CHAPTER VIII.
"WHAT GOOD HAS THE WAR DONE?"
The raft which Chapeau had made was by degrees enlarged and improved,and the great mass of the Vendeans passed the river slowly, but safely.As soon as the bulk of the people was over, Henri Larochejaquelin leftthe southern shore, and crossed over to marshal the heterogeneous troopson their route towards Laval, leaving Chapeau and Arthur Mondyon tosuperintend and complete the transit of those who remained.
It was a beautiful October evening, and as the sun was setting, the twowere standing close to the edge of the water, congratulating themselvesthat their dirty and disagreeable toil was well nigh over. From time totime stragglers were still coming down to the river-side, begging fora passage, and imploring that they might not be abandoned to the crueltyof the blues, and as they came they were shipped off on the raft. Therewere now, however, no more than would make one fair load, and Chapeauand Arthur were determined that it was full time for them both to leavethe Anjou side of the river, and follow the main body of the armytowards Laval.
"We might remain here for ever, Chapeau, if we stayed for the very lastof all," said the Chevalier, as he jumped on the raft. "Come, man, geton, we've our number now, and we couldn't take more, if they come.There's some one hallooing up there, and we'll leave the little boat forthem. Come, I want to get over and have a run on dry land, for I'm ascold as a stone. This living like a duck, half in the water and halfout, don't suit me at all. The next river we cross over, I'll make Henriget another ferryman."
Chapeau still lingered on the shore, and putting his hand up to his ear,listened to the voice of some one who was calling from a distance. Itwas too dark for him to distinguish any one, but the voice of a womanhallooing loudly, but with difficulty, as though she were out of breathwith running, was plainly audible.
"If you mean to wait here all night, I don't," said the Chevalier, "sogood night to you, and if you don't get on, I'll push off without you."
"Stop a moment, M. Arthur, there's a woman there."
"I've no doubt there is--there are fifty women there--fifty hundredwomen, I dare say; but we can't wait while they all drop in one by one.Don't be a fool, Jacques; is not there the small boat left for them?"
Chapeau still listened. "Stop a moment, M. Arthur, for heaven's sakestop one moment," and then jumping on to the raft, he clung hold of therope, and moored it fast to the shore. "They're friends of my own, M.Arthur; most particular friends, or I wouldn't ask to keep you. Don'tgo now; after all we've gone through together, you won't leave myfriends behind, if I go on shore, will you, M. Arthur?"
"Oh, I'm a good comrade; if they're private friends, I'll wait allnight. Only I hope there ain't a great many of them."
"Only two; I think there are only two," and Chapeau once more jumped onshore, and ran to meet his friends. He had not far to go, for the partywas now close to the water's edge. As he had supposed, it consisted onlyof two, an old man and a girl: Michael Stein and his daughter Annot.Annot had been running; and dragging her father by the hand, hadhallooed with all her breath, for she had heard from some of those whostill dared to trust themselves to the blues, that the last boat was onthe point of leaving the shore. The old man had disdained to halloo, andhad almost disdained to run; but he had suffered himself to be hurriedinto a shambling kind of gait, and when he was met by Chapeau, he wasalmost as much out of breath as his daughter.
"Oh, oh! for mercy's sake--for heaven's sake--kind Sir, dear Sir,"sobbed Annot, as she saw a man approaching her; and then when he wasnear enough to her to be distinguished through the evening gloom, sheexclaimed:
"Mercy on us, mercy on us, its Jacques Chapeau!" and sank to the ground,as though she had no further power to take care of herself now that shehad found one who was bound to take care of her.
"You're just in time, Michael Stein; thank God, you're just in time!Annot, come on, its only a dozen yards to the raft, and we'll be off atonce. Well, this is the luckiest chance: come on, before a whole crowdare down upon us, and swamp us all."
"Oh me! oh me!" sobbed Annot, still sitting on the ground, as though shehad not the slightest intention of stirring another step that night: "tobe left and deserted in this way by one's friends--and one'sbrothers--and--and--one's--" she didn't finish the list, for she feltsure that she had said enough to cut Chapeau to the inmost heart, if hestill had a heart.
"Come, dearest girl, come; I'll explain it all by-and-bye. We have nota moment to spare. Come, I'll lift you," and he stooped to raise herfrom the ground.
"Thank you, M. Chapeau, thank you, Sir; but pray leave me. I shall bebetter tomorrow morning; that is, if I'm not dead, or killed, or worse.The blues are close behind us; ain't they, father?"
"Get up, Annot; get up, thou little fool, and don't trouble the man tocarry thee," said Michael. "If there be still a boat to take us, inGod's name let us cross the river; for the blues are truly in St.Florent, and after flying from them so far, it would be sore ill luck tobe taken now."
Chapeau, however, would not leave her to herself, but took her up bodilyin his arms, and carrying her down to the water's edge, put her on theraft. He and Michael soon followed, and the frail vessel was hauled forthe last time over into the island. The news that the enemy was alreadyin St. Florent soon passed from month to mouth, and each wretchedemigrant congratulated himself in silence that he had so far escapedfrom republican revenge. Many of them had still to sojourn on the islandfor the night, but there they were comparatively safe; and Arthur,Chapeau, and his friends, succeeded in gaining the opposite shore.
Poor Annot was truly in a bad state. When they heard that the ladies hadleft Chatillon, she and her father, and, indeed, all the inhabitantsof Echanbroignes, felt that they could no longer be safe in the village;and they had started off to follow the royalist army on foot through thecountry. From place to place they had heard tidings, sometimes of oneparty, and sometimes of another. The old man had borne the fatigue anddangers of the journey well; for, though now old, he had been ahard-working man all his life, and was tough and seasoned in his oldage; but poor Annot had suffered dreadfully. The clothes she had broughtwith her were nearly falling off her back; her feet were all but bare,and were cut and blistered with walking. Grief and despair had taken thecolour and roundness from her cheek, and she had lacked time on hermournful journey to comb the pretty locks of which she was generally soproud.
"Oh, Jacques, Jacques, how could you leave us! how could you go away andleave us, after all that's been between us," she said, as he bustledabout to make some kind of bed for her in the little hut, in which theywere to rest for the night.
"Leave you," said Chapeau, who had listened for some time in silence toher upbraidings; "leave you, how could I help leaving you? Has noteverybody left everybody? Did not M. Henri leave his sister, and M. deLescure leave his wife? And though they are now here all together, it'sby chance that they came here, the same as you have come yourself. Aslong as these wars last, Annot dear, no man can answer as to where hewill go, or what he will do."
"Oh, these weary wars, these weary wars!" said she, "will they never bedone with? Will the people never be tired of killing, and slaying, andburning each other? And what is the King the better of it? Ain't theyall dead: the King, and the Queen, and the young Princes, and all ofthem?"
"You wouldn't have us give up now, Annot, would you? You wouldn't haveus lay down our arms, and call ourselves republicans, after all we havedone and suffered?"
Annot didn't answer. She wouldn't call herself a republican; but hersufferings and sorrows had greatly damped the loyal zeal she had shownwhen she worked her little fingers to the bone in embroidering a whiteflag for her native village. She was now tired and cold, wet and hungry;for Chapeau had been able to get no provisions but a few potatoes: soshe laid herself down on the hard bed which he had prepared for her; andas he spread his own coat over her shoulders, she felt that it was, atany rate, some comfort to have her own lover once more near her.
Jacques and the old smith
had no bed, so they were fain to contentthemselves with sitting opposite to each other on two low stools; thebest seats which the hut afforded. Jacques felt that it was incumbenton him to do the honours of the place, and that some apology wasnecessary for the poor accommodation which he had procured for hisfriends.
"This is a poor place for you, Michael Stein," he commenced, "a verypoor place for both of you, after your own warm cottage atEchanbroignes."
"It's a poor place, truly, M. Chapeau," said the smith, looking roundon the bare walls of the little hut.
"Indeed it is, my friend, and sorry am I to see you and Annot so badlylodged. But what then; we shall be in Laval tomorrow, and have the bestof everything--that is, if not tomorrow, the day after."
"I don't much care about the best of everything, M. Chapeau. I've notused myself to the best, but I would it had pleased God to have allowedme to labour out the rest of my days in the little smithy atEchanbroignes. I never wanted more than the bread which I could earn."
"You never did, Michael, you never did," said Chapeau, trying to flatterthe old man; "and, like an honest man, you endure without flinching whatyou suffer for your King. Give us your hand, my friend, we've no wineto drink his health, but as long as our voices are left, let us cry:Vive le Roi!"
The old man silently rejected Chapeau's proposal that he should evincehis loyalty just at present by shouting out the Vendean war-cry. "I takeno credit, M. Chapeau," said he, "for suffering for my King, though,while he lived, he always had my poor prayers for his safety. It wasn'tto fight the blues that I left my little home. It was because I couldn'tstay any without fearing to see that girl there in the rude hands ofLechelle's soldiers, and my own roof in a blaze. It's all gone now,forge and tools; the old woman's chair, the children's cradle; it's allgone, now and for ever. I don't wish to curse any one, M. Chapeau, butI am not in the humour to cry Vive le Roi!"
"But Michael Stein, my dear friend," urged Chapeau, "look what othershave lost too. Have not others suffered as much? Look at the oldMarquis, turned out of his house and everything lost; and yet you won'thear a word of complaint fall from his mouth. Look at Madame de Lescure,her husband dying; her house burnt to the ground; without a bed to lieon, or a change of dress and yet she does not complain."
"They have brought it on themselves by their own doings," answered thesmith; "and they have brought it on me also, who have done nothing."
"Done nothing! but, indeed, you have, Michael. Have you not made pikesfor us, and have not your sons fought for us like brave soldiers?"
"I have done the work for which I was paid, as a good smith should; andas for the boys, they took their own way. No, Jacques Chapeau, I havetaken no part in your battles. I have neither been for nor against you.As for King or Republic, it was all one to me; let them who understandsuch things settle that. For fifty years I have earned my bread, andpaid what I owed; and now I am driven out from my home like a fox fromits hole. Why should I say Vive le Roi! Look at that girl there, withher bare feet bleeding from the sharp stones, and tell me, why shouldI say Vive le Roi!"
Chapeau was flabbergasted, for all this was rank treason to him; and yethe didn't want to quarrel with the smith; so he sat still and gazed intohis face, as though he were struck dumb with astonishment.
"I remember when you came to my cottage," continued the old man, "andtold me that the wars were all over, that the King was coming toDurbelliere, and that you would marry Annot, and make a fine lady ofher. I told you then what I thought of your soldiering, and your fineladies. I told you then what it would come to, and I told you true. Idon't throw this in your teeth to blame you, M. Chapeau, for you haveonly served those you were bound to serve; but surely they who first putguns and swords into the hands of the poor people, and bade them go outfor soldiers, will have much to answer for. All this blood will be upontheir heads."
"You don't mean to blame M. Henri and M. de Lescure, and the goodCathelineau, for all that they've done?" said Chapeau, awe-struck at thelanguage used by his companion.
"It's not for me to blame them; but look at that girl there, and thentell me, mustn't there be some great blame somewhere?"
Chapeau did look at the girl, and all the tenderness of his heart roseinto his eyes, as the flickering light of the fire showed him hertattered and draggled dress.
"Thank God! the worst of it is over now, Michael. You're safe now, atany rate, from those blood-hounds; and when we reach Laval, we shall allhave plenty."
"And where's this Laval, M. Chapeau?"
"We're close to it--it's just a league or so; or, perhaps, seven oreight leagues to the north of us."
"And how is it, that in times like these, such a crowd of strangers willfind plenty there?"
"Why, the whole town is with us. There's a blue garrison in it; butthey're very weak, and the town itself is for the King to the backbone.They've sent a deputation to our Generals, and invited us there; andthere are gentlemen there, who have come from England, with surepromises of money and troops. The truth is, Michael, we never werereally in a position to beat the blues as they ought to be beat till we.got to this side of the river. We never could have done anything greatin Poitou."
"I'm sorry they ever tried, M. Chapeau; but I remember when you cameback, after taking Saumur, you told me the war was over then. You usedto think that a great thing."
"So it was, Michael; it was well done. The taking of Saumur was verywell done; but it was only a detail. We've found out now that it won'tdo to beat them in detail; it's too slow. The Generals have a plan now,one great comprehensive plan, for finishing the war in a stroke, andthey're only waiting until they reach Laval."
"It's a great pity they didn't hit on that plan before," said MichaelStein.
The two men laid themselves down on the ground before the fire, andattempted to sleep; but they had hardly composed themselves when theywere interrupted by a loud rumour, that there was a vast fire, closedown on the opposite side of the river. They both jumped up and wentout, and saw that the whole heavens were alight with the conflagrationof St. Florent--the blues had burnt the town. The northern bank of theriver was covered with the crowd of men and women, gazing at the flames,which were consuming their own houses; and yet, so rejoiced were theyto have escaped themselves from destruction, that they hardly rememberedto bewail the loss of their property. The town of St. Florent wasbetween three or four miles from the place where they were congregated,and yet they could plainly see the huge sparks as they flew upwards, andthey fancied they felt the heat of the flames on their upturned faces.
Early on the following morning, the whole army was on its march towardsLaval. The Vendean leaders were well aware that the republicans were nowon their track, and they were truly thankful that some unaccountabledelay in the movement of the enemy, had enabled them to put a greatriver between themselves and their pursuers. The garrisons, which theConvention had thrown into the towns of Brittany, were veryinsufficient, both in numbers and spirit, and the blues abandoned oneplace after another as the Vendeans approached. They passed throughCande, Segre, and Chateau-Gonthier without having to fire a shot, andthough the gates of the town of Laval were closed against them, it wasonly done to allow the republican soldiers time to escape from the otherside of the town.
The inhabitants of Laval flocked out in numbers to meet the poorVendeans, and to offer them hospitality, and such comfort as their smalltown could afford to so huge a crowd. They begrudged them nothing thatthey possessed, and spared neither their provisions nor their houses.It seemed that Chapeau's promise was this time true; and that, at anyrate, for a time, they all found plenty in Laval. Henri established hishead-quarters in a stone house, in the centre of the town, and here alsohe got accommodation for the three ladies and M. de Lescure. Nor didChapeau forget to include Annot Stein in the same comfortableestablishment, under the pretext that her services would beindispensable.
M. de Lescure had suffered grievously through the whole journey, but heseemed to rally when he reached Laval, and the compa
rative comfort ofhis quiet chamber gave him ease, and lessened his despondency. The wholeparty recovered something of their usual buoyancy, and when Henribrought in word, in the evening, that if the worst came to the worst,he could certainly hold out the town against the republican army untilassistance reached them from England, they were all willing to hope thatthe cause in which they were engaged might still prosper.