by Eugène Sue
Clad in a Gallic armor, the spoils of one of our captains who was killed at one of the previous battles, Neroweg wore a casque of gilded bronze, the visor of which partly covered his face, tattooed in blue and scarlet. His long copper colored beard reached down to the iron corselet that he had donned over his jacket of hides. Thick fleeces of sheep, held fast by criss-crossing strips of cloth, covered his legs from the thighs down to the feet. He rode a savage stallion from the forests of Germany, whose pale yellow coat was spotted with black. The tufts of the animal’s thick mane fell below his square chest; his long tail, that streamed in the wind, lashed his sinewy haunches when he reared impatient under the restraint of his bit and silver-wrought reins, also the proceeds of some Gallic spoils. A wooden buckler ribbed with iron and roughly painted in yellow and red stripes, the colors of Neroweg’s banner, covered the left arm of the Terrible Eagle. In his right hand he wielded his heavy francisque that now dripped blood. From his belt hung a sort of large butcher’s knife with a wooden handle, together with a magnificent Roman sword with a hilt of chased gold, doubtlessly the fruit of some raid. Neroweg emitted a roar of rage as he recognized me. Rising in his stirrups he cried out:
“The man of the bay horse!”
Thereupon, striking the flank of his courser with the flat of his axe, he caused the animal to clear with an enormous leap both the bodies and mounts of the fallen horsemen who lay between us. The leap was so violent that when his horse touched ground again, the animal’s head and chest struck the head and chest of my own mount. At the heavy shock the two animals were thrown upon their haunches and both fell over. Dazed at first by my fall, I quickly disengaged myself, took my stand firmly upon my feet and drew my sword, my mace having slipped from my hands with my fall. On his part, having had to disentangle himself from under his horse, as I was forced to do, Neroweg also rose to his feet and precipitated himself upon me. The chin-band of his casque had snapped with his fall, his head was bare, his thick red hair, tied over his head, floated behind him like the mane of a horse.
“Ha! This time, you Gallic dog,” he cried out as he ground his teeth and aimed at me with his axe a furious blow that I parried, “this time I shall have your life and your skin!”
“And I, Frankish wolf, I shall once more put my mark on your face, whether dead or alive, so that the devil will recognize you!”
For a long time we fought with maddening fury, all the while exchanging insults that redoubled our rage.
“Dog!” cried Neroweg. “You carried off my sister!”
“I took her from your infamous love! In the bestiality of your unclean race it couples like animals — brother with sister!”
“Dare you insult my race, you bastard dog! Half Roman, half Gallic! My race will subjugate yours, vile revolted slaves! We shall clap the yoke back upon your necks — and we shall take possession of your goods, your lands, and your wives!”
“Just look yonder at your routed army, Oh, great king! Just take a look at your packs of Frankish wolves, as cowardly as they are ferocious — just look at them, fleeing from the fangs of the Gallic dogs!”
It was in the midst of such torrents of invectives that we fought with heightening rage without either being able to wound the other. Many a furiously aimed blow had glided harmlessly down our cuirasses; we seemed to manage our swords with equal dexterity. Suddenly and despite all the maddened rage of our duel, a strange spectacle drew away our attention for an instant. After our horses had rolled to the ground under the shock that they both received, they also rose to their feet. Immediately, as is usually the case with stallions, they rushed at each other neighing wildly, and with flashing eyes sought to tear each other to pieces. My brave Tom-Bras had raised himself on his haunches, and, holding the other steed by the neck between his teeth, was frantically battering his belly with his hoofs. Nettled at seeing his horse at the mercy of mine, Neroweg cried out without either he or I intermitting our battle:
“Folg! Will you allow that Gallic swine to vanquish you? Defend yourself with your hoofs and teeth! Tear him to pieces!”
“Steady, Tom-Bras!” I cried out in turn. “Disfigure and kill that horse, as I shall disfigure and kill his master.”
I had hardly uttered these words when the Frank’s sword penetrated my thigh between skin and flesh, and it did so at the very moment when I dealt him a blow over the head that would have been mortal but for the backward move that Neroweg made in withdrawing his sword from my thigh. My weapon thus missed its full aim, but struck him over the eye, and, by a singular accident, plowed his face on the side opposite the one which already bore my mark.
“I told you so! Dead or living the other side of your face would be also marked by me!” I cried at the moment when Neroweg, whose eye was put out by my blow and whose face was bathed in blood, precipitated himself upon me, roaring with pain and rage like an infuriated lion. Having calmly made up my mind to kill the man, I did not allow myself to be carried away with elation, but met his wrathful onset by throwing myself on the defensive, and watched for the opportunity to deal him a certain and mortal wound.
We were thus engaged when Neroweg’s stallion rolled to the ground under the feet of Tom-Bras, whose rage seemed to increase with his success. The animal almost fell upon us. Half a foot nearer, and we would both have been thrown off our feet.
At the same instant, a legion of our reserve cavalry, the muffled sound of whose approaching tramp had struck my oars shortly before, hove in sight. In the impetuosity of its headlong dash, the heavily armed cavalry legion rode rough-shod and trampled over everything that lay in its path. The legion was three ranks deep, and approached with the swiftness of a gale. Both Neroweg and myself were doomed to be crushed to dust; the legion’s line of battle was two hundred paces long; even if I had time to leap upon my horse, it would have been next to impossible to get in time out of the way of that long line of cavalry by endeavoring to ride, however swiftly, beyond the reach of either of its wings. Escape seemed impossible from the threatened shock. Nevertheless, I undertook it, despite my chagrin at not having been allowed time to despatch the Frankish king — so inveterate was my hatred of him! I took quick advantage of the accident, that, due to the fall of Neroweg’s horse, interrupted our battle a second before, and I leaped upon the back of Tom-Bras that was near me. It required a rude handling of the reins and of the flat of my sword before I could cause my courser to desist from his infuriated assault upon the other stallion that he held under and kicked and bit unmercifully. Finally I succeeded. The long line of cavalry reaching far to my right and left was now only a few paces from me. I rushed ahead of it, adding with my voice and my spurs to the speed of Tom-Bras’s rapid gallop; I rode on, keeping well in the lead of the legion, and from time to time casting a look behind to see the Frankish king, and what became of him. With his visage streaming blood he sought distractedly to run after me and wildly brandished his sword. Suddenly I saw him vanish in the cloud of dust raised by the rapid gallop of the legion of cavalry.
“Hesus hearkened to my prayer!” I cried out. “Neroweg must be dead. The legion has trampled over his body.”
Thanks to Tom-Bras’s exceptional swiftness, I was soon far enough in advance of the cavalry line that followed me to think of imparting to my course a direction that enabled me to take my place to the right of the legion’s line. I immediately addressed one of the officers, inquiring after Victorin and the turn of the battle. He answered:
“Victorin is fighting like a hero. A rider who brought to our reserve the orders to advance said to us that never before did the general reveal such consummate skill in his manoeuvres. Being more than twice our numbers, and above all displaying unwonted military skill, the Franks fought stubbornly. All the indications are that the day is ours, but it shall have been paid for dearly. Thousands of Gauls will have bitten the dust.”
The officer’s report was correct. Victorin again fought with a soldier’s intrepidity and the consummate skill of an experienced general. I
found him, his heart overflowing with joy, in the midst of the melee. Miraculously enough, he had received only a slight wound. His reserve forces, skilfully managed by him, decided the fate of the battle. The routed Franks, rolled back three leagues with our triumphant forces pressing close upon their heels, were being crowded towards the Rhine despite the stubbornness of their retreat. After enormous losses a portion of their hordes were hurled headlong into the river, others succeeded in regaining their rafts in disorder, and in towing them with their barks from the shore. But at that moment the flotilla of a hundred and sixty large vessels fell upon the fleeing Franks on the river. Upon orders from Victorin, the flotilla had sped forward, doubled a tongue of land behind which it had kept itself concealed until then, and came into action. After a number of volleys of arrows that threw the Franks on the rafts into utter demoralization, our barks boarded the rafts from all sides. The episode that took place on the floating battlefield was the last, but not the least bloody of that day. The barks that towed the Frankish rafts were sunk under the blows of battle axes; the small number of Franks who survived this supreme struggle gave themselves over to the mercy of the river; clinging to some of the planks that were loosened from their rafts, they were carried helplessly down stream.
Although cruelly decimated, still our army thrilled with the ardor of the fray as, massed along the bluffs of the river, it witnessed the enemy’s disastrous rout, upon which the rays of the westering sun shed their parting light. At that sublime moment, the soldiers struck up in chorus the heroic chant of the bard to the words and melody of which they had stepped to battle in the morning:
“This morning we say: —
‘How many are there of these barbarous hordes,
Who thievishly aspire to rob us of land.
Of homes, of wives, and of sunshine?
Yes, how many are there of these Franks?’
“This evening we’ll say: —
‘Make answer, thou sod, red drenched
In the blood of the stranger;
Make answer, ye deep-rolling waves of the Rhine;
Make answer, ye crows that flutter for carrion,
Make answer — make answer!
How many were they,
These robbers of land, of homes, of wives and of sunshine?
Aye, how many were there,
Of these blood-thirsty, ravenous Franks?’”
The last strophes of the refrain were falling from the lips of our soldiers when, from the other side of the river — which was so wide at that place that the opposite bank could hardly be distinguished, veiled moreover, as it was by the rising evening haze — I noticed a gleam that, rapidly gaining in brightness and extent, soon spanned the horizon like the reflection of a gigantic conflagration.
Victorin immediately cried:
“Our brave Marion has carried out his plans at the head of his picked men and the allied tribes on the other side of the Rhine. He marched with them upon the camp of the Franks. The last reserve force of the barbarians must have been cut to pieces, and their huts and wagons given over to the flames! By Hesus! Rid at last of the neighborhood of those savage marauders, Gaul will now enjoy the sweets of a friendly peace! Oh, my mother! Your prayers have been heard!”
Victorin had just uttered these words with a face beaming with bliss, when I saw a considerable body of our soldiers belonging to different cavalry and infantry corps of the army marching slowly towards him. All of these soldiers were old men. Douarnek marched at their head. When the body had drawn near, Douarnek advanced alone a few steps and said in a grave and firm voice:
“Listen, Victorin! Each legion of cavalry, each cohort of infantry, chose its oldest soldier. They are the comrades who accompany me yonder. Like myself, they have known you from the day of your birth; like myself they have seen you as a baby in the arms of Victoria, the Mother of the Camps, the august mother of the soldiers. We long have loved you out of love both for her and yourself. We acclaimed you our general and one of the two Chiefs of Gaul. We, veterans in war, have loved you as our son while we obeyed you as our father. And then came the day when, ever obeying you as our general and a Chief of Gaul, our love for you was less—”
“And why did your love for me decline?” Victorin interrupted, struck by the solemn tone of the old soldier. “Why, pray, did your love for me decline?”
“Because we respected you less. But if you have faults, we also have ours; to-day’s battle proves it to us. We have come to make the admission to you.”
“Let us hear it,” replied Victorin affectionately; “let us hear what are my faults and which are yours!”
“Your faults, Victorin, are these — you love too much, much more than is meet, both wine and pretty girls!”
“By all the sweethearts that you have had, my old Douarnek, by all the cups that you have emptied and that you will still empty, why such words on the evening of a battle that we have won?” merrily answered Victorin, who was slowly returning to his natural weakness, now no longer held under by concern for the battle. “In truth! There was no need for you and your comrades to put yourselves to the trouble of reproaching me with my peccadillos. Speak up frankly, are these reproaches that are usual from soldier to soldier?”
“From soldier to soldier, no, Victorin!” resumed Douarnek with severity, “but from soldier to general, yes! We freely chose you our chief; we must speak freely to you! The more we have loved you, you, young man, the more we have honored you, all the more are we entitled to say to you: Keep yourself at the height of your mission!”
“I endeavor to, brave Douarnek, by fighting at my best, by leading our legions in the hottest of the fray.”
“All is not said when one has done his duty in battle. You are not a captain only, you are also a Chief of Gaul!”
“Be it so! But why, in the name of all the devils, do you imagine, my brave Douarnek, that as a general and a Chief of Gaul I should be less sensitive than a soldier to the splendor of two beautiful black or blue eyes, or to the bouquet of good old white or red wine?”
“The man chosen by free men should, even in matters that appertain to his private life, observe wise moderation if he wishes to be beloved, obeyed and respected. Have you observed such moderation? No! And accordingly, having seen you swallow a pea, we have believed you capable of gulping down an ox. It is in that that we did wrong!”
“What! My boys!” the young general replied smiling. “Did you really think I had such a maw as to be able to swallow a whole ox?”
“We often saw you in your cups — we knew you to be a runner after girls. We were told that on one occasion, being intoxicated, you violated a woman, a tavern-keeper’s wife on one of the isles of the Rhine, who thereupon killed herself in despair. We believed the story. Were we perhaps mistaken in that?”
“Malediction!” cried Victorin indignantly and with grief depicted on his face. “And you believed such a thing of my mother’s son!”
“Yes,” answered the veteran, “yes — in that lay the wrong that we did. So that we each did wrong — you and we. We have come to notify you that we are ready to forget the past, and that our hearts remain loyal to you. We wish you, in turn, to forgive us, so that we may love you and you us as in the past. Is it agreed, Victorin?”
“Yes,” answered Victorin, deeply moved by the veteran’s loyal and touching words; “it is agreed.”
“Your hand!” replied Douarnek, “in the name of our comrades.”
“Here it is,” said the young general, stooping down over his horse’s neck in order cordially to clasp the veteran’s hand. “I thank you for your frankness, my children. I shall be to you as you are to me for the glory and peace of Gaul. Without you I can do nothing; although it is the general who carries the triumphal chaplet, it is the soldier’s bravery that weaves it, and imparts to it the purple of his own blood!”
“It is, then, agreed, Victorin,” Douarnek replied with moistening eyes. “Our blood belongs to you, to the last drop — and to our belov
ed Gaul — to your glory!”
“And to my mother who made me what I am,” interrupted Victorin with increasing emotion; “and to my mother our respect, our love, our devotion, my children!”
“Long live the Mother of the Camps!” cried Douarnek in a resonant voice. “Long live Victorin, her glorious son!”
Douarnek’s companions, the rest of the soldiers and officers, in short, all of us present at this scene joined in the cheers of Douarnek:
“Long live the Mother of the Camps! Long live Victorin, her glorious son!”
The whole army thereupon set itself in march back to the camp while, under the protection of a legion that was ordered to watch our prisoners, the medical druids and their aides remained on the field of battle to gather the dead, and tend the wounded, both Frank and Gallic.
It was a superb summer’s night, that in which the army struck the road to Mayence. As it marched, the banks of the Rhine re-echoed to the chant of the bard:
“This morning we say: —
‘How many are there of these barbarous hordes,
Who thievishly aspire to rob us of land.
Of homes, of wives, and of sunshine?
Yes, how many are there of these Franks?’
“This evening we’ll say: —
‘Make answer, thou sod, red drenched
In the blood of the stranger;
Make answer, ye deep-rolling waves of the Rhine;
Make answer, ye crows that flutter for carrion,
Make answer — make answer!
