How Big Ferre Fought For France
It was in the heart of the Hundred Years' War. Everywhere France lay
desolate under the feet of the English invaders. Never had land been
more torn and rent, and never with less right and justice. Like a flock
of vultures the English descended upon the fair realm of France,
ravaging as they went, leaving ruin behind their footsteps, marching
hither and thither at will, now victorious, now beaten, yet ever
plundering, e
the poor were starved, want and misery stared each other in the face,
happy homes became gaping ruins, fertile fields became sterile wastes.
It was a pandemonium of war, a frightful orgy of military license, a
scene to make the angels weep and demons rejoice over the cruelty of
man.
In the history of this dreadful business we find little to show what
part the peasantry took in the affair, beyond that of mere suffering.
The man-at-arms lorded it in France; the peasant endured.
Yet occasionally this down-trodden sufferer took arms against his
oppressors, and contemporary chronicles give us some interesting insight
into brave deeds done by the tiller of the soil. One of these we propose
to tell,--a stirring and romantic one. It is half legendary, perhaps,
yet there is reason to believe that it is in the main true, and it
paints a vivid picture of those days of blood and violence which is well
worthy of reproduction.
In 1358 the king of Navarre, who had aided the English in their raids,
suddenly made peace with France. This displeased his English allies, who
none the less, however, continued their destructive raids, small parties
marching hither and thither, now victorious, now vanquished, an
interminable series of minor encounters taking the place of large
operations. Both armies were reduced to guerilla bands, who fought as
they met, and lived meanwhile on the land and its inhabitants. The
battle of Poitiers had been recently fought, the king of France was a
prisoner, there was no organization, no central power, in the realm, and
wherever possible the population took arms and fought in their own
defence, seeking some little relief from the evils of anarchy.
The scene of the story we propose to tell is a small stronghold called
Longueil, not far from Compiegne and near the banks of the Oise. It was
pretty well fortified, and likely to prove a point of danger to the
district if the enemy should seize it and make it a centre of their
plundering raids. There were no soldiers to guard it, and the peasants
of the vicinity, Jacques Bonhomme (Jack Goodfellow) as they were called,
undertook its defence. This was no unauthorized action. The lord-regent
of France and the abbot of the monastery of St. Corneille-de-Compiegne,
near by, gave them permission, glad, doubtless, to have even their poor
aid, in the absence of trained soldiery.
In consequence, a number of the neighboring tillers of the soil
garrisoned the place, providing themselves with arms and provisions, and
promising the regent to defend the town until death. Hither came many of
the villagers for security, continuing the labors which yielded them a
poor livelihood, but making Longueil their stronghold of defence. In all
there were some two hundred of them, their chosen captain being a tall,
finely-formed man, named William a-Larks (aux Alouettes). For servant,
this captain had a gigantic peasant, a fellow of great stature,
marvellous strength, and undaunted boldness, and withal of extreme
modesty. He bore the name of Big Ferre.
This action of the peasants called the attention of the English to the
place, and roused in them a desire to possess it. Jacques Bonhomme was
held by them in utter contempt, and the peasant garrison simply brought
to their notice the advantage of the place as a well-fortified centre of
operations. That these poor dirt delvers could hold their own against
trained warriors seemed a matter not worth a second thought.
"Let us drive the base-born rogues from the town and take possession of
it," said they. "It will be a trifle to do it, and the place will serve
us well."
Such seemed the case. The peasants, unused to war and lacking all
military training, streamed in and out at pleasure, leaving the gates
wide open, and taking no precautions against the enemy. Suddenly, to
their surprise and alarm, they saw a strong body of armed men entering
the open gates and marching boldly into the court-yard of the
stronghold, the heedless garrison gazing with gaping eyes at them from
the windows and the inner courts. It was a body of English men-at-arms,
two hundred strong, who had taken the unguarded fortress by surprise.
Down came the captain, William a-Larks, to whose negligence this
surprise was due, and made a bold and fierce assault on the invaders,
supported by a body of his men. But the English forced their way inward,
pushed back the defenders, surrounded the captain, and quickly struck
him to the earth with a mortal wound. Defence seemed hopeless. The
assailants had gained the gates and the outer court, dispersed the first
party of defenders, killed their captain, and were pushing their way
with shouts of triumph into the stronghold within. The main body of the
peasants were in the inner court, Big Ferre at their head, but it was
beyond reason to suppose that they could stand against this compact and
well-armed body of invaders.
Yet they had promised the regent to hold the place until death, and they
meant it.
"It is death fighting or death yielding," they said. "These men will
slay us without mercy; let us sell them our lives at a dear price."
"Gathering themselves discreetly together," says the chronicler, "they
went down by different gates, and struck out with mighty blows at the
English, as if they had been beating out their corn on the
threshing-floor; their arms went up and down again, and every blow dealt
out a mighty wound."
Big Ferre led a party of the defenders against the main body of the
English, pushing his way into the outer court where the captain had
fallen. When he saw his master stretched bleeding and dying on the
ground, the faithful fellow gave vent to a bitter cry, and rushed with
the rage of a lion upon the foe, wielding a great axe like a feather in
his hands.
The English looked with surprise and alarm on this huge fellow, who
topped them all in height by a head and shoulders, and who came forward
like a maddened bull, uttering short, hoarse cries of rage, while the
heavy axe quivered in his vigorous grasp. In a moment he was upon them,
striking such quick and deadly blows that the place before him was soon
void of living men. Of one man the head was crushed; of another the arm
was lopped off; a third was hurled back with a gaping wound. His
comrades, seeing the havoc he was making, were filled with ardor, and
seconded him well, pressing on the dismayed English and forcing them
bodily back. In an hour, says the chronicler, the vigorous fellow had
slain with his own hand eighteen of the foe, without counting the
wounded.
This was more than flesh and blood could bear. The English turned to
fly; some leaped in terror into the ditches, others sought to regain the
gates; after them rushed Big Ferre, still full of the rage of battle.
Reaching the point where the English had planted their flag, he killed
the bearer, seized the standard, and bade one of his followers to go
and fling it into the ditch, at a point where the wall was not yet
finished.
"I cannot," said the man; "there are still too many English there."
"Follow me with the flag," said Big Ferre.
Like a woodman making a lane through a thicket, the burly champion
cleared an avenue through the ranks of the foe, and enabled his follower
to hurl the flag into the ditch. Then, turning back, he made such havoc
among the English who still remained within the wall, that all who were
able fled in terror from his deadly axe. In a short time the place was
cleared and the gates closed, the English--such of them as were
left--making their way with all haste from that fatal place. Of those
who had come, the greater part never went back. It is said that the axe
of Big Ferre alone laid more than forty of them low in death. In this
number the chronicler may have exaggerated, but the story as a whole is
probably true.
The sequel to this exploit of the giant champion is no less interesting.
The huge fellow whom steel could not kill was slain by water,--not by
drowning, however, but by drinking. And this is how it came to pass.
The story of the doings at Longueil filled the English with shame and
anger. When the bleeding and exhausted fugitives came back and reported
the fate of their fellows, indignation and desire for revenge animated
all the English in the vicinity. On the following day they gathered
from all the camps in the neighborhood and marched in force on Longueil,
bent on making the peasants pay dearly for the slaughter of their
comrades.
This time they found entrance not so easy. The gates were closed, the
walls well manned. Big Ferre was now the captain of Longueil, and so
little did he or his followers fear the assaults of their foes, that
they sallied out boldly upon them, their captain in the lead with his
mighty axe.
Fierce was the fray that followed. The peasants fought like tigers,
their leader like a lion. The English were broken, slaughtered, driven
like sheep before the burly champion and his bold followers. Many were
slain or sorely wounded. Numbers were taken, among them some of the
English nobles. The remainder fled in a panic, not able to stand against
that vigorous arm and deadly axe, and the fierce courage which the
exploits of their leader gave to the peasants. The field was cleared and
Longueil again saved.
Big Ferre, overcome with heat and fatigue, sought his home at the end of
the fight, and there drank such immoderate draughts of cold water that
he was seized with a fever. He was put to bed, but would not part with
his axe, "which was so heavy that a man of the usual strength could
scarcely lift it from the ground with both hands." In this statement one
would say that the worthy chronicler must have romanced a little.
The news that their gigantic enemy was sick came to the ears of the
English, and filled them with joy and hope. He was outside the walls of
Longueil, and might be assailed in his bed. Twelve men-at-arms were
chosen, their purpose being to creep up secretly upon the place,
surround it, and kill the burly champion before aid could come to him.
The plan was well laid, but it failed through the watchfulness of the
sick man's wife. She saw the group of armed men before they could
complete their dispositions, and hurried with the alarming news to the
bedside of her husband.
"The English are coming!" she cried. "I fear it is for you they are
looking. What will you do?"
Big Ferre answered by springing from bed, arming himself in all haste
despite his sickness, seizing his axe, and leaving the house. Entering
his little yard, he saw the foe closing covertly in on his small
mansion, and shouted, angrily,--
"Ah, you scoundrels! you are coming to take me in my bed. You shall not
get me there; come, take me here if you will."
Setting his back against a wall, he defended himself with his usual
strength and courage. The English attacked him in a body, but found it
impossible to get inside the swing of that deadly axe. In a little while
five of them lay wounded upon the ground, and the other seven had taken
to flight.
Big Ferre returned triumphantly to his bed; but, heated by his
exertions, he drank again too freely of cold water. In consequence his
fever returned, more violently than before. A few days afterwards the
brave fellow, sinking under his sickness, went out of the world,
conquered by water where steel had been of no avail. "All his comrades
and his country wept for him bitterly, for, so long as he lived, the
English would not have come nigh this place."
And so ended the short but brilliant career of the notable Big Ferre,
one of those peasant heroes who have risen from time to time in all
countries, yet rarely have lived long enough to make their fame
enduring. His fate teaches one useful warning, that imprudence is often
more dangerous than armed men.
We are told nothing concerning the fate of Longueil after his death.
Probably the English found it an easy prey when deprived of the peasant
champion, who had held it so bravely and well; though it may be that the
wraith of the burly hero hung about the place and still inspired his
late companions to successful resistance to their foes. Its fate is one
of those many half-told tales on which history shuts its door, after
revealing all that it holds to be of interest to mankind.
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