Honour and the Sword

by A L Berridge

  Jean-Marie Mercier

  Georges’ voice came very faint now. ‘Is my brother there?’

  I couldn’t see Dom, but Georges’ eyes were glazing in that drained face, and I said ‘He’s fine, he’s with André, he’s fine.’

  Georges’ contented sigh was lost in a triumphant roar below us, and I saw the Spaniards had won control of the first leaf, scattering our men and slamming it shut. More were getting through from the Dax-Verdâme Road, and I couldn’t see our own cavalry any more, they were all unhorsed, even Bettremieu. We still had some infantry fighting, there were archers firing steadily from the fringes of the woods, and some of our civilians were running down from the Square, but we were hopelessly outnumbered. A great rush of soldiers broke clear and ran for the second leaf, where there were only André and Jacques with Bettremieu.

  I fired at the first, got him, and reached for another musket. I shot the second, and reached for another. Beside me Georges’ eyes were still as glass and I knew he’d died. I fired, and reached for another gun.

  Colin Lefebvre

  Never seen anything like it, never. It was hand out, next gun, bring it up and fire, hand out again, next gun. Hardly even seemed to be looking where he was shooting, but he must have been, never saw him miss. Leg smashed to pieces, must have ground something terrible against the roof, but it never stopped him. Wincing with the pain, have to say that, face white as dead Georges’, and blood on his chin where he was biting his lip, but he never stopped firing, not for a second.

  Couldn’t afford to, neither. Right old mess down there, would have been a massacre if it hadn’t been for us. Left Gate shut now, nothing to be done about that, though our people still fighting the dons for it, trying to get it back. André was holding the other, him and that Libert, and we’d a couple more of our infantry managed to reach them, but a sorry little force all the same. My poor old Jacques in the thick of it too, standing himself up by holding on to the Gate, didn’t look good for anything much.

  Jacques Gilbert

  The boom of the first leaf closing felt like the end of the world. It drove the boy frantic, he was fighting wilder than ever, and that scared me, he’d got too far away from our own leaf, he was wide open. A couple of infantry had broken through to join us, but there were loads of Spaniards coming at us now, too many even for Jean-Marie to deal with. Not that the boy seemed to care, he was taking all comers, he was whirling about, ducking and sidestepping, the best fencing I’d ever seen him do, but his back was exposed and someone was going to get him in the end.

  I peeled myself away from the support of the Gate, and got behind André so we could fight back to back. He knew it was me, he just said ‘Thanks,’ but it came out in a kind of breath and I knew he was exhausted. For a second he even leant against me for support, and my leg hurt so much I nearly fainted, but I wasn’t going to say a word, because he needed me now, my brother, and if taking his weight was all I could do, then at least I was going to do that.

  A shot blazed past my head. Some of the enemy were unhorsed cavalry with pistols, and another aimed right at André, but one of our infantrymen leapt on him just as the pistol went off. It must have shot our man right in the stomach, he creased in agony and slumped to the ground, and I saw it was Dom, my patient Brother Shoveller, writhing and choking his life out on the stones. The thought flashed through me that this would kill Georges, but then I remembered Georges was on the stable and must be dead already, and that was a final blow I couldn’t bear. I came hurtling round with my sword and stuck that bastard Spaniard right through the neck, and if I could have killed him again I would.

  But I’d left the boy, and turned frantically to see him surrounded, three against him, and one going for his back. Bettremieu roared and charged them, scything down with his sabre, opening up the first from shoulder to navel, but the second turned and thrust his sword full into Bettremieu’s side. With an ordinary man it would have come out the other side, but Bettremieu swung his sabre one last time and brought it down on the neck of the man who’d stabbed him, then collapsed quite gently to the cobbles, and fell on his side. Bettremieu, indestructible Bettremieu, was down.

  André saw it, he was crying out, he whipped his sword out of the third man, and made to kneel down by Bettremieu, but there were more coming and our last infantryman down in the rush, and now it was just him and me again, just me and the boy, and everyone dying round us, and now it was our turn to die too. I made a last desperate effort to get to him, whirling round with my sword to keep the bastards at bay, but my leg buckled, it just folded up like a handkerchief, then someone crashed into me, my head smacked hard against the Gate, and everything went totally black.

  Carlos Corvacho

  I saw it all.

  I was in the charge with the Capitán, made it all the way to the Gate. I was fighting side by side with him till he fell, and in a manner of speaking that’s what put me out of it too. I’d taken a ball in the shoulder from somewhere, so I was already on the ground when the big man who’d downed my Capitán came sliding off a cannon dead on top of me, and there I was, pinned under the weight of him. Totally trapped I was, Señor, I couldn’t move at all.

  But I was conscious all through, I saw the lot. It was a fine display your Chevalier gave at that Gate, I’ve never seen a better by a Frenchman. Young Gilbert went down at last, and de Roland simply stepped astride him to protect his body, kept his back to the Gate and took on everyone who came near. He held that leaf all by himself, Señor, held it for whole minutes against a great press of our men, held it all alone till the end. No one could take him front on, no one, my Capitán being engaged down the road, but he couldn’t move position without abandoning his friend, so three of our men got round behind the leaf, and started to push it closed.

  That was it, Señor. The weight smashed into him from behind, knocked him clear off his feet and down on his knees. He was still blocking the Gate, him and the body of his friend, so our men pressed forward to kill him and drag him out of the way, only he still somehow got his sword up to parry, parry and riposte, Señor, and him on his knees. He was about all in, I’d say, kneeling half forward, hair in his face, fighting half-blind, but he took two hands to his sword and drove the front men back, a third leapt forward, then horses came charging through the open Gate, a rush of French cavalry hurtling in amongst us, screaming and slashing down with their sabres, and I’d enough sense to keep my head down and my eyes closed and try to look as dead as a man can be.

  Jean-Marie Mercier

  It was a wonderful moment.

  The soldier attacking André was spitted like a boar on the first Frenchman’s sword and driven right back by the momentum of the charge. Our cavalry were simply pouring in, more and more of them. Some turned to their left to finish off the Spaniards by the Gate, some charged straight on up towards the Square, but most of them turned right to the Dax-Verdâme Road where the fighting was thickest. I saw Spaniards throwing down their weapons in panic, and dropping to the ground in surrender, while others simply turned and ran for the woods. They were scattering, they were routed, they were beaten. Capitán d’Estrada lowered his sword and was looking for someone to receive his surrender.

  Even Colin was swept away by the excitement. When I didn’t reach back for the next gun, he smacked himself down beside me and fired it into the air like a salute.

  He said ‘Battle of Dax, isn’t it? Can’t have it said I didn’t fire a single shot, can I?’ Then he laughed.

  It was a totally natural sound, that laugh. I think that’s when I fully understood it was really over at last. I remember resting my last gun against the parapet, and I think perhaps I cried.

  Carlos Corvacho

  My Capitán had no choice, Señor. Left to himself he’d have fought to the death, but with the Colonel dead he was senior officer, and the men to think of. We were outnumbered ten to one, and more streaming in every minute. The Capitán yelled to our men to lay down their arms, then turned to find an officer t
o surrender himself to, but it didn’t seem there was such a thing, this being a peasant army and mainly composed of rabble. His shout brought some bowmen out of the woods, and in despair my Capitán offered his surrender to the first of them, a vacant-looking peasant with a crossbow under his arm and an extraordinary floppy hat on his head.

  Things quietened down a little when the proper French officers arrived to keep their men in order and take the surrender of the garrison. The curé had stretchers improvised to carry the wounded from the barricade to the church, and there were women among them, Señor, women and what I’d call children, a right bloody mess and no mistake. There was this great hush descending on us all as we saw these people carried out, you could only hear little whimpers of the wounded, and here and there maybe a child crying.

  All this while the Chevalier’s stayed at the Gate, sat back on his knees, holding the hand of his fallen friend and staring ahead at nothing, but now he climbs to his feet and watches the procession with what looks like anguish. One of the women sees him and walks over, she salutes him like a soldier, Señor, and this a barefoot peasant woman. She says ‘Any orders, Sieur?’ and he looks away and says ‘I’m sorry, Margot. Margot, I’m so sorry.’ She sticks her hands on her hips, regular Amazon this one, and says ‘Well they’re not bloody sorry, none of them, cost is little enough for what you’ve done.’ He looks at her then, takes her hand, kisses it, and presses it hard against his cheek, but doesn’t say another word.

  Into this quiet rode a little group of what looked like senior officers. They wore those huge, wide-brimmed hats with enormous plumes, you know the ones, Señor? We don’t go so much for that in Spain, you understand, we’d rather win a battle than look good losing it. So there they are clip-clopping past the Gate, colourful as peacocks, when your Chevalier catches sight of them, puts the woman aside, and stands himself in front of their horses. The leader’s looking down at him in some disdain, but a tall dark fellow with a beaked nose has a word in his ear, which I’d guess is telling who he is, Señor, then there’s a lot of bowing and doffing of hats and the leader announcing himself as this Comte de Gressy whose messages we’ve been tampering with. They’re maybe expecting some courtesies in return, but the Chevalier’s just staring at them in disbelief and not saying a word. Then he takes a step towards them and says ‘Where were you?’, and it comes out with this dreadful bitterness we could hear all round the Gate. People stop what they’re doing, Señor, stop and turn to look.

  The Comte starts making indignant noises, he’s saying ‘What do you mean, where were we?’ but the Chevalier takes no notice, I doubt he even hears. My Capitán understands all right, and he’s getting his escort to bring him to explain, but it’s too late, the Chevalier’s got hold of the Comte’s bridle, and now he’s almost shouting.

  ‘Where were you?’ he cries, and there’s this crack in his voice as if he’s ready to break down with despair. ‘Where the bloody hell were you?’

  Everyone’s looking at them now, every soul in the village, and the Comte’s in a right old huff, but my Capitán reaches him and explains we intercepted his letter, and the Chevalier never knew he was supposed to dip the flag at all. The Comte goes pale at that, and I can see him thinking that’s his career over, and I’m guessing that’s no more than truth, Señor, seeing as I never heard of him again.

  He starts up quick with ‘I’m sorry …’ but never gets any further.

  ‘Sorry?’ says de Roland. ‘Damn the signal, man, you could see the Gate was open, you must have known we were fighting, look at us, look!’ His arm sweeps out and gestures at the bodies of his comrades, and the civilians being carried from the Dax-Verdâme Road. ‘Sorry?’ he says.

  ‘There has clearly been some misunderstanding,’ says the Comte stiffly. ‘I am blameless in this matter. You gave the signal, and we came at once. Now if you will excuse me …’ He turns away fast as he can, and sets off towards the barracks, his officers cantering quickly after him.

  De Roland stands looking desolate and lost, not at all what you’d expect of a victor. He says miserably to my Capitán ‘I don’t understand. We gave no signal.’

  My gentleman explains about the tower, and the Chevalier turns his head absently in that direction, but then he stops, and his face becomes quite still, as if all expression’s been wiped off with a handkerchief. As he stares, I see just the trace of a tear slowly marking a little white path through the grime of gunsmoke on his cheek.

  I looked at the tower myself, just to see what the fuss was about. There was still a flag there right enough, and it wasn’t dipped either, it was streaming high and proud in the morning breeze. Then I saw with a shock there wasn’t any Burgundy cross, it wasn’t our own flag at all. It was one I’d never seen before, but the coat of arms on a white background told me what it had to be all the same.

  It was the flag of a regiment of France.

  Twenty-Eight

  Jacques Gilbert

  I wasn’t dead, obviously, it was only my leg and a biff on the head. M. Pollet bandaged my leg like a huge sausage and told me to rest, so André put me to bed in our old cell at the barracks, and I’d never felt anything so comfortable. I was kind of floating on waves of relief at everything being all right, and drifted off to sleep in minutes.

  When I woke it was lunchtime and the boy was back with bread and cheese. He’d brought me a stick too, so I hobbled up and down like Mlle Tissot while he told me the news. It was better than we’d feared. Lots of the casualties were only wounded and had a good chance of recovery. Jean-Marie was the worst, the doctor had been forced to take his leg off, but we’d got a proper surgeon looking after him and André was quite hopeful. Colin had survived the roof massacre with only a scratch, and Giles’ team were untouched. The Spaniards hadn’t been able to break through the tower door, and as things got hotter downstairs they’d abandoned it altogether, and Pepin had nipped in and actually raised a flag of our own.

  ‘It’s just as well he did,’ said André. ‘It’s only when he lowered the Spanish flag that our troops thought we’d given the signal and started their attack.’

  I didn’t really understand that, but I was pleased about the flag. He said it was a regimental one with the Roland arms in the centre. The boy’s crest. His and mine.

  I said ‘I wish I’d seen it.’

  ‘It’s still there,’ said the boy, and smiled. ‘These are our barracks now.’

  I hopped over to the window and peered out into the courtyard. At first glance it seemed much the same as before. There were soldiers milling about with horses, and the same noises of men shouting and steel jingling, and hooves clattering on the cobbles. But these weren’t Spaniards, they were real French soldiers, there wasn’t a red cockade or a Burgundy cross anywhere. Some of our own people were down there too, I saw Pepin helping the cavalry water their horses, and Bruno leading a bunch of infantry into the other wing, while Stefan leant lazily against a wall with his arms folded, talking to a laughing group of troopers and looking totally at home. I found myself searching round for Marcel and Pinhead and Simon and Roger and Dom and Georges, before my brain reminded me I wasn’t going to find them, I was never going to find any of them again.

  Something angry stirred inside me. So many of us had died, but standing next to the real French Army, our men didn’t even look like soldiers any more. We’d never had the proper gear, of course, but we’d still been an army, we’d been real proper soldiers, and the fact that Dax was free was proof of it. Now our people were waiting on the regular French soldiers like ordinary peasants, and with a sense of shock I realized that’s exactly what they were.

  I said ‘It’s not fair.’

  André joined me at the window, and we looked down together at the French troops. I found I was really resenting them, their bright clean clothes, their well-fed bodies, their sleek horses and polished weaponry, I resented the lot of them. I said ‘They didn’t do bloody much, did they?’

  ‘Their battle is ahead of them,
Jacques,’ said André gently. ‘Ours is over.’

  Père Gérard Benoît

  The anniversary of the Battle of Dax is marked each year with a service in which the dead are recalled aloud by name. Some of our most prominent local citizens figure in this roll of honour, among them our esteemed blacksmith, Henri Lefebvre, who fell to a musket ball in the last defence of the Gate. For some years afterwards our May Day archery contests were muted occasions, yet his son Colin now carries the bird as regularly as his father, while rumour has it a young butcher from Verdâme has grown up to pull a pretty bow himself, and the conflict this year between Lefebvre and Durand is once more keenly awaited.

  I myself undertook nothing of a martial nature in the battle, but assumed the direction of a dressing station, which on the cessation of hostilities passed into the hands of military surgeons from both sides. The number of our injured who recovered their ordeal stands as a living testament to their dedication. Most remarkable among these was the case of a Flemish labourer named Libert, who had not only suffered gross internal injuries, but bore so many marks of previous violence upon his body as to render his very existence a matter of wonder. His condition appeared hopeless, and I administered Extreme Unction on two separate occasions, yet the days passed and still he lingered, until at last he rose from his bed and returned calmly to his work. He is to be found to this very day caring for the poultry on the Roland Home Farm, where he rejoices in the soubriquet of Bettremieu ‘l’Immortel’.

  Yet in all the chaos of these first hours of freedom I could not but feel sympathy for our erstwhile adversary, the Don Miguel d’Estrada. He had ever been an honourable opponent, and in the event proved a formidable one as well. M. le Comte de Gressy accordingly offered him the same terms as those given Spanish forces in other occupied forts, namely that if he would give his word not to engage in further hostilities for the period of a year, he and his men would merely be escorted to the borders of Artois with full honours of war. To this Don Miguel agreed, save only that he requested the courtesy of speech with the commanding officer of the forces who had defeated him, as was customary with an officer of his rank.