The Last Vendée; or, the She-Wolves of MachecoulDumas, Alexandre
History
The Last Vendée; or, the She-Wolves of Machecoul
Dumas, Alexandre
Berry, Marie-Caroline de Bourbon-Sicile, duchesse de, 1798-1870 -- Fiction; France -- History -- Louis Philippe, 1830-1848 -- Fiction
Jean Oullier, released from his chief bond when Thomas Tinguy
unbuckled the girth, slid from the horse and plunged into the river,
passing between the legs of the horse on the right. We may now inquire
how it is possible for a man to swim with his hands bound in front of
him.
Jean Oullier had relied so confidently on his appeal to the son of his
old friend that as soon as the darkness fell he began to gnaw the rope
that bound his wrists with his teeth. He had good teeth, so that by
the time they reached the river the rope held only by a single strand;
once in the water a vigorous jerk parted it altogether.
At the end of a few seconds the Chouan was forced to come to the
surface and breathe; instantly a dozen shots were fired at him, and as
many balls set the water foaming about him. By a miracle none touched
him; but he felt the wind of their passage across his face.
It was not prudent to tempt such luck a second time, for then it would
be tempting God, not luck. He plunged again, and finding foothold
turned to go up the river instead of keeping down with the current; in
short, he made what is called in the hunting-field a double; it often
succeeds with a hare, why not with a man? thought he.
Jean Oullier therefore doubled, went up the river under water, holding
his breath till his chest came near to bursting, and not reappearing
on the surface till he was beyond the line of light thrown by the
torches on the river.
This man[oe]uvre deceived his enemies. Little supposing that he would
voluntarily add another danger to his flight, the soldiers continued
to look for him down instead of up the river, holding their guns like
hunters watching for game, and ready to fire the instant that he
showed himself. Their interest in the sport was all the greater
because the game was a man.
Half a dozen grenadiers alone beat up the river, and they carried but
one torch among them.
Stifling as best he could the heavy sound of his breathing, Jean
Oullier managed to reach a willow the branches of which stretched over
the river, their tips even touching the water. The swimmer seized a
branch, put it between his teeth, and held himself thus with his head
thrown back so that his mouth and nostrils were out of water and able
to breathe the air.
He had hardly recovered his breath before he heard a plaintive howl
from the spot where the column had halted and where he himself had
dropped into the river. He knew the sound.
"Pataud!" he murmured; "Pataud here, when I sent him to Souday!
Something has happened to him! Oh, my God! my God!" he cried with
inexpressible fervor and deep faith, "now, _now_ it is all-important
to save me from being recaptured."
The soldiers had seen Jean Oullier's dog in the courtyard and they
recognized him.
"There's his dog! there's his dog!" they cried.
"Bravo!" cried a sergeant; "he'll help us to catch his master."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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