by Eugène Sue
“This morning we asked:
‘How many are there of these Franks?
How many are there of these barbarians?’
This evening we say:
‘How many were there of these Franks?
How many were there of these barbarians?’
Victory and Glory to Hesus!”
CHAPTER VI.
THE FOREST OF CARDIK.
“WHAT A WAR! What a war!” exclaim the warriors of Louis the Pious, leaving at every step some of their companions behind among the rocks and the marshes of Armorica. “Every hedge of the fields, every ditch in the valleys conceals a Breton of steady eye and hand. The stone of the sling, the arrow of the bow whiz everywhere through the air, nor miss their aim. The pits of the precipices, and the bottoms of the stagnant waters swallow up the bodies of our soldiers. If we penetrate into the forests, the danger redoubles. Every copse, the branches of every tree, conceal an enemy!”
Neroweg, having barely escaped with his life from the disaster of the marsh of Peulven, spends the night upon the hill with the remaining fragment of his army. At early dawn the next morning he orders the trumpets and clarions to call his men to their ranks. At the head of his warriors he again steps upon the narrow jetty of the marsh. He is determined to force his way into the forest of Cardik. Footmen and horses again trample over the heaped-up corpses in the wide trenches. No ambush now retards the passage of the Franks. By sunrise the last detachments have crossed the marsh, and all the forces still at the command of Neroweg are deployed along the skirts of the forest that is now serving as a retreat to the Gauls of Armorica, and where they have taken their next stand.
The primeval forest extends, towards the west, as far as the steep banks of a river that runs into the sea, and towards the east, up to a chain of precipitous hills. Furious at the defeat he suffered on the previous evening, the Frankish chief is hardly able to restrain his ardor. Always accompanied by the monk, he advances into the forest. The oaks, the elms, the ash trees, the birch trees, raise their gigantic trunks and interlace their spreading branches. Between these trunks, all is underwood, bramble and briar. Only one narrow and tortuous path presents itself to Neroweg’s sight. He enters it. Daylight barely penetrates the walk through the dense vault of verdure, shaped overhead by the foliage of the stately trees. Thickets of holly seven or eight feet high fringe the way. Their prickly leaves render them impenetrable.
Unable to wander off either to the right or to the left, the soldiers are compelled to follow the defile of verdure. Laboring under the shock of their recent disasters, they march with mistrust through the somber forest of Cardik, speaking only in undertones, and from time to time interrogating with uneasy looks the leafy branches of the trees, or the thicket that borders the route. For a while nothing justifies the apprehensions of the Frankish cohorts. The silence of the forest is disturbed only by the rhythmic and muffled sound of their steps, and the clank of their arms. But even the silence itself nourishes the vague fears of the Franks. The defile of Glen-Clan and the marsh of Peulven also were silent! More than one-half of the rest of the army now left to Neroweg has entered the forest, when, reaching one of the turns of the winding path, the Frankish chief, who marches at the head of his horsemen accompanied by the monk, suddenly stops short. The path has vanished. Gigantic oaks and elms, a hundred feet tall and from fifteen to twenty feet in circumference, and bearing the evidence of having only freshly fallen under the axe of the woodman, lie heaped upon each other and so tangled in their fall across the route that their enormous branches and colossal trunks present an impassible barrier to the cavalry. Only foot soldiers might possibly scale the obstruction, and cut their way across with hatchets.
“Oh! What a war!” cries out Neroweg, clenching his fists. “After the defile, the marsh! After the marsh, the forest! I shall have barely one-third of my forces left by the time I join the other chiefs! Accursed Bretons, may the fires of hell consume you!”
“Yes, these heathens will burn! They shall burn until the last day of judgment!” responds the monk with deep vexation. “Courage, Neroweg! Courage! This last obstacle being overcome, we shall arrive at the moor of Kennor. There we shall join the other two army corps of Louis the Pious, and we shall all jointly penetrate into the valley of Lokfern, where we will exterminate these accursed Bretons to the last man.”
“Have you seen me falter in courage? By the great St. Martin, it looks as if you were in league with the enemy, judging by the route you have guided us on! Already have you twice led us into an ambush, you miserable priest!”
“Have I not braved all the dangers at your side?” observes the priest, holding up his left arm, that is wound in a bloodstained bandage. “Was I not myself wounded last evening when we attempted to cross the marsh of Peulven? Can you question my courage or fidelity?”
“How are we to find another route? The one barred is the only one, you told me, that crosses this forest, otherwise impracticable to an army.”
The monk looks around; he reflects; but no answer proceeds from his lips. A prey to discouragement and increasing terror, the soldiers begin to grumble, when suddenly three quickly succeeding cries of the night-bird pierce the air. Immediately the Breton slingers and archers, ambushed behind the breast-work of fallen trees, assail the Franks with a volley of stones and arrows. Enormous oak branches, previously prepared, detach themselves from the tops of their trunks, and come down crashing upon the heads of the soldiers, killing or mutilating them. Anew, panic seizes the Franks; a fresh carnage decimates them. Cavalrymen thrown from their horses, foot soldiers trampled under the hoofs of the frightened steeds, all blinded, their flesh torn as in their fright they precipitate themselves into the thick of the prickly holly hedges — such is this day’s spectacle presented to the delighted Breton eyes by the invading army of Neroweg. What an inspiring spectacle to the Armorican Gauls! The air is filled with the moans of the dying, the imprecations of the wounded, the threats hurled at the monk, now roundly charged with treason.
The carnage and the panic are at their height when, climbing to the top of the breast-work of trees whence he can gain a full view of the distracted foe, Vortigern appears before the Franks and calls out to them defiantly:
“Now you may try to cross the forest. Our quivers are empty. We shall retreat to replenish them and shall be ready to meet you in the valley of Lokfern.”
Vortigern has barely uttered these words when his eyes catch sight of the chief of the Franks, who, having descended from his horse, holds up against the stones and bolts of his assailants, his white buckler, on which three eagle’s talons are seen painted. At the sight of the device of his own stock’s ancestral foe, Vortigern places his last arrow upon the string of his bow.
“The descendant of Joel sends this to the descendant of the Nerowegs.”
The arrow whizzes. It grazes the lower border of the Frank’s buckler, and penetrates his knee just above the jointure.
Neroweg falls upon the other knee, points out the Gaul to several archers in his vicinity, and cries:
“Take aim at that bandit! Kill him!”
The Saxon arrows fly through the air; two strike, and quiver where they strike, in the upturned branches of the tree on which Vortigern has mounted; the third enters his left arm.
The descendant of Joel quickly draws out the sharp-edged iron, throws it back at the Franks with a defiant gesture, and disappears behind the twisted branches of the improvised barricade.
Three times the cry of the night bird is again heard in the forest, and the Bretons disperse along paths known only to them, again singing as they go, the ancient war-song, the sound of whose refrain is gradually lost in the distance:
“This morning we asked:
‘How many are there of these Franks?
How many are there of these barbarians?’
This evening we say:
‘How many were there of these Franks?
How many were there of these barbarians?’
CHAPTER VII.
THE MOOR OF KENNOR.
ABOUT FOUR LEAGUES in width and three in length — such is the expanse of the moor of Kennor. It constitutes a vast plateau that slopes to the north toward the valley of Lokfern, and is bounded on the west by a wide river that pours its waters into the Sea of Armorica only a little distance away. The forest of Cardik and the last spurs of the mountain chain of Men-Brez border on the moor. The moor is covered throughout its extent by heather two or three feet high and almost burned out by the scorching sun of the dog-days. Level as a lake, the immense barren and desert plain presents a desolate aspect. A violent east wind causes the tall heather, now of the color of dead leaves, to undulate like a peaceful sheet of water. Above, the sky is of a bright blue on this sultry and windy day. An August sun inundates with its blinding light the desert expanse of heather, whose silence is disturbed only by the sharp chirp of the grasshopper, or the low moan of the gale.
Presently a new element enters upon the scene. Skirting the bank of the river, a black and confused mass heaves into sight, stretches out its length, and moves toward the centre of the plain. It is the one of the three army corps led in person by Louis the Pious against the Breton Gauls. Long before its appearance, other troops, formed in compact cohorts, have been descending on the east the last slopes of Men-Brez. They, likewise, are advancing toward the plain — the place agreed upon for the junction of the three armies that had invaded Armorica, burning and ravaging the country upon their passage, and driving the population back towards the valley of Lokfern. The only division absent from the rendezvous is the contingent captained by Neroweg, which, since morning, has been struggling in the forest of Cardik. Finally it has issued in disorder from the woods, and re-formed its ranks. After incalculable labor, hewing, axe in hand, a passage through the thickets, leaving their cavalry behind, and forced to retreat upon their steps back to the marsh of Peulven, the troops of Neroweg at last succeed in crossing the forest. These troops now number barely one-half their original strength. They are reduced, not only by the losses sustained in the passage of the defile of Glen-Clan, of the marsh of Peulven, and the forest of Cardik, but also by the defection of large numbers of men, who, being more and more terror stricken by the resistance that they encountered, refused to listen to the orders of their chief, and followed the cavalry in its retreat. Neroweg’s greatly reduced contingent now also appears in sight from the opposite side. The three army corps have descried one another. Their march converges towards the centre of the plain. The distance between them becomes so small that they are able to see one another’s armor, casques and lances, glistening in the sun. The division of Louis the Pious, having been the first to descend into the plain over the hills of Men-Brez, halts, in order to wait for the other divisions. The troops under Louis the Pious himself are no less demoralized and reduced in numbers than the division under Neroweg. They have undergone similar vicissitudes during their long march, having had to cut their way across a seemingly endless series of ambushes. The sight of their companions arriving from the opposite side revives their courage. Henceforth they expect to fight in the open. As far as the eye can reach, the vast plain that they now have entered upon lies fully exposed to view. It can conceal no trap. The last struggle is now at hand, and with it the close of the war. The Bretons, crowded together just beyond in the valley of Lokfern, are to be crushed by a combined armed force that is still three times stronger than theirs.
The vanguards of the three converging divisions are about to join when suddenly, from the east, whence a dry and steady gale is blowing, little puffs of smoke, at first almost imperceptible, are seen to rise at irregular distances from one another. The puffs of smoke are going up from the extreme eastern edge of the moor; they spread; they mingle with one another over an area more than two leagues in length; by little and little they present the aspect of one continuous belt of blackish smoke rising high and spreading into the air, and from time to time breaking out into lambent flames.
The fire has been kindled at a hundred different spots by the Breton Gauls with the dry heather of the moor. Driven by the violent gale the girdle of flame soon embraces the horizon from the east to the south, from the slopes of Men-Brez to the skirt of the forest. It advances with rapid strides like the waves of the incoming tide lashed by a furious wind. Terrified at the sight of the burning waves that are rushing upon them from the right with the swiftness of a hurricane, the Frankish ranks waver for a moment. To their left, runs a deep river; behind them, rises the forest of Cardik; before them the plateau slopes towards the valley of Lokfern. Himself running for life towards the valley, Louis the Pious thereby gives to his troops the signal to flee. They follow their king tumultuously, anxious only to leave the moor behind them before the flames, that now invade the plateau from end to end, entirely cut off their retreat. Impatient to escape the danger, the cavalry breaks ranks, follows the example set by the king, traverses the cohorts of the infantry, throws them down, and rides rough-shod over them. The disorder, the tumult, the terror are at their height. The soldiers struggle with the horsemen and with one another. The fiery wave advances steadily; it advances faster than it can be run away from. The swiftest steed cannot cope with it. The all-embracing sheet of fire reaches first the soldiers whom the cavalry has thrown down and left wounded behind; it speedily envelopes the bulk of the army. In an instant the distracted cohorts are seen up to their waists in the midst of the flames.
By the valor of our fathers, it is the hell of the damned in this world! Frightful! torture! Excruciating pain! A cheering sight for the eyes of a Breton Gaul, harassed by invaders, to behold his merciless assailers in. Frankish horsemen cased in iron and fallen from their steeds, roast within their red-hot armor like tortoises in their shell. The footmen jump and leap to withdraw their nether extremities from the embrace of the caressing flames. But the flames never leave them; the flames gain the lead. Their feet and legs are grilled, refuse their support, and the men drop into the furnace emitting cries of despair. The horses fare no better despite their breathless gallop; they feel their flanks and buttocks devoured by the flames; they become savage. They are seized with a vertigo; they rear, plunge and fall over upon their riders. Horses and riders roll down into the brasier at their feet. The horses neigh piteously, the riders moan or utter curses. An immense concert of imprecations, of fierce cries of pain and rage rises heavenward with the flames of the magnificent hecatomb of Frankish warriors!
Oh! Beautiful to the eye is the moor of Kennor, still ruddy and smoking an hour after it is set on fire and consumed to the very root of its heather! Splendid brasier three leagues wide, strewn with thousands of Frankish bodies, shapeless, charred. Warm quarry above which already flocks of carrion-crows from the forest of Cardik are hovering! Glory to you, Bretons! More than a third of the Frankish army met death on the moor of Kennor.
“What a war! What a war!” also exclaims Louis the Pious.
Aye, a merciless war; a holy war; a thrice holy war, waged by a people in defence of their freedom, their homes, their fields, their hearths; Oh, ancient land of the Gauls! Oh, old Armorica, sacred mother! Everything turns into a weapon in the hands of your rugged children against their barbarous invaders! Rocks, precipices, marshes, woods, moors on fire! Oh, Brittany, betrayed by those of your own children who succumbed to the wiles of the Catholic priests, stabbed at your heart by the sword of the Frankish kings, and pouring out the generous heart blood of your children, perchance, after all, you will feel the yoke of the conquerer on your neck! But the bones of your enemies, crushed, burned and drowned in the struggle, will tell to our descendants the tale of a resistance that Armorica offered to her casqued and mitred invaders!
CHAPTER VIII.
THE VALLEY OF LOKFERN.
DECIMATED BY THE conflagration of the moor of Kennor, the Frankish army flees in disorder in the direction of the valley of Lokfern, that lies slightly below the vast plateau on
which an hour before the three Frankish divisions have joined, confident that their trials are ended. Escaped from the disaster of the conflagration and carried onward by the impetuosity of their steeds, a portion of the Frankish cavalry that follows Louis the Pious in his precipitate flight, arrives at the confines of the plateau. Driven by a terror that left them no thought but to outstrip one another, the fleeing riders seem to give no heed to the sight that unfolds before them. At the foot of the slope that they are about to descend, stands the numerous Breton cavalry, drawn up in battle array, under the command of Morvan and Vortigern. It is only a cavalry of rustics, yet intrepid, veterans in warfare, perfectly mounted. Carried by the headlong course of their horses beyond the edge of the plateau and down the slope to the valley, the Franks rush in confused order upon the Breton cavalry that is drawn up as if to bar their passage; they rush onward, either unable to restrain their still frightened steeds, or conceiving a vague hope of crushing the opposing Bretons under the irresistible violence of their impetuous descent. The Breton cavalry, however, instead of waiting for the Franks, quickly parts in two corps, one commanded by Morvan, the other by Vortigern. One corps seems to flee to the right, the other to the left. The space from the foot of the hill to the river Scoer being thus left free by the sudden and rapid manœuvre of the Gauls, most of the Frankish horsemen find themselves hardly able to rein in their horses in time to escape falling into the water. A moment of disorder follows. It is turned to advantage by Morvan and Vortigern. The Frankish riders being dispersed and engaged with their steeds, Vortigern and Morvan turn about and fall upon them. They take the foe upon the flanks, right and left; charge upon them with fury; make havoc among them. Most of them are sabred to death, or have their heads beaten in with axes, others are driven into the river. During the fierce melee, the remnant of the infantry of Louis the Pious, still fleeing from the furnace of the moor of Kennor, arrives upon the spot in disorder. Trained in the trade of massacre, they promptly reform their ranks and pour down upon the Breton cavalry. At first victorious, these are finally crushed, overwhelmed by vastly superior numbers. On the other side of the river the rustic Gallic infantry still continue to hold their ground — husbandmen, woo-men and shepherds armed with pikes, scythes and axes, and many of them supplied with bows and slings. Behind this mass of warriors, and within an enclosure defended by barricades of heaped up trunks of trees and ditches, are assembled the women and children of the combatants. All their families have fled distracted before the invaders, carrying their valuables in their flight, and now await with indescribable agony the issue of this last battle.
