Then was called a council straight;
Brief and bitter the debate: 
“Here’s the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow
All that’s left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow,
For a prize to Plymouth Sound?—­
Better run the ships aground!”
(Ended Damfreville his speech.)
“Not a minute more to wait! 
Let the captains all and each
Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! 
France must undergo her fate.

“Give the word!”—­But no such word
Was ever spoke or heard;
For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these—­
A captain?  A lieutenant?  A mate—­first, second, third? 
No such man of mark, and meet
With his betters to compete! 
But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet—­
A poor coasting pilot he, Herve Riel, the Croisiekese.

And “What mockery or malice have we here?” cries Herve Riel: 
“Are you mad, you Malouins?  Are you cowards, fools, or rogues? 
Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell
On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell,
’Twixt the offing here and Greve where the river disembogues? 
Are you bought by English gold?  Is it love the lying’s for? 
Morn and eve, night and day. 
Have I piloted your bay,
Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor. 
Burn the fleet and ruin France?  That were worse than fifty Hogues! 
Sirs, they know I speak the truth!  Sirs, believe me there’s a way! 
Only let me lead the line,
Have the biggest ship to steer,
Get this Formidable clear,
Make the others follow mine,
And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well,
Right to Solidor past Greve,
And there lay them safe and sound;
And if one ship misbehave,
—­Keel so much as grate the ground,
Why, I’ve nothing but my life,—­here’s my head!” cries Herve Riel.

Not a minute more to wait
“Steer us in, then, small and great! 
Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!” cried its chief. 
Captains, give the sailor place! 
He is Admiral, in brief. 
Still the north wind, by God’s grace! 
See the noble fellow’s face
As the big ship, with a bound,
Clears the entry like a hound,
Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea’s profound! 
See, safe through shoal and rock,
How they follow in a flock,
Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground,
Not a spar that comes to grief! 
The peril, see, is past,
All are harboured to the last,
And just as Herve Riel hollas “Anchor!”—­sure as fate,
Up the English come—­too late!

So, the storm subsides to calm: 
They see the green trees wave
On the heights o’erlooking Greve. 
Hearts that bled are stanched with balm,
“Just our rapture to enhance,
Let the English rake the bay,
Gnash their teeth and glare askance