Many have talked of the zouave: few know him.
Everybody has seen him lazily squatting at the gates of the Tuileries,
like a granite sphinx on the threshold of the Assyrian palaces. He is
on guard. He performs his duty with a profoundly melancholy air, smoking
his pipe with feverish impatience, or, rather, watching with feverish
impatience all the while he is smoking his pipe, some ray of our
Parisian sunlight, which seems like moonlight when compared with that
fierce African sunshine, which pours down upon the head like molten
lead.
A scrap of green or white calico, twisted around a red fez; a blue
jacket, trimmed with red or yellow braid, and which leaves the throat
entirely bare; full scarlet trousers, cut in the Oriental fashion; white
gaiters buttoning above the ankle; this is his costume.
How can one describe the man?
Short, spare, compactly built and muscular, with broad shoulders, square
fists, closely shaven head, keen eyes, a mocking smile, and a bold and
decided bearing--such is the zouave, the best soldier in the world for
bold ventures, skirmishes with outposts, impossible ambuscades, and
rapid marches.
Accustomed to the pursuit of the Arab, his constant enemy, the zouave is
thoroughly conversant with all the stratagems of desert warfare. He has
learned to outwit his savage foes, so he will always surprise the armies
of Europe.
“The Arab is very cunning, but the zouave is more cunning still.”
He knows how to conceal himself in a little clump of shrubbery, and
steal imperceptibly upon the sentinel whom he wishes to capture; he
can advance without a sound, remain motionless for hours together, hide
behind the slightest irregularity in the ground, crawl, leap, bound,
disappear in the undergrowth that surrounds him, follow a track, and
shun all the traps that are set for him.
As a sharp-shooter, he has no equal.
If a position is to be taken, he dashes forward, with head down,
overturning everything in his passage. It is no longer a man; it is a
bullet. Once started on his course, he reaches the goal or dies.
The zouave cordially detests large cities, and regards garrisons with
abhorrence.
In garrison life, the discipline becomes too irksome; he must polish his
cartridge-box, whiten his shoulder-belt, wash his clothes, mount guard
at regular hours, appear at parade--all wearisome enough to the average
trooper, but insupportable to the zouave.
The zouave needs the freedom of camp life, the free range of an enemy’s
country, a _ragoût_ improvised under a tent. It matters not if his
canteen is only three-quarters full, and if the supply of coffee is
running short, so he has but a morsel of no matter what to appease his
hunger, he sings, he is gay, he is happy, he is himself.
It is true that when he is not happy, he is equally gay, and sings even
more loudly.
The zouave owes his fondness for adventure and his almost nomadic habits
to the African war. In constantly pursuing the Arabs through deserts and
over mountains, he has formed habits of living very like those of these
wandering tribes.
Like the philosopher Bias, the zouave carries all his possessions about
with him, which proves, perhaps, that he is something of a philosopher.
But you should see a zouave’s knapsack when he is starting on an
expedition. It is monstrous; one wonders if he will not sink beneath his
burden, and be compelled to cast it aside. He would rather die. Besides,
it seems to be the universal belief that he does not feel the weight of
it.
Usually, on taking the field, the infantry lighten their load as much as
possible; the officers not only permit this, but require it.
It is not so with the zouave. This seems to be the very time that his
burden must be heaviest He reduces his effects to the smallest possible
compass, rolls them, squeezes them, and then crowds them, and crowds
them, until the straps become too short and the distended knapsack
threatens to burst.
There is a little of everything in the zouave’s load. An enumeration
of its contents would sound like the inventory of three distinct
establishments;--a drug, a haberdashery, and a grocery store.
He has thread, needles, buttons, soap, wax, tallow, a thimble, a fork,
one or two spoons, and several knives, to say nothing of the condiments
indispensable in the concoction of a savory _ragoût_.
For the zouave is a gourmand. It is to satisfy his fastidious tastes
in this direction that, having no servant at his command, he has made
himself the best cook in Europe.
His _ragoûts_ might not make his fortune in Paris; but in Africa, in the
desert, how many generals have smacked their lips over them!
Any one can make a savory dish of stewed rabbit _with_ a rabbit; but to
make it _without_ a rabbit, that is a difficult task, quite worthy of a
zouave.
His fertile imagination never shines as brilliantly as when the
larder is empty; then, he employs all his wits; he searches, he invents.
On such days, he dines admirably; but how many strange animals are made
to turn from their usual path to take the road to the saucepan.
“I do not ask my zouaves for strawberries,” said Marshal, then Colonel
Canrobert, one frightfully hot day, in the middle of the desert; “but if
I really desired some, they are quite capable of discovering them in the
sand.”
To-day the zouave is the most popular of all our soldiers; his _chachia_
threatens to pass down to posterity with the towering bear-skin cap worn
by the grenadiers of the First Empire.
It is to the zouave that we owe the words of the celebrated march known
as the “Casquette.” This is the origin of it:
One night the French camp was surprised by Arabs. A murderous fire so
astonished our soldiers, that they almost wavered at first; but Marshal
Bugeaud rushed from his tent, and his presence inspiring our troops with
their wonted enthusiasm, the enemy was repulsed.
When the conflict was ended, the marshal noticed that every one smiled
on looking at him. He raised his hands to his head. In his haste, he had
left his tent adorned with the anything but heroic head-gear of the King
of Yvetot; in short, a night-cap.
The next day, when the trumpets gave the signal for the troops to resume
their march, the zouaves, in memory of that original coifiure, sung in
deafening chorus:
“As-tu vu
La casquette
La casquette,
As-tu vu
La casquette,
Du Père Bugeaud?”
Two or three days afterward, the marshal, on giving the order for
departure, said to the trumpeters: “Boys, sound _la casquette_.”
So this name still clings to the order. To how many victories it has
led, and will lead the zouaves!
Father Bugeaud’s _casquette_, by insuring the success of “Duc Job,”
yielded eighty thousand francs to the Théâtre Français, and sixty
thousand francs to M. Léon Laya.
It is a night-cap well worth the having.