La Vieuville felt the need of becoming serious.

  "Where are we, pilot?" he asked.

  The pilot replied,—

  "We are in the hands of God."

  A pilot is a master; it is always best to let him have his own way, and often to have his own say.

  Besides, this sort of man speaks but little. La Vieuville walked away.

  La Vieuville had asked the pilot a question, the horizon gave the answer.

  The sea suddenly burst into sight.

  The fog which hung over the waves lifted, all the dark upheaving of the billows was spread out in a mysterious twilight as far as one's eyes could reach, and this is what was seen,—

  The sky seemed to have a lid of clouds over it; but the clouds no longer touched the sea; in the east appeared a whiteness, which was the dawn of day; in the west, another fading whiteness, which was the setting of the moon. These two bright places opposite each other, made two narrow bands of pale light along the horizon, between the dark sea and the cloudy sky.

  Against these two bright strips were outlined black figures, straight and motionless. To the west, three high rocks, standing like Celtic cromlechs, stood out against the moonlit sky.

  To the east, against the pale morning sky, rose eight sail ranged in order, and at regular distances, in a threatening line.

  The three rocks were a reef; the eight sail, a squadron.

  Behind the corvette was the Minquiers, a rock of ill repute; before her, the French fleet. In the west, destruction; in the east carnage; she was between a shipwreck and a battle.

  For facing the reef, the corvette had a broken hull, disjointed rigging, shattered masts; for facing battle, she had a battery of which twenty-one guns out of thirty were disabled, and the best of her gunners were dead.

  The dawn was very faint, and there was still a little night before them. This darkness might even last for some time, being caused principally by high, heavy, dense clouds, having the appearance of a solid arch.

  The wind which had at last carried away the low fog was driving the vessel on the Minquiers.

  In her excessively weak and disabled condition, she scarcely obeyed the helm, she rolled rather than sailed, and buffeted by the waves gave herself up to their mercy.

  The tragic reef of the Minquiers was more rugged then than at the present time. Several of the towers of this citadel of destruction have been worn away by the incessant undermining of the sea; the shape of the reefs is constantly changing; waves are not called lames without reason; each tide is a saw-tooth. At this time, to touch on the Minquiers, was to perish.

  As for the cruisers, they were the squadron from Cancale, afterwards made famous under the command of that Captain Duchesne whom Léquinio called "Father Duchêne."

  The situation was critical. The corvette had unconsciously, while the cannon was loose, deviated from her course and sailed more towards Granville than towards Saint-Malo. Even if she had been manageable and able to carry sail, the Minquiers would have barred her return to Jersey, and the cruisers barred her from reaching France.

  However, there was no tempest, but as the pilot had said, there was a heavy sea. The sea tumbling beneath a rough wind, and over the rocky bottom, was wild.

  The sea never tells at once what it means to do. There is everything in this abyss, even chicanery. One might almost say that the sea had designs; it advances and retreats, it proposes and retracts, it prepares a squall and then gives up its plan, it promises destruction and does not keep its word, it threatens the North, and strikes the South. All night the corvette "Claymore" had been in the fog, and feared a storm; the sea had just broken its promise, and in a cruel fashion; it had given warning of a tempest and brought out a reef. It was still shipwreck in another form.

  To destruction on the rocks was added extermination in battle. One enemy supplemented the other.

  La Vieuville cried out with a bold laugh,—

  "Shipwreck on one hand, battle on the other. Both sides have thrown double fives."

  CHAPTER VIII.

  9—380.

  The corvette was now nothing but a wreck.

  In the pale, scattered light, in the blackness of the clouds, in the confused shifting of the horizon, in the mysterious wrinkling of the waves, there was a sepulchral solemnity. Except the hostile whistling of the wind, everything was silent. The catastrophe was rising majestically from the depths. It seemed more like an apparition than an attack. Nothing moved on the rocks, nothing stirred on the ships. It was a strange, colossal silence. Were they dealing with reality? It was like a dream passing over the sea. In legends there are such visions: the corvette was, in a certain sense, between a demon reef and a phantom fleet.

  The Count de Boisberthelot gave orders in an undertone to La Vieuville, who went down to the gun-deck; then the captain seized his spyglass and came and stood at the stern near the pilot.

  Gacquoil was bending all his efforts to keep the vessel out of the trough of the sea; for, if it were struck on the side by the wind and the waves, it would inevitably capsize.

  "Pilot," said the captain, "where are we?"

  "Off the Minquiers."

  "On which side?"

  "The worst."

  "What bottom?"

  "Small rocks."

  "Can we bring the broadside to bear on them?"

  "One can always die," said the pilot.

  The captain directed his glance toward the west and examined the Minquiers; then he turned it toward the east and scrutinized the sails in sight.

  The pilot continued, as if talking to himself,—

  "It is the Minquiers. It serves as a resting-place for the laughing sea-mew and the great black-mantled gull, on their way from Holland."

  In the meantime, the captain had counted the ships.

  There really were eight vessels correctly disposed and raising their warlike profiles above the water. In the centre stood the lofty hull of a three-decker.

  The captain questioned the pilot,—

  "Do you know these ships?"

  "Certainly!" replied Gacquoil.

  "What are they?"

  "It is the squadron."

  "Of France?"

  "Of the devil."

  There was silence. The captain continued,—

  "Are all the cruisers there?"

  "Not all."

  In fact, the second of April, Valazé had announced to the Convention that ten frigates and six ships of the line were cruising in the channel. The captain recollected this.

  "In all," he said, "the squadron has sixteen vessels. "There are only eight here."

  "The rest," said Gacquoil, "are spying along the coast farther down."

  The captain, still looking through the glass, murmured: "A three-decker, two first-class frigates, and five of the second class."

  "But I too made them out," grumbled Gacquoil.

  "Good vessels," said the captain. "I have had some command of them myself."

  "For my part," said Gacquoil, "I have seen them close to. I don't mistake one for another. I have their description in my head."

  The captain handed his spyglass to the pilot.

  "Pilot, can you make out the three-decker distinctly?"

  "Yes, commander, it is the 'Cöte d'Or.'"

  "They have re-named her," said the captain. "She used to be the 'Etats de Bourgogne.' A new ship. Hundred and twenty-eight guns."

  He took a note-book and pencil out of his pocket, and wrote in the former the number one hundred and twenty-eight.

  He went on to say: "Pilot, what is the first sail to port?"

  "It is the 'Experimenté.'"

  "First-class frigate; fifty-two guns. She was fitted out at Brest two months ago."

  The captain put the number fifty-two down in his note-book.

  "Pilot," he continued, "what is the second sail to port?"

  "The'Dryade.'"

  "First-class frigate; forty eighteen-pounders. She has been in India. She has a fine naval record."

  And he wrote down forty under the number fifty-two; then, raising his head, he said,—

  "Now to starboard."

  "Commander, these are all second-class frigates. There are five of them."

  "What is the first, starting from the three-decker?"

  "The 'Résolue.'"

  "Thirty-two eighteen-pounders. And the second?"

  "The 'Richemont.'"

  "Same strength. Next?"

  "The 'Athée.'"

  "Queer name to go to sea with. Next?"

  "The 'Calypso.'"

  "What next?"

  "The 'Preneuse.'"

  "Five frigates of thirty-two guns each."

  The captain wrote one hundred and sixty under the first numbers.

  "Pilot," he said, "you recognize them well."

  "You," replied Gacquoil, "know them well, captain. To recognize is one thing, to know is better."

  The captain was looking intently at his note-book, and was adding up the numbers to himself.

  "Hundred and twenty-eight, fifty-two, forty, hundred and sixty."

  Just at this moment, la Vieuville came up on deck.

  "Chevalier," the captain cried out to him, "we are in the face of three hundred and eighty cannon."

  "So be it," said la Vieuville.

  "You have just been inspecting, la Vieuville; just how many guns have we fit for use?"

  "Nine."

  "So be it," said Boisberthelot in his turn.

  He took the spyglass from the pilot's hands and studied the horizon.

  The eight still, black ships seemed motionless, but they were growing larger.

  They were approaching imperceptibly.

  La Vieuville gave the military salute.

  "Commander," he said, "here is my report. I distrusted this corvette 'Claymore.' It is always annoying to embark suddenly on a vessel which does not know you, or that does not love you. English ship—traitor to the French—that slut of a carronade proved it. I have made the inspection. Anchors good. They are not of half-finished iron, but of forged bars soldered with the trip-hammer. The flukes are solid. Cables excellent, easy to pay out, of the regular length, hundred and twenty fathoms. Ammunition in abundance. Six gunners dead. A hundred and seventy-one rounds apiece."

  "Because there are only nine guns left," murmured the captain.

  Boisberthelot pointed his spyglass towards the horizon. The squadron was still slowly approaching.

  There is one advantage about the carronades, three men are enough to work them, but they have one inconvenience, they do not carry as far nor aim as accurately as cannon. So it was necessary to let the squadron come within range of the carronades.

  The captain gave his orders in an undertone. Silence reigned on the vessel. No signal to make ready for battle was given, but the order was executed all the same. The corvette was as unfit to fight against men as it was to battle with the waves. Every possible expedient was employed with this remnant of a war vessel. All the hawsers and spare cables were collected together at the gangway, near the tiller ropes, to use for strengthening the masts in case of necessity. The cockpit was prepared for the wounded. According to the naval custom of that day, the deck was barricaded, which was a safeguard against bullets but not against cannon balls. The ball-gauges were brought, although it was a little late to test their calibres; but so many accidents had not been foreseen. Each sailor received a cartridge-box, and placed a pair of pistols and a dirk in his belt. The hammocks were stowed away, the artillery pointed, the musketry prepared, the axes and grappling-irons put in their places, the stores of cartridges and bullets made ready, and the powder-magazine opened. Each man took his post. All this without a word spoken, and as if in a death chamber. It was swift and melancholy.

  Then the corvette showed her broadside. She had six anchors, like a frigate. They cast all six of them; the cock-bill at the bow, the hedge anchor at the stern, the flood anchor toward the open sea, the ebb anchor toward the rocks, the bower anchor to starboard, and the sheet anchor to port.

  The nine carronades remaining in good condition were ]iut into form, all nine of them on one side,—the side toward the enemy.

  The squadron had no less silently completed their preparations. The eight vessels now formed a semicircle, of which the "Minquiers" made the chord. The "Claymore," enclosed in this semicircle, and pinioned by its own anchor besides, was backed by the reef; that is to say, by shipwreck.

  It was like a pack of hounds around a wild boar, making no sound, but showing their teeth.

  It seemed as if one side were waiting for the other.

  The gunners of the "Claymore" were stationed by their guns.

  Boisberthelot said to la Vieuville,—

  "I think it would be well to open fire,"

  "A flirt's notion," said la Vieuville.

  CHAPTER IX.

  SOME ONE ESCAPES.

  The passenger had not left the deck, he was watching everything, unmoved.

  Boisberthelot approached him. "Sir," he said, "the preparations are completed. Here we are cramped into our tomb, but we shall not yield. We are prisoners of the squadron or of the reef. To surrender to the enemy or founder on the rocks, we have no other alternative. Only one resource remains, death. To fight is better than shipwreck. I would rather be shot than drowned; if I must die, I prefer fire to water. But to die is our fate, not yours. You are the man chosen by the princes, you have a great mission, to direct the war in La Vendée. Without you, the monarchy may be lost; you must live then. It is our duty to remain here, yours to get away. Go, general,—leave the ship. I will give you a man and a boat. It is not impossible to reach the shore by a roundabout way. It is not yet day, the waves are high, the sea is dark, you will escape. There are times when to flee is to conquer."

  With his stern head, the old man made a solemn sign of acquiescence.

  The Count de Boisberthelot raised his voice,

  "Soldiers and sailors," he cried.

  All movement ceased, and from every part of the vessel faces were turned toward the captain.

  He continued,—

  "The man who is among us represents the king. He has been entrusted to our care, we must preserve him. He is necessary to the throne of France; for want of a prince he will be, at least so we hope, the chief of la Vendée. He is a great general. He was to reach France with us, he must reach it without us. To save his life is to save all."

  "Aye, aye, aye!" cried all the voices of the crew.

  The captain continued,—

  "He too, will incur serious dangers. To reach the shore is no easy matter. It ought to be a large boat to brave the high sea, but it must be a small one to escape the cruisers. It is important to land at some point which will be safe, and rather in the vicinity of Fougères than of Coutances. It needs a plucky sailor, a good swimmer, and a good oarsman; one who belongs to this country and knows the channel. It is still dark enough for the boat to get away from the vessel without being discovered. And then we shall have smoke which will help to conceal her. Her small size will take her through shallow water. Where the panther is caught, the weasel escapes. There is no help for us; there is for him. The oars will carry the boat away: the hostile ships will not see it; and besides, we will divert their attention meanwhile. Is it agreed?"

  "Aye, aye, sir!" cried the crew.

  "There is not a minute to lose," continued the captain, "Is there a man willing to go?"

  A sailor stepped out of the ranks in the darkness and said: "I am."

  CHAPTER X.

  DOES HE ESCAPE?

  A few moments later, one of those little boats called a "gig," especially designed for the captain's use, left the ship. In this boat there were two men, the old passenger in the stern, and the sailor who had volunteered to go, in the bow. The night was still very dark. The sailor, conforming to the captain's design, rowed vigorously in the direction of the Minquiers. No other way of escape was possible. Some provisions had been thrown in the bottom of the boat, a bag of biscuit, a smoked beefs tongue, and a cask of water.

  "As soon as the boat touched the water, la Vieuville, scoffer even in the face of destruction, leaned over the stern of the corvette and sneered out this farewell to the boat: "She is a good one for escape, and a fine one for drowning."

  "Sir," said the pilot, "jest no more."

  The boat quickly rowed off, and was almost immediately a good distance away from the corvette. Wind and waves seconded the oarsman, and the little craft was rapidly making her escape, rocking in the twilight, and concealed in the great furrows of the waves.

  A strange, gloomy suspense hung over the sea.

  Suddenly, in this vast, tumultuous ocean silence, rose a voice, which, increased by the speaking-trumpet, as by the brazen mask of ancient tragedy, seemed almost superhuman.

  It was Captain Boisberthelot who was speaking,—

  "Mariners of the king," he cried, "nail the white flag to the main-mast. We are going to see our last sunrise."

  And a cannon shot left the corvette.

  "Long live the king!" shouted the crew.

  Then from the edge of the horizon was heard another cry, immense, distant, confused, but yet distinct,—

  "Long live the Republic!"

  And a noise like that of three hundred thunderbolts burst over the depths of the ocean.

  The battle was beginning.

  The sea was covered with fire and smoke.

  Clouds of spray made by the shots falling into the water burst from the waves on every side.

  The "Claymore" began to shower flame on the eight ships. At the same time, the whole squadron, grouped in a crescent around the "Claymore," opened fire from all its batteries. The horizon was all ablaze. It was like a volcano rising out of the sea. The wind twisted round and round the vast crimson of battle, in the midst of which the ships appeared and disappeared like spectres. In the foreground, the corvette stood out against this red background like a black skeleton.

  From the top of the main-mast the white banner with its design of fleur-de-lis could be made out.