare scenes. . . .

Then, with but one gun, he was here in the wood of Blanche-Couronne, with Marigny, four times that day repulsed by the death he sought, and old Donnissan, and Fleuriot, and a few score more, holding it in a last desperate effort to protect the rout, to postpone, if only for half an hour, the ultimate slaughter. But five minutes more would see the end. . . .

Less, perhaps. There was a stir along the border of the wood to his right, wild voices, men scrambling to the saddle, running. And Louis’ musket snapped uselessly—the cartridges were too wet. He threw it down and drew his sword.

Marigny galloped past. “Save yourself, Saint-Ermay!” he cried. “Make for the marshes!”

Louis shook his head. He would not leave his men, and the gun. Besides, what was the use? He had no fancy for being slaughtered in a ditch; he preferred to die standing, and in the open.

The gun by him spoke for the last time, and almost immediately Toussaint Lelièvre pitched forward on his face.

And suddenly Louis, who, all through the war, in his maddest exploits had never been touched by a bullet, knew that he should not die by a bullet now, and was glad. The grenadiers had ceased to advance. In front of them, racing madly towards the slope, came on the cavalry they had screened. Westermann’s hussars were coming to clear out the wood; the pounding of their nearing hoofs on the wet grass was like the beat of the last pulses of life. The three men at the guns were on their knees, reciting their acts of contrition, calm, as if they had been in church. Only a little sob broke from one, the youngest. Louis turned towards them, brought his sword to the salute, and, walking very coolly to a tree a few yards away, set his back against it and waited.

There was just here a little hedge for a boundary to the copse. Would their horses take it well . . . as Saladin would have done? . . . Yes; in a moment they were over it gallantly, their red, fur-edged pelisses flying. They seemed in an enormous hurry. A couple of them, striking right and left, despatched in an instant the three men by the gun. Then the line swept on. And Louis straightened himself as he saw death riding at him—a big man on a roan horse, something restive. Under his high red and black headgear his fair, stupid face glistened with exertion; his doubled tresses of plaited hair hung to his shoulders. As he passed Louis he cut savagely at him. Louis sprang a little to one side, the roan swerved, and Saint-Ermay parried the stroke, though not entirely, for the point of the sabre bit into his collarbone. The force of the blow sent him back for a second against the tree-trunk, and another hussar was on him, young, dark, smiling sardonically. Leaning from the saddle, this man made as though to cut, then, suddenly stooping, thrust instead.

“Take that, brigand!” he cried, his smile widening.

The long, heavy blade, with the momentum of the horse behind it, went leaping treacherously under the Vicomte’s raised guard, and drove through the tarnished silver facings full into his breast.

Louis was conscious of a spasm of rending pain, of a conviction that he was pinned to the tree behind him (which was momentarily true), of the horseman’s laugh as he wrenched out his sword and rode on . . . then of a noisy, rushing red mist and a sensation of falling.

For all that he stood swaying for an instant by the tree, with his mouth full of blood, and but one unreasoning thought in his mind—to get back to the gun to die. And observing him to be still on his feet, though visibly not long to remain there, another hussar, looking over his shoulder, wheeled his horse with the intention of giving him the coup de grâce. Louis did not see him. He could indeed see nothing now, but with his head thrown back in agony, and both hands pressed to his breast, whence the blood poured hot through his fingers, he took a couple of blind paces forward in the direction where he imagined the gun to be. Then he staggered, flung out his hands, and fell.

The hussar, whose arm was already raised to strike, glanced carelessly down at him and did not trouble to dismount. “He has his affair already, parbleu,” he muttered, and, swinging his sabre till it whistled through the air, rode after his comrades.

Louis made one or two convulsive movements, and then, with a long shuddering sigh, lay still, his arms spread wide and the rain falling on his upturned face.

* * * * * *

A peasant began to crawl very slowly forward from the little heap by the gun. A red foam hung on his lips, and as he dragged himself along he left a dark track on the damp leaves. Twice in his difficult progression he sank down, gasping, but in the end he reached the body which he sought, and peered into its ashen face. As he bent over it his own blood mingled with the stream which still soaked through Louis’ ragged blue and scarlet, and which, joining with the trickle creeping slowly from beneath him, was forming a little pool at his side. With shaking hands the wounded man tried to unfasten the Vicomte’s uniform; he got it open a little way at the throat, and then the uselessness of his action seemed to overcome him, and, groaning, he looked wildly round for something to staunch the steady red rivulet within. His eyes fell on the white scarf which encircled his young leader’s body; but it was worn under the sword-belt, and Toussaint Lelièvre, with but a few seconds to live himself, knew that he could not unfasten the clasp and unwind the scarf in time. . . . He carried his hands to the sash round his own waist, and, coughing, crouched on his heels, fumbled with the end. He got it unfastened . . . but it was a long woollen strip wound round many times. . . . In a supreme gesture of despair and farewell he tore his rosary from his buttonhole, and, with heaven knows what vague idea of its efficacy, tried to put it into Saint-Ermay’s slack, out-flung hand—the last and only office in his power. Even that he could scarcely do. The chaplet dropped waveringly into Louis’ palm, and Toussaint Lelièvre fell dead across him.