Chapter XI.

"Wide o'er the brim, with many a torrent swelled, And the mixed ruin of its banks o'erspread, At last the roused-up river pours along, Resistless, roaring, dreadful." Thomson.

The first inundations of the Loire with which we are acquainted have been made known to us by the celebrated historian and bishop St. Gregory of Tours, who has left detailed accounts of eight dreadful disasters that occurred in the space of eleven years; that is, from 580 to 591. In the archives of France there is preserved an edict of Louis le Debonnaire, son and successor of Charlemagne, who, touched by the piteous complaints made to him by the inhabitants of Touraine and Anjou, whose harvests were in constant danger from the sudden risings of the river, ordered the building of dams and embankments, which, modified by some of his successors and strengthened by others, became at last the magnificent structures we behold them at the present day, between Blois and Tours.

Nevertheless, the capricious river has never yet during all these long centuries been kept for any time within its bed. Its devastations were fearful in 1414, and again in 1615, when the sudden melting of the enormous masses of snow which had fallen on the surrounding country during the winter caused so frightful a catastrophe that it has since been known in French history as the "Deluge of Saumur." The beginning of the seventeenth century saw ten risings of the Loire in ten years; and the Duke of Saint-Simon has left us, in his celebrated memoirs, a notice of one in 1708, which was the cause of much misery. In more modern times, France has had, every eight or ten years, to deplore some dreadful misfortune arising from the same source, and the more favored portions of that beautiful land have been compelled repeatedly to come to the aid of the ruined population of the basin of the Loire, whose farm-houses had been swept away by the flood, their harvest-fields devastated, their cattle drowned, and who, too often, alas! had also had to weep over irreparable losses far more bitter than these--the life of dear ones lost in the surging waters.

About five years after Marcel's admission into the Mettray Colony, one of the most terrible of these visitations overtook the inhabitants of the banks of the picturesque stream. A long continuation of rainy weather had swollen the Cher and the Allier, both tributaries of the Loire, and the river, rising suddenly, broke through its strong embankments and spread itself over the country. The local authorities, of every degree and station--prefect, subprefect, and mayors--with the soldiers, engineers, and townspeople of Tours, all hastened to the relief of the drowning villages and farms, and all did their duty; but even among these courageous men the young Colonists distinguished themselves by their energy and self devotion.

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The inundation had commenced in the night, and when daylight revealed the extent of the disaster, the director assembled the youths.

"Boys," cried he, "the Loire has risen, the country is under water, and hundreds of families are in danger of their lives. Boys, the oldest and strongest of you must go and help to save them!"

The lads looked at one another an instant in silence, then broke forth in a cry that rang far and near, "Long live Demetz! Long live our director!" a cry that was a perfect explosion of gratitude and of pride; for the poor fellows fully comprehended all that their wise and good director meant them to understand--his confidence in their honor, their honesty, and their courage.

And well they justified his trust in them! More than a hundred were soon actively at work raising dikes and clams, propping houses, and carrying succor to the distressed.

Marcel, Polycarpe, and one of their companions, a young baker, named Priat, to whom both of them were much attached, were among the foremost in these labors. They had gone with some others to carry help to a village containing about twenty families; it was situated only two hundred yards from the river, and completely surrounded by water. An immense quantity of wood--wrecks from other villages swept away by the flood--drifted about in the streets, and was dashed incessantly against the water-soaked walls of the houses, shaking them terribly; two, indeed, had fallen in the night and been washed away. On the roofs, or leaning from the upper windows of the tottering dwellings, were to be seen the frightened inhabitants imploring aid; the mothers holding out their little ones and praying for pity. It was a heart-breaking sight, and the noise of the ever-rising and surging river, of the wind and pouring rain, of the shocks of the drift-wood, increased the terrors of the scene. Nor was it possible to approach near enough to the houses to save any of the unfortunates shrieking for help; for every boat belonging to the place had either been swamped or had been torn from its moorings by the overwhelming current and carried away.

"Let us run to Saint-Pierre," cried Polycarpe, after he and his companions had contemplated the fearful spectacle for a few moments with consternation. "We may find a boat there!"

He started off as he spoke, followed by half a dozen of the Colonists. Marcel did not accompany them, for he had heard cries of distress from the windmill, a short distance off, and had hastened thither with three or four more. The water at this point was quite seven feet deep, and the building evidently giving way. There seemed to be no possibility of saving the miller and his wife and child, for the flood rushed so fiercely around the mill that the most experienced swimmer would not have ventured into it. Marcel was gazing in hopeless pity at the fated building, when a man on horseback trotted into the midst of the group of despairing spectators. A sudden thought struck the boy.

"Give me that horse!" cried he; "quick, give me that horse!"

"What do you mean, youngster?" asked the man, somewhat surprised by the imperative tone and unexpected demand of the stranger.

"For God's sake, lend me your horse; every moment that we lose may cost a life!"

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As he spoke he turned toward the mill, where the unfortunate family could be seen at the window, stretching forth their imploring hands and crying for help. The traveller got off his horse without another word, and, quick as lightning, Marcel was in the saddle and spurring the animal forward into the water. Before his surprised companions well comprehended what he intended to do, they saw him breasting the furious current and struggling to reach the windmill.

They saw him reach it at last, and then the miller letting down his wife to him by a rope passed under her arms. The poor woman held her child clasped closely to her bosom, and though she clung to her deliverer with a grasp that almost strangled him, she seemed to think only of her babe, whispering to it as Marcel urged the panting horse back again to the land, "Thou art saved, my little one, thou art saved!"

The brave boy placed the mother and child in safety in the hands of the admiring spectators of his courage and self-devotion; then, without staying for a moment's breathing or rest, forced his unwilling horse again into the flood.

This time the owner of the good beast made some indignant remonstrances. "Both boy and horse will be lost," cried he; "they are both, tired now; they can never fight against the current!"

"Why don't the miller throw himself into the water and swim? He's fresh and the others aren't."

"Suppose he don't know how," answered one of the bystanders; "and if he did, do you think he could stem that torrent?"

"Why, he'd be carried down the Loire to the sea, just like a piece of straw," said another.

"The horse, the horse, look how he strains! he's giving way! he's lost his footing!" cried half a dozen at this instant.

For a moment the strong, high-spirited animal was hurried along by the foaming, eddying stream, then with a mighty effort recovering himself he reached the mill, and the miller had just time to drop down and cling with a death-grip to the pale, intrepid rider, when the building toppled over and was carried away!

Cries and tears of joy hailed them as they approached the dry land; the young Colonists surrounded their heroic companion, and presently bore him off to Mettray for a change of clothing and some refreshment; his trembling frame told how much he needed them. But the family he had saved so gallantly did not let him depart before they had thanked him with tears of gratitude, while the owner of the noble horse pressed his hand in both of his and swore to be his friend through life.

"You're a brave fellow, and I honor you," cried he. "I'll be your friend, and a true one, or my name's not Charles Rodez!"

The poor miller with his wife and child were taken to a house prepared to receive and succor the unfortunate victims of the inundation. Food and warm clothing and beds were here ready for the half-starved and half-drowned families that were arriving continually--poor, despairing people who had most of them lost their little all, and some of them a father, or husband, or child.

Scarcely had Marcel, cold and wet, but very happy, been borne off in triumph by his comrades, when there appeared on the road, coming toward the village, a great truck drawn by two horses, and loaded with a large boat and its oars.

Polycarpe and his friend Priat had been successful in their search, and were now returning at the head of the little band of Colonists who had followed them to Saint-Pierre.

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The people in the water-logged houses of the village fairly screamed with hope and joy when they saw the procession, and then the boat taken off and launched. A dozen Colonists were eager to jump in, but Polycarpe and Priat were given the precedence, and they, with another well-grown youth, presently pushed off into the fast and furious stream. It was hard work to keep clear of the drifting beams that were hurled along, rather than carried, by the current through the narrow streets of the village; harder still to get the boat near enough to each tottering house to take off the frightened family from the roof or out of the windows.

Once, indeed, it came near being swamped, with eight persons on board, by the sudden falling of a wall of the house from which they had just been saved. Polycarpe's quick eye saw the coming danger in time to give such a vigorous pull with his oar that the boat sprang forward just out of reach of the stones and beams, but she was so violently rocked by the concussion of the falling materials with the water that it seemed a miracle that she did not capsize.

And once, too, the brave boy missed his footing as he climbed on a roof to take off a lame old man, and fell headlong into the water. An admirable swimmer and diver, he did not lose his presence of mind, but passed under the boat and came up on the other side; he was soon hauled in by poor Priat, who was more frightened and affected by this accident than by any other event of that terrible day.

All day long the work of rescue went on. When the three rowers were exhausted with fatigue, three others took their places. There was not one among the young Colonists who hung back or shirked the danger; not one who did not give proof of courage and Christian charity. The boat went and came, until, at last, one after another, all the poor peasants were in safety. When night fell, not a house of the village was left standing, but not a life had been lost.