The Companions of Jehu

“Loaded?”

“And well-loaded, colonel; that’s a job I never trust to any one.”

“Then we’ll mount.”

The two young men were soon in their saddles, and on the road to Vannes; Cadoudal guiding Roland, and Branche-d’Or, the major-general of the army, as Georges called him, following about twenty paces in the rear.

When they reached the end of the village, Roland darted his eyes along the road, which stretches in a straight line from Muzillac to the Trinité. The road, fully exposed to view, seemed absolutely solitary.

They rode on for about a mile and a half, then Roland said: “But where the devil are your men?”

“To right and left, before and behind us.”

“Ha, what a joke!”

“It’s not a joke, colonel; do you think I should be so rash as to risk myself thus without scouts?”

“You told me, I think, that if I wished to see your men I had only to say so.”

“I did say so.”

“Well, I wish to see them.”

“Wholly, or in part?”

“How many did you say were with you?”

“Three hundred.”

“Well, I want to see one hundred and fifty.”

“Halt!” cried Cadoudal.

Putting his hands to his mouth he gave the hoot of the screech-owl, followed by the cry of an owl; but he threw the hoot to the right and the cry to the left.

Almost instantly, on both sides of the road, human forms could be seen in motion, bounding over the ditch which separated the bushes from the road, and then ranging themselves beside the horses.

“Who commands on the right?” asked Cadoudal.

“I, Moustache,” replied a peasant, coming near.

“Who commands on the left?” repeated the general.

“I, Chante-en-hiver,” replied another peasant, also approaching him.

“How many men are with you, Moustache?”

“One hundred.”

“How many men are with you, Chante-en-hiver?”

“Fifty.”

“One hundred and fifty in all, then?” asked Georges.

“Yes,” replied the two Breton leaders.

“Is that your number, colonel?” asked Cadoudal laughing.

“You are a magician, general.”

“No; I am a poor peasant like them; only I command a troop in which each brain knows what it does, each heart beats singly for the two great principles of this world, religion and monarchy.” Then, turning to his men, Cadoudal asked: “Who commands the advanced guard?”

“Fend-l’air,” replied the two Chouans.

“And the rear-guard?”

“La Giberne.”

The second reply was made with the same unanimity as the first.

“Then we can safely continue our way?”

“Yes, general; as if you were going to mass in your own village.”

“Let us ride on then, colonel,” said Cadoudal to Roland. Then turning to his men he cried: “Be lively, my lads.”

Instantly every man jumped the ditch and disappeared. For a few seconds the crackling of twigs on the bushes, and the sound of steps among the underbrush, was heard. Then all was silent.

“Well,” asked Cadoudal, “do you think that with such men I have anything to fear from the Blues, brave as they may be?”

Roland heaved a sigh; he was of Cadoudal’s opinion.

They rode on. About three miles from Trinité they caught sight of a black spot approaching along the road with great rapidity. As it became more distinct this spot stopped suddenly.

“What is that?” asked Roland.

“As you see, a man,” replied Cadoudal.

“Of course; but who is this man?”

“You might have guessed from the rapidity of his coming; he is a messenger.”

“Why does he stop?”

“Because he has seen us, and does not know whether to advance or retreat.”

“What will he do?”

“Wait before deciding.”

“For what?”

“A signal.”

“Will he answer the signal?”

“He will not only answer but obey it. Will you have him advance or retreat; or will you have him step aside.”

“I wish him to advance; by that means we shall know the news he brings.”

Cadoudal gave the call of the cuckoo with such perfection that Roland looked about him for the bird.

“It was I,” said Cadoudal, “you need not look for it.”

“Is the messenger going to come?”

“Not-going to, he is coming.”

The messenger had already started, and was rapidly approaching; in a few seconds he was beside his general.

“Ah!” said the latter, “is that you, Monte-à-l’assaut?”

The general stooped, and Monte-à-l’assaut said a few words in his ear.

“Bénédicité has already warned me,” said Georges. Then turning to Roland, he said, “Something of importance is to happen in the village of the Trinité in a quarter of an hour, which you ought to see. Come, hurry up.”

And, setting the example, he put his horse to a gallop. Roland did the same.

When they reached the village they could see from a distance, by the light of some pine torches, a tumultuous mob in the market square. The cries and movements of this mob bespoke some grave occurrence.

“Fast, fast!” cried Cadoudal.

Roland asked no better; he dug his spurs in his horse’s belly.

At the clatter of horses’ hoofs the peasants scattered. There were five or six hundred of them at least, all armed.

Cadoudal and Roland found themselves in a circle of light in the midst of cries and agitation.

The crowd was pressing more particularly toward the opening of a street which led to the village of Tridon. A diligence was coming down that street escorted by a dozen Chouans; two on either side of the postilion, ten others guarding the doors. The carriage stopped in the middle of the market-square. All were so intent upon the diligence that they paid but scant attention to Cadoudal.

“Hola,” shouted Georges. “What is all this?”

At this well known voice, everyone turned round, and heads were uncovered.

“The Big Round Head!” they murmured.

“Yes,” said Cadoudal.

A man went up to Georges.

“Didn’t Bénédicité and Monte-à-l’assaut notify you?” he inquired.

“Yes. Is that the diligence from Ploermel to Vannes that you are bringing back?”

“Yes, general. It was stopped between Tréfléon and Saint-Nolf.”

“Is he in it?”

“We think so.”

“Act according to your consciences; if it is a crime toward God, take it on yourselves; I take only the responsibility toward men. I will be present at what takes place; but I will not share in it – either to hinder or help.”

“Well,” demanded a hundred voices, “what does he say, Sabre-tout?”

“He says we must act according to our consciences, and that he washes his hands of it.”

“Long live the Big Round Head!” cried all the people, rushing toward the diligence.

Cadoudal remained motionless in the midst of this crowd. Roland stood near him, also motionless, but full of curiosity; for he was completely ignorant of who, or what, was in question.

The man who had just spoken to Cadoudal, and whom his companions called Sabre-tout, opened the door. The travellers were huddled together and trembling in the darkness within.

“If you have nothing to reproach yourselves with against God or the king,” said Sabre-tout in a full sonorous voice, “descend without fear. We are not brigands, we are Christians and royalists.”

This declaration no doubt reassured the travellers, for a man got out, then two women, then a mother pressing her child in her arms, and finally another man. The Chouans examined them attentively as they came down the carriage steps; not finding the man they wanted, they said to each traveller, “Pass on.”

One man alone remained in the coach. A Chouan thrust a torch in the vehicle, and by its light they could see he was a priest.

“Minister of the Lord,” said Sabre-tout, “why did you not descend with the others? Did you not hear me say we were Christians and royalists?”

The priest did not move; but his teeth chattered.

“Why this terror?” continued Sabre-tout. “Does not your cloth plead for you? The man who wears a cassock can have done nothing against royalty or religion.”

The priest crouched back, murmuring: “Mercy! mercy!”

“Why mercy?” demanded Sabre-tout, “do you feel that you are guilty, wretch?”

“Oh! oh!” exclaimed Roland, “is that how you royalists and Christians speak to a man of God!”

“That man,” said Cadoudal, “is not a man of God, but a man of the devil.”

“Who is he, then?”

“Both an atheist and a regicide; he denied his God and voted for the death of the king. That is the Conventional Audrein.”

Roland shuddered. “What will they do?” he asked.

“He gave death, he will receive death,” answered Cadoudal.

During this time the Chouans had pulled Audrein out of the diligence.

“Ha! is it you, bishop of Vannes?” cried Sabre-tout.

“Mercy!” begged the bishop.

“We were informed of your arrival, and were waiting for you.”

“Mercy!” repeated the bishop for the third time.

“Have you your pontifical robes with you?”

“Yes, my friends, I have.”

“Then dress yourself as a prelate; it is long since we have seen one.”

A trunk marked with the prelate’s name was taken from the diligence and opened. They took the bishop’s robes from it, and handed them to Audrein, who put them on. Then, when every vestment was in its place, the peasants ranged themselves in a circle, each with his musket in his hand. The glare of the torches was reflected on the barrels, casting evil gleams.

Two men took the priest and led him into the circle, supporting him beneath his arms. He was pale as death. There was a moment of lugubrious silence.

A voice broke it. It was that of Sabre-tout.

“We are about to judge you,” said the Chouan. “Priest of God, you have betrayed the Church; child of France, you have condemned your king to death.”

“Alas! alas!” stammered the priest.

“Is it true?”

“I do not deny it.”

“Because it is impossible to deny. What have you to say in justification?”

“Citizens – ”

“We are not citizens,” cried Sabre-tout, in a voice thunder, “we are royalists.”

“Gentlemen – ”

“We are not gentlemen; we are Chouans.”

“My friends – ”

“We are not your friends; we are your judges. You judges are questioning you; answer.”

“I repent of what I did, and I ask pardon of God and men.”

“Men cannot pardon you,” replied the same implacable voice; “for, pardoned to-day, you would sin to-morrow. You may change your skin, but never your heart. You have nothing to expect from men but death; as for God, implore his mercy.”

The regicide bowed his head; the renegade bent his knee. But suddenly drawing himself up, he cried: “I voted the king’s death, it is true, but with a reservation – ”

“What reservation?”

“The time of the execution.”

“Sooner or later, it was still the king’s death which you voted, and the king was innocent.”

“True, true,” said the priest, “but I was afraid.”

“Then you are not only a regicide, and an apostate, but also a coward. We are not priests, but we are more just than you. You voted the death of the innocent; we vote the death of the guilty. You have ten minutes in which to prepare to meet your God.”

The bishop gave a cry of terror and fell upon both knees; the church bells rang, as if of their own impulse, and two of the men present, accustomed to the offices of the church, intoned the prayers for the dying. It was some time before the bishop found words with which to respond. He turned affrighted glances in supplication to his judges one after the other, but, not one face met his with even the consolation of mere pity. The torches, flickering in the wind, lent them, on the contrary, a savage and terrible expression. Then at last he mingled his voice with the voices that were praying for him.

The judges allowed him time to follow the funeral prayer to its close. In the meantime others were preparing a pile of wood.

“Oh!” cried the priest, beholding these preparations with growing terror; “would you have the cruelty to kill me thus?”

“No,” replied his inflexible accuser, “flames are the death of martyrs; you are not worthy of such a death. Apostate, the hour has come!”

“Oh, my God! my God!” cried the priest, raising his arms to heaven.

“Stand up!” said the Chouan.

The priest tried to obey, but his strength failed him, and he fell again to his knees.

“Will you let that murder be done before your eyes?” Roland asked Cadoudal.

“I said that I washed my hands of it,” replied the latter.

“Pilate said that, and Pilate’s hands are to this day red with the blood of Jesus Christ.”

“Because Jesus Christ was a righteous man; this man is a Barabbas.”

“Kiss your cross! kiss your cross!” cried Sabre-tout.

The prelate looked at him with a terrified air, but without obeying. It was evident that he no longer saw, no longer heard.

“Oh!” cried Roland, making an effort to dismount, “it shall never be said that I let a man be murdered before me, and did not try to, save him.”

A threatening murmur rose around him; his words had been overheard. That was all that was needed to excite the young man.

“Ah! is that the way of it?” he cried, carrying his hand to one of his holsters.

But with a movement rapid as thought, Cadoudal seized his hand, and, while Roland struggled vainly to free himself from this grip of iron, he shouted: “Fire!”

Twenty shots resounded instantly, and the bishop fell, an inert mass.

“Ah!” cried Roland. “What have you done?”

“Forced you to keep your promise,” replied Cadoudal; “you swore to see all and hear all without offering any opposition.”

“So perish all enemies of God and the king,” said Sabre-tout, in a solemn voice.

“Amen!” responded the spectators with one voice of sinister unanimity.

Then they stripped the body of its sacerdotal ornaments, which they flung upon the pile of wood, invited the other travellers to take their places in the diligence, replaced the postilion in his saddle, and, opening their ranks to give passage to the coach, cried: “Go with God!”

The diligence rolled rapidly away.

“Come, let us go,” cried Cadoudal, “we have still twelve miles to do, and we have lost an hour here.” Then, addressing the executioners, he said: “That man was guilty; that man is punished. Human justice and divine justice are satisfied. Let prayers for the dead be said over his body, and give him Christian burial; do you hear?” And sure of being obeyed, Cadoudal put his horse to a gallop.

Roland seemed to hesitate for a moment whether to follow him or not; then, as if resolving to accomplish a duty, he said: “I will go to the end.”

Spurring his horse in the direction taken by Cadoudal he reached the Chouan leader in a few strides. Both disappeared in the darkness, which grew thicker and thicker as the men left the place where the torches were illuminating the dead priest’s face and the fire was consuming his vestments.

CHAPTER XXXIV. THE DIPLOMACY OF GEORGES CADOUDAL

The feeling that Roland experienced as he followed Georges Cadoudal resembled that of a man half-awakened, who is still under the influence of a dream, and returns gradually from the confines which separate night from day. He strives to discover whether the ground he walks on is that of fiction or reality, and the more he burrows in the dimness of his brain the further he buries himself in doubt.

A man existed for whom Roland felt a worship almost divine. Accustomed to live in the atmosphere of glory which surrounded that man, to see others obey his orders, and to obey them himself with a promptness and abnegation that were almost Oriental, it seemed amazing to him to encounter, at the opposite ends of France, two organized powers, enemies of the power of that man, and prepared to struggle against it. Suppose a Jew of Judas Maccabeus, a worshipper of Jehovah, having, from his infancy, heard him called the King of kings, the God of strength, of vengeance, of armies, the Eternal, coming suddenly face to face with the mysterious Osiris of the Egyptians, or the thundering Jupiter of the Greeks.

His adventures at Avignon and Bourg with Morgan and the Company of Jehu, his adventures in the villages of Muzillac and the Trinité with Cadoudal and his Chouans, seemed to him some strange initiation in an unknown religion; but like those courageous neophytes who risk death to learn the secrets of initiation, he resolved to follow to the end.

Besides he was not without a certain admiration for these exceptional characters; nor did he measure without a certain amazement these revolted Titans, challenging his god; he felt they were in no sense common men – neither those who had stabbed Sir John in the Chartreuse of Seillon, nor those who had shot the bishop of Vannes at the village of the Trinité.

And now, what was he to see? He was soon to know, for they had ridden five hours and a half and the day was breaking.

Beyond the village of Tridon they turned across country; leaving Vannes to the left, they reached Tréfléon. At Tréfléon, Cadoudal, still followed by his major-general, Branche-d’Or, had found Monte-à-l’assaut and Chante-en-hiver. He gave them further orders, and continued on his way, bearing to the left and skirting the edges of a little wood which lies between Grandchamp and Larré. There Cadoudal halted, imitated, three separate times in succession, the cry of an owl, and was presently surrounded by his three hundred men.

A grayish light was spreading through the sky beyond Tréfléon and Saint-Nolf; it was not the rising of the sun, but the first rays of dawn. A heavy mist rose from the earth and prevented the eye from seeing more than fifty feet beyond it.

Cadoudal seemed to be expecting news before risking himself further.

Suddenly, about five hundred paces distant, the crowing of a cock was heard. Cadoudal pricked up his ears; his men looked at each other and laughed.

The cock crowed again, but nearer.

“It is he,” said Cadoudal; “answer him.”

The howling of a dog came from within three feet of Roland, but so perfectly imitated that the young man, although aware of what it was, looked about him for the animal that was uttering such lugubrious plaints. Almost at the same moment he saw a man coming rapidly through the mist, his form growing more and more distinct as he approached. The new-comer saw the two horsemen, and went toward them.

Cadoudal rode forward a few paces, putting his finger to his lips, as if to request the man to speak low. The latter, therefore, did not pause until he was close beside his general.

“Well, Fleur-d’épine,” asked Georges, “have we got them?”

“Like a mouse in a trap; not one can re-enter Vannes, if you say the word.”

“I desire nothing better. How many are there?”

“One hundred men, commanded by the general himself.”

“How many wagons?”

“Seventeen.”

“When did they start?”

“They must be about a mile and three-quarters from here.”

“What road have they taken?”

“Grandchamp to Vannes.”

“So that, if I deploy from Meucon to Plescop – ”

“You’ll bar the way.”

“That’s all.”

Cadoudal called his four lieutenants, Chante-en-hiver, Monte-à-l’assaut, Fend-l’air, and La Giberne, to him, gave each of them fifty men, and each with his men disappeared like shadows in the heavy mist, giving the well-known hoot, as they vanished. Cadoudal was left with a hundred men, Branche-d’Or and Fleur-d’épine. He returned to Roland.

“Well, general,” said the latter, “is everything satisfactory?”

“Yes, colonel, fairly so,” replied the Chouan; “but you can judge for yourself in half an hour.”

“It will be difficult to judge of anything in that mist.”

Cadoudal looked about him.

“It will lift in half an hour,” said he. “Will you utilize the time by eating a mouthful and drinking a glass?”

“Faith!” said the young man, “I must admit that the ride has hollowed me.”

“I make a point,” said Georges, “of eating the best breakfast I can before fighting.”

“Then you are going to fight?”

“I think so.”

“Against whom?”

“Why, the Republicans, and as we have to do with General Hatry, I doubt if he surrenders without resistance.”

“Do the Republicans know they are going to fight you?”

“They haven’t the least idea.”

“So it is to be a surprise?”

“Not exactly, inasmuch as when the fog lifts they will see us as soon as we see them.” Then, turning to the man who seemed to be in charge of the provisions, Cadoudal added, “Brise-Bleu, is there anything for breakfast?”

Brise-Bleu nodded affirmatively, went into the wood, and came out dragging after him a donkey loaded with two baskets. He spread a cloak on a rise of the ground, and placed on it a roast chicken, a bit of cold salt pork, some bread and buckwheat cakes. This time Brise-Bleu had provided luxury in the shape of a bottle of wine and a glass.

Cadoudal motioned Roland to the table and the improvised repast. The young man sprang from his horse, throwing the bridle to a Chouan. Cadoudal did likewise.

“Now,” said the latter, turning to his men, “you have half an hour to do as we do. Those who have not breakfasted in half an hour are notified that they must fight on empty stomachs.”

The invitation seemed equivalent to an order, so promptly and precisely was it executed. Every man pulled from his bag or his pocket a bit of bread or a buckwheat cake, and followed the example of his general, who had already divided the chicken between Roland and himself. As there was but one glass, both officers shared it.

While they were thus breakfasting, side by side, like two friends on a hunt, the sun rose, and, as Cadoudal had predicted, the mist became less and less dense. Soon the nearest trees could be distinguished; then the line of the woods, stretching to the right from Meucon to Grand-champ, while to the left the plain of Plescop, threaded by a rivulet, sloped gradually toward Vannes. This natural declivity of the ground became more and more perceptible as it neared the ocean.

On the road from Grandchamp to Plescop, a line of wagons were now visible, the tail of which was still hidden in the woods. This line was motionless; evidently some unforeseen obstacle had stopped it.

In fact, about a quarter of a mile before the leading wagon they perceived the two hundred Chouans, under Monte-à-l’assaut, Chante-en-hiver, Fend-l’air, and Giberne, barring the way.

The Republicans, inferior in number – we said that there were but a hundred – had halted and were awaiting the complete dispersion of the fog to determine the number and character of the men they were about to meet. Men and wagons were now in a triangle, of which Cadoudal and his hundred men formed one of the angles.

At sight of this small number of men thus surrounded by triple forces, and of the well-known uniform, of which the color had given its name to the Republican forces, Roland sprang hastily to his feet. As for Cadoudal, he remained where he was, nonchalantly finishing his meal. Of the hundred men surrounding the general, not one seemed to perceive the spectacle that was now before their eyes; it seemed almost as if they were waiting for Cadoudal’s order to look at it.

Roland had only to cast his eyes on the Republicans to see that they were lost. Cadoudal watched the various emotions that succeeded each other on the young man’s face.

“Well,” asked the Chouan, after a moment’s silence, “do you think my dispositions well taken?”

“You might better say your precautions, general,” replied Roland, with a sarcastic smile.

“Isn’t it the First Consul’s way to make the most of his advantages when he gets them?” asked Cadoudal.

Roland bit his lips; then, instead of replying to the royalist leader’s question, he said: “General, I have a favor to ask which I hope you will not refuse.”

“What is it?”

“Permission to let me go and be killed with my comrades.”

Cadoudal rose. “I expected that request,” he said.

“Then you will grant it?” cried Roland, his eyes sparkling with joy.

“Yes; but, first, I have a favor to ask of you,” said the royalist leader, with supreme dignity.

“Ask it, sir.”

“To bear my flag of truce to General Hatry.”

“For what purpose?”

“I have several proposals to make to him before the fight begins.”

“I presume that among those proposals which you deign to intrust to me you do not include that of laying down his arms?”

“On the contrary, colonel, you understand that that is the first of my proposals.”

“General Hatry will refuse it.”

“That is probable.”

“And then?”