Chapter IV
They lived unknown,
Till persecution dragged them into fame,
And chased them up to heaven. Their ashes flew,
No marble tells us whither. With their names
No bard embalms and sanctifies his song,
And history, so warm on other themes,
Is cold on this! Cow PER.
ON the 16th of August, 1689, in the depths of a forest, which stretched along the shores of Lake Leman, between Nion and Rolle, a band of intrepid adventurers had mustered together at nightfall. Their place of rendezvous was a dell, in the centre of this secluded retreat, surrounded by a dense covering of copse and brushwood, whose silence was disturbed, only by the murmuring of a little stream, which gurgled through the valley. The moonbeams, which struggled through the thick branches of the surrounding pines, disclosed partial glimpses of the persons and countenances of those, who composed this nocturnal assemblage. On the fragment of a rock that stemmed the current of the rivulet, stood an individual, muffled in a coarse martial cloak. On either side of him, reclined two athletic figures; each holding a flambeau in his hand, which threw a lurid glare on the swarthy countenance of the speaker. His raven locks hung in confusion over his shoulders; and his eye kindled into lustre, as he addressed the listening throng, who seemed, at every sentence, to imbibe the same enthusiasm, which animated their leader.
Need we say, that this midnight convocation, was composed of the scattered remnant of the exiled Waldenses, — sighing to return once more to their native hearths; with their intrepid champion, the patriotic, the dauntless, the pious, Henri Arnaud!
For nearly two years, they had enjoyed, amid the sequestered retreats and villages of Switzerland, a respite from the sword of persecution; and their brethren of a common faith, seemed to rival one another in compassionating the fugitives, soothing their sorrows, relieving their sufferings, and binding up the wounds which the loss of friends, and the cruelty of foes, had inflicted.
But the kindness of friends, the hospitality of strangers, and the free toleration of their religion, could not atone for the want of their native homes. The bleak mountains of Jura, or even the gigantic Alps of Berne, had to them no grandeur, when compared with the savage wonders of Pragelas or St Martin. Geneva, with its verdant banks, its rich plains, and varied loveliness, had in their eyes nothing attractive, when they thought of the vines, and pasturages, and grassy meads, of Villar or Angrogna. The massive towers of its cathedral, bore no aspect half so” beautiful, as the lowly roof of their mountain “temples.”* The deep tones of its organ, and the solemn chimes of its Sabbath bell, were music that seemed tame in their ears, when they thought of the sweet and artless melody, which rose from the sanctuaries of their fathers.
And besides the thought of their own exile, their blood ran cold, while they remembered that “the holy and beautiful houses, where they and their fathers worshipped,” were now made the temples of antichrist; their lowly altars laid waste; and the idolatrous pageantry of Rome, planted in their stead! The lofty spirits of these mountaineers, could endure personal suffering and degradation, but they could not brook the thought of sacrilegious rites, and popish ceremonies, polluting the spots that were hallowed by all that was dear to them. They resolved on death, rather than stand tamely by, to be the silent spectators of the outrage. The martial spirit of Arnaud had kindled the flame. It spread with the rapidity of a conflagration. “Death or our hearths!” was the cry
* The name by which the Waldenses designate their churches.
that burst from a thousand hearts; who vowed with uplifted hands, that their sabres should not return to their scabbards, till they had plucked the standards of the Romish faith from their altars, and caused the banner of truth, again to wave on their mountain strongholds!
Their prudence, however, was not, at first, equal to their enthusiasm: twice had they already attempted to rally their little squadron, and march, sword in hand, to their native valleys; but on both occasions they had been defeated by the vigilance of their foes, and compelled to abandon the enterprise. One unhappy consequence resulting from the failure, was the strengthening of the Savoyard troops that guarded the frontier; thus adding to the difficulties of a successful return.
But disappointments and difficulties, could not shake the faith of those, who knew that their swords were drawn in a righteous cause. They felt confident, that the Lord of Hosts was on their side, and would crown their faithful legion with victory; and that if they fell, their martyred blood should not crimson the snows of the mountain, unnoticed, or unrecorded, in the book of Heaven!
Add to this, they now possessed, what on the two former occasions was wanting, a leader, on whose matured experience and sound judgment, they could thoroughly rely. Arnaud was one of those uncommon characters, who have from time to time appeared in the world, suited to the peculiar exigencies of the times; and combining with the nobler graces of the Christian, fortitude, ardour, and indomitable perseverance. A meek child of God at the domestic hearth; a dauntless champion in the hour of danger; preferring for the nurture of his spiritual graces, the quiet of the closet, the undisturbed peace of a sequestered life; but equally ready, if need be, to maintain his Master’s cause in the tented field, in the den, or the cavern, under the gleam of the executioner’s sword, or amid the flames of martyrdom. Undaunted by all the obstacles that opposed him, unmoved alike by the fears and apprehensions, the doubtings and despondings of those less courageous than himself, this intrepid hero, with a firm faith in divine assistance, put himself at the head of eight hundred ardent followers, who, cemented together as one man, were resolved to march onward either to conquer, or perish in the attempt!
In the place of rendezvous, which we have already described, the patriotic band had rallied, at the appointed time, around their champion. They had bidden a sorrowful farewell to their wives and little ones, whom they had left behind, and whose faces, few of them dreamed of ever seeing more.
Their leader knew well, that a strength and courage higher than mortal, was required to sustain their spirits in such an hour as this; with the prospect of a march across almost impassable mountains, and in the midst of disciplined troops. His first duty, therefore, was to lead their thoughts from earth to heaven, to implore the guidance and protection of the Eternal on their meditated enterprise; and to convince them, that with an arm of almightiness on their side, “though an host should encamp against them, their hearts need not fear.”
“We must begin and end with God, devoted friends!” exclaimed Arnaud, as his strong masculine figure stood erect on the rock, unclasping, at the same time, the sacred book which had been his companion in every hour of his exile. He selected as the subject of his address, the appropriate verse, “Fear not, little flock, it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.” His exhortation, throughout, was replete with noble Christian sentiment: its simple, but persuasive eloquence, drew tears from eyes that never wept before; and sustained many a heart that was sinking at the prospect of coming danger. Often, at the conclusion of his spirit-stirring appeals, the audience sprung simultaneously from their seats, and with the clash of arms, nobly responded to the enthusiasm of their leader. He was especially desirous of dislodging from their minds, any motives of carnal ambition, and of impressing upon them the holiness of the cause, in which they were about to embark.
“Fear not, little flock!” were the concluding sentences of his animating address, his enthusiasm kindling into a finer flame, as he drew to a close, —” the victory is yours, — Omnipotence is on your side, — Jehovah, the God of battles, leads you on to triumph! Are we to sit tamely by, pining, in a distant land, while the smoke of our burning hamlets, the moans of innocent captives, and the cries of murdered babes, are ascending to Heaven I Are we to brook the thought of our tabernacles being converted into dens of iniquity, scenes of impiety, torture, and crime? No! Let us lift our right hands, and, with this rock as an altar, solemnly swear that these arms of ours shall never abandon the struggle, until we, our wives, our children, our fathers, are restored to our domestic hearths, and the last standard of antichrist, be torn from our desecrated sanctuaries!
“Fear not, little flock, the scantiness of your numbers. Let not your hearts despond, as your imaginations conjure up the mailed legions that are waiting for your destruction! Be they as grasshoppers for multitude, ‘He that is for you, is greater far than all that can be against you;’ will not he, who encouraged the faint and desponding Gideon, and strewed on the plain the myriad army of Sennacherib, and, with the blast of a trumpet, prostrated the proud walls of Jericho, and, with a pebble from the brook and a shepherd’s boy, laid in the dust the champion of the Philistines; will not He extend over our exiled band the banner of his protecting love, ’ break all our enemies in pieces as with a rod of iron, and shiver them as a potter’s vessel f On! on then, to death or victory. Though, for this next winter, we should find no couch but the barren rock, — no sanctuary but the cavern, — no canopy but the sky! — on! though the king of terrors should be already exulting over his prey, and suffering, and torture, and death be the portion that awaits us. Let us go either to our homes or the stake, — our hearths or the sepulchre; let us win the victor’s wreath or the martyr’s crown!”
When the notes of this patriotic appeal had died away, and they once more had united in prayer, they forthwith commenced their perilous adventure. On emerging from the place of concealment, they seized some boats on the banks of the lake, and landed in safety on the Savoy shore ere day began to break. Here they were drawn up in martial order. Arnaud divided them into three companies, the advanced guard, rear guard, and centre; himself heading the first, and entrustthe others to Cyrus Chion, a brother in persecution from the valleys in Dauphiny, and M. Montoux of Pragelas. These again, were subdivided into different companies, composed of the inhabitants of the respective communes in the valleys. We must not omit to mention, that the hearts of the forlorn exiles of Villar were, at this perilous moment, not a little consoled and inspirited, by seeing among them the youthful representative of the worth and piety of their venerated pastor. Herbert Vin9on and Ferdinand Arnaud, young as they were, were destined to have no inconsiderable share in the glorious triumph, which ultimately crowned the heroism of the mountaineers.
Their onward march was so fraught with marvels, peril and adventure, vicissitude and suffering, that each day would of itself furnish materials for a volume. And our readers, who are curious to trace the outcast people in their extraordinary journey, cannot do better than peruse the touching historical detail, sketched by the pen of their leader himself.*
On their first day’s march, they encountered opposition at the different villages through which they
* Arnaud’s “La Rentree Glorieuse.” Translated and Edited, by Acland.
were obliged to pass. Various ambuscades were laid for their destruction; but their undaunted resolution struck terror into the hearts of their opponents, from whom they demanded hostages as guides, under the threat of being hanged on the nearest tree, if they acted treacherously. A more serious impediment threatened them the following day, in their passage through Cluses, a fortified town, washed by the river Arve. Its citizens flew to arms, lined the trenches, and shut the gates; meanwhile, despatching messengers to the neighbouring village of Salleuche, to apprise its inhabitants of the approach of the invaders, and urge them to dispute their passage through the narrow valley of Maglan. The exasperated Vaudois threatened that a moment’s delay would sacrifice the lives of the hostages. The menace had the desired effect; the gates were reluctantly thrown open, and, ere the inhabitants of Salleuche had mustered their forces, ‘the intrepid band had passed the defile, and rested lor the night in the village of Cablau.
The rugged peaks of the Graian Alps now presented an almost insurmountable barrier. Their route lay over precipices, whose depths were concealed by wreaths of snow, and where one false step would have been enough to have hurled them into fathomless abysses; but a dense mist and torrents of rain providentially screened them from their foes. They surmounted, under a tempestuous sky, the terrific cliffs of the Col de Bon-Homme. Intrenchments, with embrasures and counterscarps, had been hewn out of the solid rock the preceding year, and a handful of peasants could, with a few stones, have overwhelmed the whole exiles in destruction. But, providentially, these were all deserted; and, descending to the banks of the Eeclus, they encamped, on the fourth evening, in the vicinity of the village of Sey.
The three following days were occupied in penetrating the gloomy valley which is watered by the Isere. They passed the town of Tigne, and crossed, amid sufferings altogether indescribable, the dreary heights of Mont Cenis. Many were left to perish in the snow, others dashed to pieces among the rocks, others bewildered among the diverging paths, and separated for ever from their comrades.
Being aware that a strong garrison was waiting to dispute their march at Susa, they preferred following the waters of the Doire, a mountain torrent that skirts the base of Mount Albin; and after many skirmishes, in which some of the bravest fell victims to their valour, they arrived within a league of Salabertrann, the narrowest part of the defile, where a bridge was thrown across the river, and which, they were well assured, could only be crossed by a desperate struggle.
“Let us breathe here, my brave comrades!” exclaimed Arnaud, as he attained a little eminence, where he thought they might halt with impunity.” Our hardest day’s work is yet before us. See yonder heights, lighted with the beacons of the foe? Yonder, the lion is couching for his prey; but, if he pounce on the innocent sheep, who are returning to the fold of their fathers, we shall shew that ours shall not be the only blood that will crimson the mountain stream. If we perish, it is in a righteous cause. Retreat we cannot. And who would dream of an inglorious flight, when the snowy peaks of our native mountains are already bounding the horizon f So saying, he distributed among them the few provisions which still remained; and, after they had poured out their united supplications to the God 0f their fathers, and sung their simple battle song, they rose with rallied strength and new resolution, to march onward to the scene of carnage.
Their worst fears were realised: 2500 troops were drawn up on an eminence on the opposite side of the bridge, and summoned them to lay down their arms. “Qui vivef’ was shouted across as they approached. “Friends!” was echoed back by the intrepid exiles, “if permission be given us to pass unmolested.” The reply was the signal for an instant onset. “To slaughter! to slaughter!” was the simultaneous cry of a thousand voices. Arnaud had the sagacity to make his brave band fall prostrate on the ground, and though there was a volley of 2000 shots poured upon them, one only fell a victim to this murderous fire. A company of the enemy had now fallen upon their rear, and they saw that, without the loss of a moment, all must be hazarded. “Courage!” cried a stranger, who had lately joined their ranks, and had already distinguished himself for his intrepidity, — “the bridge is ours! the sword of the Lord and of Gideon!” With one desperate effort they cleared their way with sabre and bayonet, mowing down the disordered enemy. Hundreds were tumbled over the parapet into the swollen stream, which dashed them over its cataracts ere they could struggle to the shore! The Vaudois ascended over the heaps of slain to the fortifications of the enemy, drove the feeble remnant from their post, and, after two hours continued struggle, “the trumpets,” says Arnaud in his simple history, “were sounded, and all of them, throwing their hats towards heaven, made the air ring with the joyful acclamation, ( Thanks to the Eternal of armies, who has given us the victory f”
Thirteen chests of ammunition were captured, and all their contents, which were likely to prove serviceable, they appropriated for their own use; the remainder was sunk in the river. “We must not rest here, my comrades,“” said their leader, after they had bound up the wounds of their fellow exiles, “we must not indulge in supineness after the flush of victory! We are yet in peril. The enemy may yet rally their numbers. Let us make the bold effort to forget, for another hour, our fatigues, and pursue our march; and, I promise that to-morrows sun will disclose a spectacle which will gladden the most downcast eye, and cheer the most desponding heart.’” The trumpet sounded, and the little phalanx were once more in motion; their route lay up the steeps of the mountain of Sey, and the rocky path was lighted by a clear moon. Hundreds fell down from sleep and fatigue, and were saved from inevitable destruction, only by the rear guard which had been purposely left behind to urge them on. At midnight they arrived at the summit of the mountain. Here they flung themselves down on the cold rocks, with such coverings as they had, for shelter; and never was a couch more acceptable, nor repose more profound.