And he dismissed the count with a gesture, who responded with a deep bow and withdrew.
All that day and all that night, the army continued to assemble around Chaumont. By the following evening, the king commanded twenty-three thousand foot and four thousand horse.
Around ten at night, the artillery and all its materiel were lined up beyond Chaumont, the mouths of the guns turned toward the enemy. The king ordered a check of the caissons and crates for a report on how much ammunition was available. At this time the bayonet had not yet been invented, so the cannon and the musket decided everything. Today, the rifle has come forward as the weapon of choice for the modern warrior, becoming, as predicted by the Maréchal de Saxe, the handle of the bayonet.
At midnight, the council was convened. It was composed of the king, the cardinal, the Duc de Montmorency, and the three marshals: Bassompierre, Schomberg, and Créqui. Bassompierre, who was senior, took the floor. He cast his eyes over the map and studied the positions of the enemy—which they knew perfectly, thanks to the information sent by the Comte de Moret.
“Unless someone has a better idea,” he said, “here is my proposal, Sire.” And, saluting the king and cardinal to show that he was addressing them, he said, “I propose that the regiments of the French and Swiss Guards take the lead; the Regiment of Navarre and the Regiment d’Estissac, the left and right. The two wings will each be led by two hundred musketeers who will gain the summit of the two peaks of Montmoron and Montabon. Once at the top of the two mountains, nothing will be easier than for them to get the drop on the guards at the barricades. At the first shot heard from the heights, we move; while the musketeers fire on the barricades from behind, we will make a frontal assault with the two Guard regiments. Approach the map, Messieurs, look at the position of the enemy, and if you have a better plan than mine, speak up.”
Maréchal de Créqui and Maréchal de Schomberg studied the map and supported Bassompierre’s proposal.
That left the Duc de Montmorency.
Montmorency was better known for his dauntless courage and audacity on the field of battle than as a strategist and man of foresight; moreover, he spoke with a certain difficulty at first, with a stammer that he gradually lost as he went on. However, this time he found the courage to speak before the king.
“Sire,” he said, “I respect the opinion of Monsieur de Bassomp-ierre, and of Messieurs de Créqui and de Schomberg, and am well aware of their courage and experience; but while I don’t doubt we can carry them, taking those barricades and the redoubts, especially the demi-lune that completely blocks the road, will be a difficult task indeed. Monsieur de Bassompierre has rightly said that we must take them; but is there no way to cut off these entrenchments? Can’t we find, perhaps by a difficult mountain path, a way to turn the flank, to come down between the demi-lune and Susa and attack this position from behind? It would only be a question of finding a loyal guide and an intrepid officer, two things that don’t seem impossible to me.”
“You hear the proposal of Monsieur de Montmorency,” said the king. “Do you agree?”
“Excellent!” replied the marshals. “But there’s no time to lose in finding this guide and this officer.”
At that moment Étienne Latil spoke a few quiet words in the cardinal’s ear, and Richelieu’s face brightened. “Messieurs,” he said, “I believe Providence sends us our loyal guide and intrepid officer in one and the same person.”
And turning toward Latil, who awaited his orders: “Captain Latil,” he said, “bring in Monsieur le Comte de Moret.”
Latil bowed.
Five minutes later, the Comte de Moret entered, and despite his disguise as a humble mountaineer, everyone could see the resemblance to his august father—a resemblance that was the envy of King Louis XIII, illustrious son of Henri IV. He had just arrived from Mantua, sent by Providence, as the Duc de Richelieu had said.
LXI
Susa Pass
The Comte de Moret, thanks to the route he’d taken to cross safely into Savoy, could be at once the loyal guide and the intrepid officer.
Indeed, the question had scarcely been stated before, taking a pencil, he traced on Monsieur de Pontis’s map the path that led from Chaumont to the smugglers’ inn. He paused to recount how he’d been forced to change his route to escape the Spanish bandits, and how this change of route had brought him to the path whereby one could slip past the ramparts that girdled the mountains above Susa.
He was authorized to take five hundred men with him, a larger troop being too awkward to maneuver on such a route.
The cardinal wanted the young prince to take a few hours of rest, but he refused, saying that if he was to arrive in time to create a diversion at the moment of the attack, he didn’t have a minute to lose.
He requested the cardinal to give him, as second in command, Étienne Latil, whose devotion and courage were beyond question.
They agreed to all his desires.
At three in the morning, Moret’s troop quietly departed; each man carried with him one day’s rations.
Of the five hundred men who were to march under his orders, the Comte de Moret knew only the young captain; but once they were told they were to have the son of Henri IV as their leader, the soldiers crowded around him with cries of joy. They brought up torches so they could see his face, whose resemblance to that of the Béarnais redoubled their enthusiasm.
Immediately after the Comte de Moret’s five hundred men marched out, under cover of a night so dark it was impossible to see ten paces before oneself, the remainder of the army was put in motion. The weather was terrible, and the ground was covered with two feet of snow.
Fifty men remained behind to guard the artillery park. The rest of the troops marched to within five hundred paces of the Rock of Gélasse, just short of Susa Pass. Six pieces of cannon and six pallets of balls were brought up to force the barricade.
The troops chosen to attack were seven companies of Guards, six of Swiss, nineteen of Navarre, fourteen of Estissac, and fifteen of Sault, plus the king’s mounted musketeers.
Each unit was to throw out in front fifty storm troopers known as “enfants perdus,” supported by one hundred men, with those supported by five hundred more.
Around six in the morning, the troops were marshaled into order. The king presided over these preparations, detailing some of his musketeers to join the enfants perdus. Then he ordered the Sieur de Comminges, preceded by a trumpeter, to approach the border and ask the Duke of Savoy for passage for the army and the person of the king.
Monsieur de Comminges advanced, but a hundred paces from the barricade he was stopped by a challenge. The Count of Verrue appeared and called out, “What do you want, Monsieur?”
The herald responded, “We wish to pass, Monsieur.”
“But,” Verrue replied, “how do you wish to pass? As friends or as enemies?”
“As friends, if you open the pass to us; as enemies, if you close it. I am charged by the king my master to go to Susa and prepare lodgings for him, as he plans to sleep there tomorrow.”
“Monsieur,” answered the Count of Verrue, “the duke my master would hold it a great honor to host His Majesty, but he comes with so many followers that before I can respond, I must ask His Highness for orders.”
“Well,” said Comminges, “do you intend, by any chance, to dispute our passage?”
The Count of Verrue came forth and stood before him. “What would you have, Monsieur?” the herald asked the count.
“I have the honor to say to you, Monsieur,” replied Verrue coldly, “that on this subject I must first know the intentions of His Highness, my master.”
“Monsieur, I warn you,” said Comminges, “that I must report your reply to the king.”
“You may do as you please, Monsieur,” responded Verrue. “You are master of yourself.”
And with this, each saluted the other. Verrue returned to his side of the barricades, and Comminges returned to the king.
?
??Eh bien, Monsieur?” Louis XIII asked Comminges.
The herald related his discussion with the Count of Verrue: Louis XIII listened without missing a word, and when Comminges had finished, the king said, “The Count of Verrue answered not only as a worthy servant, but as a man of spirit who knows his duty.”
At that moment the king was on the farthest frontier of France, between the enfants perdus ready to charge, and the five hundred men who were to support them.
Bassompierre approached, smiling and with hat in hand. “Sire,” he said, “the dancers are ready, the violins are in tune, and the masks are at hand; when it pleases Your Majesty, we may commence the ballet.”
The king looked at him, brow furrowed. “Monsieur le Maréchal, did you know I just received a report that we have only five hundred rounds in the artillery park?”
“Well, Sire,” answered Bassompierre, “this is certainly the right time to consider that; if the masque isn’t ready, the ballet shouldn’t be danced. But let’s do it. All will be well.”
“Is that your answer to me?” said the king, fixing the marshal with a look.
“Sire, it would be beyond bold to guarantee something as doubtful as a victory; but my answer to you is that we will return with our honor, or I will fall or be taken.”
“Make sure that if we are beaten, Monsieur de Bassompierre, that I am taken with you.”
“Bah, what can happen to me worse than to be called a coward, as Your Majesty did the Marquis d’Uxelles? But don’t worry, Sire, I’ll try not to deserve such an insult. Let’s just do it.”
“Sire,” said the cardinal, who held his horse close to the king’s, “with an attitude like the marshal’s, my hopes are high.” Then, addressing Bassompierre: “Go, Monsieur le Maréchal, go—and do your utmost.”
Bassompierre rode to where the other commanders awaited, and dismounted with Messieurs de Créqui and de Montmorency for the frontal assault on the trenches. Only Monsieur de Schomberg remained mounted, due to the gout in his knee.
They marched past the base of the Rock of Gélasse; for some reason the enemy had abandoned that position, strong though it was, perhaps afraid that those who defended it would be cut off and forced to surrender.
But as soon as the troops passed the rock, they were exposed, and fire commenced from the mountain and the broad barricade. And at the first volley, Monsieur de Schomberg was hit in the lower back.
Bassompierre followed the valley floor and approached the demilune that blocked Susa Pass from the front, Monsieur de Créqui close beside him.
Monsieur de Montmorency, as if he were a common soldier, sprang up the mountain on the left toward the peak of Montmoron.
Monsieur de Schomberg was tied to his horse, which was led forward by its bridle due to the difficulty of the terrain; he made his way up the right-hand slope in the midst of the enfants perdus.
Following Bassompierre’s plan, these units were to flank the barricades, shooting the defenders from above while the others attacked the front.
The Valaisans and Piedmontese defended valiantly; Victor-Amadeus and his father commanded from the redoubt on the peak of Montabon.
Montmorency, reckless as always, quickly attacked and carried the first outwork on the left. As his armor had encumbered him while afoot, along the way he had dropped its pieces one by one, attacking the rampart in his simple buff jerkin and velvet trunk-hose.
Bassompierre, for his part, remained on the valley floor, weathering the fire from the demi-lune.
Behind came the king, with his white plumes, and Monsieur le Cardinal in a gold-embroidered robe of russet velvet.
Three times the center charged the demi-lune, and three times they were repulsed from that curved barricade. Musket balls leaped and ricocheted down the valley from rock to rock, killing one of Monsieur de Créqui’s esquires within a few feet of the king’s horse.
Bassompierre and Créqui then resolved to scale the slopes, each with five hundred men: Bassompierre the mountain on the left, to reinforce Monsieur de Montmorency, and Créqui the mountain on the right, to support Monsieur de Schomberg.
Two thousand five hundred men remained on the valley floor to maintain pressure on the demi-lune.
Bassompierre, overweight, fifty years old, and on the steepest slope, was climbing while leaning on his aide, when suddenly he lost his support: the aide beside him had taken a ball in the chest. He made it to the summit just as Monsieur de Montmorency was falling back from his third assault on the redoubt. They combined forces for a fourth.
Montmorency was lightly wounded in the arm, while Bassomp-ierre’s clothes were riddled with bullet-holes. But the redoubt on the left was carried, and the Savoyard defenders took refuge behind the demi-lune.
The two commanders looked across toward the mountain redoubt on the right. The battle there was hotly contested. Presently they saw two riders leave at a full gallop, making for a path that had apparently been prepared for their retreat down to the demilune. It was the Duke of Savoy, Charles-Emmanuel, and his son, Victor-Amadeus. A flood of fugitives followed them.
The redoubt on the right was taken. Only the demi-lune remained: the hardest nut to crack.
Louis XIII sent couriers to congratulate the marshals and Montmorency on their success, but telling them to retire and recover. Bassompierre replied on behalf of himself and Messieurs de Schomberg, de Créqui, and de Montmorency:
Sire, we are grateful for your concern, but at times like these the blood of a prince or a marshal of France is not worth more than that of the simplest soldier.
We ask for ten minutes of rest for the men, after which the ball will start anew.
And, indeed, after ten minutes of rest the trumpets sounded, the drums beat again, and the two wings, in two tight columns, closed on the now-reinforced demi-lune.
LXII
In Which It Is Shown That a Man is Never
Hanged Until the Noose is Tightened
The approaches had fallen to the French—but the last entrenchment remained, teeming with soldiers, bristling with cannons, and anchored by the fort of Montabon, built atop an inaccessible rock; the fort had but one approach, a staircase that could be climbed only in single file.
Left far behind were any guns that might bear on either the valley floor or the mountain summits. The soldiers had to assault the demilune supported by nothing but what the Italians of the time called their furia francese.
From a low rise within range of the enemy’s guns, king and cardinal watched the troops marching forward behind the flower of the nobility, the leaders’ hats held high on the ends of their swords. The soldiers advanced head down, not asking if they were being led to butchery; their commanders led from the front, and that was all they needed to know.
His Eminence was with the king on his horse, and the cardinal saw the sudden gaps the cannon plowed through the ranks; the king clapped his hands, applauding the soldiers’ courage while at the same time his innate cruelty awoke like a tiger scenting blood. When he’d had the Maréchal d’Ancre killed, though he was still too small to look out the window, he’d had some of his men lift him up so he could watch the bloody body carried past.
The troops reached the barricade; some carried ladders, and the escalade began.
Montmorency took a flag and was first upon the wall; Bassompierre, too old to follow, took a position halfway up the ramparts and exhorted the soldiers to do their utmost.
Some ladders broke beneath the weight of so many attackers, so keen were they to be the first to set foot on the rampart; others held back to allow time for their companions to go over, drawing up other ladders to mount the assault.
The besieged used whatever weapons they could. Some fired at the attackers at close range; others swung spades and picks, saw blood spout from their blows, and sometimes a man would throw his arms wide and fall backwards. Others hurled stones, or swung heavy poles that cleared two or three ladders at a time.
Suddenly the French could see disarray among the
defenders, while from beyond them came shouting and a fusillade.
“Courage, amis,” cried Montmorency, mounting another assault, “it’s the Comte de Moret to our rescue!” And he sprang forward anew, ragged and bloody though he was, carrying along with him, by this supreme effort, all who could see and hear him.
The duke was not mistaken: it was Moret who had created the diversion.
The count had left at three in the morning, as we have seen, with Latil for captain and Galaor for aide-de-camp. They arrived at the bank of the torrent that had almost drowned Guillaume Coutet; but when the freeze had come, the water had dropped, and now one could cross by leaping from rock to rock.
Arriving on the other side of the torrent, the Comte de Moret and his men quickly crossed the field that separated them from the mountain. He found the rising path, and his men followed.
The night was dark, but the glimmer from the new-fallen snow lit the way.
The count, familiar with the difficult terrain, had provided his troops with long ropes, one for each twenty-four men. As each twenty-four-man unit marched along the brink, if one man slipped he was supported by the other twenty-three. Twenty-four others marched behind them, acting as another stay or support.
As they approached the smugglers’ inn, he ordered the troops to be silent. Though they didn’t know the reason, all remained quiet.
The count gathered a dozen men about him, explained to them that the inn before them was their objective, and ordered them to instruct their comrades to quietly surround it. If but one man escaped this nest of villains and gave the alarm, their mission could be compromised.
Galaor, who knew the place, took a score of men to surround the inn-yard; with twenty more Latil guarded the gate, while the Comte de Moret led a similar number to the only window that let daylight into the house, and by which those inside might escape. The window glowed brightly, indicating that the hosts were in residence.
The rest of the troop spread out along the road, in order to leave the bandits no route of escape.