Tuesday 8 December 2020

Tuesday’s Serial: “On War” by General Carl von Clausewitz (Translated into English by Colonel J.J. Graham) – XXIX

 CHAPTER XIV - Flank Positions

We have only allotted to this prominent conception, in the world of ordinary military theory, a special chapter in dictionary fashion, that it may the more easily be found; for we do not believe that anything independent in itself is denoted by the term.

Every position which is to be held, even if the enemy passes by it, is a flank position; for from the moment that he does so it can have no other efficacy but that which it exercises on the enemy’s strategic flank. Therefore, necessarily, all strong positions are flank positions as well; for as they cannot be attacked, the enemy accordingly is driven to pass them by, therefore they can only have a value by their influence on his strategic flank. The direction of the proper front of a strong position is quite immaterial, whether it runs parallel with the enemy’s strategic flank, as Colberg, or at right angles as Bunzelwitz and Drissa, for a strong position must front every way.

But it may also be desirable still to maintain a position which is not unassailable, even if the enemy passes by it, should its situation, for instance, give us such a preponderating advantage in the comparative relations of the lines of retreat and communication, that we can not only make an efficacious attack on the strategic flank of the advancing enemy, but also that the enemy alarmed for his own retreat is unable to seize ours entirely; for if that last is not the case, then because our position is not a strong, that is not an unassailable one, we should run the risk of being obliged to fight without having the command of any retreat.

The year 1806 affords an example which throws a light on this. The disposition of the Prussian army, on the right bank of the Saal, might in respect to Buonaparte’s advance by Hof, have become in every sense a flank position, if the army had been drawn up with its front parallel to the Saal, and there, in that position, waited the progress of events.

If there had not been here such a disproportion of moral and physical powers, if there had only been a Daun at the head of the French army, then the Prussian position might have shown its efficacy by a most brilliant result. To pass it by was quite impossible; that was acknowledged by Buonaparte, by his resolution to attack it; in severing from it the line of retreat even Buonaparte himself did not completely succeed, and if the disproportion in physical and moral relations had not been quite so great, that would have been just as little practicable as the passing it by, for the Prussian army was in much less danger from its left wing being overpowered than the French army would have been by the defeat of their left wing. Even with the disproportion of physical and moral power as it existed, a resolute and sagacious exercise of the command would still have given great hopes of a victory. There was nothing to prevent the Duke of Brunswick from making arrangements on the 13th, so that on the morning of the 14th, at day-break, he might have opposed 80,000 men to the 60,000 with which Buonaparte passed the Saal, near Jena and Dornburg. Had even this superiority in numbers, and the steep valley of the Saal behind the French not been sufficient to procure a decisive victory, still it was a fortunate concurrence of circumstances, and if with such advantages no successful decision could be gained, no decision was to be expected in that district of country; and we should, therefore, have retreated further, in order to gain reinforcements and weaken the enemy.

The Prussian position on the Saal, therefore, although assailable, might have been regarded as a flank position in respect to the great road through Hof; but like every position which can be attacked, that property is not to be attributed to it absolutely, because it would only have become so if the enemy had not attempted to attack it.

Still less would it bespeak a clear idea if those positions which cannot be maintained after the enemy has passed by them, and from which, in consequence of that, the defensive seeks to attack the assailant’s flank, were called flank positions merely because his attack is directed against a flank; for this flank attack has hardly anything to do with the position itself, or, at least, is not mainly produced by its properties, as is the case in the action against a strategic flank.

It appears from this that there is nothing new to establish with regard to the properties of a flank position. A few words only on the character of the measure may properly be introduced here; we set aside, however, completely strong positions in the true sense, as we have said enough about them already.

A flank position which is not assailable is an extremely efficacious instrument, but certainly just on that account a dangerous one. If the assailant is checked by it, then we have obtained a great effect by a small expenditure of force; it is the pressure of the finger on the long lever of a sharp bit. But if the effect is too insignificant, if the assailant is not stopped, then the defensive has more or less imperilled his retreat, and must seek to escape either in haste and by a detour—consequently under very unfavourable circumstances, or he is in danger of being compelled to fight without any line of retreat being open to him. Against a bold adversary, having the moral superiority, and seeking a decisive solution, this means is therefore extremely hazardous and entirely out of place, as shown by the example of 1806 above quoted. On the other hand, when used against a cautious opponent in a war of mere observation, it may be reckoned one of the best means which the defensive can adopt. The Duke Ferdinand’s defence of the Weser by his position on the left bank, and the well-known positions of Schmotseifen and Landshut are examples of this; only the latter, it is true, by the catastrophe which befell Fouqué’s corps in 1760, also shows the danger of a false application.

 

CHAPTER XV - Defence of Mountains

The influence of mountains on the conduct of war is very great; the subject, therefore, is very important for theory. As this influence introduces into action a retarding principle, it belongs chiefly to the defensive. We shall therefore discuss it here in a wider sense than that conveyed by the simple conception, defence of mountains. As we have discovered in our consideration of the subject results which run counter to general opinion in many points, we shall therefore be obliged to enter into rather an elaborate analysis of it.

We shall first examine the tactical nature of the subject, in order to gain the point where it connects itself with strategy.

The endless difficulty attending the march of large columns on mountain roads, the extraordinary strength which a small post obtains by a steep scarp covering its front, and by ravines right and left supporting its flanks, are unquestionably the principal causes why such efficacy and strength are universally attributed to the defence of mountains, so that nothing but the peculiarities in armament and tactics at certain periods has prevented large masses of combatants from engaging in it.

When a column, winding like a serpent, toils its way through narrow ravines up to the top of a mountain, and passes over it at a snail’s pace, artillery and train-drivers, with oaths and shouts, flogging their over-driven cattle through the narrow rugged roads, each broken waggon has to be got out of the way with indescribable trouble, whilst all behind are detained, cursing and blaspheming, every one then thinks to himself, Now if the enemy should appear with only a few hundred men, he might disperse the whole. From this has originated the expression used by historical writers, when they describe a narrow pass as a place where “a handful of men might keep an army in check.” At the same time, every one who has had any experience in war knows, or ought to know, that such a march through mountains has little or nothing in common with the attack of these same mountains, and that therefore to infer from the difficulty of marching through mountains that the difficulty of attacking them must be much greater is a false conclusion.

It is natural enough that an inexperienced person should thus argue, and it is almost as natural that the art of war itself for a certain time should have been entangled in the same error, for the fact which it related to was almost as new at that time to those accustomed to war as to the uninitiated. Before the Thirty Years’ War, owing to the deep order of battle, the numerous cavalry, the rude fire-arms, and other peculiarities, it was quite unusual to make use of formidable obstacles of ground in war, and a formal defence of mountains, at least by regular troops, was almost impossible. It was not until a more extended order of battle was introduced, and that infantry and their arms became the chief part of an army, that the use which might be made of hills and valleys occurred to men’s minds. But it was not until a hundred years afterwards, or about the middle of the eighteenth century, that the idea became fully developed.

The second circumstance, namely, the great defensive capability which might be given to a small post planted on a point difficult of access, was still more suited to lead to an exaggerated idea of the strength of mountain defences. The opinion arose that it was only necessary to multiply such a post by a certain number to make an army out of a battalion, a chain of mountains out of a mountain.

It is undeniable that a small post acquires an extraordinary strength by selecting a good position in a mountainous country. A small detatchment, which would be driven off in the level country by a couple of squadrons, and think itself lucky to save itself from rout or capture by a hasty retreat, can in the mountains stand up before a whole army, and, as one might say, with a kind of tactical effrontery exact the military honour of a regular attack, of having its flank turned, etc., etc. How it obtains this defensive power, by obstacles to approach, points d’appui for its flanks, and new positions which it finds on its retreat, is a subject for tactics to explain; we accept it as an established fact.

It was very natural to believe that a number of such posts placed in a line would give a very strong, almost unassailable front, and all that remained to be done was to prevent the position from being turned by extending it right and left until either flank-supports were met with commensurate with the importance of the whole, or until the extent of the position itself gave security against turning movements. A mountainous country specially invites such a course by presenting such a succession of defensive positions, each one apparently better than another, that one does not know where to stop; and therefore it ended in all and every approach to the mountains within a certain distance being guarded, with a view to defence, and ten or fifteen single posts, thus spread over a space of about ten miles or more, were supposed to bid defiance to that odious turning movement. Now as the connection between these posts was considered sufficiently secure by the intervening spaces, being ground of an impassable nature (columns at that time not being able to quit the regular roads), it was thought a wall of brass was thus presented to the enemy. As an extra precaution, a few battalions, some horse artillery, and a dozen squadrons of cavalry, formed a reserve to provide against the event of the line being unexpectedly burst through at any point.

No one will deny that the prevalence of this idea is shown by history, and it is not certain that at this day we are completely emancipated from these errors.

The course of improvement in tactics since the Middle Ages, with the ever increasing strength of armies, likewise contributed to bring mountainous districts in this sense more within the scope of military action.

The chief characteristic of mountain defence is its complete passivity; in this light the tendency towards the defence of mountains was very natural before armies attained to their present capability of movement. But armies were constantly becoming greater, and on account of the effect of fire-arms began to extend more and more into long thin lines connected with a great deal of art, and on that account very difficult, often almost impossible, to move. To dispose, in order of battle, such an artistic machine, was often half a day’s work, and half the battle; and almost all which is now attended to in the preliminary plan of the battle was included in this first disposition or drawing up. After this work was done it was therefore difficult to make any modifications to suit new circumstances which might spring up; from this it followed that the assailant, being the last to form his line of battle, naturally adapted it to the order of battle adopted by the enemy, without the latter being able in turn to modify his in accordance. The attack thus acquired a general superiority, and the defensive had no other means of reinstating the balance than that of seeking protection from the impediments of ground, and for this nothing was so favourable in general as mountainous ground. Thus it became an object to couple, as it were, the army with a formidable obstacle of ground, and the two united then made common cause. The battalion defended the mountain, and the mountain the battalion; so the passive defence through the aid of mountainous ground became highly efficacious, and there was no other evil in the thing itself except that it entailed a greater loss of freedom of movement, but of that quality they did not understand the particular use at that time.

When two antagonistic systems act upon each other, the exposed, that is, the weak point on the one side always draws upon itself the blows from the other side. If the defensive becomes fixed, and as it were, spell-bound in posts, which are in themselves strong, and can not be taken, the aggressor then becomes bold in turning movements, because he has no apprehension about his own flanks. This is what took place—The turning, as it was called, soon became the order of the day: to counteract this, positions were extended more and more; they were thus weakened in front, and the offensive suddenly turned upon that part: instead of trying to outflank by extending, the assailant now concentrated his masses for attack at some one point, and the line was broken. This is nearly what took place in regard to mountain defences according to the latest modern history.

The offensive had thus again gained a preponderance through the greater mobility of troops; and it was only through the same means that the defence could seek for help. But mountainous ground by its nature is opposed to mobility, and thus the whole theory of mountain defence experienced, if we may use the expression, a defeat like that which the armies engaged in it in the Revolutionary war so often suffered.

But that we may not reject the good with the bad, and allow ourselves to be carried along by the stream of commonplace to assertions which, in actual experience, would be refuted a thousand times by the force of circumstances, we must distinguish the effects of mountain defence according to the nature of the cases.

The principal question to be decided here, and that which throws the greatest light over the whole subject is, whether the resistance which is intended by the defence of mountains is to be relative or absolute—whether it is only intended to last for a time, or is meant to end in a decisive victory. For a resistance of the first kind mountainous ground is in a high degree suitable, and introduces into it a very powerful element of strength; for one of the latter kind, on the contrary, it is in general not at all suitable, or only so in some special cases.

In mountains every movement is slower and more difficult, costs also more time, and more men as well, if within the sphere of danger. But the loss of the assailant in time and men is the standard by which the defensive resistance is measured. As long as the movement is all on the side of the offensive so long the defensive has a marked advantage; but as soon as the defensive resorts to this principle of movement also, that advantage ceases. Now from the nature of the thing, that is to say, on tactical grounds, a relative resistance allows of a much greater degree of passivity than one which is intended to lead to a decisive result, and it allows this passivity to be carried to an extreme, that is, to the end of the combat, which in the other case can never happen. The impeding element of mountain ground, which as a medium of greater density weakens all positive activity, is, therefore, completely suited to the passive defence.

We have already said that a small post acquires an extraordinary strength by the nature of the ground; but although this tactical result in general requires no further proof, we must add to what we have said some explanation. We must be careful here to draw a distinction between what is relatively and what is absolutely small. If a body of troops, let its size be what it may, isolates a portion of itself in a position, this portion may possibly be exposed to the attack of the whole body of the enemy’s troops, therefore of a superior force, in opposition to which it is itself small. There, as a rule, no absolute but only a relative defence can be the object. The smaller the post in relation to the whole body from which it is detached and in relation to the whole body of the enemy, the more this applies.

But a post also which is small in an absolute sense, that is, one which is not opposed by an enemy superior to itself, and which, therefore, may aspire to an absolute defence, a real victory, will be infinitely better off in mountains than a large army, and can derive more advantage from the ground as we shall show further on.

Our conclusion, therefore, is, that a small post in mountains possesses great strength. How this may be of decisive utility in all cases which depend entirely on a relative defence is plain of itself; but will it be of the same decisive utility for the absolute defence by a whole army? This is the question which we now propose to examine.

First of all we ask whether a front line composed of several posts has, as has hitherto been assumed, the same strength proportionally as each post singly. This is certainly not the case, and to suppose so would involve one of two errors.

In the first place, a country without roads is often confounded with one which is quite impassable. Where a column, or where artillery and cavalry cannot march, infantry may still, in general, be able to pass, and even artillery may often be brought there as well, for the movements made in a battle by excessive efforts of short duration are not to be judged of by the same scale as marches. The secure connection of the single posts with one another rests therefore on an illusion, and the flanks are in reality in danger.

Or next it is supposed, a line of small posts, which are very strong in front, are also equally strong on their flanks, because a ravine, a precipice, etc., etc., form excellent supports for a small post. But why are they so?—not because they make it impossible to turn the post, but because they cause the enemy an expenditure of time and of force, which gives scope for the effectual action of the post. The enemy who, in spite of the difficulty of the ground, wishes, and in fact is obliged, to turn such a post, because the front is unassailable requires, perhaps, half-a-day to execute his purpose, and cannot after all accomplish it without some loss of men. Now if such a post can be succoured, or if it is only designed to resist for a certain space of time, or lastly, if it is able to cope with the enemy, then the flank supports have done their part, and we may say the position had not only a strong front, but strong flanks as well. But it is not the same if it is a question of a line of posts, forming part of an extended mountain position. None of these three conditions are realised in that case. The enemy attacks one point with an overwhelming force, the support in rear is perhaps slight, and yet it is a question of absolute resistance. Under such circumstances the flank supports of such posts are worth nothing.

Upon a weak point like this the attack usually directs its blows. The assault with concentrated, and therefore very superior forces, upon a point in front, may certainly be met by a resistance, which is very violent as regards that point, but which is unimportant as regards the whole. After it is overcome, the line is pierced, and the object of the attack attained.

From this it follows that the relative resistance in mountain warfare is, in general, greater than in a level country, that it is comparatively greatest in small posts, and does not increase in the same measure as the masses increase.

Let us now turn to the real object of great battles generally—to the positive victory which may also be the object in the defence of mountains. If the whole mass, or the principal part of the force, is employed for that purpose, then the defence of mountains changes itself eo ipso into a defensive battle in the mountains. A battle, that is the application of all our powers to the destruction of the enemy is now the form, a victory the object of the combat. The defence of mountains which takes place in this combat, appears now a subordinate consideration, for it is no longer the object, it is only the means. Now in this view, how does the ground in mountains answer to the object?

The character of a defensive battle is a passive reaction in front, and an increased active reaction in rear; but for this the ground in mountains is a paralysing principle. There are two reasons for this: first, want of roads affording means of rapidly moving in all directions, from the rear towards the front, and even the sudden tactical attack is hampered by the unevenness of ground; secondly, a free view over the country, and the enemy’s movements is not to be had. The ground in mountains, therefore, ensures in this case to the enemy the same advantages which it gave to us in the front, and deadens all the better half of the resistance. To this is to be added a third objection, namely the danger of being cut off. Much as a mountainous country is favourable to a retreat, made under a pressure exerted along the whole front, and great as may be the loss of time to an enemy who makes a turning movement in such a country, still these again are only advantages in the case of a relative defence, advantages which have no connection with the decisive battle, the resistance to the last extremity. The resistance will last certainly somewhat longer, that is until the enemy has reached a point with his flank-columns which menaces or completely bars our retreat. Once he has gained such a point then relief is a thing hardly possible. No act of the offensive which we can make from the rear can drive him out again from the points which threaten us; no desperate assault with our whole mass can clear the passage which he blocks. Whoever thinks he discovers in this a contradiction, and believes that the advantages which the assailant has in mountain warfare, must also accrue to the defensive in an attempt to cut his way through, forgets the difference of circumstances. The corps which opposes the passage is not engaged in an absolute defence, a few hours’ resistance will probably be sufficient; it is, therefore, in the situation of a small post. Besides this, its opponent is no longer in full possession of all his fighting powers; he is thrown into disorder, wants ammunition, etc. Therefore, in any view, the chance of cutting through is small, and this is the danger that the defensive fears above all; this fear is at work even during the battle, and enervates every fibre of the struggling athlete. A nervous sensibility springs up on the flanks, and every small detachment which the aggressor makes a display of on any wooded eminence in our rear, is for him a new lever, helping on the victory.

These disadvantages will, for the most part, disappear, leaving all the advantages, if the defence of a mountain district consists in the concentrated disposition of the army on an extensive mountain plateau. There we may imagine a very strong front; flanks very difficult of approach, and yet the most perfect freedom of movement, both within and in rear of the position. Such a position would be one of the strongest that there can be, but it is little more than an illusion, for although most mountains are more easily traversed along their crests than on their declivities, yet most plateaux of mountains are either too small for such a purpose, or they have no proper right to be called plateaux, and are so termed more in a geological, than in a geometrical sense.

For smaller bodies of troops, the disadvantages of a defensive position in mountains diminish as we have already remarked. The cause of this is, that such bodies take up less space, and require fewer roads for retreat, etc., etc. A single hill is not a mountain system, and has not the same disadvantages. The smaller the force, the more easily it can establish itself on a single ridge or hill, and the less will be the necessity for it to get entangled in the intricacies of countless steep mountain gorges.

 

CHAPTER XVI - Defence of Mountains (Continued)

We now proceed to the strategic use of the tactical results developed in the preceding chapter. We make a distinction between the following points:

 

1. A mountainous district as a battle-field.

2. The influence which the possession of it exercises on other parts of the country.

3. Its effect as a strategic barrier.

4. The attention which it demands in respect to the supply of the troops.

 

The first and most important of these heads, we must again subdivide as follows:

 

a. A general action.

b. Inferior combats.

 

1. A mountain system as a battle-field.

We have shown in the preceding chapter how unfavourable mountain ground is to the defensive in a decisive battle, and, on the other hand, how much it favours the assailant. This runs exactly counter to the generally received opinion; but then how many other things there are which general opinion confuses; how little does it draw distinctions between things which are of the most opposite nature! From the powerful resistance which small bodies of troops may offer in a mountainous country, common opinion becomes impressed with an idea that all mountain defence is extremely strong, and is astonished when any one denies that this great strength is communicated to the greatest act of all defence, the defensive battle. On the other hand, it is instantly ready, whenever a battle is lost by the defensive in mountain warfare, to point out the inconceivable error of a system of cordon war, without any regard to the fact that in the nature of things such a system is unavoidable in mountain warfare. We do not hesitate to put ourselves in direct opposition to such an opinion, and at the same time we must mention, that to our great satisfaction, we have found our views supported in the works of an author whose opinion ought to have great weight in this matter; we allude to the history of the campaigns of 1796 and 1797, by the Archduke Charles, himself a good historical writer, a good critic, and above all, a good general.

We can only characterise it as a lamentable position when the weaker defender, who has laboriously, by the greatest effort, assembled all his forces, in order to make the assailant feel the effect of his love of Fatherland, of his enthusiasm and his ability, in a decisive battle when he on whom every eye is fixed in anxious expectation, having betaken himself to the obscurity of thickly veiled mountains, and hampered in every movement by the obstinate ground, stands exposed to the thousand possible forms of attack which his powerful adversary can use against him. Only towards one single side is there still left an open field for his intelligence, and that is in making all possible use of every obstacle of ground; but this leads close to the borders of the disastrous war of cordons, which, under all circumstances, is to be avoided. Very far therefore from seeing a refuge for the defensive, in a mountainous country, when a decisive battle is sought, we should rather advise a general in such a case to avoid such a field by every possible means.

It is true, however, that this is sometimes impossible; but the battle will then necessarily have a very different character from one in a level country: the disposition of the troops will be much more extended in most cases twice or three times the length; the resistance more passive, the counter blow much less effective. These are influences of mountain ground which are inevitable; still, in such a battle the defensive is not to be converted into a mere defence of mountains; the predominating character must be a concentrated order of battle in the mountains, in which everything unites into one battle, and passes as much as possible under the eye of one commander, and in which there are sufficient reserves to make the decision something more than a mere warding off, a mere holding up of the shield. This condition is indispensable, but difficult to realise; and the drifting into the pure defence of mountains comes so naturally, that we cannot be surprised at its often happening; the danger in this is so great that theory cannot too urgently raise a warning voice.

Thus much as to a decisive battle with the main body of the army.

For combats of minor significance and importance, a mountainous country, on the other hand, may be very favourable, because the main point in them is not absolute defence, and because no decisive results are coupled with them. We may make this plainer by enumerating the objects of this reaction.

 

a. Merely to gain time. This motive occurs a hundred times: always in the case of a defensive line formed with the view of observation; besides that, in all cases in which a reinforcement is expected.

b. The repulse of a mere demonstration or minor enterprise of the enemy. If a province is guarded by mountains which are defended by troops, then this defence, however weak, will always suffice to prevent partisan attacks and expeditions intended to plunder the country. Without the mountains, such a weak chain of posts would be useless.

c. To make demonstrations on our own part. It will be some time yet before general opinion with respect to mountains will be brought to the right point; until then an enemy may at any time be met with who is afraid of them, and shrinks back from them in his undertakings. In such a case, therefore, the principal body may also be used for the defence of a mountain system. In wars carried on with little energy or movement, this state of things will often happen; but it must always be a condition then that we neither design to accept a general action in this mountain position, nor can be compelled to do so.

d. In general, a mountainous country is suited for all positions in which we do not intend to accept any great battle, for each of the separate parts of the army is stronger there, and it is only the whole that is weaker; besides, in such a position, it is not so easy to be suddenly attacked and forced into a decisive battle.

e. Lastly, a mountainous country is the true region for the efforts of a people in arms. But while national risings should always be supported by small bodies of regular troops, on the other hand, the proximity of a great army seems to have an unfavourable effect upon movements of this kind; this motive, therefore, as a rule, will never give occasion for transferring the whole army to the mountains.

Thus much for mountains in connection with the positions which may be taken up there for battle.

 

2. The influence of mountains on other parts of the country.

Because, as we have seen, it is so easy in mountainous ground to secure a considerable tract of territory by small posts, so weak in numbers that in a district easily traversed they could not maintain themselves, and would be continually exposed to danger; because every step forward in mountains which have been occupied by the enemy must be made much more slowly than in a level country, and therefore cannot be made at the same rate with him therefore the question, Who is in possession? is also much more important in reference to mountains than to any other tract of country of equal extent. In an open country, the possession may change from day to day. The mere advance of strong detachments compels the enemy to give up the country we want to occupy. But it is not so in mountains; there a very stout resistance is possible by much inferior forces, and for that reason, if we require a portion of country which includes mountains, enterprises of a special nature, formed for the purpose, and often necessitating a considerable expenditure of time as well as of men, are always required in order to obtain possession. If, therefore, the mountains of a country are not the theatre of the principal operations of a war, we cannot, as we should were it the case of a district of level country, look upon the possession of the mountains as dependent on and a necessary consequence of our success at other parts.

A mountainous district has therefore much more independence, and the possession of it is much firmer and less liable to change. If we add to this that a ridge of mountains from its crests affords a good view over the adjacent open country, whilst it remains itself veiled in obscurity, we may therefore conceive that when we are close to mountains, without being in actual possession of them, they are to be regarded as a constant source of disadvantage a sort of laboratory of hostile forces; and this will be the case in a still greater degree if the mountains are not only occupied by the enemy, but also form part of his territory. The smallest bodies of adventurous partisans always find shelter there if pursued, and can then sally forth again with impunity at other points; the largest bodies, under their cover, can approach unperceived, and our forces must, therefore, always keep at a sufficient distance if they would avoid getting within reach of their dominating influence if they would not be exposed to disadvantageous combats and sudden attacks which they cannot return.

In this manner every mountain system, as far as a certain distance, exercises a very great influence over the lower and more level country adjacent to it. Whether this influence shall take effect momentarily, for instance in a battle (as at Maltsch on the Rhine, 1796) or only after some time upon the lines of communication, depends on the local relations; whether or not it shall be overcome through some decisive event happening in the valley or level country, depends on the relations of the armed forces to each other respectively.

Buonaparte, in 1805 and 1809, advanced upon Vienna without troubling himself much about the Tyrol; but Moreau had to leave Swabia in 1796, chiefly because he was not master of the more elevated parts of the country, and too many troops were required to watch them. In campaigns, in which there is an evenly balanced series of alternate successes on each side, we shall not expose ourselves to the constant disadvantage of the mountains remaining in possession of the enemy: we need, therefore, only endeavour to seize and retain possession of that portion of them which is required on account of the direction of the principal lines of our attack; this generally leads to the mountains being the arena of the separate minor combats which take place between forces on each side. But we must be careful of overrating the importance of this circumstance, and being led to consider a mountain-chain as the key to the whole in all cases, and its possession as the main point. When a victory is the object sought; then it is the principal, object; and if the victory is gained, other things can be regulated according to the paramount requirement of the situation.

 

3. Mountains considered in their aspect of a strategic barrier.

We must divide this subject under two heads.

The first is again that of a decisive battle. We can, for instance, consider the mountain chain as a river, that is, as a barrier with certain points of passage, which may afford us an opportunity of gaining a victory, because the enemy will be compelled by it to divide his forces in advancing, and is tied down to certain roads, which will enable us with our forces concentrated behind the mountains to fall upon fractions of his force. As the assailant on his march through the mountains, irrespective of all other considerations, cannot march in a single column because he would thus expose himself to the danger of getting engaged in a decisive battle with only one line of retreat, therefore, the defensive method recommends itself certainly on substantial grounds. But as the conception of mountains and their outlets is very undefined, the question of adopting this plan depends entirely on the nature of the country itself, and it can only be pointed out as possible whilst it must also be considered as attended with two disadvantages, the first is, that if the enemy receives a severe blow, he soon finds shelter in the mountains; the second is, that he is in possession of the higher ground, which, although not decisive, must still always be regarded as a disadvantage for the pursuer.

We know of no battle given under such circumstances unless the battle with Alvinzi in 1796 can be so classed. But that the case may occur is plain from Buonaparte’s passage of the Alps in the year 1800, when Melas might and should have fallen on him with his whole force before he had united his columns.

The second influence which mountains may have as a barrier is that which they have upon the lines of communication if they cross those lines. Without taking into account what may be done by erecting forts at the points of passage and by arming the people, the bad roads in mountains at certain seasons of the year may of themselves alone prove at once destructive to an army; they have frequently compelled a retreat after having first sucked all the marrow and blood out of the army. If, in addition, troops of active partisans hover round, or there is a national rising to add to the difficulties, then the enemy’s army is obliged to make large detachments, and at last driven to form strong posts in the mountains and thus gets engaged in one of the most disadvantageous situations that can be in an offensive war.

 

4. Mountains in their relation to the provisioning of an army.

This is a very simple subject, easy to understand. The opportunity to make the best use of them in this respect is when the assailant is either obliged to remain in the mountains, or at least to leave them close in his rear.

These considerations on the defence of mountains, which, in the main, embrace all mountain warfare, and, by their reflection, throw also the necessary light on offensive war, must not be deemed incorrect or impracticable because we can neither make plains out of mountains, nor hills out of plains, and the choice of a theatre of war is determined by so many other things that it appears as if there was little margin left for considerations of this kind. In affairs of magnitude it will be found that this margin is not so small. If it is a question of the disposition and effective employment of the principal force, and that, even in the moment of a decisive battle, by a few marches more to the front or rear an army can be brought out of mountain ground into the level country, then a resolute concentration of the chief masses in the plain will neutralise the adjoining mountains.

We shall now once more collect the light which has been thrown on the subject, and bring it to a focus in one distinct picture.

We maintain and believe we have shown, that mountains, both tactically and strategically, are in general unfavourable to the defensive, meaning thereby, that kind of defensive which is decisive, on the result of which the question of the possession or loss of the country depends. They limit the view and prevent movements in every direction; they force a state of passivity, and make it necessary to stop every avenue or passage, which always leads more or less to a war of cordons. We should therefore, if possible, avoid mountains with the principal mass of our force, and leave them on one side, or keep them before or behind us.

At the same time, we think that, for minor operations and objects, there is an element of increased strength to be found in mountain ground; and after what has been said, we shall not be accused of inconsistency in maintaining that such a country is the real place of refuge for the weak, that is, for those who dare not any longer seek an absolute decision. On the other hand again, the advantages derived from a mountainous country by troops acting an inferior rôle cannot be participated in by large masses of troops.

Still all these considerations will hardly counteract the impressions made on the senses. The imagination not only of the inexperienced but also of all those accustomed to bad methods of war will still feel in the concrete case such an overpowering dread of the difficulties which the inflexible and retarding nature of mountainous ground opposes to all the movements of an assailant, that they will hardly be able to look upon our opinion as anything but a most singular paradox. Then again, with those who take a general view, the history of the last century (with its peculiar form of war) will take the place of the impressions of the senses, and therefore there will be but few who will not still adhere to the belief that Austria, for example, should be better able to defend her states on the Italian side than on the side of the Rhine. On the other hand, the French who carried on war for twenty years under a leader both energetic and indifferent to minor considerations, and have constantly before their eyes the successful results thus obtained, will, for some time to come, distinguish themselves in this as well as in other cases by the tact of a practised judgment.

Does it follow from this that a state would be better protected by an open country than by mountains, that Spain would be stronger without the Pyrenees; Lombardy more difficult of access without the Alps, and a level country such as North Germany more difficult to conquer than a mountainous country? To these false deductions we shall devote our concluding remarks.

We do not assert that Spain would be stronger without the Pyrenees than with them, but we say that a Spanish army, feeling itself strong enough to engage in a decisive battle, would do better by concentrating itself in a position behind the Ebro, than by fractioning itself amongst the fifteen passes of the Pyrenees. But the influence of the Pyrenees on war is very far from being set aside on that account. We say the same respecting an Italian army. If it divided itself in the High Alps it would be vanquished by each resolute commander it encountered, without even the alternative of victory or defeat; whilst in the plains of Turin it would have the same chance as every other army. But still no one can on that account suppose that it is desirable for an aggressor to have to march over masses of mountains such as the Alps, and to leave them behind. Besides, a determination to accept a great battle in the plains, by no means excludes a preliminary defence of the mountains by subordinate forces, an arrangement very advisable in respect to such masses as the Alps and Pyrenees. Lastly, it is far from our intention to argue that the conquest of a mountainous country is easier than that of a level(*) one, unless a single victory sufficed to prostrate the enemy completely. After this victory ensues a state of defence for the conqueror, during which the mountainous ground must be as disadvantageous to the assailant as it was to the defensive, and even more so. If the war continues, if foreign assistance arrives, if the people take up arms, this reaction will gain strength from a mountainous country.

It is here as in dioptrics, the image represented becomes more luminous when moved in a certain direction, not, however, as far as one pleases, but only until the focus is reached, beyond that the effect is reversed.

If the defensive is weaker in the mountains, that would seem to be a reason for the assailant to prefer a line of operations in the mountains. But this will seldom occur, because the difficulties of supporting an army, and those arising from the roads, the uncertainty as to whether the enemy will accept battle in the mountains, and even whether he will take up a position there with his principal force, tend to neutralise that possible advantage.

 

(*) As it is conceived that the words “ebenen” and “gebirgigen” in this passage in the original have by some means become transposed, their equivalents—level and mountainous—are here placed in the order in which it is presumed the author intended the words to stand.—Tr.

 

 

CHAPTER XVII - Defence of Mountains (continued)

In the fifteenth chapter we spoke of the nature of combats in mountains, and in the sixteenth of the use to be made of them by strategy, and in so doing we often came upon the idea of mountain defence, without stopping to consider the form and details of such a measure. We shall now examine it more closely.

As mountain systems frequently extend like streaks or belts over the surface of the earth, and form the division between streams flowing in different directions, consequently the separation between whole water systems, and as this general form repeats itself in the parts composing that whole, inasmuch as these parts diverge from the main chain in branches or ridges, and then form the separation between lesser water systems; hence the idea of a system of mountain defence has naturally founded itself in the first instance, and afterwards developed itself, upon the conception of the general form of mountains, that of an obstacle, like a great barrier, having greater length than breadth. Although geologists are not yet agreed as to the origin of mountains and the laws of their formation, still in every case the course of the waters indicates in the shortest and surest manner the general form of the system, whether the action of the water has contributed to give that general form (according to the aqueous theory), or that the course of the water is a consequence of the form of the system itself. It was, therefore, very natural again, in devising a system of mountain defence, to take the course of the waters as a guide, as those courses form a natural series of levels, from which we can obtain both the general height and the general profile of the mountain, while the valleys formed by the streams present also the best means of access to the heights, because so much of the effect of the erosive and alluvial action of the water is permanent, that the inequalities of the slopes of the mountain are smoothed down by it to one regular slope. Hence, therefore, the idea of mountain defence would assume that, when a mountain ran about parallel with the front to be defended, it was to be regarded as a great obstacle to approach, as a kind of rampart, the gates of which were formed by the valleys. The real defence was then to be made on the crest of this rampart, (that is, on the edge of the plateau which crowned the mountain) and cut the valleys transversely. If the line of the principal mountain-chain formed somewhat of a right angle with the front of defence, then one of the principal branches would be selected to be used instead; thus the line chosen would be parallel to one of the principal valleys, and run up to the principal ridge, which might be regarded as the extremity.

We have noticed this scheme for mountain defence founded on the geological structure of the earth, because it really presented itself in theory for some time, and in the so-called “theory of ground” the laws of the process of aqueous action have been mixed up with the conduct of war.

But all this is so full of false hypotheses and incorrect substitutions, that when these are abstracted, nothing in reality remains to serve as the basis of any kind of a system.

The principal ridges of real mountains are far too impracticable and inhospitable to place large masses of troops upon them; it is often the same with the adjacent ridges, they are often too short and irregular. Plateaux do not exist on all mountain ridges, and where they are to be found they are mostly narrow, and therefore unfit to accommodate many troops; indeed, there are few mountains which, closely examined, will be found surmounted by an uninterrupted ridge, or which have their sides at such an angle that they form in some measure practicable slopes, or, at least, a succession of terraces. The principal ridge winds, bends, and splits itself; immense branches launch into the adjacent country in curved lines, and lift themselves often just at their termination to a greater height than the main ridge itself; promontories then join on, and form deep valleys which do not correspond with the general system. Thus it is that, when several lines of mountains cross each other, or at those points from which they branch out, the conception of a small band or belt is completely at an end, and gives place to mountain and water lines radiating from a centre in the form of a star.

From this it follows, and it will strike those who have examined mountain-masses in this manner the more forcibly, that the idea of a systematic disposition is out of the question, and that to adhere to such an idea as a fundamental principle for our measures would be wholly impracticable. There is still one important point to notice belonging to the province of practical application.

If we look closely at mountain warfare in its tactical aspects, it is evident that these are of two principal kinds, the first of which is the defence of steep slopes, the second is that of narrow valleys. Now this last, which is often, indeed almost generally, highly favourable to the action of the defence, is not very compatible with the disposition on the principal ridge, for the occupation of the valley itself is often required and that at its outer extremity nearest to the open country, not at its commencement, because there its sides are steeper. Besides, this defence of valleys offers a means of defending mountainous districts, even when the ridge itself affords no position which can be occupied; the rôle which it performs is, therefore, generally greater in proportion as the masses of the mountains are higher and more inaccessible.

The result of all these considerations is, that we must entirely give up the idea of a defensible line more or less regular, and coincident with one of the geological lines, and must look upon a mountain range as merely a surface intersected and broken with inequalities and obstacles strewed over it in the most diversified manner, the features of which we must try to make the best use of which circumstances permit; that therefore, although a knowledge of the geological features of the ground is indispensable to a clear conception of the form of mountain masses, it is of little value in the organisation of defensive measures.

Neither in the war of the Austrian Succession, nor in the Seven Years’ War, nor in those of the French Revolution, do we find military dispositions which comprehended a whole mountain system, and in which the defence was systematised in accordance with the leading features of that system. Nowhere do we find armies on the principal ridges always in position on the slopes. Sometimes at a greater, sometimes at a lower elevation; sometimes in one direction, sometimes in another; parallel, at right angles, and obliquely; with and against the watercourse; in lofty mountains, such as the Alps, frequently extended along the valleys; amongst mountains of a inferior class, like the Sudetics (and this is the strangest anomaly), at the middle of the declivity, as it sloped towards the defender, therefore with the principal ridge in front, like the position in which Frederick the Great, in 1762, covered the siege of Schwednitz, with the “hohe Eule” before the front of his camp.

The celebrated positions, Schmotseifen and Landshut, in the Seven Years’ War, are for the most part in the bottoms of valleys. It is the same with the position of Feldkirch, in the Vorarlsberg. In the campaigns of 1799 and 1800, the chief posts, both of the French and Austrians, were always quite in the valleys, not merely across them so as to close them, but also parallel with them, whilst the ridges were either not occupied at all, or merely by a few single posts.

The crests of the higher Alps in particular are so difficult of access, and afford so little space for the accommodation of troops, that it would be impossible to place any considerable bodies of men there. Now if we must positively have armies in mountains to keep possession of them, there is nothing to be done but to place them in the valleys. At first sight this appears erroneous, because, in accordance with the prevalent theoretical ideas, it will be said, the heights command the valleys. But that is really not the case. Mountain ridges are only accessible by a few paths and rude tracks, with a few exceptions only passable for infantry, whilst the carriage roads are in the valleys. The enemy can only appear there at certain points with infantry; but in these mountain masses the distances are too great for any effective fire of small arms, and therefore a position in the valleys is less dangerous than it appears. At the same time, the valley defence is exposed to another great danger, that of being cut off. The enemy can, it is true, only descend into the valley with infantry, at certain points, slowly and with great exertion; he cannot, therefore, take us by surprise; but none of the positions we have in the valley defend the outlets of such paths into the valley. The enemy can, therefore, bring down large masses gradually, then spread out, and burst through the thin and from that moment weak line, which, perhaps, has nothing more for its protection than the rocky bed of a shallow mountain-stream. But now retreat, which must always be made piecemeal in a valley, until the outlet from the mountains is reached, is impossible for many parts of the line of troops; and that was the reason that the Austrians in Switzerland almost always lost a third, or a half of their troops taken prisoners.—

Now a few words on the usual way of dividing troops in such a method of defence.

Each of the subordinate positions is in relation with a position taken up by the principal body of troops, more or less in the centre of the whole line, on the principal road of approach. From this central position, other corps are detached right and left to occupy the most important points of approach, and thus the whole is disposed in a line, as it were, of three, four, five, six posts, &c. How far this fractioning and extension of the line shall be carried, must depend on the requirements of each individual case. An extent of a couple of marches, that is, six to eight miles is of moderate length, and we have seen it carried as far as twenty or thirty miles.

Between each of these separate posts, which are one or two leagues from each other, there will probably be some approaches of inferior importance, to which afterwards attention must be directed. Some very good posts for a couple of battalions each are selected, which form a good connection between the chief posts, and they are occupied. It is easy to see that the distribution of the force may be carried still further, and go down to posts occupied only by single companies and squadrons; and this has often happened. There are, therefore, in this no general limits to the extent of fractioning. On the other hand, the strength of each post must depend on the strength of the whole; and therefore we can say nothing as to the possible or natural degree which should be observed with regard to the strength of the principal posts. We shall only append, as a guide, some maxims which are drawn from experience and the nature of the case.

 

1. The more lofty and inaccessible the mountains are, so much the further this separation of divisions of the force not only may be, but also must be, carried; for the less any portion of a country can be kept secure by combinations dependent on the movement of troops, so much the more must the security be obtained by direct covering. The defence of the Alps requires a much greater division of force, and therefore approaches nearer to the cordon system, than the defence of the Vosges or the Giant mountains.

2. Hitherto, wherever defence of mountains has taken place, such a division of the force employed has been made that the chief posts have generally consisted of only one line of infantry, and in a second line, some squadrons of cavalry; at all events, only the chief post established in the centre has perhaps had some battalions in a second line.

3. A strategic reserve, to reinforce any point attacked, has very seldom been kept in rear, because the extension of front made the line feel too weak already in all parts. On this account the support which a post attacked has received, has generally been furnished from other posts in the line not themselves attacked.

4. Even when the division of the forces has been relatively moderate, and the strength of each single post considerable, the principal resistance has been always confined to a local defence; and if once the enemy succeeded in wresting a post, it has been impossible to recover it by any supports afterwards arriving.

 

How much, according to this, may be expected from mountain defence, in what cases this means may be used, how far we can and may go in the extension and fractioning of the forces—these are all questions which theory must leave to the tact of the general. It is enough if it tells him what these means really are, and what rôle they can perform in the active operations of the army.

A general who allows himself to be beaten in an extended mountain position deserves to be brought before a court martial.

Saturday 5 December 2020

Good Reading: "A Bruxa e os Dois Ladranzões – um conto português" by José Thiesen (in Portuguese)

 Isso foi no tempo do rei velho: dois ladrões chegaram a uma vila e ouviram falar duma velha que vivia sozinha num ermo e que, murmuravam todos, era dona de grandes haveres.

Como poderiam resistir os meliantes a roubar uma velha que pouca ou nenhuma defesa poderia oferecer?

Tarde da noite, entraram na casa por um janelo e puseram-se a vasculhar cada gaveta, cada armário, cada canto, mas sem achar traço de tesoiro algum. Foi uma busca longa e meticulosa que acabou por eles perceberem que começaram a busca com cuidado e, menos achando, mais foram tomados por ansiedade, ficando descuidados e a fazer muito barulho. Como faltasse apenas o quarto da velha, perceberam que ela não estava em casa. Mas onde estaria uma velha, tão tarde da noite?

Entraram no quarto, que encontraram vazio e recomeçaram sua busca.

Um deles encontrou, em baixo dum escano, estranha taça cheia dum denso líquido ocra. Isso os fez imaginar que a velha era uma bruxa, que aquele viscoso líquido era algum unguento mágico.

Cheios de curiosidade sobre que efeito teria o líquido na taça, despiram-se e uma vez nus, esfregaram o conteúdo da taça em seus corpos. Tão logo cobriram o corpo todo, uma força invisível os ergueu no ar e, muito aos trambolhões, levou-os para fora da casa e, fora, alçou-os aos ares até os deixar no cimo do campanário da igreja da aldeia de onde vieram.

No dia seguinte, os aldeães sairam para trabalhar e viram os dois homens nus mal equilibrados lá no alto.

Riam os da aldeia enquanto gritavam em desespero os dois vilões: tirem-nos daqui!

Enquanto uns procuravam uma escada, outros lhes perguntavam: mas como parastes aí?

Mas os dois pelados nada responderam, com medo de confessar que tentaram roubar alguém do casal. Nem eles acusaram a bruxa, nem a bruxa acusou a eles.

Friday 4 December 2020

Friday's Sung: "Com que Roupa?" by Noel Rosa (in Portuguese)

 Agora vou mudar minha conduta
Eu vou pra luta pois eu quero me aprumar
Vou tratar você com a força bruta
Pra poder me reabilitar
Pois esta vida não está sopa

E eu pergunto: com que roupa?
Com que roupa que eu vou
Pro samba que você me convidou?
Com que roupa que eu vou
Pro samba que você me convidou?

Agora eu não ando mais fagueiro
Pois o dinheiro não é fácil de ganhar
Mesmo eu sendo um cabra trapaceiro
Não consigo ter nem pra gastar
Eu já corri de vento em popa

Mas agora com que roupa?
Com que roupa que eu vou
Pro samba que você me convidou?
Com que roupa que eu vou
Pro samba que você me convidou?

Eu hoje estou pulando como sapo
Pra ver se escapo desta praga de urubu
Já estou coberto de farrapo
Eu vou acabar ficando nu
Meu terno já virou estopa

E eu nem sei mais com que roupa
Com que roupa que eu vou
Pro samba que você me convidou?
Com que roupa que eu vou
Pro samba que você me convidou?


Uou can listen "Com que Roupa?" sung by Noel Rosa here.

Thursday 3 December 2020

Thursday's Serial: "Le Comte de Chanteleine - épisode de la Révolution" by Jules Verne (in French) - II

 III. — La Traversée.

Kernan, comme il venait de le dire, n’était pas embarrassé de conduire une chaloupe ; il avait fait ses preuves comme pêcheur pendant sa jeunesse, et les côtes de Bretagne lui étaient familières depuis la pointe du Croisic jusqu’au cap Finistère. Pas un rocher qu’il ne connût, pas une anse, pas une baie qu’il n’eût fréquentée ! Il savait ses heures de marée et ne craignait ni écueil ni haut-fond.

Cette barque que montaient les deux fugitifs était une chaloupe de pêche fine et basse de l’arrière, mais relevée de l’avant, et merveilleusement disposée pour tenir la mer, même par les gros temps ; elle portait deux voiles de couleur rouge, une misaine et un taille-vent.

Le pont qui régnait dans toute sa longueur n’offrait qu’une seule ouverture destinée à l’homme de la barre ; elle pouvait donc passer impunément au milieu des vagues, ce qui lui arrivait souvent, quand elle allait pêcher la sardine par le travers de Belle-Île, et qu’elle revenait ensuite chercher l’entrée de la Loire pour la remonter jusqu’à Nantes.

Kernan et le comte n’étaient pas trop de deux pour la manœuvrer. Mais une fois la voilure installée, la barque fila grand largue.

Le vent de surouë aidant, elle volait sur les flots avec rapidité. Bien que la brise fût très-forte, le Breton n’avait pas voulu prendre un seul ris dans ses voiles, qui s’inclinaient parfois jusqu’à mouiller leurs ralingues ; mais, soit d’un coup de barre audacieux, soit en filant un peu de son écoute, Kernan relevait la barque et la rejetait dans le vent.

À cinq heures du matin, elle passait entre Belle-Île et cette presqu’île de Quiberon qui, quelques mois plus tard, allait être inondée du sang français, à la honte de l’Angleterre.

Quelques provisions de poisson fumé formaient l’approvisionnement de la chaloupe ; les deux fugitifs purent donc prendre un peu de nourriture ; ils n’avaient pas mangé depuis plus de quinze heures.

Pendant les premiers moments de cette traversée, le comte de Chanteleine demeura taciturne ; il était en proie à une violente émotion. Son esprit mêlait confusément les scènes du passé à celles qu’il prévoyait dans l’avenir. Au moment où il courait au secours de sa femme et de sa fille, celles-ci lui apparaissaient de plus en plus menacées. Il discutait les chances d’un malheur possible, et il cherchait à se rappeler les dernières nouvelles qu’il avait reçues du château.

— Ce Karval, dit-il enfin à Kernan, est bien connu dans le pays, et certes, s’il y reparaissait, les habitants du château le recevraient fort mal.

— Certes ! répondit le Breton, et on ne manquerait pas de lui faire un mauvais parti. Mais si le gueux y vient, il n’y viendra pas seul, et d’ailleurs, rien que sur une dénonciation de sa part, on peut arrêter Mme la comtesse et ma nièce Marie. Deux pauvres femmes inoffensives ! Quel temps que celui où nous vivons !

— Oui, terrible ! Kernan, un temps où la colère de Dieu ne nous épargne guère, mais il faut se soumettre à sa volonté. Heureux ceux qui, sans famille, n’ont à craindre que pour eux seuls ! Nous autres, Kernan, nous luttons, nous nous défendons, nous nous battons pour la sainte cause ! Mais nos mères, nos sœurs, nos filles, nos femmes ne peuvent que pleurer et prier.

— Heureusement, nous sommes là, répondit Kernan, et, avant d’arriver jusqu’à elles, il faudra nous passer sur le corps. Quoi qu’il en soit, notre maître, vous avez bien fait de laisser Madame et Mademoiselle à Chanteleine ; les courageuses femmes voulaient vous suivre, et faire la campagne tout comme Mme de Lescure, Mme de Donnissant et tant d’autres ! mais au prix de quelles souffrances et de quelles misères !

— Et cependant, répliqua le comte, je regrette de ne pas les avoir à mes côtés ! Je les saurais en sûreté, et, depuis les menaces de ce Karval, j’ai peur.

— Oh ! demain matin, si le vent nous protège, nous relèverons la côte du Finistère, et, quoi qu’il arrive, nous ne serons pas éloignés du château.

— Elles seront bien surprises de nous revoir, ces pauvres femmes, dit le comte avec un triste sourire.

— Et heureuses donc, reprit Kernan. Comme ma nièce Marie va sauter au cou de son père et dans les bras de son oncle ! Mais il ne faudra pas perdre de temps pour les mettre en lieu sûr.

— Oui, tu as raison, les Bleus ne peuvent tarder à visiter le château ; la municipalité de Quimper aura bientôt l’éveil !

— Alors, notre maître, vous savez bien ce que nous aurons à faire en arrivant au château ?

— Oui, dit le comte en poussant un soupir.

— Il n y a pas deux partis à prendre, repartit le Breton, il n’y en a qu’un.

— Et lequel ? demanda le comte.

— Réunir tout votre argent, notre maître, le mien, nous procurer un navire à tout prix et fuir en Angleterre.

— Émigrer ! dit le comte avec un accent de douleur.

— Il le faut ! répondit Kernan, il n’y a plus de sûreté dans le pays pour vous ni pour les vôtres.

— Tu as raison ! Kernan ; le comité de salut public va exercer de terribles représailles en Bretagne et en Vendée ! après avoir vaincu, il va massacrer.

— Comme vous dites ; il a déjà envoyé ses agents les plus cruels à Nantes. Il en expédiera d’autres à Quimper, à Brest, et les rivières du Finistère regorgeront bientôt de cadavres comme la Loire.

— Oui ! répondit le comte ; ma femme ! ma fille ! il faut les sauver avant toute chose ! pauvres et douces créatures !… Mais si nous émigrons, tu nous suivras, Kernan.

— Je vous rejoindrai, notre maître.

— Tu ne partiras pas avec nous ?

— Non ! il y a quelqu’un à qui je veux dire deux mots avant de quitter la Bretagne.

— Ce Karval ?

— Lui-même !

— Hé ! laisse-le, Kernan ! il n’échappera pas à la justice divine.

— Notre maître, j’ai idée qu’il commencera par la justice humaine !

Le comte connaissait l’entêtement de son serviteur, et combien il eût été difficile de déraciner ses idées de vengeance. Il se tut donc, et, père et mari, toute sa pensée se reporta sur sa femme et sur son enfant.

Ainsi son regard dévorait la côte. Il comptait les heures, les minutes, sans songer aux périls qu’une tempête lui eût fait courir. Toute l’horreur de cette guerre civile, dans laquelle les cruautés furent épouvantables de part et d’autre, lui revenait à la mémoire. Jamais sa femme et sa fille ne lui avaient paru courir autant de dangers ! Il se les représentait attaquées, emprisonnées, ou peut-être en fuite, attendant dans quelques rochers du rivage un secours inespéré, et parfois il se prenait à écouter si quelque appel ne parvenait pas à son oreille.

— N’entends-tu rien ? disait-il à Kernan.

— Non ! répondit le Breton, c’est un cri de goéland emporté dans la tempête.

La traversée. Dessin de V. Foulquier.

À dix heures du soir, Kernan reconnut le goulet de la rade de Lorient et le fort du Port-Louis, dont le feu étincelait dans l’obscurité ; il donna dans la passe entre la côte et l’île de Croix, et s’élança en pleine mer.

Le vent était toujours favorable, mais il fraîchissait avec violence ; Kernan, quoiqu’il voulût aller vite, et malgré les impatiences du comte, dut prendre tous les ris de sa misaine et de son taille-vent. Le comte se mit lui-même à la manœuvre, et la barque, sans que sa rapidité parût avoir diminué, souleva de son avant les vagues écumeuses.

Il y avait quinze heures que durait cette dangereuse navigation.

La nuit fut épouvantable ; la tempête se déchaîna ; la vue des rocs de granit sur lesquels déferlait le ressac était faite pour épouvanter les plus intrépides ; la chaloupe prit le large pour éviter les récifs qui rendent si périlleux les accores de la côte bretonne.

Les deux fugitifs ne purent trouver un seul instant de sommeil ; un faux coup de la barre, un instant d’oubli, et leur barque chavirait ; ils luttaient héroïquement et puisaient de nouvelles forces dans le souvenir des êtres chéris qu’ils allaient protéger.

Vers les quatre heures du matin, l’ouragan perdit un peu de sa violence, et par une éclaircie, Kernan releva dans l’est la position de Trévignon.

Il pouvait à peine parler, mais du doigt il montra au comte de Chanteleine le feu vacillant du phare. Le comte joignit ses mains glacées, comme s’il murmurait une prière.

La chaloupe donnait alors dans la baie de la Forêt, qui s’étend entre les bourgs de Concarneau et du Fouesnant.

La mer était relativement plus calme, et les vagues abritées des vents du large y brisaient moins.

Une heure après, l’embarcation vint se heurter aux rochers du cap de Coz avec une violence extrême. Le choc fut épouvantable, sans qu’il eût été possible de l’éviter, et bien que les mâts fussent à sec de toile. Le comte et Kernan, précipités dans les flots, parvinrent à gagner le rivage, tandis que la chaloupe défoncée sombrait devant leurs yeux.

— Plus de traces, dit Kernan au comte.

— Bien ! fit ce dernier.

— Et maintenant au château, répondit le Breton.

Leur traversée avait duré vingt-six heures.

 

IV. — Le Château de Chanteleine.

Le château de Chanteleine était situé à trois lieues du bourg du Fouesnant, entre Pont-Labbé et Plougastel, à moins d’une lieue de la côte de Bretagne.

Les biens composant la propriété de Chanteleine appartenaient depuis un temps immémorial à la famille du comte, l’une des plus vieilles de Bretagne. Le château ne datait que du temps de Louis XIII, mais il était empreint de cette rudesse campagnarde que les murailles de granit donnent aux édifices ; on le sentait lourd, imposant, mais indestructible comme les roches de la côte. Cependant, il n’avait ni tours, ni mâchicoulis, ni poterne, ni guérite suspendue à l’angle des murs, comme des nids d’aigle, et il n’éveillait pas l’idée de forteresse ; dans la paisible terre de Bretagne, les seigneurs n’avaient jamais eu à se défendre contre personne, pas même contre leurs vassaux.

Depuis de longues années, la famille du comte exerçait une influence féodale presque sans conteste sur le pays. Les Chanteleine furent peu courtisans, n’étant pas d’humeur souple, et ils n’allèrent pas deux fois, en trois cents ans, faire leur cour au roi ; ils se croyaient Bretons avant tout et séparés du reste de la France. Pour eux, le mariage de Louis XII et d’Anne de Bretagne n’avait jamais eu lieu, et ils en voulurent toujours à cette fière duchesse de ce qu’ils appelaient à haute voix « une mésalliance, » pis même, une trahison.

Mais s’ils régnaient chez eux, les Chanteleine pouvaient être cités comme modèles aux rois de France et leur donner des leçons de gouvernement. D’ailleurs, le résultat le prouvait sans réplique, car ils étaient et furent toujours aimés de leurs paysans.

Cette noble et estimable famille, d’humeur fort pacifique, fournit peu d’illustres capitaines ; les Chanteleine n’étaient pas nés soldats ; à une époque où endosser le harnais de guerre semblait être le premier devoir du gentilhomme, ils demeurèrent paisiblement dans leurs terres et se rendirent heureux du bonheur qu’ils créaient autour d’eux. Depuis Philippe Auguste, où la croisade, c’est-à-dire la défense de la religion, entraîna leurs ancêtres en Terre sainte, pas un Chanteleine ne revêtit l’armure ou ne ceignit le baudrier. On comprend dès lors qu’ils fussent peu connus de la Cour, à laquelle ils ne demandèrent jamais aucune faveur, ne se souciant pas de les mériter.

Leurs biens patrimoniaux, sagement administrés, avaient acquis une importance considérable.

Aussi la propriété de Chanteleine, en prés, en marais salants et en terres labourées, comptait parmi les plus considérables du pays, tout en demeurant inconnue au delà d’un rayon de cinq ou six lieues ; grâce à cette situation, et quoique les communes environnantes, le Fouesnant, Concarneau, Pont-Labbé eussent déjà reçu la sanglante visite des républicains de Brest et du Finistère, le château de Chanteleine avait échappé comme par miracle à l’attention des municipalités, quand le comte le quitta pour la première fois.

Peu guerrier de son naturel, le comte cependant déploya de grandes qualités militaires pendant cette campagne de la Vendée. Avec la foi et le courage, on est partout soldat. Le comte se conduisit en héros, lui dont le caractère paisible n’annonçait pas de telles dispositions ; en effet, les premières tendances de son esprit le dirigèrent vers la carrière ecclésiastique, et il avait passé deux ans au grand séminaire de Rennes ; il était même occupé de ses études théologiques, lorsque son mariage avec sa cousine, Mlle de La Contrie, le jeta dans une voie tout opposée.

Mais le comte ne pouvait rencontrer une plus digne compagne de sa vie. Cette jeune fille si séduisante devint une femme courageuse et dévouée. Les premières années du mariage du comte et de la comtesse, avec leur fille Marie à élever, dans cette vieille propriété de famille, au milieu de serviteurs, humbles amis vieillis au paternel service des Chanteleine, furent aussi heureuses qu’il est donné à un homme d’en passer en ce monde.

Ce bonheur rejaillissait sur tout le pays, qui vénérait son seigneur. Les habitants se croyaient plutôt les sujets du comte que ceux du roi de France, et cela se conçoit ; ils n’avaient avec ce dernier que des relations désagréables, tandis qu’en toute occasion la famille de Chanteleine leur venait en aide. Aussi ne rencontrait-on pas un malheureux dans le pays, pas un mendiant ; depuis un temps immémorial, aucun crime n’avait été commis dans cette partie reculée de la Bretagne. On comprend donc l’effet que produisit le vol de ce Karval, un Breton cependant, entré depuis deux ans au service du comte, quand celui-ci fut obligé de le chasser du château. En agissant ainsi, d’ailleurs, le comte ne fit que prévenir la justice des paysans, qui n’auraient pas souffert un voleur dans le pays.

Ce Karval était bien un Breton, mais un Breton qui avait voyagé, vu du pays, et sans doute de vilains exemples avec ; on disait qu’il avait visité Paris, que ces paysans regardaient comme un endroit chimérique, et même, les plus superstitieux, comme l’antichambre de l’enfer ; il fallait bien qu’il y eût quelque chose de cela, puisque le seul d’entre eux à y avoir hasardé le pied en revint mauvais et criminel.

Cette affaire, qui fit un si grand scandale, s’était passée deux ans auparavant, et Karval avait quitté le pays en proférant des menaces de vengeance. On en haussa les épaules.

Mais ce que l’on pouvait mépriser de la part d’un voleur obscur méritait attention, quand ce voleur fut devenu un des agents bas et terribles du comité de salut public. Aussi le comte, en pressant sa marche vers le château, commençait à soupçonner de sinistres événements auxquels les paroles de Karval avaient fait allusion. Cependant, la bonté de sa femme devait être une sauvegarde pour elle ; en effet, pendant vingt années de sa vie, de 1773 à 1793, Mme de Chanteleine se consacra tout entière au bonheur de ceux qui l’approchaient. Elle savait qu’elle rendait son mari heureux en faisant le bien. Aussi la voyait-on sans cesse au chevet des malades, recueillant les vieillards, faisant instruire les enfants, fondant des écoles, et plus tard, quand Marie atteignit l’âge de quinze ans, elle l’associa à toutes ses bonnes œuvres.

Cette mère et cette fille, unies dans un même esprit de charité, et accompagnées de l’abbé Fermont, le chapelain du château, couraient les villages de la côte, depuis la baie de la Forêt jusqu’à la pointe du Raz ; elles consolaient et répandaient leurs délicates aumônes sur ces familles de pêcheurs si souvent éprouvées par les tempêtes.

— Notre maîtresse, l’appelaient les paysans.

— Notre bonne dame, disaient les paysannes.

— Notre bonne mère, répétaient les enfants.

On comprend donc combien Kernan devait être envié de tous, lui que Marie appelait son oncle, lui qui la nommait sa nièce, lui, le propre frère de lait du comte.

Lorsque celui-ci quitta le château après le soulèvement de Saint-Florent, ce fut sa première absence du foyer domestique, la première séparation du comte et de la comtesse ; elle fut douloureuse, mais Humbert de Chanteleine, emporté par le sentiment du devoir, partit, et sa courageuse femme ne put qu’approuver son départ.

Pendant les premiers mois de la guerre, les deux époux eurent souvent des nouvelles l’un de l’autre par des émissaires dévoués ; mais le comte ne put abandonner un seul jour l’armée catholique pour venir embrasser les siens ; des événements impérieux le clouèrent toujours à son poste ; depuis dix longs mois, il n’avait pas revu sa chère famille ; depuis trois mois même, depuis les désastres de Grandville, du Mans, de Chollet, il était sans nouvelles du château.

Son inquiétude se comprend donc, quand, accompagné de son fidèle Kernan, il revint vers le domaine de ses aïeux. On devine avec quelle émotion il mit le pied sur la côte du Fouesnant. Il n’était plus qu’à deux heures des embrassements de sa femme et des baisers de sa fille.

— Allons, Kernan, marchons, dit-il.

— Marchons ! répondit le Breton, et vite, cela nous réchauffera. Un quart d’heure après, le maître et le serviteur traversèrent le bourg du Fouesnant, encore profondément endormi, et prirent le long du cimetière, dévasté pendant la dernière visite des Bleus.

Car les gens du Fouesnant avaient donné des premiers contre la Révolution, à propos des prêtres jureurs qui leur furent envoyés par les municipalités ; le 19 juillet 1792, trois cents d’entre eux, conduits par leur juge de paix, Alain Nedelec, se battirent dans le bourg même contre les gardes nationaux de Quimper. Ils furent écrasés ; les vainqueurs firent paître leurs chevaux dans le cimetière, et bivouaquèrent au milieu de l’église ; le lendemain, trois charretées de vaincus rentraient à Quimper, et le premier martyr de la Bretagne, Alain Nedelec, étrennait le nouvel instrument de mort, que les administrateurs bretons appelaient la « machine à décapiter », et sur laquelle le procureur général syndic leur adressait de sa main des instructions soigneusement détaillées touchant la manière de s’en servir. Depuis, le bourg ne s’était pas relevé de sa défaite.

— On voit que les Bleus ont passé par là, dit Kernan ! des ruines et des profanations !…

Le comte ne répondit pas, et prit à travers ces longues plaines qui venaient mourir à la mer. Il était alors six heures du matin ; un froid assez vif avait succédé à la pluie ; la terre était dure ; il faisait très-obscur encore sur les landes désertes et les vastes champs d’ajoncs rebelles à toute culture ; les flaques d’eau avaient été saisies par la gelée, et les broussailles, revêtues de blanc, paraissaient pétrifiées.

À mesure que les fugitifs s’éloignaient de la mer, quelques arbres amaigris se voyaient de loin en loin, et, courbés sous les violentes rafales de l’ouest, ils dressaient à l’horizon leur squelette blanchâtre.

Bientôt aux plaines succédèrent des champs de blé noir, fortifiés de douves, de fossés, et séparés par des rangées de chênes trapus ; il fallait gagner à travers ces champs, et franchir des barrières pivotantes, équilibrées par une grosse pierre et tout embroussaillées d’épine sèche. Kernan les ouvrait devant le comte, et, au choc de l’échalier qui se refermait, les branches des arbres laissaient tomber une grêle blanche qui crépitait sur le sol.

Alors le comte et son compagnon s’élançaient par les étroites sentes piétinées entre les sillons et la haie des champs ; il y avait des instants où ils couraient malgré eux.

Vers sept heures, le jour commença à poindre ; le château n’était pas à une demi-lieue. Le pays paraissaient tranquille et désert, et même d’une tranquillité suspecte. Le comte ne put s’empêcher de remarquer ce singulier silence de la campagne :

— Pas un paysan, pas un cheval allant au pré ! dit-il d’un air inquiet.

— Il est encore grand matin, répondit Kernan, également frappé de la physionomie du pays, mais qui ne voulait pas effrayer le comte. On se lève tard en décembre !

En ce moment, ils pénétrèrent dans un grand bois de hauts sapins ; cette vaste sapinière, toujours verte, appartenant à la propriété du comte, s’apercevait de loin en mer.

Une foule de pommes sèches, grisâtres, et non écorcées, couvraient la terre au milieu des branches mortes à peau rugueuse ; il ne semblait pas que depuis longtemps un pied humain eût foulé le sol ; chaque année cependant, les enfants des villages environnants venaient ramasser toutes ces pommes de pin avec grande joie, et les ménagères y faisaient une provision de bois, que le comte leur abandonnait généreusement.

Or, cette année, les pauvres n’avaient pas fait leur récolte habituelle, et cette moisson de branches et de pommes sèches était encore intacte.

— Tu vois, dit le comte au Breton, ils ne sont pas venus ! ni les femmes ! ni les enfants !

Kernan secoua la tête sans répondre, il sentait quelque chose d’inquiétant dans l’air. Son cœur battait à se rompre dans sa poitrine. Il allongea le pas.

À mesure que les deux compagnons de route s’avançaient, des lièvres, des lapins, des perdrix se levaient en grand nombre sous leurs pas, en trop grand nombre même !… Évidemment les chasseurs avaient été rares cette année, et cependant chassait qui voulait sur les terres du comte.

Il y avait donc là des symptômes d’abandon et de délaissement qu’on ne pouvait méconnaître. La figure du comte pâlissait malgré le froid intense de cette matinée d’hiver.

— Enfin ! le château ! s’écria le Breton en montrant la pointe des deux tourelles qui perçait au-dessus d’un massif éloigné.

En ce moment, le comte et Kernan étaient près de la ferme de la Bordière, tenue par l’un des métayers du comte ; au tournant du bois, on allait l’apercevoir ; Louis Hégonec, le métayer, était un homme actif, matinal, assez bruyant dans ses travaux, et pourtant on ne l’entendait pas chanter en harnachant ses bœufs ou ses chevaux, ni même crier dans sa cour après sa vieille femme.

Non, rien ! Un silence de mort régnait partout ; le comte, saisi de terribles pressentiments, fut forcé de s’appuyer sur le bras de son fidèle Breton.

Au détour du bois, leurs regards se portèrent vivement vers la métairie.

Un spectacle horrible frappa leurs yeux. Quelques pans de murs ébranlés, avec des bouts de poutre noircis, l’extrémité d’un faîtage calciné, des restes de cheminées juchés au sommet d’un pignon, d’étroits sentiers de suie qui serpentaient sur les murailles, des portes brisées, et des gonds sortant comme des poings menaçants de l’interstice des pierres, toutes les traces d’un incendie récent apparurent à la fois. La ferme avait été brûlée ; les arbres portaient les traces d’une lutte violente ; des empreintes de coups de hache sur les portes, des éraflures de balles sur les vieux troncs de chêne, des instruments de labourage brisés, tordus, des charrettes culbutées, des roues dépourvues de leurs jantes, attestaient la violence de la bataille ; les cadavres d’animaux, de vaches, de chevaux abandonnés, infectaient l’air !

Le comte sentit ses jambes fléchir sous lui.

— Les Bleus ! toujours les Bleus ! répéta Kernan d’une voix sourde.

— Au château ! s’écria le comte en poussant un cri terrible.

Et cet homme qui, tout à l’heure, se soutenait à peine, Kernan avait maintenant de la peine à le suivre.

Pendant cette course, pas un être humain n’apparut dans les chemins défoncés ; le pays était non pas désert, mais déserté.

Le comte traversa le village. La plupart des maisons étaient brûlées ; quelques-unes encore debout, mais vides. Pour que ce pays fût ainsi dépeuplé, il fallait qu’un souffle de vengeance eût passé sur lui.

— Oh ! Karval ! Karval ! murmurait le Breton entre ses dents.

Enfin, le comte et Kernan arrivèrent devant la porte du château ; l’incendie l’avait respecté ; mais il demeurait sombre, silencieux ; pas une cheminée qui lançât dans l’air son panache de fumée matinale.

Le comte et Kernan se précipitèrent vers la porte, et s’arrêtèrent épouvantés.

— Vois ! vois ! dit le comte.

Une affiche énorme était collée sur l’un des montants ; elle portait en tête l’œil de la loi, des faisceaux de piques et de rameaux surmontés du bonnet phrygien. D’un côté se trouvait la description du domaine, de l’autre son évaluation.

Le château de Chanteleine, confisqué par la République, était à vendre.

— Les misérables ! s’écria Kernan.

Il essaya d’ébranler la porte ; mais, malgré sa force prodigieuse, il ne put y parvenir. Elle résistait obstinément ; le comte de Chanteleine ne pouvait pas même se reposer un instant dans le manoir de ses ancêtres ! sa propre porte restait fermée pour lui. Il était en proie au plus affreux désespoir !

— Ma femme ! ma fille ! s’écriait-il avec un accent impossible à rendre ! Où est ma femme ? mon enfant ? ils les ont tuées ! ils les ont tuées !…

De grosses larmes roulèrent sur les joues de Kernan, qui tâchait en vain de consoler son maître.

— Il est inutile, dit-il enfin, de nous obstiner devant cette porte qui ne s’ouvrira pas !…

— Où sont-elles ? où sont-elles ? criait le comte.

En ce moment, une vieille femme, blottie dans le fossé, se leva tout d’un coup. Elle eût fait mal à voir à des yeux moins consternés ; sa tête d’idiote remuait stupidement.

Le comte courut à elle.

— Où est ma femme ? dit-il.

Après de longs efforts, la vieille répondit :

— Morte dans l’attaque du château !

— Morte ! s’écria le comte avec un rugissement.

— Et ma nièce ? demanda Kernan en secouant violemment la vieille femme.

— Dans les prisons de Quimper ! dit enfin celle-ci.

— Qui a fait cela ? demanda Kernan avec un accent terrible.

— Karval ! répondit la vieille femme.

— À Quimper ! s’écria le comte. Viens, Kernan, viens !

Et ils quittèrent cette malheureuse, qui, seule, presque à son dernier souffle, représentait tout ce qui restait de vivant au bourg de Chanteleine.

 

V. — Quimper en 1793.

Quimper avait vu tomber la première tête sous la hache républicaine, celle d’Alain Nedelec, et le clergé breton compta dans cette ville son premier martyr, l’évêque Conan de Saint-Luc. Depuis ce jour, Quimper fut livré à l’arbitraire des républicains et de la municipalité.

Il faut dire que les Bretons des villes se distinguèrent par leur furie républicaine ; ils furent hardis à se jeter dans le mouvement national ; ces énergiques natures ne connurent aucune borne dans le bien ni dans le mal ; aussi les premiers héros du 10 août, qui envahirent les Tuileries et suspendirent le roi Louis XVI, furent-ils les fédérés de Brest, de Morlaix, de Quimper, levés à la voix de l’Assemblée législative, quand le 11 juillet 1792, en présence de la Prusse, du Piémont et de l’Autriche, coalisés contre la France, elle déclara « la patrie en danger. »

Aussi leurs services furent si bien appréciés, que le club breton de Paris forma le noyau du futur club des Jacobins ; et, plus tard, la section du faubourg Saint-Marceau prit, pour leur faire honneur, le titre de section du Finistère.

Quimper, entre autres, fut une des villes les plus agitées, ce qu’on n’eût guère attendu de ce chef-lieu enfoui au fond de la basse Bretagne. Les amis de la constitution s’y fondèrent et siégèrent dans l’ancienne chapelle des Cordeliers. Les clubs s’y multiplièrent, et plus tard ce fut l’un d’eux qui décréta que les nourrissons quitteraient le sein de leur nourrice pour venir écouter les cris de Vive la Montagne ! et que les enfants apprendraient à parler en bégayant la Déclaration des droits de l’homme.

Cependant, quand les administrateurs de Quimper, Kergariou en tête, virent la tournure des choses et où allait la révolution, ils voulurent enrayer le mouvement ; ils interdirent certains journaux, tels que l’Ami du peuple de Marat ; la commune de Paris envoya alors pour les mettre à la raison un proconsul ; mais à son arrivée, les Quimperrois l’emprisonnèrent au fort du Taureau, et protestèrent plus énergiquement encore que les Girondins de Paris contre les Montagnards de la Convention ; ils envoyèrent même avec Nantes deux cents volontaires à Paris pour appuyer leur protestation à main armée, ce qui amena un décret d’accusation en masse contre les administrations de la Bretagne. Mais, après la mort de Louis XVI, après l’exécution des Girondins, quand la France fut prise de vertige, lorsque le régime de la Terreur s’établit, les républicains réactionnaires de la Bretagne furent débordés.

Cependant, si les habitants des villes avaient donné dans le mouvement, les campagnes se signalèrent tout d’abord par leur résistance à l’installation des prêtres assermentés ; ils les chassèrent honteusement ; puis, quand arriva la loi du recrutement, il devint très-difficile de contenir les paysans du Finistère, ceux du Morbihan, de la Loire-Inférieure et des Côtes-du-Nord. Le général Canclaux put à peine les dompter avec son armée et les milices municipales. Il dut même, le 19 mars, livrer, à Saint-Pol-de-Léon, une bataille rangée.

Le comité de salut public résolut d’agir alors avec la plus extrême rigueur contre les villes et contre les campagnes. Il envoya deux délégués, Guermeur et Julien, qui organisèrent le sans-culotisme dans la Bretagne et à Quimper surtout.

Avec eux, ces proconsuls apportaient la loi des suspects de septembre 1793, cette œuvre de Merlin, de Douai, qui était libellée en ces termes :

« Sont réputés suspects :

« 1° Ceux qui, soit par leur conduite, soit par leurs relations, par leurs propos ou leurs écrits, se sont montrés partisans de la tyrannie, du fédéralisme et ennemis de la liberté.

« 2° Ceux qui ne pourront pas justifier de leur manière d’exister et de l’acquit de leurs droits civiques.

« 3° Ceux à qui il a été refusé des certificats de civisme.

« 4° Les fonctionnaires publics, suspendus ou destitués de leurs fonctions.

« 5° Ceux des ci-devant nobles, ensemble les maris, femmes, pères, mères, fils ou filles, frères ou sœurs, et agents d’émigrés qui n’ont pas constamment manifesté leur attachement à la révolution. »

Armés de cette loi, les délégués du comité de salut public étaient maîtres du département. Qui pouvait espérer d’échapper à ces mesures révolutionnaires ? Il n’était personne qui ne tombât plus ou moins directement sous le coup de ces terribles articles. Aussi, les représailles allèrent bon train, et le Finistère tout entier fut livré à la plus extrême terreur.

Guermeur et Julien étaient accompagnés d’un sous-agent du comité, d’un infime personnage, qui n’était autre que ce Karval, ce maudit promis à la vengeance de Kernan.

Ce misérable s’était produit à Paris, et fait remarquer dans les clubs ; il s’était glissé dans les rangs des terroristes, et accompagnait les délégués, comme connaissant plus particulièrement le département du Finistère.

Il y venait en réalité exercer ses plus basses vengeances contre le pays qui l’avait chassé. Armé de cette loi des suspects, il ne lui était pas difficile d’atteindre la famille de Chanteleine.

Aussi, le lendemain de son arrivée à Quimper, il se mit en devoir d’agir.

Ce Karval était un homme de taille moyenne, porteur de l’une de ces mauvaises figures que la haine, la bassesse et la méchanceté ont faites peu à peu ; chaque vice nouveau s’y imprégnait et y laissait ses stigmates ; il ne manquait pas d’intelligence, mais, à le voir, on sentait que ce devait être un lâche. Comme beaucoup de ces héros de la révolution, il fut sanguinaire par peur, mais, par peur aussi il restait inflexible, et rien ne pouvait le toucher.

Une rue de Quimper, le 6 nivôse an II. Dessin de V. Foulquier.

Le lendemain de son arrivée, le 14 septembre, il alla trouver Guermeur :

— Citoyen, dit-il, il me faut cent hommes de la milice.

— Qu’en veux-tu faire ? demanda Guermeur.

— J’ai une tournée à opérer dans mon pays.

— Où cela ?

— Du côté de Chanleleine, entre Plougastel et Pont-l’Abbé. Je connais là un nid de Vendéens !

— Es-tu certain de ce que tu avances ?

— Certain. Demain, je t’amène le père et la mère.

— Ne laisse pas échapper les petits ! répliqua en riant le farouche proconsul.

— Sois tranquille ! ça me connaît. J’ai déniché des merles autrefois, et je veux leur apprendre à siffler le Ça ira !

— Va donc ! dit Guermeur en signant l’ordre que Karval demandait.

— Salut et fraternité ! dit Karval en se retirant.

Le lendemain, il se mit en marche avec son détachement, composé des forcenés de la ville ; le jour même il arrivait à Chanteleine.

Les paysans, à la vue de Karval qu’ils connaissaient bien, livrèrent un combat désespéré ; ils comprirent qu’il fallait vaincre ou mourir, mais ils furent vaincus, après avoir voulu défendre leur bonne dame.

La comtesse de Chanteleine, entre sa fille, l’abbé de Fermont et ses serviteurs, attendait dans les transes les plus vives l’issue de la bataille.

Elle la connut bientôt. Les miliciens de Quimper s’emparèrent du château. Karval, à leur tête, s’élança dans ses appartements en criant :

— Mort aux nobles ! mort aux Blancs ! mort aux Vendéens !

La comtesse, éperdue, voulut fuir, mais elle n’en eut pas le temps. Les forcenés arrivèrent jusqu’à elle dans la chapelle du château, où elle s’était réfugiée.

— Arrêtez cette femme et sa fille, femme et fille de brigand ! s’écria Karval, ivre de sang et de joie, et ce calotin, ajouta-t-il en désignant l’abbé de Fermont.

Marie s’était évanouie dans les bras de sa mère, à laquelle on l’arracha.

— Et ton mari, le comte ? demanda Karval d’une voix féroce.

La comtesse le regarda fièrement sans répondre.

— Et Kernan ? s’écria-t-il.

Même silence. Sa rage fut grande alors de voir que ces deux hommes lui échappaient, et dans sa colère, il frappa la comtesse d’un coup mortel ; la malheureuse femme tomba en jetant un dernier regard d’angoisse sur sa fille. Karval chercha, fouilla, mais en vain.

— Ils sont à l’armée des brigands, s’écria-t-il. Bon ! je les retrouverai !

Puis, s’adressant à ses hommes :

— Emmenez cette fille, dit-il, c’est toujours ça !

Marie, inanimée, fut mise en compagnie de l’abbé de Fermont, au milieu des paysans arrêtés ; on leur attacha les mains ; on les parqua comme des bestiaux, et ils furent emmenés.

Le lendemain, Karval ramenait ses prisonniers à Guermeur.

— Et le mâle ? fit Guermeur en riant.

— Envolé ! mais sois tranquille, répondit Karval avec un hideux sourire, je le repincerai.

Marie de Chanteleine et ses malheureux compagnons furent jetés pêle-mêle dans les prisons de la ville ; la jeune fille ne retrouva sa connaissance qu’entre les murs de son cachot.

Mais les prisons, finissaient par devenir trop étroites ; aussi travailla-t-on à les vider, et l’instrument de mort fonctionna sans relâche sur la grande place de Quimper. Il fut même question de l’installer dans le prétoire du tribunal pour aller plus vite.

On sait comment procédait, dans ces temps de terreur, la justice révolutionnaire, quelles formalités étaient remplies et quelles garanties entouraient les accusés.

Le tour de la malheureuse jeune fille ne pouvait tarder à venir.

Voilà ce qui s’était passé depuis ces deux mois pendant lesquels le comte de Chanteleine avait été sans nouvelles de sa femme et de sa fille ; voilà de quelles épouvantables scènes son château fut le théâtre.

Alors Kernan comprit cet air de vengeance satisfaite que respirait la figure de Karval, quand, au milieu de la mêlée, il lui lança ces paroles terribles :

— On t’attend au château de Chanteleine !…

Aussi, tout en marchant, en soutenant son maître que ce désastre abattait, il murmurait :

— Karval, je serai sans pitié ! sans pitié !…

Il était près de huit heures quand le comte et Kernan quittèrent le château ; ni la faim, ni la fatigue ne purent les arrêter un seul instant. Ils se jetèrent à travers champs, et une dernière fois, en se retournant, le Breton aperçut derrière les arbres dépouillés les murs du château de ses maîtres.

Alors le fidèle serviteur guida le comte presque fou de douleur ; il se chargea d’avoir du courage et de l’intelligence pour deux ; afin d’éviter toute mauvaise rencontre, il prit par les chemins de traverse, et rejoignit bientôt la grande route de Concarneau à Quimper au village de Kerroland.

Le comte et Kernan ne se trouvaient plus qu’à deux lieues et demie de Quimper, et du pas dont ils marchaient, ils devaient y arriver avant dix heures du matin.

— Où est-elle ?… où est ma fille ?… murmurait le comte, qui eût fait pitié aux cœurs les plus endurcis. — Morte ! morte !… comme sa pauvre mère !

De lugubres visions lui venaient à l’esprit ; et si épouvantables, que, pour les dissiper, il se prenait à courir comme si la vision n’eût pas été en lui.

Kernan ne le quittait pas ; il le suivait dans ses bonds insensés, et le forçait même à se jeter dans les halliers, quand quelque passant apparaissait au loin sur la route. Tout homme devenait dangereux en pareille circonstance, et dans l’état d’agitation où il se trouvait, le comte se fût dénoncé lui-même.

Certes, le Breton souffrait autant que son maître, mais il méditait en même temps des projets de vengeance auxquels celui-ci ne songeait pas. Sa douleur était mélangée d’une immense somme de colère. Puis il réfléchissait et se posait des questions auxquelles il ne pouvait répondre. — Qu’allait faire le comte à la ville ?

Si son enfant était emprisonnée, réussirait-il à la ravoir ? La justice révolutionnaire ne rendait jamais sa proie, et le comte lui-même serait arrêté à la moindre démarche suspecte.

Donc, sans plan arrêté, sans idée préconçue, ces deux hommes allaient comme à l’aventure, mais poussés par une invincible puissance.

Suivant les prévisions de Kernan, avant dix heures ils arrivèrent aux faubourgs de Quimper. Les rues étaient à peu près désertes, mais on pouvait entendre au loin une sorte de murmure funeste. Toute la population semblait s’être accumulée vers le centre de la ville. Kernan prit donc hardiment par les rues en contenant son maître, qui répétait à voix basse :

— Ma fille ! mon enfant !

Le père souffrait en lui plus encore que le mari, dont la douleur était sans remède.

Après une marche de dix minutes, le maître et le serviteur arrivèrent à l’une des rues qui avoisinent la cathédrale ; là ils se trouvèrent en queue d’un fort rassemblement.

Il y avait des gens qui vociféraient, qui hurlaient ; d’autres, effrayés, regagnaient leurs maisons dont ils fermaient les portes et les fenêtres. On entendait des accents de douleur mêlés à des imprécations ; il y avait des visages terrifiés près de faces sanguinaires. Quelque chose de sinistre planait dans l’air.

Bientôt, au milieu du bruit, se firent entendre ces paroles :

— Les voilà ! les voilà !

Mais ni le comte, ni Kernan ne purent voir ce qui excitait la curiosité de la foule. À ces paroles d’ailleurs succédèrent immédiatement les cris longuement prolongés de :

— À bas les Blancs ! à bas les aristocrates ! vive la République !

Évidemment il se passait quelque chose d’épouvantable sur la place voisine ; au tournant de la rue, toutes les figures étaient tendues vers un même point, et la plupart, il faut le dire, reflétaient des passions inhumaines, qui venaient chercher dans ce spectacle leur cruelle satisfaction.

On entendait de temps à autre des murmures plus violents ; à un certain moment, quelque chose d’extraordinaire parut se passer sur la place, car les mots :

— Non ! pas de grâce ! pas de grâce ! prononcés, hurlés plutôt par les gens qui voyaient, refluèrent jusqu’aux derniers rangs des spectateurs.

Le visage du comte était baigné d’une sueur froide.

— Qu’est-ce qu’il y a ? se demandait-on autour de lui ; et sans savoir, par un instinct de férocité, on s’écriait :

— Pas de grâce ! pas de grâce !

Kernan et le comte voulurent se frayer à tout prix un chemin dans la foule, mais ils ne purent y parvenir ; d’ailleurs, quelques minutes après leur arrivée, ce spectacle se termina, car le populaire se prit tout d’un coup à refluer ; les bras furent agités, les figures se retournèrent, et les vociférations s’éteignirent peu à peu.

Alors des crieurs se firent jour en lançant à la foule les noms des victimes.

— Exécution du 6 nivôse de l’an II de la République ! Qui veut la liste des condamnés ?

Le comte regarda Kernan d’un œil hagard.

— Voilà ! voilà ! continuaient les crieurs, le curé Fermont !…

Le comte serra la main de Kernan à la briser.

— La demoiselle de Chanteleine !

— Ah ! fit le comte en poussant un cri épouvantable.

Mais Kernan lui mit la main sur la bouche, le reçut dans ses bras comme il s’évanouissait, et, avant que les témoins de la scène eussent pu la comprendre, il entraîna son maître dans une rue écartée.

Pendant ce temps, d’autres noms étaient jetés à la foule, et ce cri retentissait de toutes parts :

— Mort aux aristocrates !… Vive la République !…