The Pilgrim's Shell; Or, Fergan the Quarryman: A Tale from the Feudal Times

"Did you show mercy to my brother Gerhard, whose eyes were put out by your orders?" cried a communier, seizing the prelate by the collar and shaking him with fury. "Infamous criminal! Did you have pity for him?"

"Did you have mercy for my friend Robert of the Mill, who was stabbed to death by Black John?" added another insurgent. And the two accusers seized the prelate, who quietly allowed himself to be dragged upon his knees, "You shall die in the face of the sun that has witnessed your crimes!"

Overwhelmed with blows and insults, Gaudry was pushed out of the storeroom. In vain did he cry: "Have pity upon me!.. I shall restore your Commune!.. I swear to you!.. I swear! – "

"Will you restore their husbands to the widows, their fathers to the orphans you have made?"

"After having lived the life of a traitor and a homicide; after exasperating an inoffensive people that only asked to be allowed to live in peace in accordance with the pledge that was sworn, it is not enough to cry 'Pity!' in order to be absolved."

"Clemency is holy, but impunity is impious! Death to the bishop!"

"Heaven and earth!" cried Fergan. "The justice of the people is the justice of God! Death to the bishop! Death!"

"Yes, yes! To death with the bishop!"

The prelate was dragged in the midst of these furious cries outside of the storeroom. Suddenly a tremulous voice dominated the uproar: "What, shall not the son of Bernard des Bruyeres be allowed to avenge his father!" Immediately, by a simultaneous movement, the insurgents opened a path to the son of the victim. His face radiant, his eyes flashing, Bertrand rushed upon the prostrate bishop, and raising his heavy axe with his weak hands, cleaved the skull of Gaudry; then, casting off the blood-stained weapon, he cried: "You are avenged, my father!"

"Well done, my lad! The death of your father and the dishonor of my daughter are avenged at one blow!" cried Thiegaud; and seeing the episcopal ring on the bishop's finger, he added: "I take my daughter's token of marriage!" Unable, however, to tear the ring off the prelate's finger, the serf of St. Vincent cut it off with a blow of his cutlass and stuck both finger and ring in his pocket.

So legitimate was the hatred that Gaudry inspired the communiers, that it survived even the man's death. His corpse was riddled with wounds and covered with curses. The insurgents were in the act of throwing his lifeless body into a sewer close to the storeroom, when from another side the cry fell upon their ears: "Commune! Commune! Death to the episcopals!"

CHAPTER IX.

RESTING ON THEIR ARMS

While this tragic scene was enacting, another body of the people of Laon, led by Ancel Quatre-Mains and his sprightly wife, invaded the episcopal palace from another side. Fergan was running to meet them the moment he saw them enter the green, when he caught sight of Archdeacon Anselm, who, having so far kept aloof from the theater of the conflict, was now hastening to the spot, informed of the bishop's fate by one of his domestics. The archdeacon succeeded in inducing the communiers to refrain from submitting the remains of their enemy to the idle and last disgrace contemplated by them. Helped by two servants, the worthy priest of Christ was carrying the corpse of the bishop, when he noticed Fergan, and said to him in a voice deeply moved, with the tears running down his cheeks: "I wish to bury the body of this unfortunate man, and to pray for him. My sad forecasts have been verified. Only yesterday, warning him in the midst of his braggart and fatal illusion of security, I expressed the hope that I may not soon have to pray over his grave. Oh, Fergan, civil war is a terrible scourge!"

"A curse upon those who provoke these execrable strifes, that carry mourning into the camp of both the vanquishers and the vanquished!" answered the quarryman, and leaving the archdeacon to fulfil his pious office, he proceeded to join Quatre-Mains, who commanded the other troop of the invaders.

The worthy Councilman, ever hampered and incommoded by his military equipment, had rid himself of it in the moment of battle. Replacing his iron casque with a woolen cap and keeping on his leather jerkin only, with his coat sleeves rolled back, as he was wont when kneading his dough, he had armed himself with the poker of his oven, a long and heavy iron implement, bent at one end. His stout-hearted little wife Simonne, her cheeks in a glow and her eyes aflame, carried in her skirt a bundle of lint and bandages ready for use, together with a wicker-covered flask, containing a decoction, pronounced marvelous by her for checking the flow of blood. Joy and the excitement of triumph radiated from the charming features of the baker's wife. At the sight of Fergan, however, whose face was clotted with the blood of the wound he had received on his head, she cried out sadly: "Neighbor Fergan, you are wounded! Let me tend you, the fight is over; be not alarmed about your son; we have just seen him at his post on the ramparts; he is safe and sound, although there was a sharp encounter at that spot; sit down on this bench, I shall nurse you the same as I would have done Ancel, had he been wounded. Upon the faith of a Picardian woman, if he escaped being hurt, it was not his fault; he merited anew his surname of Quatre-Mains, the way he belabored the heads and backs of the episcopals."

Fergan accepted Simonne's offer and sat down upon a bench, while the young woman looked for the lint in her pockets. The baker himself stopped a few steps behind to gather the details of the capture of the bishop. He then approached his wife, and seeing her engaged upon Fergan, hastened his steps, asking with deep interest: "What, neighbor, wounded? Nothing serious?"

"I was struck with an axe on my casque," and raising his head which he had inclined to facilitate the nursing of Simonne, Fergan noticed the rather unmilitary accoutrement of his friend: "Why did you take off your armor in the middle of the fight?"

"Upon my faith, the casque kept dropping on my nose, the corselet took the breath from me, the sword encumbered my legs. Accordingly, when the fight started, I made myself comfortable, just as I do when I am kneading dough. I rolled up my sleeves, and instead of that devil of a sword, which I cannot handle, I armed myself with my iron poker, the use of which is familiar to me."

"But what could you do with a poker? It is a rather singular implement of war."

"What could he do with it?" put in Simonne, saturating a bandage with the contents of the wicker-covered flask, and applying the same to the quarryman's wound. "Oh, Ancel is quick with his hands. If a nobleman on horseback came near, armed to the teeth, my husband grappled his throat with the hook of his long poker and then pulled with all his might; I helped when necessary. In almost every instance we unhorsed the knight, and throwing him to the ground he was at our mercy."

"After which," added the baker calmly, "and after beating my man with the hook of my poker, I dispatched him with the handle. I settled more than one of them. One does what he can!"

"Oh, neighbor!" Simonne proceeded with enthusiasm; "it was especially at the siege of the house of the knight of Haut-Pourcin that Ancel made a famous use of his poker. Several episcopals and their servants, entrenched upon a crenelated terrace, fired down upon us with cross-bows. They had killed or wounded so many communiers, that none dared come near the accursed house, and our people had retired to the end of the street. Presently, we saw the wicked knight of Haut-Pourcin, cross-bow in hand, leaning half over the battlement of the terrace, to see if there was any of ours that he could hit. At that instant – ," but interrupting herself, Simonne said to her husband: "Tell your own story, Ancel; while I speak I cannot pay proper attention to the bandage of our neighbor."

While Simonne finished attending to Fergan, the baker continued the narrative that his wife had commenced: "Noticing that the knight of Haut-Pourcin leaned over the terrace several times, I profited by a moment when he had withdrawn; I slided along the wall to the foot of the house; as the projection of the balcony prevented him from seeing me, I watched for my man; the instant he again put out his head I snatched him up with the hook of my poker exactly at the jointure of his casque and his cuirass with might and main; Simonne came and helped; and we had the satisfaction of making that noble personage turn a somersault from the height of the terrace down to the street; our communiers ran by; the episcopals rushed out of the knight's house to deliver him; they were driven back and we stormed the building!"

"And lo!" cried Simonne heroically, "I, who did not leave the heels of Ancel, find myself face to face with that old hag of the dame of Haut-Pourcin, who was yelling like a fury: 'Kill! Kill! No quarter for those vile clowns! Exterminate them!' I was seized with rage, and recalling the insults that the harpy had poured upon me shortly before I threw her down, grabbed her by the throat, and, as true as Ancel is called Quatre-Mains, I slapped her face as thoroughly as if I was endowed with six hands, all the while saying to her: 'Take this! and that! you proud dame of Haut-Pourcin. Take this, and that, and still another, you wicked old hag! Oh, my gallants pay for my skirts, do they! Very well, I pay cash, and in round sums for the insults I receive!' Upon the faith of a Picardian woman, had her hair not been gray, like my mother's, I would have strangled the she-devil!"

Fergan could not help smiling at the exaltation of Simonne. He then said to Ancel: "When I heard the large bell of the cathedral ringing in a peculiar way, I concluded it was the signal agreed upon between the bishop and his partisans to attack our people simultaneously from within and from without the city."

"You were not mistaken, neighbor. At that signal, the episcopals, who had laid their plans and gathered their forces over night, sallied forth from their houses crying: 'Kill, kill the communiers!' Other noblemen also were besieged in their houses. The fight was going on with the same vigor on the streets and squares, while a troop of episcopals betook itself to the ramparts on the side of the bishop's gate."

"Expecting to fall from the rear upon our people who they thought were being attacked in front," said Fergan. "For that reason I ordered my son to be on his guard. You assure me he is not wounded? God be praised!"

"If he is wounded, neighbor Fergan," replied Simonne, "it can only be slightly. He called out to us from the top of the ramparts: 'Victory! Victory! Our people are masters of the bishop's palace!'"

"And now," said Quatre-Mains, "meseems the Mayor and Councilmen should meet at the Town Hall to consider what is to be done."

"I think so, too, Ancel. We shall leave here a sufficient force to keep the palace. Watch shall continue to be held on the ramparts of the city, whose gates shall be closed and barricaded. Let's not deceive ourselves. However legitimate our insurrection, we must be prepared to see Louis the Lusty return to lay siege to the city at the head of the re-inforcements that he has gone to fetch. The Princes are on the side of the clergy."

"I think so, too," replied the Councilman with resignation and fortitude: "John Molrain said to the royal messenger: 'The King of the French is all-powerful in Gaul; the Commune of Laon is strong only in its right and the courage of its inhabitants.' We shall fight as well as we may against Louis the Lusty and his army; and we shall, if need be, be killed to the last man."

"Thank you for your kind nursing, good neighbor," Fergan said to Simonne; "I now feel in good trim. My poor Joan will be jealous."

"It is rather I who should be jealous," retorted Simonne. "Crossing our street, we saw the basement room of your house full of wounded men, at whom your wife and Martine were busy. The good souls!"

"Dear souls! How uneasy they must feel!" said Fergan. "I must hasten to ease their minds, and I shall return to superintend our defence."

The conversation between Fergan and Ancel was here interrupted by cries and shouts mingled with cheers that went up from one of the yards of the palace, which was given up to pillage and devastation. The insurgents sought vengeance not only for the perjury of Gaudry, but also for the odious exactions and cruelties that they had suffered before the establishment of the Commune. Some, staving in the vats in the storeroom, were getting drunk on the bishop's precious wines, a rich tithe, once collected by him on the vineyards of the villeins; others, making a heap of the tapestry and furniture which they dragged from his rooms into the yard, set fire to the pile; finally, and it was the shouts of these last that reached the quarryman and the baker, yet others, seizing the sacerdotal robes and insignia of the prelate, organized themselves into a grotesque procession, of which little Robin the Crumb-cracker was the hero. The blacksmith's apprentice, carrying on his head the episcopal mitre that almost completely hid his face, and robed in a cape of gold cloth that trailed at his heels, held in his hands a vermillion cross studded with precious stones. He scattered to the right and left grotesque benedictions, while the communiers, now half drunk, as well as the bishop's serfs, who, after the fight had joined the vanquishers, sang at the top of their voices a parody of church hymns, interspersed ever and anon with cheers of "Long live Robin the Crumb-cracker!"

Leaving these rolicking youngsters to amuse themselves at their pleasure on the bishop's premises, Fergan and his neighbors betook themselves to the city. Night was approaching. Bidding good-bye to the baker and his wife and requesting them to hasten ahead of him to his house and set Joan and Martine's minds at ease, Fergan mounted the rampart to meet his son. The latter, considering it prudent to keep watch, even after the victory of the day, was busy with the measures for the night. At sight of his father with his head bandaged, Colombaik uttered a cry of alarm, but soon was set at ease by Fergan. After providing for additional measures of security, both returned home.

Night had set in. Everywhere the fight had long ended. The communiers were collecting their dead and wounded by the light of torches. Women, bathed in tears, ran to the places where the fight had been hottest, and looked for a father, a husband, a son, or a brother, in the midst of the corpses that the streets were strewn with. At other places, exasperated at the chiefs of the episcopal party, the communiers were demolishing their fortified houses. Finally, at a distance, a brilliant gleam crimsoned the sky, and cast its reflection hither and thither on the gables of the taller houses. It was the glare of a conflagration. The fire was devouring the dwelling of the bishop's treasurer, one of the most execrated of the episcopals. Neither did the cathedral of Laon escape the avenging torch of the insurgents.

"Never, my child, blot this terrible spectacle from your memory. Such are the fruits of civil war," said Fergan to his son, stopping in the middle of the Exchange square, one of the most elevated spots of the city, and whence the burning cathedral could be seen at a distance. "Look at the flames of the conflagration that is devouring the cathedral; hark to the sound of the seigniorial towers crashing down under the hammer blows of the communiers; listen to the moaning of yonder children, now become orphans, of their mothers, now become widows; contemplate these wounded men, these bleeding corpses carried away by their relatives and by friends in tears; behold at this hour, everywhere in the city, mourning, consternation, vengeance, disaster, fire and death! Then recall the happy and peaceful aspect that this same city offered only yesterday, when the people, in the fullness of their joy, inaugurated the symbol of their enfranchisement, bought, agreed and sworn to by our oppressors! It was a beautiful day. How our hearts leaped at every peal from our belfry! How all eyes shone with pride at the sight of our communal banner! All of us, bourgeois and artisans, rejoicing in the present and confident of the future, wished to continue to live under a charter sworn to by the nobles, the bishop and the King. But it happened that nobles, bishop and King, having dissipated the money with which we paid for our franchises, said to themselves: 'What does a signature or an oath matter; we are powerful and numerous; we are used to wielding the lance and the sword; those artisans and bourgeois, vile clowns all, will flee before us. To horse, noble episcopals, to horse! High the sword! High the lance! Kill, massacre the communiers!'"

"But the communiers made the King of the French take to his heels, and have exterminated the knights!" cried Colombaik with enthusiasm. "The son of one of the victims of that infamous bishop cleaved his skull in two with a blow of his axe! The cathedral is on fire, and the seigniorial towers are crumbling down! Such is the price of perjury! Such is the terrible and just chastisement of the people who unchained the furies of war against this city, so tranquil but yester night! Oh, let the blood that has been shed fall upon the criminals! Their turn has come to tremble! Old Gaul is waking up after six centuries of torpor! The day of the rule of might and clerical chicanery is over! The hour of deliverance has sounded! – "

"Not yet, my son!"

"What! The King is fleeing; the bishop killed; the episcopals exterminated or in hiding; the city ours!"

"Have you given a thought to the morrow?"

"The morrow? We shall preserve our conquest, or shall fight other battles, equally victorious!"

"No illusions, dear boy! Louis the Lusty fled before an insurrection that he did not think himself equal to cope with. But ere long he will be back to the walls of Laon with considerable forces, and he will then dictate his will."

"We shall resist unto death!"

"I know, that despite all our heroism, we shall succumb in the fray."

"What! These franchises, paid for with our good money and now sealed with our blood, – shall they be torn from us? Are our children to fall back under the abhorred yoke of the lay and ecclesiastical seigneurs? Oh, father, are we to despair of the future?"

"To despair? Never! Thanks to the communal insurrections, that were provoked by the feudal atrocities, our worst days are over. The legitimate and terrible reprisals of Noyon, Cambrai, Amiens and Beauvais, just as these fresh ones of Laon, will inspire the seigneurs with a wholesome fear. These holy insurrections have proved to our masters that the 'clowns, artisans and bourgeois' will no longer allow themselves to be taxed at mercy, robbed, tortured and killed with impunity. Our darkest days are over. But our descendants will still have bloody battles to fight before the arrival of the radiant day predicted by Victoria the Great!"

"And yet all has gone our way on this day."