CHAPTER V
THE TRIVIAL ROUND
AS he had done almost every night for the last twenty-five years, Sir Montague Merline lay awake for some time, thinking of his wife.
Was she happy? Of course she was. Any woman is happy with the man she really loves.
Did she ever think of him? Of course she did. Any woman thinks, at times, of the man in whose arms she has lain. No doubt his photo stood in a silver frame on her desk or piano. Huntingten would not mind that. Nothing petty about Lord Huntingten—and he had been very fond of "good old Merline," "dear old stick-in-the-mud," as he had so often called him.
Of course she was happy. Why shouldn't she be? Although Huntingten was poor as English peers go, there was enough for decent quiet comfort—and Marguerite had never been keen on making a splash. She had not minded poverty as Lady Merline. … She was certainly as happy as the day was long, and it would have been the damnedest cruelty and caddishness to have turned up and spoilt things. It would have wrecked her life and Huntingten's too. …
Splendid chap, Huntingten—so jolly clever and original, so full of ideas and unconventionality. … "How to be Happy though Titled." … "How to be a Man though a Peer." … "Efforts for the Effete," and Sir Montague smiled as he thought of the eccentric peer's pleasantries.
Yes, she'd be happy enough with that fine brave big sportsman with his sunny face and merry laugh, his gentle and kindly ways, his love of open-air life, games, sport, and all clean strenuous things. Of course she was happy. … Did she ever think of him? … Were there any more children? … (And, as always, at this point, Sir Montague frowned and sighed.)
How he would love a little girl of hers, if she were very, very like her—and how he would hate a boy if he were like Huntingten. No—not hate the boy—hate the idea of her having a boy who was like Huntingten. But how she would love the boy. …
What would he not give to see her! Unseen himself, of course. He hoped he would not get cafard again, when next stationed in the desert. It had been terrible, unspeakably terrible, to feel that resolution was weakening, and that when it failed altogether, he would desert and go in search of her…. Suppose that, with madman's cunning, and with madman's strength, he should be successful in an attempt to reach Tunis—the only possible way for a deserter without money—and should live to reach her, or to be recognised and proclaimed as the lost Sir Montague Merline. Her life in ruins and her children illegitimate—nameless bastards. … It was a horribly disturbing thought, that under the influence of cafard his mind might lose all ideas and memories and wishes except the one great longing to see her again, to clasp her in his arms again, to have and to hold. … Well—he had a lot to be thankful for. So long as Cyrus Hiram Milton was his bunk-mate it was not likely to happen. Cyrus would see that he did not desert, penniless and mad, into the desert. And now this English boy had come—a man with the same training, tastes, habits, haunts and clichés as himself. Doubtless they had numbers of common acquaintances. But he must be wary when on that ground. Possibly the boy knew Lord and Lady Huntingten. … After all it's a very small world, and especially the world of English Society, clubs, Services, and sport. … This boy would be a real companion, such as dear old Cyrus could never be, best of friends as he was. He would make a hobby of the boy, look after him, live his happy past again in talking of London, Sandhurst, Paris, racing, golf, theatres, clubs, and all the lost things whose memories they had in common. The boy might perhaps have been at Winchester too. … Thank Heaven he had come! It would make all the difference when cafard conditions arose again. Of course he'd get promoted Soldat première classe before long though, and then Caporal. Corporals may not walk and talk with private soldiers. Yes—the boy would rise and leave him behind. Just his luck. … Might he not venture to accept promotion now—after all these years, and rise step by step with him? No, better not. Thin end of the wedge. Once he allowed himself to be Soldat première classe he'd be accepting promotion to Caporal and Sergent before he knew it. The temptation to go on to Chef and Adjudant would be overwhelming, and when offered a commission (and the return to the life of an officer and gentleman) would be utterly irresistible. Then would come the very thing to prevent which he had buried himself alive in this hell of a Legion—recognition and then the public scandal of his wife's innocent bigamy, and her children's illegitimacy. As an officer he would meet foreign officers and visitors to Algeria. His portrait might get into the papers. He might have to go to Paris, or Marseilles, and run risks of being recognised. No—better to put away temptation and take no chance of the evil thing. Poor little Marguerite! Think of the cruel shattering blow to her. It would kill her to give up Huntingten in addition to knowing her children to be nameless, unable to inherit title or estates.… No—unthinkable! Do the thing properly or not at all.… But it was hell to be a second-class soldier all the time, and never be exempt from liability to sentry-duty, guards, fatigues, filthy corvées and punishment at the hands of Non-coms. seeking to acquire merit by discovering demerit…. And he could have had a commission straight away, when he got his bit of ferblanterie[1] in Tonkin and again in Dahomey. They knew he could speak German and had been an officer. … It had been a sore temptation—but, thank God, he had conquered it and not run the greatly enhanced risk of discovery. He ought really to have committed suicide directly he learned that she was married. No business to be alive—let alone grumbling about promotion. Moreover, if any living soul on this earth discovered that he was alive he must not only die, but let his wife have proof that he really was dead, this time. Then she and Huntingten could re-marry as the first ceremony was null and void, and the children be legitimatised. … Of course there would be more children—they loved each other so. …
As things were, his being alive did the Huntingtens no harm. It was the knowledge of his existence that would do the injury—both legal and personal. … No harm, so long as it wasn't known. They were quite innocent in the sight of le bon Dieu, and so long as neither they, nor anyone else, knew—nothing mattered so far as they were concerned. …
But fourteen years as a second-class soldier of the Legion! … And what was he to do at the end of the fifteenth? They would not re-enlist him. He would get a pension of five hundred francs a year—twenty pounds a year—and he had got the cash "bonus" given him when he won the médaille militaire. Where could he hide again? Perhaps he could get a job as employed-pensioner of the Legion—such as sexton at the graveyard or assistant-cook, or Officers'-Mess servant? … Otherwise he'd find himself one fine morning at the barracks-gates, dressed in a suit of blue sacking from the Quartermaster's store, fitting him where it touched him; a big flat tam-o'-shanter sort of cap; a rough shirt, and a blue cravat "to wind twice round the neck"; a pair of socks (for the first time in fifteen years), and a decent pair of boots. He'd have his papers, a free pass to any part of France he liked to name, a franc a day for the journey thereto, and his week's pay.
And what good would the papers and pass be to him—who dared not leave the shelter of the all-concealing Legion? … Surely it would be safe for him to return to England, or at any rate to go to France or some other part of Europe? Why not to America or the Colonies? No, nowhere was safe, and nothing was certain. Besides, how was he to get there? His pass would take him to any part of France, and nowhere else. A fine thing—to hide in the Legion for fifteen years, actually to survive fifteen years of a second-class soldier's life in the Legion, and then to risk rendering it all useless! One breath of rumour—and Marguerite's life was spoilt. … Discovery—and it was ruined, just when her children (if she had any more) were on the threshold of their careers…. Well, life in the Legion was remarkably uncertain, and there still remained a year in which all problems might be finally solved by bullet, disease, or death in some other of the many forms in which it visited the step-sons of France. … Where was old Strong now? …
Legionary John Bull fell asleep.
Meanwhile, a few inches from him, Reginald Rupert had found himself unusually and unpleasantly wakeful. It had been a remarkably full and tiring day, and as crowded with new experiences as the keenest experience-seeker could desire…. He was very glad he had come. This was going to be a good toughening man's life, and real soldiering. He would not have missed it for anything. It would hold a worthy place in the list of things which he had done and been, the list that, by the end of his life, he hoped would be a long and very varied one. By the time "the governor" died (and he trusted that might not happen for another forty years) he hoped to have been in many armies and Frontier Police forces, to have been a sailor, a cowboy, a big-game hunter, a trapper, an explorer and prospector, a gold-miner, a war correspondent, a gum-digger, and many other things in many parts of the world, in addition to his present record of Public-school, Sandhurst, 'Varsity man, British officer, trooper, and French Légionnaire. He hoped to continue to turn up in any part of the world where there was a war.
What Reginald, like his father, loathed and feared was Modern Society life, and in fact all modern civilised life as it had presented itself to his eyes—with its incredibly false standards, values and ideals, its shoddy shams and vulgar pretences, its fat indulgences, slothfulness and folly.
To him, as to his father (whose curious mental kink he had inherited), the world seemed a dreadful place in which drab, dull folk followed drab, dull pursuits for drab, dull ends. People who lived for pleasure were so occupied and exhausted in its pursuit that they got no pleasure. People who worked were so closely occupied in earning their living that they never lived. He did not know which class he disliked more—the men who lived their weary lives at clubs, grand-stands, country-house parties, Ranelagh and Hurlingham, the Riviera, the moors, and the Yacht Squadron; or those who lived dull laborious days in offices, growing flabby and grey in pursuit of the slippery shekel.
The human animal seemed to him to have become as adventurous, gallant, picturesque and gay as the mole, the toad, and the slug. An old tomcat on a backyard fence seemed to him to be a more independent, care-free, self-respecting and gentlemanly person than his owner, a man who, all God's wide world before him, was, for a few monthly metal discs, content to sit in a stuffy hole and copy hieroglyphics from nine till six—that another man might the quicker amass many dirty metal discs and a double chin. To Reginald, the men of even his own class seemed travesties and parodies of a noble original, in that they were content to lead the dreadful lives they did—killing tame birds, knocking little balls about the place, watching other people ride races, rushing around in motors, sailing sunny seas in luxury and safety, seeing foreign lands only from their best hotels, poodle-faking and philandering, doing everything but anything—pampered, soft, useless; each a most exact and careful copy of his neighbour. Reginald loved, and excelled at, every form of sport, and had been prominent in the playing-fields at Winchester, Sandhurst and Oxford, but he could not live by sport alone, and to him it had always been a means and not an end, a means to health, strength, skill and hardihood—the which were to be applied—not to more games—but to the fuller living of life. The seeds of his father's teaching had fallen on most receptive and fertile soil, and their fruit ripened not the slower by reason of the fact that his father was his friend, confidant, hero and model.… He could see him now as he straddled mightily on the rug before the library fire, in his pink and cords, his spurred tops splashed with mud, and grey on the inner sides with the sweat of his horse. …
"Brown-paper prisons for poor men, and pink-silk cages for rich—that's Life nowadays, my boy, unless you're careful.… Get hold of Life, don't let Life get hold of you. Take the family motto for your guidance in actual fact. 'Be all, see all.' Try to carry it out as far as humanly possible. Live Life and live it in the World. Don't live a thousandth part of Life in a millionth part of the World, as all our neighbours do. When you succeed me here and marry and settle down, be able to say you've seen everything, done everything, been everything. … Be a gentleman, of course, but one can be a man as well as being a gentleman—gentility is of the heart and conduct and manners—not of position and wealth and rank. What's the good of seeing one little glimpse of life out of one little window—whether it's a soldier's window (which is the best of windows), or a sailor's, or a lawyer's, parson's, merchant's, scholar's, sportsman's, landowner's, politician's, or any other. … And go upwards and downwards too, my boy. Tramps, ostlers, costermongers and soldiers are a dam' sight more interestin' than kings—and a heap more human. A chap who's only moved in one plane of society isn't educated—not worth listening to …" and much more to the same effect—and Rupert smiled to himself as he thought of how his father had advised him not to "waste" more than a year at Sandhurst, another at Oxford, and another in an Officers' Mess, before setting forth to see real life, and real men living it hard and to the full, in the capitals and the corners of the earth.
"How the dear old boy must have worshipped mother—to have married and settled down, at forty," he reflected, "and what a beauty she must have been. She's lovely now," and again his rather hard face softened into a smile as he thought of the interview in which he told her of his intention to "chuck" his commission and go and do things and see things. Little had he known that she had fully anticipated and daily expected the declaration which he feared would be a "terrible blow" to her. … Did she expect him to be anything else than the son of his father and his eccentric and adventurous House?
"I wouldn't have you be anything but a chip of the old block, my darling boy. You're of age and your old mother isn't going to be a millstone round your neck, like she's been round your father's. Only one woman can have the right to be that, and you will give her the right when you marry her. … Your family really ought not to marry."
"Mother, Mother!" he had protested, "and 'bring up our children to do the same,' I suppose?"
She had been bravely gay when he went, albeit a little damp of eye and red of nose.… Really he was a lucky chap to have such a mother. She was one in a thousand and he must faithfully do his utmost to keep his promise and go home once a year or thereabouts—also "to take care of his nails, not crop his hair, change damp socks, and wear wool next his skin.…" Want a bit of doin' in the Legion, what! Good job the poor darling couldn't see Luigi Rivoli breaking up recruits, or Sergeant Legros superintending the ablutions of her Reginald. What would she think of this galley and his fellow galley-slaves—of 'Erb, the Apache, Carmelita, the Grasshopper, and the drunkards of the Canteen? The Bucking Bronco would amuse her, and she'd certainly be interested in John Bull, poor old chap…. What could his story be, and why was he here? Was there a woman in it? … Probably. He didn't look the sort of chap who'd "done something." Poor devil! … Yes, her big warm heart would certainly have a corner for John Bull. Had she not been well brought up by her husband and son in the matter of seeing a swan in every goose they brought home? Yes, he'd repay John Bull's kindness to the full when he left the Legion. He should come straight to Elham Old Hall and his mother should have the chance, which she would love, of thanking and, in some measure, repaying the good chap. He wouldn't tell him exactly who they were and what they were, lest he should pretend that fifteen years of Legion life had spoilt him for la vie de château, and refuse to visit them.… He'd like to know his story. What could be the cause of a man like him leading this ha'penny-a-day life for fourteen years? Talk of paper prisons and silken cages—this was a prison of red-hot stone. Fancy this the setting for the best years of your life, and he sat up and looked round the moonlit room.
Next to him lay the Bucking Bronco, snoring heavily, his moustache looking huge and black in the moonlight that made his face appear pale and fine.… A strong and not unkindly face, with its great jutting chin and square heavy jaw.
'Erb lay on the neighbouring cot, his hands clasped above his head as he slept the sleep of the just and innocent, for whom a night of peaceful slumber is the meet reward of a well-spent day. His pinched and cunning little face was transfigured by the moonlight, and the sleeping Herbert Higgins looked less the vulgar, street-bred guttersnipe than did the waking "’Erbiggins" of the day.
Beyond him lay the mighty bulk of Luigi Rivoli, breathing stertorously in drunken slumber as he sprawled, limb-scattered, on his face, fully dressed, save for his boots.…
What an utter swine and cad—reflected Reginald—and what would happen when he selected him for his attentions? Of course, the Neapolitan had ten times his strength and twice his weight—but there would have to be a fight—or a moral victory for the recruit. He would obey no behests of Luigi Rivoli, nor accept any insults nor injuries tamely. He would land the cad one of the best, and take the consequences, however humiliating or painful. And he'd do it every time too, until he were finally incapacitated, or Luigi Rivoli weary of the game. Evidently the brute had some sort of respect for the big American and for John Bull. He should learn to have some for "Reginald Rupert," too, or the latter would die in the attempt to teach it. The prospect was not alluring though, and the Austrian and the Apache had received sharp and painful lessons on the folly of defying or attacking Luigi Rivoli. Still—experiences, dangers, difficulties and real, raw, primitive life were what his family sought—and here were some of them. Yes, he was ready for Il Signor Luigi Rivoli. …
In the next bed lay the Russian, Mikhail. Queer, shy chap. What a voice, and what a complexion for a recruit of the Foreign Legion! How extraordinarily alike he and his brother were, and yet there was a great difference between their respective voices and facial expressions. … Another queer story there. They looked like students. … Probably involved in some silly Nihilist games and had to bolt for their lives from the Russian police or from Nihilist confederates, or both. It was nice to see how the manlier brother looked after the other. He seemed to be in a perpetual state of concern and anxiety about him.
Beyond the Russian recruit lay the mad Legionary known as the Grasshopper. What a pathetic creature—an ex-officer of one of the most aristocratic corps in Europe. In fact he must be a nobleman or he could not have been in the Guides. Must be of an ancient family moreover. Besides, he was so very obviously of ceux qui ont pris la peine de naître. What could his story be? Fancy the man being a really first-class soldier on parade, manœuvres, march, or battlefield, and an obvious lunatic at the same time…. Poor devil!…
Next to him was the other Russian, and then Edouard Malvin, the nasty-looking cad who appeared to be Rivoli's chief toady. His neighbour was the fat and dull-looking Dutch lad (who was to display such unusual and enviable moral courage).…
Footsteps resounded without, and the Room-Corporal entered with a clatter. Turning down his blanket, as though expecting to find something beneath it, he disclosed some bottles, a few packets of tobacco and cigarettes, and a little heap of coins.
"Bonheur de Dieu vrai!" he ejaculated. "'Y'a de bon!" and examined the packets for any indication of their orientation. "'Les deux Russes,'" he read, and broke into a guinguette song. Monsieur le Caporal loved wine and was un ramasseur de sous. These Russians were really worthy and sensible recruits, and, though they should escape none of their duties, they should be regarded with a tolerant and non-malicious eye by Monsieur le Caporal. No undue share of corvées should be theirs. … No harm in their complimenting their good Caporal and winning his approval—but, on the other hand, no bribery and corruption. Mais non—c'est tout autre chose!
As the Corporal disrobed, the Grasshopper rose from his cot, crouched, and hopped towards him.
The Corporal evinced no surprise.
"Monsieur le Caporal," quoth the Grasshopper. "How can a Cigale steer a gunboat? … I ask you. … How can I possibly dip the ensign from peak to taffrail, cat the anchor or shoot the sun, by the pale glimmer of the binnacle light? … And I have, for cargo, the Cestus of Aphrodite.…"
"And I have, for cargo, seven bottles of good red wine—beneath my Cestus of Corporal—so I can't tell you, Grasshopper," was the reply. … "Va t'en! … You go and ask Monsieur le bon Diable—and tell him his old ami Caporal Achille Martel sent you. … Go on—allez schteb' los—and let me sleep.…"
The Grasshopper hopped to the door and out into the corridor. …
Rupert fell asleep. …
As John Bull had prophesied, he was awakened by yells of "Au jus! Au jus! Au jus!" from the garde-chambre, the room-orderly on duty, as he went from cot to cot with a huge jug.
Each sleepy soul roused himself sufficiently to hold out the tin mug which hung at the head of his bed, and to receive a half-pint or so of the "gravy"—which proved to be really excellent coffee. For his own part, Rupert would have been glad of the addition of a little milk and sugar, but he had swallowed too much milkless and sugarless tea (from a basin) in the British Army, to be concerned about such a trifle….
"Good morning. Put on the white trousers and come downstairs with me," said John Bull, as he also swallowed his coffee. "Be quick, or you won't get a chance at the lavatory. There's washing accommodation for six men when sixty want it…. Come on."
As he hurried from the room, Rupert noticed that Corporal Martel lay comfortably in bed while the rest hurriedly dressed. From time to time he mechanically shouted: "Levez-vous, mes enfants…." "Levez-vous, assassins…." "Levez-vous, scélérats…."
After each of his shouts came, in antistrophe, the anxious yell of the garde-chambre (who had to sweep the room before parade) of "Balayez au-dessous vos lits!"
Returning from his hasty and primitive wash, Rupert noticed that the Austrian recruit was lacing Rivoli's boots, while the Apache, grimacing horribly behind his back, brushed the Neapolitan down, Malvin superintending their labours.
"Shove on the white tunic and blue sash," said John Bull to his protégé—"and you'll want knapsack, cartridge-belt, bayonet and rifle…. Bye-bye! I must be off. You'll have recruit-drills separate from us for some time…. See you later…."
§3
Légionnaire Reginald Rupert soon found that French drill methods of training differed but little from English, though perhaps more thorough and systematically progressive, and undoubtedly better calculated to develop initiative.
It did not take the Corporal-Instructor long to single him out as an unusually keen and intelligent recruit, and Rupert was himself surprised at the pleasure he derived from being placed as Number One of the escouade of recruits, after a few days. His knowledge of French helped him considerably, of course, and on that first morning he had obeyed the Corporal's roar of "Sac à terre," "A gauche," "A droit," "En avant, marche," "Pas gymnastique," or "Formez les faisceaux," before the majority of the others had translated them. He also excelled in the eating of the "Breakfast of the Legion," which is nothing more nor less than a terribly punishing run, in quick time, round and round the parade-ground. By the time the Corporal called a halt, Rupert, who was a fine runner, in the pink of condition, was beginning to feel that he had about shot his bolt, while, with one or two exceptions, the rest of the squad were in a state of real distress, gasping, groaning, and coughing, with protruding eyeballs and faces white, green, or blue. During the brief "cigarette halt," he gazed round with some amusement at the prostrate forms of his exhausted comrades.
The Russian, Feodor, seemed to be in pretty well as good condition as himself—in striking contrast to Mikhail, whose state was pitiable, as he knelt doubled up, drawing his breath in terrible gasps, and holding his side as though suffering agonies from "stitch."
'Erb was in better case, but he lay panting as though his little chest would burst.
"Gawdstrewth, matey," he grunted to M. Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat, "I ain't run so much since I last see a copper."
The Apache, green-faced and blue-lipped, showed his teeth in a vicious snarl, by way of reply. Absinthe and black cigarettes are a poor training-diet.
The fat Dutch lad, Hans Djoolte, appeared to be in extremis and likely to disappear in a pool of perspiration. The gnarled-looking Spaniard drew his breath with noisy whoops, and stout Germans, Alsatians, Belgians and Frenchmen gave the impression of persons just rescued from drowning or suffocation by smoke. Having finished his cigarette, the Corporal ran to the far side of the parade-ground, raised his hand with a shout, and cried, "A moi."
"Well run, bleu," he observed to Rupert, who arrived first.
Before the "breakfast" half-hour was over, he was thoroughly tired, and more than a little sorry for some of the others. M. Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat was violently sick; the plump Dutchman was soaked from head to foot; many a good, stout Hans, Fritz and Carl wished he had never been born; and Mikhail Kyrilovitch distinguished himself by falling flat in a dead faint, to the contemptuous and outspoken disgust of the Corporal.
It was indeed a kill-or-cure training, and, in some cases, bade fair to kill before it cured. One drill-manœuvre interested Rupert by its novelty and yet by its suggestion of the old Roman testudo. On the order "A genoux," all had to fall on their knees and every man of the squad, not in the front rank, to thrust his head well under the knapsack of the man in front of him. Since, under service conditions, knapsacks would be stuffed with spare uniforms and underclothing, and covered with tent-canvas, blanket, spare boots, fuel or a cooking-pot, excellent head-cover was thus provided against shrapnel and shell-fragments, and from bullets from some of such rifles as are used by the Chinese, African, Madagascan, and Arab foes of the Legion. Interested or not, it was with unfeigned thankfulness that, at about eleven o'clock, Rupert found himself marching back to barracks and heard the "Rompez" command of dismissal outside the caserne of his Company. Hurrying up to the chambrée he put his Lebel in the rack, his knapsack and belts on the shelf above his bed, and lay down to get that amount of rest without which he felt he could not face breakfast.
"Hallo, Rupert! Had a gruelling?" enquired John Bull, entering and throwing off his accoutrements. "They make you earn your little bit of corn, don't they? You feel it less day by day though, and soon find you can do it without turning a hair. Not much chance of a chap with weak lungs or heart surviving the 'Breakfast of the Legion,' for long. You see the point of the training when you begin the desert marches."
"Quite looking forward to it," said Rupert.
"It's better looking back on it, on the whole," rejoined the other grimly.… "Feel like breakfast?" he added in French, remembering that the more his young friend spoke in that tongue the better.
"Oh, I'm all right. What'll it be?"
"Well, not bec-fins and pêche Melba exactly. Say a mug of bread-soup, containing potato and vegetables and a scrap of meat. Sort of Irish stew."
"Arlequins at two sous the plate, first, for me, please," put in M. Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat, whose small compact frame seemed to have recovered its normal elasticity and vigour.
As he spoke, the voice of a kitchen-orderly was raised below in a long-drawn howl of "Soupe! A la Soupe!" Turning with one accord to the garde-chambre the Legionaries bawled "Soupe!" as one man, and like an arrow from a bow, the room-orderly sped forth, to return a minute later bearing the soup-kettle and a basket of loaves of grey bread. Tin plates and utensils were snatched from the hanging-cupboards, and mugs from their hooks on the wall and the Legionaries seated themselves on the benches that ran down either side of the long table.
"’Fraid you'll have to stand out, Rupert, being a recruit," said John Bull. "There's only room for twenty at this table."
"Of course. Thanks," was the reply, and the speaker betook himself to his bed, and sat him down with his mug and crust.
With cheerful sociability, 'Erb had already seated himself at table, and was beating a loud tattoo with mug and plate as he awaited the administrations of the soup-laden Ganymede.
Suddenly the expansive and genial smile faded on 'Erb's happy face, as he felt himself seized by the scruff of his neck and the seat of his trousers, and raised four feet in the air. … For a second he hovered, descended a foot and was then shot through the air with appalling violence to some distant corner of the earth. Fortunately for 'Erb, that corner contained a bed and he landed fairly on it. … The Legionary Herbert Higgins in the innocence of his ignorance had occupied the Seats of the Mighty, had sat him down in the place of Luigi Rivoli—and Luigi had removed the insect.
"Gawd love us!" said 'Erb. "’Oo'd a' thought it?" as he realised that he was still in barracks and had only travelled from the table to a cot, a distance of some six feet. …
Mikhail Kyrilovitch lay stretched on his bed, too exhausted to eat. It interested and rather touched Rupert to see how tenderly the other Russian half raised him from the bed, coaxed him with soup and, failing, produced a bottle of wine from behind the paquetage on his shelf, and induced him to drink a little. …
"Potato fatigue after this, Rupert," said John Bull as he came over to the recruit, and offered him a cigarette. "Ghastly stuff you'll find this black Algerian tobacco, but one gets used to it. It's funny, but when I get a taste of any of the tobaccos from Home, I find my palate so ruined that I don't enjoy it. Seems acrid and strong though it's infinitely milder.…"
The Kitchen-Corporal thrust his head in at the door of the chambrée, roared "Aux palates" and vanished. Trooping down to the kitchen, the whole Company stood in a ring and solemnly peeled potatoes. Here, at any rate, Mikhail Kyrilovitch distinguished himself among the recruits, for not only was his the first potato to fall peeled into the bucket, but his peel was the thinnest, his output the greatest. Standing next to him, Rupert noticed how tiny were his hands and wrists, and how delicate his nails.
"Apparently this is part of regular routine and not a corvée," he remarked.
"Mais oui, Monsieur," replied Mikhail primly.
"Great tip to get cunning at dodging extra fatigues when you're a soldier," continued Rupert.
"Mais oui, Monsieur," replied Mikhail primly.
"Expect they'll catch us wretched recruits on that lay until we get artful."
"Mais oui, Monsieur," replied Mikhail primly.
What a funny shy lad he was, with his eternal "Mais oui, Monsieur" … Perhaps that was all the French he knew!…
"Do you think the medical-examination will be very—er—searching, Monsieur?" asked Mikhail.
So he did know French after all. What was he trembling about now?
"Shouldn't think so. Why? You're all right, aren't you? You wouldn't have passed the doctor when you enlisted, otherwise."
"Non, Monsieur."
"Where did you enlist?"
"At Paris, Monsieur."
"So did I; Rue St. Dominique. Little fat cove in red breeches and a white tunic. I suppose you had the same chap?"
"Er—oui, Monsieur."
"I suppose he overhauled you very thoroughly? … Wasn't it infernally cold standing stark naked in that beastly room while he punched you about?"
"Oh!—er—oui, Monsieur. Oh, please let us … Er—wasn't that running dreadful this morning?" …
"I say, Monsieur Rupaire, do you think we shall have the same 'breakfast' every morning?" put in Feodor Kyrilovitch. "It'll be the death of my brother here, if we do. He never was a runner."
"’Fraid so, during recruits' course," replied Rupert, and added: "I noticed a great difference between you and your brother."
"Oh, it's only just in that respect," was the reply. "I've always been better winded than he…. Illness when he was a kid…. Lungs not over strong. …"
Even as he had prophesied, an Orderly-Sergeant swooped down upon them as the potato-fatigue finished, and, while the old Legionaries somehow melted into thin air and vanished like the baseless fabric of a vision, the recruits were captured and commandeered for a barrack-scavenging corvée which kept them hard at work until it was time to fall in for "theory."
This Rupert discovered to be instruction in recognition of badges of rank, and, later, in every sort and kind of rule and regulation; in musketry, tactics, training and the principles and theory of drill, entrenchment, scouting, skirmishing, and every other branch of military education.
At two o'clock, drill began again, and lasted until four, at which hour Monsieur le Médicin-Major held the medical examination, the idea of which seemed so disturbing to Mikhail Kyrilovitch. It proved to be the merest formality—a glance, a question, a caution against excess, and the recruits were passed and certified as bon pour le service at the rate of twenty to the quarter-hour. They were, moreover, free for the remainder of the day (provided they escaped all victim-hunting Non-coms., in search of corvée-parties) with the exception of such hours as might be necessary for labours of astiquage and the lavabo.
On returning to the chambrée, Rupert found his friend John Bull awaiting him.
"Well, Rupert," he cried cheerily, "what sort of a day have you had? Tired? We'll get 'soupe' again shortly. I'll take you to the lavabo afterwards, and show you the ropes. Got to have your white kit, arms and accoutrements all klim-bim, as the Germans say, before you dress and go out, or else you'll have to do it in the dark."
"Yes, thanks," replied Rupert. "I'll get straight first. I hate 'spit and polish' after Lights Out. What'll the next meal be?"
"Same as this morning—the eternal 'soupe.' The only variety in food is when dog-biscuit replaces bread…. Nothing to grumble at really, except the infernal monotony. Quantity is all right—in fact some fellows save up a lot of bread and biscuit and sell it in the town. (Eight days salle de police if you're caught.) But sometimes you feel you could eat anything in the wide world except Legion 'soupe,' bread and biscuit…."
After the second and last meal of the day, at about five o'clock, Rupert was introduced to the lavabo and its ways—particularly its ways in the matter of disappearing soap and vanishing "washing"—and, his first essay in laundry-work concluded, returned with Legionary John Bull and the Bucking Bronco for an hour or two of leather-polishing, accoutrement-cleaning and "Ironing" without an iron.
The room began to fill and was soon a scene of more or less silent industry. On his bed, the great Luigi Rivoli lay magnificently asleep, while, on neighbouring cots and benches, his weapons, accoutrements, boots and uniform received the attentions of Messieurs Malvin, Meyer, Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat, Dimitropoulos, Borges, Bauer, Hirsch, and others, his henchmen.
Anon the great man awoke, yawned cavernously, ejaculated "Dannazione" and sat up. One gathered that the condition of his mouth was not all that it might be, and that his head ached. Even he was not exempt from the penalties incurred by lesser men, and even he had to recognise the fact that a next-morning follows an evening-before. Certain denizens of the chambrée felt, and looked, uneasy, but were reassured by the reflection that there was still a stock of bleus unchastened, and available for the great man's needs and diversion. Rising, he roared "Oho!", smacked and flexed his muscles according to his evening ritual, and announced that a recruit might be permitted to fetch him water.
Feodor Kyrilovitch unobtrusively changed places with his brother Mikhail, whose bed was next to that of the bully.
"Here, dog," roared the Neapolitan, and brought his "quart" down with a right resounding blow upon the bare head of Feodor. Without a word the Russian took the mug and hurried to the nearest lavatory. Returning he handed it respectfully to Rivoli, and pointing into it said in broken Italian—
"There would appear to be a mark on the bottom of the Signor's cup."
The great man looked—and smiled graciously as he recognised a gold twenty-franc piece. "A thoroughly intelligent recruit," he added, turning to Malvin who nodded and smiled drily. It entered the mind of le bon Légionnaire Malvin that this recruit should also give an exhibition of his intelligence to le bon Légionnaire Malvin.
"Where's that fat pig from Olanda who can only whine 'Verstaan nie' when he is spoken to?" enquired Rivoli, looking round. "Let me see if I can 'Verstaan' him how to put my boots on smartly."
But, fortunately for himself, the Dutch recruit, Hans Djoolte, was not present.
"Not there?" thundered the great man, on being informed. "How dare the fat calf be not there? Let it be known that I desire all the recruits of this room to be on duty from 'Soupe' till six, or later, in case I should want them. Let them all parade before me now."
Some sheepishly grinning, some with looks of alarm, some under strong protest, all the recruits with one exception, "fell in" at the foot of the Italian's bed. Some were dismissed as they came up; the two Russians, as having paid their footing very handsomely; the Apache, and Franz Josef Meyer, as having been properly broken to bit and curb; the Greek, as a declared admirer and slave; and one or two others who had already wisely propitiated, or, to their sorrow, encountered less pleasantly, the uncrowned king of the Seventh Company. The remainder received tasks, admonitions and warnings, the which were received variously, but without open defiance.
"The attitude of le Légionnaire 'Erbiggins was characteristic. Realising that he had not a ghost of a chance of success against a man of twice his weight and thrice his strength, he took the leggings which were given him to clean and returned a stream of nervous English, of which the pungent insults and vile language accorded but ill with the bland innocence of his face, and the deferential acquiescence of his manner.
"Ain't yew goin' ter jine the merry throng?" asked the Bucking Bronco of Reginald Rupert, upon hearing that recruit reply to Malvin's order to join the line, with a recommendation that Malvin should go to the devil.
"I am not," replied Rupert.
"Wal, I guess we'll back yew up, sonny," said the American with an approving smile.
"I shall be glad if you will in no way interfere," returned the Englishman.
"Gee-whillikins!" commented the Bucking Bronco.
John Bull looked anxious. "He's the strongest man I have ever seen," he remarked, "besides being a professional wrestler and acrobat."
Malvin again approached, grinning maliciously.
"Il Signor Luigi Rivoli would be sorry to have to come and fetch you, English pig," said he. "Sorry for you, that is. Do you wish to find yourself au grabat,[2] you scurvy, mangy, lousy cur of a recruit? … What reply shall I take Il Signor Luigi Rivoli?"
"That!" replied the Englishman, and therewith smote the fat Austrian a most tremendous smack across his heavy blue jowl with the open hand, sending him staggering several yards. Without paying further attention to the great man's ambassador, he strode in the direction of the great man himself, with blazing eyes and clenched jaw.
"You want me, do you?" he shouted at the astonished Luigi, who was rising open-mouthed from his bed; and, putting the whole weight of his body behind the blow, drove most skilfully and scientifically straight at the point of his jaw.
It must be confessed that the Italian was taken unawares, and in the very act of getting up, so that his hands were down, and he was neither standing nor sitting.
He was down and out, and lay across his bed stunned and motionless.
Into the perfect silence of the chambrée fell the voice of the Bucking Bronco. Solemnly he counted from one to ten, and then with a shout of "OUT!" threw his képi to the roof and roared "Hurrah!" repeatedly.
"Il ira loin," remarked Monsieur Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat, viewing Rupert's handiwork with experienced, professional eye.
Exclamatory oaths went up in all the languages of Europe.
"Il a fait de bon boulet," remarked a grinning greybeard known as "Tant-de-Soif" to the astounded and almost awe-stricken crowd.
But le Légionnaire Jean Boule looked ahead.
"You've made two bad enemies, my boy, I'm afraid…. What about when he comes round?"
"I'll give him some more, if I can," replied Rupert. "Don't interfere, anyhow."
"Shake, sonny," said the Bucking Bronco solemnly. "An' look at hyar. Let's interfere, to the extent o' makin' thet cunning coyote fight down in the squar'…. Yew won't hev no chance—so don't opine yew will—but yew'll hev' more chance than yew will right hyar…. Yew want space when you roughhouses with Loojey. Once he gits a holt on yew—yure monica's up. Savvy?"
"Thanks," replied the Englishman. "Right-ho! If he won't fight downstairs, tell him he can take the three of us."
"Fower, matey. Us fower Henglishmen agin' 'im an' 'is 'ole bleedin' gang," put in 'Erb. "’E's a bloke as wants takin' dahn a peg…. Too free wiv' hisself…. Chucks 'is weight abaht too much…. An' I'll tell yer wot, Cocky. Keep a heye on that cove as you giv' a smack in the chops."
"Sure thing," agreed the Bucking Bronco, and turned to the Belgian who stood ruefully holding his face and looking as venomous as a broken-backed cobra, added: "Yew look at hyar, Mounseer Malvin, my lad. Don't yew git handlin' yure Rosalie[3] any dark night. Yew try ter zigouiller[4] my pal Rupert, an' I'll draw yure innards up through yure mouth till yew look like half a pound of dumplin' on the end of half a yard of macaroni. Twiggez vous? Je tirerai vos gueutes à travers votre bouche jusqu'à vous resemblez un demi-livre de ponding au bout d'un demi-yard de macaroni…. Got it? …"
Rivoli twitched, stirred, and groaned. It was interesting to note that none of his clients and henchmen offered any assistance. The sceptre of the great man swayed in his hand. Were he beaten, those whom he ruled by fear, rather than by bribery, would fall upon him like a pack of wolves. The hands of Monsieur Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat twitched and he licked his lips.
"Je m'en souviendrai," he murmured.
Rivoli sat up.
"Donna e Madonna!" he said. "Corpo di Bacco!" and gazed around. "What has happened?…" and then he remembered. "A minute," he said. "Wait but a minute—and then bring him to me."
Obedience and acquiescence awoke in the bosoms of his supporters. The great Luigi was alive and on his throne again. The Greek passed him a mug of water.
"Yes, wait but a moment, and then just hand him to me…. One of you might go over to the hospital and say a bed will be wanted shortly," he added. "And another of you might look up old Jules Latour down at the cemetery and tell him to start another grave."
"You're coming to me, for a change, Rivoli," cut in Rupert contemptuously. "You're going to fight me down below. There's going to be a ring, and fair play. Will you come now, or will you wait till to-morrow? I can wait if you feel shaken."
"Plug the ugly skunk while he's rattled, Bub," advised the American, and turning to the Italian added, "Sure thing, Loojey. Ef yew ain't hed enuff yew kin tote downstairs and hev' a five-bunch frame-up with the b'y. Ef yew start rough-housin' up hyar, I'll take a hand too. I would anyhaow, only the b'y wants yew all to himself…. Greedy young punk."
"I will kill him and eat him now," said the Italian rising magnificently. Apparently his splendid constitution and physique had triumphed completely, and it was as though the blow had not been struck.
"Come on, b'ys," yelped the American, "an' ef thet Dago don't fight as square as he knows haow, I'll pull his lower jaw off his face."
In a moment the room was empty, except for Mikhail Kyrilovitch, who sat on the edge of his brother's bed and shuddered.
Clattering down the stairs and gathering numbers as it went, the party made for the broad space, or passage, between high walls near the back entrance of the Company's caserne, a safe and secluded spot for fights. As they went along, John Bull gave good advice to his young friend.
"Remember he's a wrestler and a savate man," he said, "and that public opinion here recognises the use of both in a fight—so you can expect him to clinch and kick as well as butt."
"Right-o!" said Rupert.
A large ring was formed by the rapidly growing crowd of spectators, a ring, into the middle of which the Bucking Bronco stepped to declare that he would rearrange the features, as well as the ideas, of any supporter of Luigi Rivoli who in any way interfered with the fight.
The two combatants stripped to the waist and faced each other. It was a pleasant surprise to John Bull to notice that his friend looked bigger "peeled," than he did when dressed. (It is a good test of muscular development.) Obviously the youth was in the pink of condition and had systematically developed his muscles. But for the presence of Rivoli, the arms and torso of the Englishman would have evoked admiring comments. As it was, the gigantic figure of the Italian dwarfed him, for he looked what he was—a professional Strong Man whose stock-in-trade was his enormous muscles and their mighty strength…. It was not so much a contrast between David and Goliath as between Apollo and Hercules.
The Italian assumed his favourite wrestling attitude with open hands advanced; the Englishman, the position of boxing.
The two faced each other amidst the perfect silence of the large throng.
As, to the credit of human nature, is always the case, the sentiment of the crowd was in favour of the weaker party. No one supposed for a moment that the recruit would win, but he was a "dark horse," and English—of a nation proverbially dogged and addicted to la boxe…. He might perhaps be merely maimed and not killed…. For a full minute the antagonists hung motionless, eyeing each other warily. Suddenly the Italian swiftly advanced his left foot and made a lightning grab with his left hand at the Englishman's neck. The latter ducked; the great arm swung, harmless, above his head, and two sharp smacks rang out like pistol-shots as the Englishman planted a left and right with terrific force upon the Italian's ribs. Rivoli's gasp was almost as audible as the blows. He sprang back, breathing heavily.
John Bull moistened his Lips and thanked God. Rupert circled round his opponent, sparring for an opening. Slowly … slowly … almost imperceptibly, the Italian's head and shoulders bent further and further back. What the devil was he doing?—wondered the Englishman—getting his head out of danger? Certainly his jaw was handsomely swollen…. Anyhow he was exposing his mark, the spot where the ribs divide. If he could get a "right" in there, with all his weight and strength, Il Signor Luigi Rivoli would have to look to himself in the ensuing seconds. Rupert made a spring. As he did so, the Italian's body turned sideways and leant over until almost parallel with the ground, as his right knee drew up to his chest and his right foot shot out with the force of a horse's kick. It caught the advancing Englishman squarely on the mouth, and sent him flying head over heels like a shot rabbit. The Italian darted forward--and so did the Bucking Bronco.
"Assez!" he shouted. "Let him get up." At this point his Legion French failed him, and he added in his own vernacular, "Ef yew think yu're gwine ter kick him while he's down, yew've got another think comin', Loojey Rivoli," and barred his path.
John Bull raised Rupert's head on to his knee. He was senseless and bleeding from mouth and nose.
Pushing his way through the ring, came 'Erb, a mug of water in one hand, a towel in the other. Filling his mouth with water, he ejected a fine spray over Rupert's face and chest, and then, taking the towel by two corners of a long side, flapped it mightily over the prostrate man.
The latter opened his eyes, sat up, and spat out a tooth.
"Damned kicking cad," he remarked, on collecting his scattered wits and faculties.
"No Queensberry rules here, old chap," said John Bull.
"You do the sime fer 'im, matey. Kick 'is bleedin' faice in…. W'y carn't 'e fight like a man, the dirty furriner?" and turning from his ministrations to where the great Luigi received the congratulations of his admiring supporters, he bawled with the full strength of his lungs: "Yah! you dirty furriner!" and crowned the taunt by putting his fingers to his nose and emitting a bellowing Boo-oo-oo! of incredibly bull-like realism. "If I wasn't yer second, matey, I'd go an' kick 'im in the stummick naow, I would," he muttered, resuming his labour of love.
Rupert struggled to his feet.
"Give me the mug," he said to 'Erb, and washed out his mouth. "How long 'time' is observed on these occasions?" he asked of John Bull.
"Oh, nothing's regular," was the reply. "'Rounds' end when you fall apart, and 'time' ends when both are ready…. You aren't going for him again, are you?"
"I'm going for him as long as I can stand and see," was the answer. 'Erb patted him on the back.
"Blimey! You're a White Man, matey," he commended. "S'welp me, you are!"
"Seconds out of the ring," bawled the Bucking Bronco, and unceremoniously shoved back all who delayed.
A look of incredulity spread over the face of the Italian. Could it be possible that the fool did not know that he was utterly beaten and abolished? … He tenderly felt his jaw and aching ribs….
It was true. The Englishman advanced upon him, the light of battle in his eyes, and fierce determination expressed in the frown upon his white face. His mouth bore no expression—it was merely a mess.
A cheer went up from the spectators.
A recruit asking for it twice, from Luigi Rivoli!
That famous man, though by no means anxious, was slightly perplexed. There was something here to which he was not accustomed. It was the first time in his experience that this had happened. Few men had defied and faced him once—none had done it twice. This, in itself was bad, and in the nature of a faint blow to his prestige…. He had tried a grapple—with unfortunate results; he had tried a kick—most successfully, and he would try another in a moment. Lest his opponent should be warily expecting it, he would now administer a battering-ram butt. He crouched forward, extending his open hands as though to grapple, and, suddenly ducking his head, flung himself forward, intending to drive the breath from his enemy's body and seize him by the throat ere he recovered.
Lightly and swiftly the Englishman side-stepped and, as he did so, smote the Italian with all his strength full upon the ear—a blow which caused that organ to swell hugely, and to "sing" for hours. Rivoli staggered sideways and fell. The Englishman stood back and waited. Rivoli arose as quickly as he fell, and, with a roar of rage, charged straight at the Englishman, who drove straight at his face, left and right, cutting his knuckles to the bone. Heavy and true as were the blows, they could not avail to stop that twenty-stone projectile, and, in a second, the Italian's arms were round him. One mighty hug and heave, and his whole body, clasped as in a vice to that of the Italian, was bent over backward in a bow.
"Thet's torn it," groaned the American, and dashed his képi upon the ground. "Fer two damns I'd …"
John Bull laid a restraining hand upon his arm.
"Go it, Rupert," bawled 'Erb, dancing in a frenzy of excitement. "Git 'is froat…. Swing up yer knee…. Kick 'im."
"Shut up," snapped John Bull. "He's not a hooligan…."
One of Rupert's arms was imprisoned in those of the Italian. True to his training and standards, he played the game as he had learnt it, and kept his free right hand from his opponent's throat. With his failing strength he rained short-arm blows on the Italian's face, until it was turned sideways and crushed against his neck and shoulder.
John Bull mistook the bully's action.
"If you bite his throat, I'll shoot you, Rivoli," he shouted, and applauding cheers followed the threat.
The muscles of Rivoli's back and arms tightened and bunched as he strained with all his strength. Slowly but surely he bent further over, drawing the Englishman's body closer and closer in his embrace.
To John Bull, the seconds seemed years. Complete silence reigned. Rupert's blows weakened and became feeble. They ceased. Rivoli bent over further. As Rupert's right arm fell to his side, the Italian seized it from behind. His victim was now absolutely powerless and motionless. John Bull was reminded of a boa-constrictor which he had once seen crush a deer. Suddenly the Italian's left arm was withdrawn, his right arm continuing to imprison Rupert's left while his right hand retained his grip of the other. Thrusting his left hand beneath the Englishman's chin he put all his colossal strength into one great effort—pushing the head back until it seemed that the neck must break, and at the same time contracting his great right arm and bending himself almost double. He then raised his opponent and dashed him to the ground….
Reginald Rupert recovered consciousness in the Legion's Hospital.
A skilful, if somewhat brutal, surgeon soon decided that his back was not broken but only badly sprained.
On leaving hospital, a fortnight later, he did eight days salle de police by way of convalescence.
On return to duty, he found himself something of a hero in the Seventh Company, and decidedly the hero of the recruits of his chambrée.
Disregarding the earnest entreaties of John Bull and the reiterated advice of the Bucking Bronco, and of the almost worshipping 'Erb—he awaited Luigi Rivoli on the evening after his release and challenged him to fight.
The great man burst into explosive laughter—laughter almost too explosive to be wholly genuine.
"Fight you, whelp! Fight you, whelp!" he scoffed. "Why should I fight you? Pah! Out of my sight—I have something else to do."
"Oh have you? Well, don't forget that I have nothing else to do, any time you feel like fighting. See?" replied the Englishman.
The Italian again roared with laughter, and Rupert with beating heart and well-concealed sense of mighty relief, returned to his cot to work.
It was noticeable that Il Signor Luigi Rivoli invariably had something else to do, so far as Rupert was concerned, and molested him no more.