Wounded Name — Chapter 6: The Road to the Beech Tree, part 3
He pulled himself together.
Though there could be no triumphant coup for him, there need be no disaster.
Having allowed plenty of time for Saint-Etienne's infantry to get to Pont-aux-Rochers before Colonel Richard could possibly reach it, he naturally had ample time to ride beyond it himself.
"Get me a glass of wine and a crust," he said hurriedly as the host emerged half dressed, "and tell me, have you that English horse of yours?
I want him saddled at once, then--no, I'll do it myself while you fetch me the wine.
I shall do better to have a fresh horse, for I must ride like the devil now to the cross-roads on the other side of Pont-aux-Rochers."
"Pont-aux-Rochers?"
said the innkeeper.
"Then you will be better advised, Monsieur le Vicomte, to make a detour by Plélan and cross at the ford, for the Blues' patrols may very well be out in strength on the other road.
I am not sure of it, but there were rumours last night."
Aymar remembered the shot in the night.
He could not afford to meet any patrols.
"I will go round by Plélan then--but even so I can do it," he added to himself.
"Quick, the stable key!"
Yes, he could easily do it, even by the longer route.
He kept assuring himself of that over and over again, as the English horse carried him down the way by the ravine at a pace little short of dangerous.
Who could have foreseen this horrible trick of Fate?
Or had he been incredibly rash in staking so much on Saint-Etienne's continued presence at Keraven?
Surely not, since Saint-Etienne had his orders to remain there for three days, and on that assumption they had all but completed their joint plan against the Imperialists.
And, good God, even had he known that there was a possibility of the regiment's being ordered off, could he have done otherwise?
Could he have left Avoye to perish, even if this scheme were hazardous?
But it was not of Avoye now that he was thinking as he galloped on under the imminent sunrise.
Despite the knowledge that, with a horse like this beneath him, he could get across the river and intercept de Fresne well before the latter reached Pont-aux-Rochers, his mind was obsessed with horrible little vignettes of what would happen if by any ultimate chance he failed to do it.
He tried to shut them from his mental vision, encouraging his horse, but husbanding him as a good rider can, for almost everything depended on his staying power--himself unconscious of fatigue, though he had been in the saddle, without much intermission, since ten o'clock yesterday morning.
By five o'clock he was on the Lande of Languédias, a desolate heathy patch of country, riding very hard under clouds and wind.
For time, it seemed to him, was going even faster than he--or perhaps it was only that the nervous strain was beginning to tell on him.
And his thoughts went faster than either.
He wondered what Avoye were doing if .
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O
God, not if!
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she were alive.
Yes, she _was_ alive .
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free .
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he was sure of it.
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Rather, what were they saying of him, Colonel Richard and his officers, as they marched to lie in wait at Pont-aux-Rochers, unaware that he was racing them by the other road--racing to stop what he himself had set in motion?
Racing, yes!
Why had he listened to rumours about patrols and gone round--why had he been prudent against his own inclination?
And he would have done better in the end, perhaps, to have kept Hirondelle, though she was not fresh.
Yet this horse was going gallantly enough, though the pace was beginning to distress him; there was foam on his nostrils, and he was sweating more than he should.
But de Fresne would probably be rather after than before his time; he would not leave the Bois des Fauvettes before sunrise, and there was always delay about getting the men on the move.
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It _could_ not be that he should arrive too late; he had only about eight miles to the ford now, and three beyond, and he could still get that much out of the innkeeper's horse--at the cost perhaps of cruelty.
He had not yet used the spur at all; he was keeping that for the end.
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And what if at the end he found that the Imperialists were not at Pont-aux-Rochers at all, and his men in no danger?
In that case Avoye .
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but his mind, shuddering, refused the alternative.
No, his men _were_ in danger .
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but only, please God, in such danger as he could avert.
Aymar never was to spur the English horse.
It was not more than four or five minutes after this that it put its foot in a rabbit hole and came crashing down.
Its rider had just time to know what had happened, then a curtain was drawn over everything.
Later, he gripped the heather and pulled himself to an elbow, sick and giddy.
He had been flung clear.
But a glance showed him that his horse's neck was broken.
He sank back again; the fall had been so violent that probably only the springy heather in which he lay had saved him from broken limbs himself.
For a moment or two he was not sure that it _had_ saved him.
But he sat up again, his throbbing head in his hands.
His horse was dead; if not behind time already he had little to spare; he had just lost .
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how much?
and, worst of all, there were no dwellings on the Lande, or at best only a miserable cottage where it would be out of the question to procure a horse.
But somewhere, somehow, he _must_ procure one!
L'Oiseleur staggered to his feet, and, after standing a moment to steady himself and take his bearings, started to run stumblingly through the tangled heather towards a thread of smoke just visible about two miles away.
"A horse!"
mumbled the old man.
"No, my young gentleman, no horses here!
A goat or two.
Horses!"
He emitted a high cracked sound of mirth.
"Not if you were the King of France himself!"
A bundle of rags on the other side of the hearth disclosed itself in the dim and smoky light to be a human being.
"Maturin over at the quarry-pit has a horse," it said, in the voice of a woman.
"He uses it for drawing up the stones--a strong beast it is."
"Where is the quarry?"
exclaimed Aymar.
"Quick, it's life or death."
They told him, slowly.
They were not sure of the distance--two miles, four miles?
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He tossed them a piece of gold and ran out of the hut.
How long had he been in finding this place--out of his road as it was?
He only knew that he had nearly missed it altogether.
And now the quarryman was very unwilling to surrender his stocky grey steed--slow enough, as one could see, but still .
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a horse.
"I can't spare him, Monsieur, and he is not used to being ridden, and I have no saddle."
"That's not of the least consequence.
Take off those traces quickly!
I
will give you twenty-five napoleons for him--about twice what he is worth--and if possible I will return him to you and not reclaim the money.
If that does not content you, I shall take him whether you will or no." The quarryman did not look content, but this pale, stern young officer frightened him, though he made no motion to use his arms.
So he stood sulkily aside, while Aymar got on to the grey's back; only, as he rode off, he shouted _Thief!
_ after him, and threw a few stones before he sat down to recount the money.
Of all tortures, to ride a slow horse when the very heaven and earth depended on its speed!
Once or twice Aymar thought of abandoning it and taking to his own legs again, but by spurring the grey without mercy he did get out of it a certain measure of progress.
And there was his own bodily fatigue, which he could no longer disregard, to reckon with also.
Oh, for half an hour of Hirondelle!
But even Hirondelle could not get him there in time now.
The ford over the Aven at last!
All that shining water had come down from Pont-aux-Rochers!
What had it seen there?
The grey did not like it; he refused to enter.
Twice Aymar lashed and spurred him; then, desperate, he jumped off, and, in water himself to mid-thigh, tugged him over.
It had meant fresh delay, but nothing short of a miracle could save the Eperviers now.
Ironically, the quarryman's horse went better after the contest.
But all the last three miles his rider's mind seemed to revolve round one word.
Nothing but a miracle .
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a miracle.
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O God, send a miracle!
At the cross-roads, not a sign.
Had they passed or no?
A little way off in a field, a girl was herding goats.
He called to her.
"Yes, Monsieur, some Chouans--a great many--went by about an hour ago.
There has been firing since.
They went along there--towards the bridge."
Without a word Aymar set spurs to his horse.
There had been no miracle.
But at least he might be in time to die with them.
Even that was denied him.
A mile or so farther along the road turned sharply to the left; and here, where it was wide and tree-shadowed, and had a spacious grassy margin on one side, he saw the first fugitives of all.
There were perhaps a dozen; they ran past him in twos and threes, panic-pursued.
Not one had a visible wound.
They had just run .
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his men.
He did not try to stay them, for even in that hasty passing he had seen that they were his newer, his least reliable recruits.
Then he came on one fallen by the roadside, with another bending over him.
For an instant he pulled up.
"What has happened at the bridge?"
he asked, but his voice stuck in his throat, for he knew.
"It was a cursed trap!"
answered the man, panting.
He did not look up.
"The Blues .
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ambushed there .
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they have made mincemeat of us.
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See, Yannik, if I tie this round your leg you could get on farther."
"O God!"
said L'Oiseleur, and rode on--rode on blindly to see more men running under the trees on either side, to hear himself at last called by name, to find himself then in the midst of a small body retreating with some semblance of order, and, clutching his bridle convulsively and looking up at him with wild eyes, his youngest officer, Clément de Soulanges, a boy of twenty--to hear him crying out of the clamour, "La Rocheterie, La Rocheterie, why were you not with us?
It was awful .
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I have got away what I could .
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and I think Magloire Le Bihan has got more .
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he had the rearguard .
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but all the rest----" "De Fresne?"
"Killed, I think.
I saw him go down.
The Imperialists were all posted there--they must have known!"
And he half broke into a sob.
"Oh, L'Oiseleur, L'Oiseleur .
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!"
"We will go back to the bridge," said Aymar, turning his ghastly face away.
"My children----" A man suddenly scrambled down the high bank into the road, a huge Breton, breathless and bloodstained.
"I saw you, L'Oiseleur, from the field.
We are making for the forest again.
You have heard what happened?
God's truth, if we could find the man who did it!
My nephew lies there.
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"We will go back and avenge him," said Aymar quickly.
"How many men have you over there, Magloire?
Bring them into the road.
Have they all their muskets?"
"Go back!"
ejaculated the giant.
"You are mad, Monsieur le Vicomte!
After the trouble we have had in getting away as many as we have!
The place is a shambles, more or less!"
"Magloire is right," said young de Soulanges.
"You were not there.
Believe me, it is of no use!
The front ranks were eaten up--those that were not killed.
Besides," he added, sinking his voice and pulling with a bleeding hand at his leader's arm, so that L'Oiseleur bent his head, "besides, I doubt if you could get them to follow you!"
And looking round the men whose moods he knew so well L'Oiseleur saw that this was probably true.
It would have been a terrible blow, had he been capable of feeling it.
"Very well," he said between his teeth, "then I shall go alone.
Stand back, please!"
The boy clung all the tighter.
"La Rocheterie, you are our only hope!
Don't desert us!
Oh, don't do that!
It is suicide .
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and to what purpose?"
To what purpose, indeed!
Aymar tried to loosen the bleeding fingers.
De Soulanges clasped his boot.
"You will only get yourself captured, La Rocheterie," he sobbed, "and what good will that do?"
Captured!
That was the last thing Aymar intended--and by Colonel Richard, too.
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The fugitives, hearing the altercation, were pressing closely round his horse now, supplicating like children that he should not abandon them.
And he saw Magloire's face of black amazement as he turned suddenly round and heard.
Well, he could always do it later on by his own hand.
Aymar made a supreme effort, and, rallying all his faculties, began to issue orders as quickly and clearly as if, in the last few minutes, the whole of life had not gone sliding down to ruin.
And somehow he got them back, straggling and disheartened remnant that they were--ninety odd out of five hundred men--to their old quarters in the Bois des Fauvettes, where for the present they would be safe, and where (almost more important still) they felt that they were safe.
And there they lifted him, stiff and spent, from his horse--L'Oiseleur, who had heard of the ambush and had nearly killed himself in riding to warn them of it, L'Oiseleur, who was so terribly distressed at what had befallen their comrades, but who, at least, was with them again.
Could they do too much for him?
Their simple care for him was the final sword-thrust; and when, having dragged himself into the deserted little woodcutter's hut which was his own old headquarters, it became apparent that his right arm and shoulder were by this time temporarily useless from his fall, and Clément de Soulanges, wounded as he was himself, had insisted on rubbing them for him, it had been all Aymar could do to refrain from putting one of his pistols into the boy's hand and saying, "If you want to do something for me, use _that_!"
But soon he was too utterly exhausted for remorse or horror or any other emotion to play on him longer.
He threw himself down on his couch of bracken and sleep descended like a pall.
The long day was over.
(6) But there was a waking--only too early.
And by five o'clock next morning, when Aymar, very drawn but composed, was giving orders to young de Soulanges, he had already lived through years of torment.
He was despatching Clément to warn du Tremblay of the disaster, and to tell him that in consequence he must not count on the support of the "Eperviers."
And he had further ordered Clément--much to the latter's dismay--not to return to him, but to remain with du Tremblay.
"For I shall probably have to disband this remnant before you can get back," he said.
"You see that, Clément, don't you?"
"Yes," said the boy miserably.
And as he stood with bent head, fumbling with the bandage round his fingers, he added, "Am I to tell M. du Tremblay that there was probably treachery at the bridge?"
L'Oiseleur turned his head away.
"You can tell him .
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that it looked like it," he answered after a moment.
When Clément was gone he sat down at the little table in the hut and covered his face.
He had chosen de Soulanges to carry that bitter but unavoidable message because he was fond of him, and wanted to get him out of the way before he took his pistol in his own hand, or before the inevitable consequences of the disaster came on him from without.
For, safe as his remaining men might consider themselves in the Bois des Fauvettes, Aymar knew better.
In a day or two the Bonapartists at Arbelles, hearing of the affair at the bridge, would certainly follow up their comrades' success and clear out the relics of that nest of hornets in the wood.
And, if he himself had not blown out his brains before that happened, he could then die sword in hand, which would be preferable.
So either he must disband his men in time, or make a last stand.
Yet, now that he had heard fuller details, he knew that the affair had not been so actually bloody as he had at first been given to understand.
The trap had been so well set that, after the first discharge from the hidden foe--and in particular after M. de Fresne had been seen to fall--the leaderless front ranks had been obliged to surrender.
But they comprised his best, his oldest followers; it was the least devoted, the least trustworthy who, being in the rear, had escaped, and these would be all the harder to get in hand again.
Moreover, worn out though he had been by the close of yesterday, it was clear to Aymar that the ambitious hopes of the big Breton, Magloire Le Bihan, which for some time he had suspected, had vastly grown during his few days' absence, and were likely to swell still more, now that he found himself virtually second-in-command.
Aymar's very soul was sick as he got up and went out to inspect his men's depleted equipment--so sick that something whispered to him, "Why not tell them that it is you, and you alone, who brought about the catastrophe?"
But in that case reorganization would be hopeless.
He did not sleep at all that night, and he knew that under the strain of his paralyzing secret he was beginning to lose his faculty of decision.
Some of the men were slipping away already.
On the other hand, there was no sign of an attack on the wood.
He knew that the Imperialists had always credited him with more followers than he actually possessed.
If they were hesitating on that score he could still keep their communications cut a little longer by stopping where he was.
Magloire supported this idea.
So all Sunday he did his best to reorganize the handful that was left to him.
About nine o'clock a letter was brought to him.
The handwriting was Avoye's .
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and Avoye seemed now to have receded into another world, and that hour in the orchard to belong to a life not this.
Since his return to the wood the thought that he had saved her (as presumably he had) at the cost of other men's blood--men sent blindly to the slaughter--was so terrible that he had not been able to face it.
Now here was a letter from her.
He went into the hut and opened it with unsteady hands.
It was from Sessignes, and dated April 28th--Friday.
So she was safe--had returned unharmed.
But did he not know that by what had been paid for her return?
He read: _"Oh, my dearest, to have missed you, and at such a time!
And by so little, as it were!
I could have arrived last night, though late, had I but known that you were at Sessignes.
If only I had!
