The Arm and the Darkness

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  These Englishmen, these Frenchmen, these Germans, these scores of old races, had gone to the new world, and welded themselves into one new people. Now a new vision rose before Arsène. Who knew but that, in the strange and tumultuous future, this new people might not cut the umbilical cord which bound them to Europe, and create a unique and invincible empire of their own? Freed forever from the old men, the old faiths, the old traditions, the old lies and the old hatreds!

  He could hardly contain himself, so turbulent, so passionate, were his thoughts.

  Once, he turned to Cecile, and she looked at him in silence. But he saw, on her face, the reflection of his own passion, his own dreams. He said, reaching for her hand, and speaking in a choked and trembling voice:

  “My sweet one, will you go with me, even to the ends of the earth?”

  She pressed his hand, and said, so softly, that he could barely hear her:

  “Oh, not to the ends of the earth, but to the beginning!”

  A strange kind of siege had been in progress in La Rochelle for several months before the arrival of the Cardinal. Though the land approaches to the city were still fairly open, a dyke, or mole, had been slowly and remorselessly in progress across the harbor, to prevent the entry of English men-of-war. The Rochellais had watched this building with despair in their hearts, praying that the English would arrive in sufficient time to enter. So far, no hostilities had taken place between the Huguenots and the Catholics. There was no sign of approaching combat or struggle, except for that mole.

  Every vantage post facing the sea was watched constantly, with straining eyes and hopeful spirit, for a sail, for the battleships of the English. But the sea remained empty, while the mole grew longer, stone by stone. And with the growing of the mole, the bitterness and disappointment, the conviction of betrayal, grew stronger in the besieged. The churches were filled hourly with those praying that the English might arrive to save their co-religionists, that the promises of England might be fulfilled. But as the days passed, murmurs and open expression of hatred and distrust became more frequent. There were some who declared that the English, as ever, promised, but betrayed at the end, that it was her eternal scheming against France which had set Catholic brother against Huguenot brother, for her own crafty ends. Many declared that the English had become apprehensive and jealous of the growing power of France, and in order to cripple France were hoping to stir up civil war, in which the hopes and ambitions and very existence of Frenchmen would go down in a sea of blood.

  But still more could hardly believe that the English would betray them. Sentries and watches stood motionless, their faces fixed on the gray ocean, hope still sustaining their fortitude. Children watched, and women with streaming hair in the wild salt gales, and every rampart, every tower, every wall and rock, had its watcher. And, the Cardinal and the King, with banners, music, silken tents, armed adventurers and soldiers, approached steadily upon the desperate city.

  The city had less than twenty-eight thousand inhabitants, including over a thousand Germans, Spaniards and Italian Protestants, or heretics, who had come to assist in its defense. Among the Spaniards and Italians were many brave men of noble blood, who had voluntarily exiled themselves from their rich estates, where the Church had not dared to attack them, in order to devote themselves to the cause of free men, and to die in that cause. It was a strange thing, but among these Germans, Spaniards and Italians was nothing but the sternest resolution and devotion, and if the murmurs of distrust and rebellion and dismay were heard in La Rochelle, they did not arise from the foreign defenders. With hands unaccustomed to toil, they helped build the forts that were to protect the city, and during their labor it was not unusual for many of them to collapse, their hands bleeding and torn beyond recognition. They appeared on the ramparts, working with passion and silent fortitude, so that the grumbling and fearful French were shamed into activity and courage. They watched these foreign defenders and friends with amazement and gratitude, and even adoration. But their amazement was the greater. To the French mind, it appeared incredible that foreigners, with nothing to gain and everything to lose, should be dedicated to an ideal which was somewhat vague in their own minds. In the more stupid, distrust began to grow. Why had these men come, these gentlemen with the fine faces and the delicate hands, to face privation, hunger, pain, ruin and death? What were Frenchmen to them? The French, never famous for altruism, sacrifice or allegiance to a noble ideal, could only gaze at their friends in astonishment, and with doubt, and, many times, with suspicion. Some of the bolder whispered that it was intolerable that these gentlemen were to kill Frenchmen, even if they were the abominable Catholics.

  The city had provisions sufficient only for two months, with the greatest care. Farmers, hurrying against time, drove their laden carts over the one or two causeways still open. Because of its low and marshy position, the city was almost impregnable on its land side. The causeways were well guarded, surrounded by forts and fortresses. The citizens were men of a proud and independent nature, complacent over the reputation of their city, maritime and vigorous. Many of them were descendants of the privateers who had ranged the seas, raiding Brittany and England. They had long enjoyed the privileges of refusing admission to royal garrisons, if they so desired, and had a very democratic government in which they elected their own Mayor.

  The city was not unaccustomed to siege. In 1573, the Catholics, taking the city, had perpetrated horrible outrages upon the defenseless population, who had starved for months. Many of the older inhabitants remembered this massacre of disarmed men and women and children, and they moved among the people in this second siege exhorting, pleading with them, and recounting to them the dreadful things which would be visited upon them in the event of the fall of the city.

  “Remember, the Scarlet Woman never changes,” they would say. “Bloodthirsty and merciless, rapacious and ungodly and without humanity, she will wreak her hatred and vengeance upon us with gloatings and joy. If she destroys us, Rome will order a Te Deum to be sung over our mangled corpses and the slain bodies of our children. Let us, if necessary, die in our homes, of starvation and disease, but never, so long as one last man remains, must we surrender.”

  Their faces were so stern, their exhortations so passionate with memory and resolution, that even the most vacilating kept silence. But nevertheless, whispers began to grow. Would the English indeed keep their promise? It was remembered that Charles I, King of England, had, as his wife, Henrietta Maria, the sister of the King of France. Would her pleas be sufficient to break his promise, and abandon the Rochellais to the death and fury of their Catholic enemies? Terror began to blow through the city, remembering the last siege, remembering the Massacre of St. Bartholemew, when Catholics slaughtered thousands of Huguenot women and children, and babes in the cradles, and flung their bleeding corpses into the rivers. They remembered the unspeakable tortures afflicted upon the young and the tender, the burnings and the stranglings, the hangings and the brandings. Now, with the terror came a wild hatred, a lust for revenge. Where an ideal could not sustain the common populace, fear did yeoman duty.

  Some of the Spaniards, Germans and Italians had at one time been members of the Catholic priesthood, but had either been excommunicated in their own countries because of their mercy, indignation and true Christianity, or had abandoned their calling to sustain the strugglers for liberty and enlightenment in France. Some of the more stupid and malicious among the Huguenots whispered that these men were spies.

  Among these foreigners were several Englishmen with pale devoted faces. They were fervent in their belief that their countrymen would come to the aid of La Rochelle. They watched tirelessly, their sea-blue eyes fixed far out over the empty waves. Never did they doubt that the English would come.

  The Cardinal and the King had not yet arrived. The King had been taken with a fever on the road to La Rochelle, and had been compelled to pause at Villeroy, to await recovery. So, taking advantage of every moment, the defenders of the
city refortified and strengthened every fort, gathered food to sustain them for the coming siege. Every hour gained was an hour in the balance of victory. The Huguenot farmers worked feverishly to garner their harvests, which they then carted into the city. The fields and the vineyards were heavy with grain and fruit, and to the Rochellais, on the warm winds of September came the rich scents of the ripening countryside. The people were well armed, with muskets and artillery. They settled down to await the siege, gazing fearfully at the causeways and the forts which guarded them, and watching endlessly for the English ships. The populace were sustained in their belief that the land approaches were impregnable. The only entrance to the city was the free sea, and, as France had few or no ships of its own, the Rochellais were confident that the sea lanes would remain open. But slowly, as they watched the stretching of the mole, their hearts sank into despondency and dread. Of what use were the fortified islands in the harbor if the dyke spread far enough to close the sea-roads of these islands?

  Among the Senate the whisperers were active. They were not traitors for the most part; they were merely expedient and fearful. Among the one hundred men of the Senate, however, there were less than ten whisperers. In a body, each day, the Senate inspected the defenses. Their appearance inspired the builders and the people, for they represented to them the freedom and democracy of Protestantism, the bulwark of enlightenment. They took heart from the repeated assertions of the brave and noble that though the mainland was fetid with marsh and malaria, the city itself was safe from disease because of its well-drained soil. Moreover, the tides were to their advantage. The chain of towers that guarded the narrow port lifted their battlements grimly to the warm blue heavens.

  But slowly, and inexorably, the mole being constructed on orders of the Cardinal, was built on the shallow bottom of the sea near the harbor, within actual sight of the Rochellais. The builders worked calmly, and, apparently, as oblivious as beavers to the besieged city. No word passed between the enemies, though at frequent intervals the ships of the Rochellais slipped through the harbor on errands of communication with the English ports, passing within sight and sound of the builders of the mole.

  Buckingham, before his assassination, had stormed the Isle of Rhe, and had been defeated by the Catholics. The Cardinal, realizing that sea power was necessary for the survival of France, after this experience, ordered the building of a navy.

  The defeat of Buckingham, and his subsequent death had been a terrible blow to the Rochellais. Their only prayer now, was that Charles I would remember the promises made by Buckingham, and fulfil them. Watching the construction of the mole, fortified by boats chained together with great logs, they knew that it was a race of time between the completion of the mole and the arrival of the English.

  In the meantime, the heroic Mayor, Guiton, sustained his people. Extremely squat in appearance, broad of body, with a large erect head and indomitable blue eyes constantly flashing and lighting, his quiet faith and strength were as effective as the fortresses.

  It was to this city, then, that Arsène de Richepin, his father, Cecile, and his companions, arrived two weeks in advance of the Cardinal. They rode over one of the guarded causeways, and billeted in the town. Arsène, his father and Cecile were received as guests in the home of the Duc de Rohan, and graciously made welcome by his indomitable and noble old mother.

  CHAPTER LII

  Here it was, thought Arsène, as he walked through the streets of La Rochelle, that my grandfathers died, slaughtered by the shrieking minions of Rome, and one of my grandmothers perished of starvation in the siege, and another sank to her grave with a broken heart.

  Here in this maritime city, in this proud town of merchants and ship-masters and sailors, this habitat of men with far blue eyes and brown faces, was the last fortress of Protestant Frenchmen. The struggle about to take place would decide whether France was to rejoice in a future of constantly expanding glory, liberty and enlightenment, or subside into the morass of oppression, darkness, slavery and ignorance.

  He recalled something which the Duchess de Rohan had told him: “Do not despair. If we are overcome, do not believe that the fight is lost, that the faith is gone, that the day shall forever be obscured. A dream has been born in the hearts of men, and all the blackness of hell, all the scarlet torture of Rome, shall not destroy it. Today, perhaps, the defeat. Tomorrow—O always tomorrow! the victory!”

  Nevertheless, he could not be so sanguine. What did it matter, to him, and to those he loved, if one hundred, or two hundred years hence, France might be free, might overcome the oppressor? He did not have the faith of great men, that one ought to work for the future of humanity, even if they failed to live to behold it. Impatient and impetuous, he wished to see the work of his hands accomplished today. Only the saints, and the heroes, fixed their eyes on the faint gleam of tomorrow, the while they died in the darkness.

  Meditating sadly, he walked through the winding cobbled streets of the sea-guarded city, over which hung the ancient houses and narrow bridges. He saw the towers of the fortresses, vigilantly guarded, strong and squat against the warm blue sky. He heard the sound of the sea, smelled the pungent salt of the great winds. He passed the market place, where the hurried farmers haggled with shrewd women, and cattle lowed and chickens squawked, and geese evaded the clutching arms of little boys. He saw small flowered gardens, bursting their confines, under the very shadow of wheeling gulls. Here was the hoary church of St. Margaret, serene and gray, throwing its painted shade over the streets and over the walls of crowded houses. Arsène was compelled to dodge donkeys, carts, geese, scampering children, dogs, cats, goats and creeping old women, and galloping horses, so that he was often thrust into the gutter and against the walls. La Rochelle was much cleaner than Paris, and if it possessed any stenches, they were purified in the salt gales, the brilliant sunshine, the polished light of the heavens. A feeling of hope, resolution and fortitude was in the air, a busyness, an activity and motion. If the hearts of the defenders failed, it was not visible, except in the faces of the old, who remembered.

  When he climbed the battlements, Arsène saw the blue silk curtain of the sea, glittering and trembling in the distance. He also saw the mole, spreading its inexorable length, like the body of a serpent, across the harbor. He turned his back and looked landward, to the low gray marshes, steaming in the hot sun, the causeways across them, and the distant green and gold of fields and forest, the mauve of low hills shimmering in light. The incandescent air was full of vitality, color, and excitement. He looked down at the steaming, winding streets, cobbled and bridged, filled with hurrying people.

  Here, in this air, was the burnished reflection of freedom, liberty and courage. Nothing, but that mole, appeared to threaten it. The gray and brown walls of the city, streaked, speckled and fretted with dazzling sunlight, seemed peaceful and full of the contentment of ages. Here and there large green trees appeared, bending in the salt winds, glittering with light. He allowed himself to hope. The English might —must—come in time! Even if they did not, the city was impregnable from the land side. But how long could it stand a siege? Arsène forced himself to believe that Richelieu would soon tire of this stubborn people, and return to his luxurious palace to ease the pains of a rheumatism made much worse by the marshy dampness.

  He left the ramparts, after a long conversation with its cheerful defenders. But not until he had talked at length with Count Alfred Von Steckler, a German nobleman, Don Carlo da Santa, of Spain, and the Conte Luigi di Brizzini, of Italy. These illustrious gentlemen, none over the age of forty, were the officers in command of this fortress.

  Arsène had made their ceremonious acquaintance in the Hôtel de Rohan. Nevertheless, he felt uneasy in their company. He looked at the handsome figure and face of the German, with the thick hair like wheat in the sun, and at his fiery blue eyes. He scrutinized the countenance of the Spaniard, for indications of the craft and subtlety which distinguished the Spanish character. As for the Italian, he was
too insouciant, too gay, too light-hearted, in Arsène’s opinion, for this arduous task ahead. Small but delicate of face and body, with dancing black eyes, glittering white teeth between black mustaches and imperial, brown of skin, and ribald and merry of expression, he was more like a bon vivant than a soldier who was to face torture or death within a very short time.

  The German dressed simply, his sleeves rolled back on great arms as white as milk, but the Spaniard and the Italian seemed bent on outdoing each other in sartorial splendor. Apparently, they had come to La Rochelle with inexhaustible wardrobes, and each possessed three adoring lackeys. In the evenings, relieved of their duties, they spent hours upon perfumed baths and unguents and curled wigs. They changed their garments a dozen times, fretfully, and with intense concentration, until they had made a choice and could sally forth arrayed like the lilies of the field. The Hôtel de Rohan was their favorite destination, and it was amusing, even to the sad Arsène, to see how they scrutinized each other with open hostility and affected derision, and languid envy. The Marquis de Vaubon, as serious and dedicated arbitor, would slowly circle about each posturing young man, comment softly on admirable points, nodding his head with deep and sincere gravity, and finally, after long thought, would concede the prize of the evening to one or the other. They appreciated his taste and elegance, and never contested the decision. The loser would then, during the balance of the evening, retire a little distance and give himself up to the imaginary assembling of a devastating wardrobe for the next night, in which he so outshone his rival as to make him appear a veritable cow-herd, a watcher of geese. No one had the levity to intrude upon this brown meditation. Only when, with a deep and satisfied smile did the loser arise, his eyes gleaming with triumphant anticipation, and engage in the conversation, did they include him in the company.