Ninety-Three
"What is the second ship to port, pilot?"
"The 'Dryade.'"
"A frigate of the first class; forty eighteen-pounders. She has been in India, and has a glorious military record."
And below the "52" he wrote the number "40." Then, raising his head, he said, —
"Now, on the starboard?"
"They are all second-class frigates, commander; there are five of them."
"Which is the first one from the ship?"
"The 'Résolue.'"
"Thirty-two eighteen-pounders. The second?"
"The 'Richmond.'"
"Same. Next?"
"The 'Athée.'"
"A queer name to sail under. Next?"
"The 'Calypso.'"
"Next?"
"The 'Preneuse.'"
"Five frigates, each of thirty-two guns."
The captain wrote "160" under the first numbers.
"You are sure you recognize them, pilot?" he asked.
"You also know them well, commander. It is something to recognize them; but it is better to know them."
The captain, with his eyes on the note-book, was adding up the column to himself.
"One hundred and twenty-eight, fifty-two, forty, one hundred and sixty."
Just then La Vieuville came up on deck.
"Chevalier," exclaimed the captain, "we are facing three hundred and eighty cannon."
"So be it," replied La Vieuville.
"You have just been making an inspection, La Vieuville: how many guns have we fit for service?"
"Nine."
"So be it," responded Boisberthelot in his turn; and taking the telescope from the pilot, he scanned the horizon.
The eight black and silent ships, though they appeared immovable, continued to increase in size.
They were gradually drawing nearer.
La Vieuville saluted the captain.
"Commander," he said, "here is my report. I mistrusted this corvette 'Claymore.' It is never pleasant to be suddenly ordered on board a ship that neither knows nor loves you. An English ship is a traitor to the French. That slut of a carronade proved this. I have made the inspection. The anchors are good; they are not made of inferior iron, but hammered out of solid bars; the flukes are solid; the cables are excellent, easy to pay out, and have the requisite length of one hundred and twenty fathoms. Plenty of ammunition; six gunners dead; each gun has one hundred and seventy-one rounds."
"Because there are only nine cannon left," grumbled the captain.
Boisberthelot levelled his glass to the horizon. The squadron continued its slow approach. Carronades have one advantage: three men are sufficient to man them. But they also have a disadvantage: they do not carry as far, and shoot with less precision than cannon. It was therefore necessary to let the squadron approach within the range of the carronades.
The captain gave his orders in a low voice. Silence reigned on the ship. No signal to clear the decks for action had been given, but still it had been done. The corvette was as helpless to cope with men as with the sea. They did their best with this remnant of a war-ship. Near the tiller-ropes on the gangway were piled spare hawsers and cables, to strengthen the mast in case of need. The quarters for the wounded were put in order. According to the naval practice of those days, they barricaded the deck, – which is a protection against balls, but not against bullets. The ball-gauges were brought, although it was rather late to ascertain the caliber; but they had not anticipated so many incidents. Cartridge-boxes were distributed among the sailors, and each one secured a pair of pistols and a dirk in his belt. Hammocks were stowed away, guns were pointed, and muskets, axes, and grapplings prepared. The cartridge and bullet stores were put in readiness; the powder-magazine was opened; every man stood at his post. Not a word was spoken while these preparations went on amid haste and gloom; and it seemed like the room of a dying person.
Then the corvette was turned broadside on. She carried six anchors, like a frigate, and all of them were cast, – the spare anchor forward, the kedger aft, the sea-anchor towards the open, the ebb-anchor towards the breakers, the bower-anchor to starboard, and the sheet-anchor to port. The nine uninjured carronades were placed as a battery on the side towards the enemy.
The squadron, equally silent, had also finished its evolutions. The eight ships now stood in a semicircle, of which Minquiers formed the chord. The "Claymore" enclosed within this semicircle, and held furthermore by its own anchors, was backed by the reef, – signifying shipwreck. It was like a pack of hounds surrounding a wild boar, not giving tongue, but showing its teeth.
It seemed as if each side were waiting for something.
The gunners of the "Claymore" stood to their guns.
Boisberthelot said to La Vieuville, —
"I should like to be the first to open fire."
"A coquette's fancy," replied La Vieuville.
IX
SOME ONE ESCAPES
The passenger had not left the deck; he watched all that was going on with his customary impassibility.
Boisberthelot went up to him.
"Sir," he said, "the preparations are completed. We are now clinging to our grave; we shall not relax our hold. We must succumb either to the squadron or to the reef. The alternative is before us: either shipwreck among the breakers or surrender to the enemy. But the resource of death is still left; better to fight than be wrecked. I would rather be shot than drowned; fire before water, if the choice be left to me. But where it is our duty to die it is not yours. You are the man chosen by princes. You have an important mission, – that of directing the Vendean war. Your death might result in the failure of monarchy; therefore you must live. While honor requires us to stand by the ship, it calls on you to escape. You must leave us, General; I will provide you with a boat and a man. You may succeed in reaching the shore, by making a détour. It is not yet daylight; the waves are high and the sea dark. You will probably escape. There are occasions when to flee means to conquer."
The old man bent his stately head in token of acquiescence.
Count Boisberthelot raised his voice.
"Soldiers and sailors!" he called.
Every movement ceased, and from all sides faces were turned in the direction of the captain.
He continued: —
"This man who is among us represents the king. He has been intrusted to our care; we must save him. He is needed for the throne of France. As we have no prince, he is to be, – at least we hope so, – the leader of the Vendée. He is a great general. He was to land with us in France; now he must land without us. If we save the head we save all."
"Yes, yes, yes!" cried the voices of all the crew.
The captain went on: —
"He too is about to face a serious danger. It is not easy to reach the coast. The boat must be large enough to live in this sea, and small enough to escape the cruisers. He must land at some safe point, and it will be better to do so nearer Fougères than Coutances. We want a hardy sailor, a good oars-man and a strong swimmer, a man from that neighborhood, and one who knows the straits. It is still so dark that a boat can put off from the corvette without attracting attention; and later there will be smoke enough to hide it from view. Its size will be an advantage in the shallows. Where the panther is caught, the weasel escapes. Although there is no outlet for us, there may be for a small rowboat; the enemy's ships will not see it, and, what is more, about that time we shall be giving them plenty of diversion. Is it decided?"
"Yes, yes, yes!" cried the crew.
"Then there is not a moment to be lost," continued the captain. "Is there a man among you willing to undertake the business?"
In the darkness, a sailor stepped out of the ranks and said, —
"I am the man."
X
DOES HE ESCAPE?
A few minutes later, one of those small boats called a gig, which are always devoted to the use of the captain, pushed off from the ship. There were two men in this boat, – the passenger in the stern, and the volunteer sailor in the bow. The night was still very dark. The sailor, according to the captain's instructions, rowed energetically towards the Minquiers. For that matter, it was the only direction in which he could row. Some provisions had been placed in the bottom of the boat, – a bag of biscuits, a smoked tongue, and a barrel of water.
Just as they were lowering the gig, La Vieuville, a very scoffer in the presence of destruction, leaning over the stern-post of the corvette, cried out in his cool sneering voice a parting word: —
"Very good for escaping, and still better for drowning."
"Sir, let us joke no more," said the pilot.
They pushed off rapidly, and soon left the corvette far behind. Both wind and tide were in the oars-man's favor, and the small skiff flew rapidly along, wavering to and fro in the twilight, and hidden by the high crests of the waves.
A gloomy sense of expectation brooded over the sea.
Suddenly amid this illimitable, tumultuous silence a voice was heard; exaggerated by the speaking-trumpet, as by the brazen mask of ancient tragedy, it seemed almost superhuman.
It was Captain Boisberthelot speaking.
"Royal marines," he exclaimed, "nail the white flag to the mizzen-mast! We are about to look upon our last sunrise!"
And the corvette fired a shot.
"Long live the King!" shouted the crew.
Then from the verge of the horizon was heard another shout, stupendous, remote, confused, and yet distinct, —
"Long live the Republic!"
And a din like unto the roar of three hundred thunderbolts exploded in the depths of the sea.
The conflict began. The sea was covered with fire and smoke.
Jets of spray thrown up by the balls as they struck the water rose from the sea on all sides.
The "Claymore" was pouring forth flame on the eight vessels; the squadron, ranged in a semicircle around her, opened fire from all its batteries. The horizon was in a blaze. A volcano seemed to have sprung from the sea. The wind swept to and fro this stupendous crimson drapery of battle through which the vessels appeared and disappeared like phantoms. Against the red sky in the foreground were sketched the outlines of the corvette.
The fleur-de-lis flag could be seen floating from the main-mast.
The two men in the boat were silent. The triangular shoal of the Minquiers, a kind of submarine Trinacrium, is larger than the isle of Jersey. The sea covers it. Its culminating point is a plateau that is never submerged, even at the highest tide, and from which rise, towards the northeast, six mighty rocks standing in a line, producing the effect of a massive wall which has crumbled here and there. The strait between the plateau and the six reefs is accessible only to vessels drawing very little water. Beyond this strait is the open sea.
The sailor who had volunteered to manage the boat headed for the strait. Thus he had put Minquiers between the boat and the battle. He navigated skilfully in the narrow channel, avoiding rocks to starboard and port. The cliff now hid the battle from their view. The flaming horizon and the furious din of the cannonade were growing less distinct, by reason of the increased distance; but judging from the continued explosions one could guess that the corvette still held its own, and that it meant to use its hundred and ninety-one rounds to the very last. The boat soon found itself in smooth waters beyond the cliffs and the battle, and out of the reach of missiles. Gradually the surface of the sea lost something of its gloom; the rays of light that had been swallowed up in the shadows began to widen; the curling foam leaped forth in jets of light, and the broken waves sent back their pale reflections. Daylight appeared.
The boat was beyond reach of the enemy, but the principal difficulty still remained to be overcome. It was safe from grape-shot, but the danger of shipwreck was not yet past. It was on the open sea, a mere shell, with neither deck, sail, mast, nor compass, entirely dependent on its oars, face to face with the ocean and the hurricane, – a pygmy at the mercy of giants.
Then amid this infinite solitude, his face whitened by the morning light, the man in the bow of the boat raised his head and gazed steadily at the man in the stern as he said, —
"I am the brother of him whom you ordered to be shot."
BOOK III
HALMALO
I
SPEECH IS WORD
The old man slowly lifted his head.
He who had addressed him was about thirty years of age. The tan of the sea was upon his brow; there was something unusual about his eyes, as if the simple pupils of the peasant had taken on the keen expression of the sailor; he held his oars firmly in his hands. He looked gentle enough. In his belt he wore a dirk, two pistols, and a rosary.
"Who are you?" said the old man.
"I have just told you."
"What do you wish?"
The man dropped the oars, folded his arms, and replied, —
"To kill you."
"As you please!" replied the old man.
The man raised his voice.
"Prepare yourself."
"For what?"
"To die."
"Why?" inquired the old man.
A silence followed. For a moment the question seemed to abash the man. He continued, —
"I tell you that I mean to kill you."
"And I ask of you the reason."
The sailor's eyes flashed.
"Because you killed my brother."
The old man answered quietly, —
"I saved his life at first."
"True. You saved him first, but you killed him afterwards."
"It was not I who killed him."
"Who was it, then?"
"His own fault."
The sailor gazed on the old man open-mouthed; then once more his brows contracted savagely.
"What is your name?" asked the old man.
"My name is Halmalo, but I can kill you all the same, whether you know my name or not."
Just then the sun rose; a ray struck the sailor full in the face, vividly illumining that wild countenance.
The old man studied it closely. The cannonading, though not yet ended, was no longer continuous. A dense smoke had settled upon the horizon. The boat, left to itself, was drifting to leeward.
With his right hand the sailor seized one of the pistols at his belt, while in his left he held his rosary.
The old man rose to his feet.
"Do you believe in God?" he asked.
"'Our Father who art in heaven.'" replied the sailor.
Then he made the sign of the cross.
"Have you a mother?"
He crossed himself again, saying, —
"I have said all I have to say. I give you one minute longer, my lord."
And he cocked the pistol.
"Why do you call me 'My lord'?"
"Because you are one. That is evident enough."
"Have you a lord yourself?"
"Yes, and a grand one too. Is one likely to be without a lord?"
"Where is he?"
"I do not know. He has left the country. His name is Marquis de Lantenac, Viscount de Fontenay, Prince in Brittany; he is lord of the Sept-Forêts. I never saw him, but he is my master all the same."
"If you were to see him, would you obey him?"
"Of course I should be a heathen were I not to obey him! We owe obedience to God, and after that to the king, who is like unto God, and then to the lord, who is like the king. But that has nothing to do with the question; you have killed my brother, and I must kill you."
The old man replied, —
"Let us say, then, that I did kill your brother; I did well."
The sailor had closed more firmly upon his pistol.
"Come!" he said.
"So be it," said the old man.
And he added composedly, —
"Where is the priest?"
The sailor looked at him.
"The priest?"
"Yes. I gave your brother a priest; therefore it is your duty to provide one for me."
"But I have none," replied the sailor.
And he continued, —
"How do you expect to find a priest here on the open sea?"
The convulsive explosions of the battle sounded more and more distant.
"Those who are dying yonder have their priest," said the old man.
"I know it," muttered the sailor; "they have the chaplain."
The old man went on, —
"If you make me lose my soul, it will be a serious matter."
The sailor thoughtfully bent his head.
"And if my soul is lost," continued the old man, "yours will be lost also. Listen to me; I feel pity for you. You shall do as you like. For my part, I only fulfilled my duty when I first saved your brother's life and afterwards took it from him; and at the present moment I am doing my duty in trying to save your soul. Reflect; for it is a matter that concerns you. Do you hear the cannon-shots? Men are dying over yonder; desperate men, in their last agony, husbands who will never see their wives, fathers who will never see their children, brothers who, like yourself, will never see their brothers. And who is to blame for it? Your own brother. You believe in God, do you not? If so, you know that God is suffering now. He is suffering in the person of his son, the most Christian king of France, who is a child like the child Jesus, and who is now imprisoned in the Temple; God is suffering in his Church of Brittany, in his desecrated cathedrals, in his Gospels torn to fragments, in his violated houses of prayer, in his murdered priests. What were we about to do with that ship which is perishing at this moment? We were going to the relief of the Lord. If your brother had been a trustworthy servant, if he had performed his duties faithfully, like a good and useful man, no misfortune would have happened to the carronade, the corvette would not have been disabled, she would not have got out of her course and fallen into the hands of that cursed fleet, and we should all now be landing in France, brave sailors and soldiers as we were, sword in hand, with our white banner unfurled, a multitude of contented, happy men, advancing to the rescue of the brave Vendean peasants, on our way to save France, the king, and Almighty God. That is what we were intending to do, what we should have done, and what I, the only one remaining, still propose to do. But you intend to prevent me. In this struggle of impious men against priests, in this conflict of regicides against the king, of Satan against God, you range yourself in the ranks of Satan. Your brother was the Devil's first assistant, you are his second. What he began you mean to finish. You are for the regicides against the throne; you take sides with the impious against the Church. You take away the Lord's last resource. For, as I shall not be there, – I, who represent the king, – villages will continue to burn, families to mourn, priests to bleed, Brittany to suffer, the king to remain imprisoned, and Jesus Christ to grieve over his people. And who will have caused all this? You. Well, you are carrying out your own plans. I expected far different things from you, but I was mistaken. It is true that I killed your brother. He played a brave part, for that I rewarded him; he was guilty, therefore I punished him. He failed in his duty; I have not failed in mine. What I did I would do again; and I swear by the great Saint Anne of Auray, who looks down on us, that under like circumstances I would shoot my own son just as I shot your brother. Now you are the master. Indeed, I pity you. You have broken your word to the captain, – you, Christian without faith; you, Breton without honor. I was intrusted to your loyalty, and you accepted the trust meaning to betray it; you offer my death to those to whom you have promised my life. Do you realize whom you are destroying here? It is your own self. You rob the king of my life, and you consign yourself forever to the Devil. Go on, commit your crime. You set a low value on your share in Paradise. Thanks to you, the Devil will conquer; thanks to you, the churches will fall; thanks to you, the heathen will go on turning bells into cannon, – men will be shot with the very instrument that once brought to mind the salvation of their souls. Perhaps at this moment, while I still speak to you, the same bell that pealed for your baptism is killing your mother. Go on with the Devil's work. Do not pause. Yes, I have condemned your brother; but learn this, – I am but a tool in the hands of God. Ah I you pretend to judge God's ways? You will next sit in judgment on the thunderbolt in the heavens. Wretched man, you will be judged by it. Beware what you do. Do you even know whether I am in a state of grace? No. Never mind, go on; do your will. You have the power to hurl me to perdition, and yourself likewise. Your own damnation, as well as mine, rests in your hands. You will be answerable before God. We are alone, face to face with the abyss; complete your work, make an end of it. I am old, and you are young; I have no weapons, you are armed: kill me."
While the old man, standing erect, was uttering these words in a voice that rang above the tumult of the sea, the undulations of the waves showed him now in shadow, now in light. The sailor had turned ghostly pale; large drops of moisture fell from his brow; he trembled like a leaf; now and then he kissed his rosary. When the old man finished, he threw away his pistol and fell on his knees.
"Pardon, my lord! forgive me!" he cried. "You speak like our Lord himself. I have been wrong. My brother was guilty. I will do all I can to make amends for his crime. Dispose of me; command me: I will obey."
"I forgive you," said the old man.
II
A PEASANT'S MEMORY IS WORTH AS MUCH AS THE CAPTAIN'S SCIENCE
The provisions with which the boat had been stocked were far from superfluous; for the two fugitives were forced to make long détours, and were thirty-six hours in reaching the coast. They passed the night at sea; but the night was fine, with more moonlight than is pleasing to people who wish to escape observation.
At first they were obliged to keep away from the French coast, and gain the open sea in the direction of Jersey. They heard the final volley from the unfortunate corvette, and it sounded like the roar of a lion whom the hunters are killing in the forest. Then a silence fell upon the sea.
The corvette "Claymore" perished like the "Vengeur;" but glory has kept no record of its deeds. One can win no laurels who fights against his native land.
Halmalo was a remarkable sailor. He performed miracles of skill and sagacity. The route that he improvised amid the reefs, the waves, and the vigilance of the enemy was a masterpiece. The wind had abated, and the struggle with the sea was over. Halmalo had avoided the Caux des Minquiers, and having rounded the Chaussée aux Boeufs, took refuge there, so as to get a few hours of rest in the little creek formed by the sea at low tide; then rowing southward, he continued to pass between Granville and the Chausey Islands without being noticed by the lookout either of Chausey or Granville. He entered the Bay of Saint-Michel, – a daring feat, considering that the cruising squadron was anchored at Cancale.
On the evening of the second day, about an hour before sunset, he passed the hill of Saint-Michel, and landed on a shore that is always avoided on account of the danger from its shifting sand.
Fortunately the tide was high.
Halmalo pushed the boat as far as he could, tried the sand, and, finding it firm, grounded the boat and jumped ashore, the old man following, with eyes turned anxiously towards the horizon.
"My lord," said Halmalo, "this is the mouth of the Couesnon. We have Beauvoir to starboard, and Huisnes to port. The belfry before us is Ardevon."
The old man bent over the boat, took from it a biscuit, which he put in his pocket, and said to Halmalo, —
"You may take the rest."
Halmalo put what remained of meat and biscuit in the bag, and hoisted it on his shoulder. Having done this, he said, —
"My lord, am I to lead the way, or to follow you?"
"You will do neither."
Halmalo looked at the old man in amazement.
The latter went on, —
"We are about to separate, Halmalo. Two men are of no use whatever. Unless they are a thousand, it is better for one man to be alone."
He stopped and pulled out of his pocket a knot of green silk resembling a cockade; with a fleur-de-lis embroidered in gold in the centre.
"Can you read?" he asked.
"No."
"That is fortunate. A man who knows how to read is embarrassing. Have you a good memory?"
"Yes."
"Very well. Listen, Halmalo. You will follow the road on the right, and I the one on the left. You are to turn in the direction of Bazouges, and I shall go towards Fougères. Keep your bag, because it makes you look like a peasant; hide your weapons; cut yourself a stick from the hedge; creep through the tall rye; glide behind the hedges; climb over fences and cross the fields: you will thus avoid the passers-by, as well as roads and bridges. Do not enter Pontorson. Ah! you will have to cross the Couesnon. How will you manage that?"