Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “The Irishman carries us favorable tidings,” cried Albinik to the interpreter. “The Gallic fleet is scattered on all sides; part of the ships are in the river Auray; the others, still more distant, towards the bay of Audiern, and Ouessant. At the foot of this bay, for the defense of Vannes, are but five or six poor merchantmen, barely armed in their haste.”

  “By Jupiter!” exclaimed the interpreter, “the gods, as always, are favorable to Caesar!”

  The praetor and the officers, to whom the interpreter repeated the false news given by the pilot, seemed also overjoyed at the dispersion of the fleet of Gaul. Vannes was thus delivered into the hands of the Romans almost without defenses on the sea side.

  Then Albinik said to the interpreter, indicating the soldier with the axe:

  “Caesar has suspected me. The gods have been kind to allow me to prove the injustice of his suspicions. Do you see that islet, about a hundred oar-lengths ahead?”

  “I see it.”

  “In order to enter the bay, we must take one of two passages, one to the right of the islet, the other to the left. The fate of the Roman fleet is in my hands. I could pilot you by one of these passages, which to the eye is exactly like the other, and an undercurrent would tow your galleys onto a sunken reef. Not one would escape.”

  “What say you?” exclaimed the interpreter. As for Meroë, she gazed at her husband in pained surprise, for, by his words, he seemed finally to have renounced his vengeance.

  “I speak the truth,” answered Albinik. “I’ll prove it to you. That Irishman knows as well as I the dangers attendant upon entering the bay he has just left. I shall ask him to go before us, as pilot, and in advance I shall trace for you the route he will take. First he will take the channel to the right of the islet; then he will advance till he almost touches that point of land which you see furthest off; then he will make a wide turn to the right until he is just off those black rocks which tower over yonder; that pass behind us, those rocks shunned, we shall be safely in the bay. If the Irishman executes this manoeuvre from point to point, will you still suspect me?”

  “No, by Jupiter!” answered the interpreter. “It would then be absurd to entertain the least doubt of your good faith.”

  “Judge me then,” said Albinik, and he addressed a few words to the Irishman, who consented to pilot the ships. His manoeuvring tallied exactly with what Albinik had foretold. The latter, having given to the Romans this testimony of his truthfulness, deployed the fleet in three files, and for some time he guided them among the little islands with which the bay was dotted. Then he ordered the rowers to rest on their oars. From this place they could not see the Gallic fleet, anchored at the furthest part of the bay at almost two leagues’ distance, and screened from all eyes by a lofty promontory.

  “Now,” said Albinik to the interpreter, “We now run only one danger; it is a great one. Before us are shifting sandbanks, occasionally displaced by the high tides; the galleys might ground there. It is necessary, then, that I reconnoitre the passage plummet in hand, before bringing the fleet into it. Let them rest as they are on their oars. Order the smallest boat your galley has to be launched, with two rowers. My wife will take the tiller. If you have any suspicion, you and the soldier with the axe may accompany us in the boat. Then, the passage reconnoitred, I shall return on board to pilot the fleet even to the mouth of the harbor of Vannes.”

  “I no longer suspect,” answered the interpreter. “But according to Caesar’s order, neither the soldier nor I may leave you a single instant.”

  “Let it be as you wish,” assented Albinik.

  A small boat was lowered from the galley. Two rowers descended into it, with the soldier and the interpreter; Albinik and Meroë embarked in their turn; and the boat drew away from the Roman fleet, which was disposed in a crescent, waiting on its oars, for the pilot’s return. Meroë, seated at the helm, steered the boat according to the directions of her husband. He, kneeling and hanging over the prow, sounded the passage by means of a ponderous lead fastened to a long stout cord. Behind the little islet which the boat was then skirting stretched a long sand-bar which the tide, then ebbing, was beginning to uncover. Beyond the sand-bar were several rocks fringing the bank. Albinik was just about to heave the lead anew; while seeming to be examining on the cord the traces of the water’s depth, he exchanged a rapid look with his wife, indicating with a glance the soldier and the interpreter. Meroë understood. The interpreter was seated near her on the poop; then came the two rowers on their bench; and at the farther end stood the man with the axe, behind Albinik, who was leaning at the bow, his lead in his hand. Rising suddenly he made of the plummet a terrible weapon. He imparted to it the rapid motion that a slinger imparts to his sling. The heavy lead attached to the cord struck the soldier’s helmet so violently that the man sank to the bottom of the boat stunned with the blow. The interpreter rushed forward to the aid of his companion, but Meroë seized him by the hair and pulled him back; loosing his balance he toppled into the sea. One of the two rowers, who had raised his oar at Albinik, immediately rolled headlong overboard. The movement given to the rudder by Meroë made the boat approach so close to the rocky islet that she and her husband both leaped on it. Rapidly they climbed the steep rocks. There was now but one obstacle to their reaching shore. That was the sand-bar, one part of which, already uncovered by the sea, was in motion, as could be seen from the air bubbles which continually rose to the surface. To take that way to reach the rocks of the shore was to die in the abyss hidden under the treacherous surface. Already the couple heard, from the other side of the island, which hid them from view, the cries and threats of the soldier, who had recovered from his daze, and the voice of the interpreter, whom the rowers had doubtlessly pulled out of the water. Thoroughly familiar with these coasts, Albinik discovered, by the size of the gravel and the clearness of the water that covered it, that the sand-bar some paces off was firm. At that point, he and Meroë crossed, wading up to their waists. They reached the rocks on the shore, clambered up nimbly, and then stopped a moment to see if they were pursued.

  The man with the axe, hampered by his heavy armor and being, no more than the interpreter, accustomed to move upon slippery rocks covered with seaweed, such as were those of the islet which they had to cross in order to reach the fugitives, arrived after many efforts opposite the quicksands, which were now left high and dry by the tide. Furious at the sight of Albinik and his companion, from whom he saw himself separated by only a narrow and level sand-bar, the soldier thought the passage easy, and dashed on. At the first step he sank in the quicksand up to his knees. He made a violent effort to clear himself but sank deeper yet, up to his waist. He called his companions to his aid, but hardly had he called when only his head was above the abyss. Then the head also disappeared. The soldier raised his hands to heaven as he sank. A moment later only one of his iron gauntlets was to be seen convulsively quivering above the sand. Presently nothing was to be seen — nothing except some bubbles of air on the surface of the quagmire.

  The rowers and the interpreter, seized with fear, remained motionless, not daring to risk certain death in the capture of the fugitives. Feeling safe at last, Albinik addressed these words to the interpreter:

  “Say thou to Caesar that I maimed myself to inspire him with confidence in the sincerity of my offers of service. My design was to conduct the Roman fleet to certain perdition, sacrificing my companion and myself. Accident changed my plan. Just as I was piloting you into the channel of destruction, whence not a galley would have come back, we met the Irishman who informed me that the Gallic ships, since yesterday assembled in great numbers and trimmed for fight, are anchored at the foot of the bay, two leagues off. Learning that, I changed my plan. I no longer wished to cast away the galleys. They will be annihilated just the same, but not by a snare or by treachery; it will come about in valorous combat, ship to ship, Gaul to Roman. Now, for the sake of the fight to-morrow, listen well to this: I have purposely led your galleys into t
he shallows, where in a few minutes they will be left high and dry on the sands. They will stay there grounded, for the tide is falling. To attempt to disembark is to commit suicide; you are surrounded on all sides by moving quicksands like the one in which your soldier and his axe have just been swallowed up. Remain on board of your ships. To-morrow they will be floated again by the rising tide. And to-morrow, battle — battle to the finish. The Gaul will have once more showed that never did breton commit treason, and that if he glories in the death of his enemy, it is because he has killed his enemy fairly.”

  Then Albinik and Meroë, leaving the interpreter terrified by their words, turned in haste to the town of Vannes to give the alarm, and to warn the crews of the Gallic fleet to prepare for combat on the morrow.

  On the way, Albinik’s wife said to him:

  “The heart of my beloved husband is more noble than mine. I wished to see the Roman fleet destroyed by the sea-rocks. My husband wishes to destroy it by the valor of the Gauls. May I forever be proud that I am wife to such a man!”

  CHAPTER VI.

  THE EVE OF BATTLE.

  IT WAS THE eve of the battle of Vannes; the battle of Vannes which, waged on land and sea, was to decide the fate of Brittany, and, consequently, of all Gaul, whether for liberty or enslavement. On this memorable evening, in the presence of all the members of our family united in the Gallic camp, except my brother Albinik, who had joined the Gallic fleet in the bay of Morbihan, my father Joel, the brenn of the tribe of Karnak, addressed me, his eldest born, Guilhern the laborer, who now writes this account. He said to me:

  “To-morrow, my son, is the day of battle. We shall fight hard. I am old — you are young. The angel of death will doubtless carry me hence first; perhaps to-morrow I shall meet in the other life my sainted daughter Hena. Here, now, is what I ask of you, in the face of the misfortunes which menace our country, for to-morrow the fortunes of war may go with the Romans. My desire is that as long as our stock shall last, the love of old Gaul and sacred memories of our fathers shall be ever kept fresh in our family. If our children should remain free men, the love of country, the reverence for the memory of their ancestors, will all the more endear their liberty to them. If they must live and die slaves, these holy memories will remind them, from generation to generation, that there was a time when, faithful to their gods, valiant in war, independent and happy, masters of the soil which they had won from nature by severe toil, careless of death, whose secret they held, the Gallic race lived, feared by the whole world, yet withal hospitable to peoples who extended to them a friendly hand. These memories, kept alive from age to age, will make slavery more horrible to our children, and some day give them the strength to overthrow it. In order that these memories may be thus transmitted from century to century, you must promise by Hesus, my son, to be faithful to our old Gallic custom. You must tenderly guard this collection of relics which I am going to entrust you with; you must add to it; you must make your son Sylvest swear to increase it in his turn, so that the children of your grandchildren may imitate their fore-fathers, and may themselves be imitated by their posterity. Here is the collection. The first roll contains the story of all that has chanced to our family up to the anniversary of my dear Hena’s birthday, that day which also saw her die. This other roll I received this evening about sunset from my son Albinik the mariner. It contains the story of his journey across the burnt territory, to the camp of Caesar. This account throws honor on the courage of the Gaul, it throws honor on your brother and his wife, faithful as they were, almost excessively so, to that maxim of our fathers: ‘Never did Breton commit treason.’ These writings I confide to you. You will return them to me after to-morrow’s conflict if I survive. If not, do you preserve them, or in lack of you, your brothers. Do you inscribe the principal events of your life and your family’s; hand the account over to your son, that he may do as you, and thus on, forever — generation after generation. Do you swear to me, by Hesus, to respect my wishes?”

  I, Guilhern the laborer, answered: “I swear to my father Joel, the brenn of the tribe of Karnak, that I will faithfully carry out his desires.”

  The orders then given to me by my father, I have carried out to-day, long after the battle of Vannes, and after innumerable misfortunes. I make the recital or these misfortunes for you, my son Sylvest. It is not with blood that I should write this narrative. No blood would run dry. I write with tears of rage, hatred and anguish, — their source never runs dry!

  After my poor and well-beloved brother Albinik piloted the Roman fleet into the bay of Morbihan, the following was the course of events on the day of the battle of Vannes. It all took place under my own eyes — I saw it all. Were I to have lived all the days I am to live in the next world and into all infinity, yet will the remembrance of that frightful day, and of the days; that followed it, be ever vivid before me, as vivid as it is now, as it was, and as it ever will be.

  Joel my father, Margarid my mother, Henory my wife, my two children Sylvest and Syomara, as well as my brother Mikael the armorer, his wife Martha, and their children, to mention only our nearest relatives, had, like all the rest of our tribe, gathered in the Gallic camp. Our war chariots, covered with cloth, had served us for tents until the day of the battle at Vannes. During the night, the council, called together by the Chief of the Hundred Valleys, and Tallyessin, the oldest of the druids, had met. Several mountaineers of Ares, mounted on their tireless little horses, were sent out in the evening to scout the area of the conflagration. At dawn they hastened back to report that at six leagues’ distance from Vannes they saw the fires of the Roman army, encamped that night in the midst of the ruins of the town of Morh’ek. The Chief of the Hundred Valleys concluded that Caesar, to escape from the circle of devastation and famine that was drawing in closer and closer upon his army, had left the wasted country behind him by forced marches, and intended to offer battle to the Gauls. The council resolved to advance to meet Caesar, and to await him on the heights which overlooked the river Elrik. At break of day, after the druids had invoked the blessings of the gods, our tribe took up its march for its post in the battle.

  Joel, mounted on his high-mettled stallion Tom-Bras, commanded the Mahrek-Ha-Droad, of which myself and my brother Mikael were members, I as a horseman, Mikael as a foot-soldier. According to the custom of the army, it was our duty to fight side by side, I on horse-back, he afoot, and mutually support each other. The war chariots, armed with scythes at the hubs, were placed in the center of the army, with the reserve. In one of them were my mother and wife, the wife of Mikael, and our children. Some young lads, lightly armed, surrounded the chariots and were with difficulty holding back the great war-dogs, which, after the example of Deber-Trud, the man-eater, were howling and tugging at their leashes, already scenting battle and blood. Among the young men of the tribe who were in the array, were two who had taken the bond of friendship, like Julyan and Armel. Moreover, to make it more certain that they would share the same fate, a stout iron chain was riveted to their collars of brass, and fastened them together. The chain as the symbol of their pledge of solidarity held them inseparable, scathless, wounded, or dead.

  On the way to our post in the battle, we beheld the Chief of the Hundred Valleys passing at the head of the Trimarkisia. He rode a superb black horse, in scarlet housings; his armor was of steel; his helmet of plated copper, which shone like the sun, was capped by the emblem of Gaul, a gilded cock with half spread wings. At either side of the Chief rode a bard and a druid, clad in long white robes striped with purple. They carried no arms, but when the troops closed in to battle, then, disdainful of danger, they stood in the front ranks of the combatants, encouraging these with their words and their songs of war. Thus chanted the bard at the moment when the Chief of the Hundred Valleys passed by Joel’s column:

  “Caesar has come against us.

  In a loud voice he asks:

  ‘Do you want to be slaves?

  Are ye ready?’

  “No, we do not
want to be slaves.

  No, we are not ready.

  Gauls!

  Children of the same race,

  Let us raise our standards on the mountains and pour down upon the plains.

  March on!

  March on against Caesar,

  Joining in the same slaughter him and his army!

  To the Romans!

  To the Romans!”

  As the bard sang this song, every heart beat with the ardor of battle.

  As the Chief of the Hundred Valleys passed the troop at the head of which was my father Joel, he reined in his horse and cried:

  “Friend Joel, when I was your guest, you asked my name. I answered that I was called Soldier so long as our old Gaul should be under the oppressor’s scourge. The hour has come when we must show ourselves faithful to the motto of our fathers: ‘In all war, there is but one of two outcomes for the man of courage: to conquer or to die.’ O, that my love for our common country be not barren! O, that Hesus keep our arms! Perhaps then the Chief of the Hundred Valleys will have washed off the stain which covers a name he no longer dares to bear. Courage, friend Joel, the sons of your tribe are brave of the brave. What blows will they not deal on this day which makes for the welfare of Gaul!”

  “My tribe will strike its best, and with all its might,” answered my father. “We have not forgotten that song of the bards who accompanied you, when the first war-cry burst from them in the forest of Karnak: ‘Strike the Roman hard — strike for the head — still harder — strike! — The Romans, strike!’”

  With one voice the whole tribe of Joel took up the cry:

  “Strike! — The Romans, strike!”

  CHAPTER VII.

  THE BATTLE OF VANNES.

  THE CHIEF OF the Hundred Valleys took his departure, in order to address a few words of exhortation to each tribe. Before proceeding to our post of battle, far from the war chariots which held our wives, daughters and children, my father, brother and myself wished to make sure by a last look that nothing was lacking for the defense of that car which held our dear ones. My mother, Margarid, as calm as when she held the distaff in the corner of her own fireplace, was leaning against the oak panel which formed the body of the chariot. She had set Henory and Martha to work, giving more play to the straps which, fastened to pegs driven in the edge of the chariot, secured the handles of the scythes, which were used for defense in the same manner as oars fastened to the gunwhale of a boat.