| |
| ON the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, | |
| Did the English fight the French—woe to France! | |
| And the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue, | |
| Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, | |
| Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Rance, | 5 |
| With the English fleet in view. | |
| |
| ’T was the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase; | |
| First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville; | |
| Close on him fled, great and small, | |
| Twenty-two good ships in all; | 10 |
| And they signalled to the place, | |
| “Help the winners of a race! | |
| Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick; or, quicker still, | |
| Here ’s the English can and will!” | |
| |
| Then the pilots of the place put out brisk, and leaped on board; | 15 |
| “Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?” laughed they: | |
| Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored, | |
| Shall the ‘Formidable,’ here with her twelve-and-eighty guns, | |
| Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, | |
| Trust to enter where ’t is ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, | 20 |
| And with flow at full beside? | |
| Now ’t is slackest ebb of tide. | |
| Reach the mooring? Rather say, | |
| While rock stands, or water runs, | |
| Not a ship will leave the bay!” | 25 |
| |
| Then was called a council straight: | |
| Brief and bitter the debate. | |
| “Here ’s the English at our heels: would you have them take in tow | |
| All that ’s left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow; | |
| For a prize to Plymouth Sound? | 30 |
| Better run the ships aground!” | |
| (Ended Damfreville his speech.) | |
| “Not a minute more to wait! | |
| Let the captains all and each | |
| Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! | 35 |
| France must undergo her fate!” | |
| “Give the word!” But no such word | |
| Was ever spoke or heard: | |
| For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck, amid all these,— | |
| A captain? a lieutenant? a mate,—first, second, third? | 40 |
| No such man of mark, and meet | |
| With his betters to compete! | |
| But a simple Breton sailor, pressed by Tourville for the fleet, | |
| A poor coasting-pilot, he,—Hervé Riel, the Croisickese. | |
| |
| And “What mockery or malice have we here?” cried Hervé Riel. | 45 |
| “Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues? | |
| Talk to me of rocks and shoals?—me, who took the soundings, tell | |
| On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell, | |
| ’Twixt the offering here and Grève, where the river disembogues? | |
| Are you bought for English gold? Is it love the lying ’s for? | 50 |
| Morn and eve, night and day, | |
| Have I piloted your bay, | |
| Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor. | |
| Burn the fleet, and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues! | |
| Sirs, then know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me, there ’s a way! | 55 |
| Only let me lead the line, | |
| Have the biggest ship to steer, | |
| Get this ‘Formidable’ clear, | |
| Make the others follow mine, | |
| And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well, | 60 |
| Right to Solidor past Grève, | |
| And there lay them safe and sound; | |
| And if one ship misbehave, | |
| —Keel so much as grate the ground, | |
| Why, I’ve nothing but my life; here’s my head!” cries Hervé Riel. | 65 |
| |
| Not a minute more to wait. | |
| “Steer us in, then, small and great! | |
| Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!” cried its chief. | |
| Captains, give the sailor place! | |
| He is admiral, in brief. | 70 |
| Still the north wind, by God’s grace. | |
| See the noble fellow’s face, | |
| As the big ship, with a bound, | |
| Clears the entry like a hound, | |
| Keeps the passage, as its inch of way were the wide sea’s profound! | 75 |
| See, safe through shoal and rock, | |
| How they follow in a flock; | |
| Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, | |
| Not a spar that comes to grief! | |
| The peril, see, is past! | 80 |
| All are harbored to the last! | |
| And, just as Hervé Riel hollas “Anchor!” sure as fate, | |
| Up the English come,—too late! | |
| |
| So the storm subsides to calm; | |
| They see the green trees wave | 85 |
| On the heights o’erlooking Grève; | |
| Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. | |
| “Just our rupture to enhance, | |
| Let the English rake the bay, | |
| Gnash their teeth, and glare askance | 90 |
| As they cannonade away! | |
| ’Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on her Rance!” | |
| How hope succeeds despair on each captain’s countenance! | |
| Out burst all with one accord, | |
| “This is paradise for hell! | 95 |
| Let France, let France’s king, | |
| Thank the man that did the thing!” | |
| What a shout, and all one word, | |
| “Hervé Riel!” | |
| As he stepped in front once more; | 100 |
| Not a symptom of surprise | |
| In the frank blue Breton eyes,— | |
| Just the same man as before. | |
| |
| Then said Damfreville, “My friend, | |
| I must speak out at the end, | 105 |
| Though I find the speaking hard; | |
| Praise is deeper than the lips: | |
| You have saved the king his ships; | |
| You must name your own reward. | |
| Faith, our sun was near eclipse! | 110 |
| Demand whate’er you will, | |
| France remains your debtor still. | |
| Ask to heart’s content, and have! or my name’s not Damfreville.” | |
| |
| Then a beam of fun outbroke | |
| On the bearded mouth that spoke, | 115 |
| As the honest heart laughed through | |
| Those frank eyes of Breton blue: | |
| “Since I needs must say my say, | |
| Since on board the duty’s done, | |
| And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?— | 120 |
| Since ’t is ask and have, I may; | |
| Since the others go ashore,— | |
| Come! A good whole holiday! | |
| Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!” | |
| That he asked, and that he got,—nothing more. | 125 |
| |
| Name and deed alike are lost; | |
| Not a pillar nor a post | |
| In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; | |
| Not a head in white and black | |
| On a single fishing-smack | 130 |
| In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack | |
| All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell. | |
| Go to Paris; rank on rank | |
| Search the heroes flung pell-mell | |
| On the Louvre, face and flank; | 135 |
| You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel. | |
| So, for better and for worse, | |
| Hervé Riel, accept my verse! | |
| In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once more | |
| Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife the Belle Aurore! | 140 |
| |
