There may never be a captain whose crew can't sniff his misgivings.

They scent it as a herd scents the menace far through the trees

and over the ridges. A captain that does not know that he is on a

foundering ship sometimes can take his men to tea and buttered toast

twelve minutes before the disaster, but let him fret for a moment in

the loneliness of his cabin, and in no time it affects the liver of

a distant and sensitive seaman. Even as Flanagan reflected on the

_Foundling_, viewing her as a filibuster, word arrived that a winter

of discontent had come to the stoke-room.

The captain knew that it requires sky to give a man courage. He sent

for a stoker and talked to him on the bridge. The man, standing under

the sky, instantly and shamefacedly denied all knowledge of the

business; nevertheless, a jaw had presently to be broken by a fist

because the _Foundling_ could only steam nine knots, and because the

stoke-room has no sky, no wind, no bright horizon.

When the _Foundling_ was somewhere off Savannah a blow came from the

north-east, and the steamer, headed south-east, rolled like a boiling

potato. The first mate was a fine officer, and so a wave crashed him

into the deck-house and broke his arm. The cook was a good cook, and so

the heave of the ship flung him heels over head with a pot of boiling

water, and caused him to lose interest in everything save his legs. "By

the piper," said Flanagan to himself, "this filibustering is no trick

with cards."

Later there was more trouble in the stoke-room. All the stokers

participated save the one with a broken jaw, who had become

discouraged. The captain had an excellent chest development. When he

went aft, roaring, it was plain that a man could beat carpets with a

voice like that one.

II

One night the _Foundling_ was off the southern coast of Florida, and

running at half-speed towards the shore. The captain was on the

bridge. "Four flashes at intervals of one minute," he said to himself,

gazing steadfastly towards the beach. Suddenly a yellow eye opened in

the black face of the night, and looked at the _Foundling_ and closed

again. The captain studied his watch and the shore. Three times more

the eye opened and looked at the _Foundling_ and closed again. The

captain called to the vague figures on the deck below him. "Answer it."

The flash of a light from the bow of the steamer displayed for a moment

in golden colour the crests of the inriding waves.

The _Foundling_ lay to and waited. The long swells rolled her

gracefully, and her two stub masts reaching into the darkness swung

with the solemnity of batons timing a dirge. When the ship had left

Boston she had been as encrusted with ice as a Dakota stage-driver's

beard, but now the gentle wind of Florida softly swayed the lock on

the forehead of the coatless Flanagan, and he lit a new cigar without

troubling to make a shield of his hands.

Finally a dark boat came plashing over the waves. As it came very near,

the captain leaned forward and perceived that the men in her rowed like

seamstresses, and at the same time a voice hailed him in bad English.

"It's a dead sure connection," said he to himself.

At sea, to load two hundred thousand rounds of rifle ammunition, seven

hundred and fifty rifles, two rapid-fire field guns with a hundred

shells, forty bundles of machetes, and a hundred pounds of dynamite,

from yawls, and by men who are not born stevedores, and in a heavy

ground swell, and with the searchlight of a United States cruiser

sometimes flashing like lightning in the sky to the southward, is no

business for a Sunday-school class. When at last the _Foundling_ was

steaming for the open over the grey sea at dawn, there was not a man of

the forty come aboard from the Florida shore, nor of the fifteen sailed

from Boston, who was not glad, standing with his hair matted to his

forehead with sweat, smiling at the broad wake of the _Foundling_ and

the dim streak on the horizon which was Florida.

But there is a point of the compass in these waters men call the

north-east. When the strong winds come from that direction they kick

up a turmoil that is not good for a _Foundling_ stuffed with coals

and war-stores. In the gale which came, this ship was no more than a

drunken soldier.

The Cuban leader, standing on the bridge with the captain, was

presently informed that of his men, thirty-nine out of a possible

thirty-nine were sea-sick. And in truth they were sea-sick. There

are degrees in this complaint, but that matter was waived between

them. They were all sick to the limits. They strewed the deck in

every posture of human anguish, and when the _Foundling_ ducked and

water came sluicing down from the bows, they let it sluice. They were

satisfied if they could keep their heads clear of the wash; and if

they could not keep their heads clear of the wash, they didn't care.

Presently the _Foundling_ swung her course to the south-east, and the

waves pounded her broadside. The patriots were all ordered below decks,

and there they howled and measured their misery one against another.

All day the _Foundling_ plopped and floundered over a blazing bright

meadow of an ocean whereon the white foam was like flowers.

The captain on the bridge mused and studied the bare horizon. "Hell!"

said he to himself, and the word was more in amazement than in

indignation or sorrow. "Thirty-nine sea-sick passengers, the mate with

a broken arm, a stoker with a broken jaw, the cook with a pair of

scalded legs, and an engine likely to be taken with all these diseases,

if not more! If I get back to a home port with a spoke of the wheel

gripped in my hands, it'll be fair luck!"

There is a kind of corn-whisky bred in Florida which the natives

declare is potent in the proportion of seven fights to a drink. Some of

the Cuban volunteers had had the forethought to bring a small quantity

of this whisky aboard with them, and being now in the fire-room and

sea-sick, feeling that they would not care to drink liquor for two or

three years to come, they gracefully tendered their portions to the

stokers. The stokers accepted these gifts without avidity, but with a

certain earnestness of manner.

As they were stokers, and toiling, the whirl of emotion was delayed,

but it arrived ultimately, and with emphasis. One stoker called another

stoker a weird name, and the latter, righteously inflamed at it, smote

his mate with an iron shovel, and the man fell headlong over a heap of

coal, which crashed gently while piece after piece rattled down upon

the deck.

A third stoker was providently enraged at the scene, and assailed the

second stoker. They fought for some moments, while the sea-sick Cubans

sprawled on the deck watched with languid rolling glances the ferocity

of this scuffle. One was so indifferent to the strategic importance of

the space he occupied that he was kicked on the shins.

When the second engineer came to separating the combatants, he was

sincere in his efforts, and he came near to disabling them for life.

The captain said, "I'll go down there and----" But the leader of the

Cubans restrained him. "No, no," he cried, "you must not. We must treat

them like children, very gently, all the time, you see, or else when we

get back to a United States port they will--what you call? Spring? Yes,

spring the whole business. We must--jolly them, you see?"

"You mean," said the captain thoughtfully, "they are likely to get mad,

and give the expedition dead away when we reach port again unless we

blarney them now?"

"Yes, yes," cried the Cuban leader, "unless we are so very gentle with

them they will make many troubles afterwards for us in the newspapers

and then in court."

"Well, but I won't have my crew----" began the captain.

"But you must," interrupted the Cuban, "you must. It is the only thing.

You are like the captain of a pirate ship. You see? Only you can't

throw them overboard like him. You see?"

"Hum," said the captain, "this here filibustering business has got a

lot to it when you come to look it over."

He called the fighting stokers to the bridge, and the three came, meek

and considerably battered. He was lecturing them soundly but sensibly,

when he suddenly tripped a sentence and cried--"Here! Where's that

other fellow? How does it come he wasn't in the fight?"

The row of stokers cried at once eagerly, "He's hurt, sir. He's got a

broken jaw, sir."

"So he has; so he has," murmured the captain, much embarrassed.

And because of all these affairs, the _Foundling_ steamed toward Cuba

with its crew in a sling, if one may be allowed to speak in that way.

III

At night the _Foundling_ approached the coast like a thief. Her

lights were muffled, so that from the deck the sea shone with its own

radiance, like the faint shimmer of some kinds of silk. The men on deck

spoke in whispers, and even down in the fire-room the hidden stokers

working before the blood-red furnace doors used no words and walked on

tip-toe. The stars were out in the blue-velvet sky, and their light

with the soft shine of the sea caused the coast to appear black as the

side of a coffin. The surf boomed in low thunder on the distant beach.

The _Foundling's_ engines ceased their thumping for a time. She glided

quietly forward until a bell chimed faintly in the engine-room. Then

she paused with a flourish of phosphorescent waters.

"Give the signal," said the captain. Three times a flash of light went

from the bow. There was a moment of waiting. Then an eye like the one

on the coast of Florida opened and closed, opened and closed, opened

and closed. The Cubans, grouped in a great shadow on deck, burst into a

low chatter of delight. A hiss from their leader silenced them.

"Well?" said the captain.

"All right," said the leader.

At the giving of the word it was not apparent that any one on board

of the _Foundling_ had ever been sea-sick. The boats were lowered

swiftly--too swiftly. Boxes of cartridges were dragged from the hold

and passed over the side with a rapidity that made men in the boats

exclaim against it. They were being bombarded. When a boat headed for

shore its rowers pulled like madmen. The captain paced slowly to and

fro on the bridge. In the engine-room the engineers stood at their

station, and in the stoke-hold the firemen fidgeted silently around the

furnace doors.

On the bridge Flanagan reflected. "Oh, I don't know!" he observed.

"This filibustering business isn't so bad. Pretty soon it'll be off to

sea again with nothing to do but some big lying when I get into port."

In one of the boats returning from shore came twelve Cuban officers,

the greater number of them convalescing from wounds, while two or three

of them had been ordered to America on commissions from the insurgents.

The captain welcomed them, and assured them of a speedy and safe voyage.

Presently he went again to the bridge and scanned the horizon. The sea

was lonely like the spaces amid the suns. The captain grinned and

softly smote his chest. "It's dead easy," he said.

It was near the end of the cargo, and the men were breathing like spent

horses, although their elation grew with each moment, when suddenly a

voice spoke from the sky. It was not a loud voice, but the quality of

it brought every man on deck to full stop and motionless, as if they

had all been changed to wax. "Captain," said the man at the masthead,

"there's a light to the west'ard, sir. Think it's a steamer, sir."

There was a still moment until the captain called, "Well, keep your

eye on it now." Speaking to the deck, he said, "Go ahead with your

unloading."

The second engineer went to the galley to borrow a tin cup. "Hear the

news, second?" asked the cook. "Steamer coming up from the west'ard."

"Gee!" said the second engineer. In the engine-room he said to the

chief, "Steamer coming up from the west'ard, sir." The chief engineer

began to test various little machines with which his domain was

decorated. Finally he addressed the stoke-room. "Boys, I want you to

look sharp now. There's a steamer coming up to the west'ard."

"All right, sir," said the stoke-room.

From time to time the captain hailed the masthead. "How is she now?"

"Seems to be coming down on us pretty fast, sir."

The Cuban leader came anxiously to the captain. "Do you think we can

save all the cargo? It is rather delicate business. No?"

"Go ahead," said Flanagan. "Fire away! I'll wait."

There continued the hurried shuffling of feet on deck, and the low

cries of the men unloading the cargo. In the engine-room the chief and

his assistant were staring at the gong. In the stoke-room the firemen

breathed through their teeth. A shovel slipped from where it leaned

against the side and banged on the floor. The stokers started and

looked around quickly.

Climbing to the rail and holding on to a stay, the captain gazed

westward. A light had raised out of the deep. After watching this light

for a time he called to the Cuban leader. "Well, as soon as you're

ready now, we might as well be skipping out."

Finally, the Cuban leader told him, "Well, this is the last load. As

soon as the boats come back you can be off."

"Shan't wait for all the boats," said the captain. "That fellow is too

close." As the second boat came aboard, the _Foundling_ turned, and

like a black shadow stole seaward to cross the bows of the oncoming

steamer. "Waited about ten minutes too long," said the captain to

himself.

Suddenly the light in the west vanished. "Hum!" said Flanagan, "he's

up to some meanness." Every one outside of the engine-rooms was set

on watch. The _Foundling_, going at full speed into the north-east,

slashed a wonderful trail of blue silver on the dark bosom of the sea.

A man on deck cried out hurriedly, "There she is, sir." Many eyes

searched the western gloom, and one after another the glances of the

men found a tiny shadow on the deep with a line of white beneath it.

"He couldn't be heading better if he had a line to us," said Flanagan.

There was a thin flash of red in the darkness. It was long and keen

like a crimson rapier. A short, sharp report sounded, and then a shot

whined swiftly in the air and blipped into the sea. The captain had

been about to take a bite of plug tobacco at the beginning of this

incident, and his arm was raised. He remained like a frozen figure

while the shot whined, and then, as it blipped into the sea, his hand

went to his mouth and he bit the plug. He looked wide-eyed at the

shadow with its line of white.

The senior Cuban officer came hurriedly to the bridge. "It is no good

to surrender," he cried. "They would only shoot or hang all of us."

There was another thin red flash and a report. A loud whirring noise

passed over the ship.

"I'm not going to surrender," said the captain, hanging with both hands

to the rail. He appeared like a man whose traditions of peace are

clinched in his heart. He was as astonished as if his hat had turned

into a dog. Presently he wheeled quickly and said--"What kind of a gun

is that?"

"It is a one-pounder," cried the Cuban officer. "The boat is one of

those little gunboats made from a yacht. You see?"

"Well, if it's only a yawl, he'll sink us in five more minutes," said

Flanagan. For a moment he looked helplessly off at the horizon. His

under-jaw hung low. But a moment later, something touched him, like

a stiletto point of inspiration. He leaped to the pilothouse and

roared at the man at the wheel. The _Foundling_ sheered suddenly to

starboard, made a clumsy turn, and Flanagan was bellowing through the

tube to the engine-room before everybody discovered that the old basket

was heading straight for the Spanish gun-boat. The ship lunged forward

like a draught-horse on the gallop.

This strange manoeuvre by the _Foundling_ first dealt consternation

on board of the _Foundling_. Men instinctively crouched on the instant,

and then swore their supreme oath, which was unheard by their own ears.

Later the manoeuvre of the _Foundling_ dealt consternation on board

of the gunboat. She had been going victoriously forward dim-eyed from

the fury of her pursuit. Then this tall threatening shape had suddenly

loomed over her like a giant apparition.

The people on board the _Foundling_ heard panic shouts, hoarse orders.

The little gunboat was paralyzed with astonishment.

Suddenly Flanagan yelled with rage and sprang for the wheel. The

helmsman had turned his eyes away. As the captain whirled the wheel far

to starboard he heard a crunch as the _Foundling_, lifted on a wave,

smashed her shoulder against the gunboat, and he saw shooting past a

little launch sort of a thing with men on her that ran this way and

that way. The Cuban officers, joined by the cook and a seaman, emptied

their revolvers into the surprised terror of the seas.

There was naturally no pursuit. Under comfortable speed the _Foundling_

stood to the northwards.

The captain went to his berth chuckling. "There, by God!" he said.

"There now!"

IV

When Flanagan came again on deck, the first mate, his arm in a sling,

walked the bridge. Flanagan was smiling a wide smile. The bridge of

the _Foundling_ was dipping afar and then afar. With each lunge of the

little steamer the water seethed and boomed alongside, and the spray

dashed high and swiftly.

"Well," said Flanagan, inflating himself, "we've had a great deal of a

time, and we've come through it all right, and thank Heaven it is all

over."

The sky in the north-east was of a dull brick-red in tone, shaded here

and there by black masses that billowed out in some fashion from the

flat heavens.

"Look there," said the mate.

"Hum!" said the captain. "Looks like a blow, don't it?"

Later the surface of the water rippled and flickered in the preliminary

wind. The sea had become the colour of lead. The swashing sound of the

waves on the sides of the _Foundling_ was now provided with some manner

of ominous significance. The men's shouts were hoarse.

A squall struck the _Foundling_ on her starboard quarter, and she

leaned under the force of it as if she were never to return to the even

keel. "I'll be glad when we get in," said the mate. "I'm going to quit

then. I've got enough."

"Hell!" said the beaming Flanagan.

The steamer crawled on into the north-west. The white water, sweeping

out from her, deadened the chug-chug-chug of the tired old engines.

Once, when the boat careened, she laid her shoulder flat on the sea and

rested in that manner. The mate, looking down the bridge, which slanted

more than a coal-shute, whistled softly to himself. Slowly, heavily,

the _Foundling_ arose to meet another sea.

At night waves thundered mightily on the bows of the steamer, and water

lit with the beautiful phosphorescent glamour went boiling and howling

along deck.

By good fortune the chief engineer crawled safely, but utterly

drenched, to the galley for coffee. "Well, how goes it, chief?" said

the cook, standing with his fat arms folded in order to prove that he

could balance himself under any conditions.

The engineer shook his head dejectedly. "This old biscuit-box will

never see port again. Why, she'll fall to pieces."

Finally at night the captain said, "Launch the boats." The Cubans

hovered about him. "Is the ship going to sink?" The captain addressed

them politely. "Gentlemen, we are in trouble, but all I ask of you is

that you just do what I tell you, and no harm will come to anybody."

The mate directed the lowering of the first boat, and the men performed

this task with all decency, like people at the side of a grave.

A young oiler came to the captain. "The chief sends word, sir, that the

water is almost up to the fires."

"Keep at it as long as you can."

"Keep at it as long as we can, sir?"

Flanagan took the senior Cuban officer to the rail, and, as the steamer

sheered high on a great sea, showed him a yellow dot on the horizon. It

was smaller than a needle when its point is towards you.

"There," said the captain. The wind-driven spray was lashing his face.

"That's Jupiter Light on the Florida coast. Put your men in the boat

we've just launched, and the mate will take you to that light."

Afterwards Flanagan turned to the chief engineer. "We can never beach,"

said the old man. "The stokers have got to quit in a minute." Tears

were in his eyes.

The _Foundling_ was a wounded thing. She lay on the water with gasping

engines, and each wave resembled her death-blow.

Now the way of a good ship on the sea is finer than sword-play. But

this is when she is alive. If a time comes that the ship dies, then

her way is the way of a floating old glove, and she has that much vim,

spirit, buoyancy. At this time many men on the _Foundling_ suddenly

came to know that they were clinging to a corpse.

The captain went to the stoke-room, and what he saw as he swung

down the companion suddenly turned him hesitant and dumb. Water was

swirling to and fro with the roll of the ship, fuming greasily around

half-strangled machinery that still attempted to perform its duty.

Steam arose from the water, and through its clouds shone the red glare

of the dying fires. As for the stokers, death might have been with

silence in this room. One lay in his berth, his hands under his head,

staring moodily at the wall. One sat near the foot of the companion,

his face hidden in his arms. One leaned against the side and gazed at

the snarling water as it rose, and its mad eddies among the machinery.

In the unholy red light and grey mist of this stifling dim Inferno

they were strange figures with their silence and their immobility. The

wretched _Foundling_ groaned deeply as she lifted, and groaned deeply

as she sank into the trough, while hurried waves then thundered over

her with the noise of landslides. The terrified machinery was making

gestures.

But Flanagan took control of himself suddenly. Then he stirred the

fire-room. The stillness had been so unearthly that he was not

altogether inapprehensive of strange and grim deeds when he charged

into them; but precisely as they had submitted to the sea so they

submitted to Flanagan. For a moment they rolled their eyes like hurt

cows, but they obeyed the Voice. The situation simply required a Voice.

When the captain returned to the deck the hue of this fire-room was in

his mind, and then he understood doom and its weight and complexion.

When finally the _Foundling_ sank she shifted and settled as calmly as

an animal curls down in the bush grass. Away over the waves two bobbing

boats paused to witness this quiet death. It was a slow manoeuvre,

altogether without the pageantry of uproar, but it flashed pallor into

the faces of all men who saw it, and they groaned when they said,

"There she goes!" Suddenly the captain whirled and knocked his hand on

the gunwale. He sobbed for a time, and then he sobbed and swore also.

* * * * *

There was a dance at the Imperial Inn. During the evening some

irresponsible young men came from the beach bringing the statement that

several boatloads of people had been perceived off shore. It was a

charming dance, and none cared to take time to believe this tale. The

fountain in the court-yard splashed softly, and couple after couple

paraded through the aisles of palms, where lamps with red shades threw

a rose light upon the gleaming leaves. The band played its waltzes

slumberously, and its music came faintly to the people among the palms.

Sometimes a woman said--"Oh, it is not really true, is it, that there

was a wreck out at sea?"

A man usually said--"No, of course not."

At last, however, a youth came violently from the beach. He was

triumphant in manner. "They're out there," he cried. "A whole

boat-load!" He received eager attention, and he told all that he

supposed. His news destroyed the dance. After a time the band was

playing beautifully to space. The guests had hurried to the beach. One

little girl cried, "Oh, mamma, may I go too?" Being refused permission

she pouted.

As they came from the shelter of the great hotel, the wind was blowing

swiftly from the sea, and at intervals a breaker shone livid. The women

shuddered, and their bending companions seized the opportunity to draw

the cloaks closer.

"Oh, dear!" said a girl; "supposin' they were out there drowning while

we were dancing!"

"Oh, nonsense!" said her younger brother; "that don't happen."

"Well, it might, you know, Roger. How can you tell?"

A man who was not her brother gazed at her then with profound

admiration. Later, she complained of the damp sand, and, drawing back

her skirts, looked ruefully at her little feet.

A mother's son was venturing too near to the water in his interest and

excitement. Occasionally she cautioned and reproached him from the

background.

Save for the white glare of the breakers, the sea was a great

wind-crossed void. From the throng of charming women floated the

perfume of many flowers. Later there floated to them a body with a calm

face of an Irish type. The expedition of the _Foundling_ will never be

historic.

HORSES

Richardson pulled up his horse, and looked back over the trail where

the crimson serape of his servant flamed amid the dusk of the mesquit.

The hills in the west were carved into peaks, and were painted the

most profound blue. Above them the sky was of that marvellous tone of

green--like still, sun-shot water--which people denounce in pictures.

José was muffled deep in his blanket, and his great toppling sombrero

was drawn low over his brow. He shadowed his master along the dimming

trail in the fashion of an assassin. A cold wind of the impending night

swept over the wilderness of mesquit.

"Man," said Richardson in lame Mexican as the servant drew near, "I

want eat! I want sleep! Understand--no? Quickly! Understand?"

"Si, señor," said José, nodding. He stretched one arm out of his

blanket and pointed a yellow finger into the gloom. "Over there, small

village. Si, señor."

They rode forward again. Once the American's horse shied and breathed

quiveringly at something which he saw or imagined in the darkness,

and the rider drew a steady, patient rein, and leaned over to speak

tenderly as if he were addressing a frightened woman. The sky had faded

to white over the mountains, and the plain was a vast, pointless ocean

of black.

Suddenly some low houses appeared squatting amid the bushes. The

horsemen rode into a hollow until the houses rose against the sombre

sundown sky, and then up a small hillock, causing these habitations to

sink like boats in the sea of shadow.

A beam of red firelight fell across the trail. Richardson sat sleepily

on his horse while his servant quarrelled with somebody--a mere voice

in the gloom--over the price of bed and board. The houses about him

were for the most part like tombs in their whiteness and silence, but

there were scudding black figures that seemed interested in his arrival.

José came at last to the horses' heads, and the American slid stiffly

from his seat. He muttered a greeting, as with his spurred feet he

clicked into the adobe house that confronted him. The brown stolid face

of a woman shone in the light of the fire. He seated himself on the

earthen floor and blinked drowsily at the blaze. He was aware that the

woman was clinking earthenware, and hieing here and everywhere in the

manoeuvres of the housewife. From a dark corner there came the sound

of two or three snores twining together.

The woman handed him a bowl of tortillas. She was a submissive

creature, timid and large-eyed. She gazed at his enormous silver spurs,

his large and impressive revolver, with the interest and admiration

of the highly-privileged cat of the adage. When he ate, she seemed

transfixed off there in the gloom, her white teeth shining.

José entered, staggering under two Mexican saddles, large enough for

building-sites. Richardson decided to smoke a cigarette, and then

changed his mind. It would be much finer to go to sleep. His blanket

hung over his left shoulder, furled into a long pipe of cloth,

according to the Mexican fashion. By doffing his sombrero, unfastening

his spurs and his revolver belt, he made himself ready for the slow,

blissful twist into the blanket. Like a cautious man he lay close to

the wall, and all his property was very near his hand.

The mesquit brush burned long. José threw two gigantic wings of shadow

as he flapped his blanket about him--first across his chest under his

arms, and then around his neck and across his chest again--this time

over his arms, with the end tossed on his right shoulder. A Mexican

thus snugly enveloped can nevertheless free his fighting arm in a

beautifully brisk way, merely shrugging his shoulder as he grabs for

the weapon at his belt. (They always wear their serapes in this manner.)

The firelight smothered the rays which, streaming from a moon as large

as a drum-head, were struggling at the open door. Richardson heard from

the plain the fine, rhythmical trample of the hoofs of hurried horses.

He went to sleep wondering who rode so fast and so late. And in the

deep silence the pale rays of the moon must have prevailed against the

red spears of the fire until the room was slowly flooded to its middle

with a rectangle of silver light.

Richardson was awakened by the sound of a guitar. It was badly

played--in this land of Mexico, from which the romance of the

instrument ascends to us like a perfume. The guitar was groaning and

whining like a badgered soul. A noise of scuffling feet accompanied the

music. Sometimes laughter arose, and often the voices of men saying

bitter things to each other, but always the guitar cried on, the treble

sounding as if some one were beating iron, and the bass humming like

bees. "Damn it--they're having a dance," he muttered, fretfully. He

heard two men quarrelling in short, sharp words, like pistol shots;

they were calling each other worse names than common people know in

other countries. He wondered why the noise was so loud. Raising his

head from his saddle pillow, he saw, with the help of the valiant

moonbeams, a blanket hanging flat against the wall at the further end

of the room. Being of opinion that it concealed a door, and remembering

that Mexican drink made men very drunk, he pulled his revolver closer

to him and prepared for sudden disaster.

Richardson was dreaming of his far and beloved north.

"Well, I would kill him, then!"

"No, you must not!"

"Yes, I will kill him! Listen! I will ask this American beast for his

beautiful pistol and spurs and money and saddle, and if he will not

give them--you will see!"

"But these Americans--they are a strange people. Look out, señor."

Then twenty voices took part in the discussion. They rose in quavering

shrillness, as from men badly drunk. Richardson felt the skin draw

tight around his mouth, and his knee-joints turned to bread. He slowly

came to a sitting posture, glaring at the motionless blanket at the

far end of the room. This stiff and mechanical movement, accomplished

entirely by the muscles of the waist, must have looked like the rising

of a corpse in the wan moonlight, which gave everything a hue of the

grave.

My friend, take my advice and never be executed by a hangman who

doesn't talk the English language. It, or anything that resembles

it, is the most difficult of deaths. The tumultuous emotions of

Richardson's terror destroyed that slow and careful process of thought

by means of which he understood Mexican. Then he used his instinctive

comprehension of the first and universal language, which is tone.

Still, it is disheartening not to be able to understand the detail of

threats against the blood of your body.

Suddenly, the clamour of voices ceased. There was a silence--a silence

of decision. The blanket was flung aside, and the red light of a torch

flared into the room. It was held high by a fat, round-faced Mexican,

whose little snake-like moustache was as black as his eyes, and whose

eyes were black as jet. He was insane with the wild rage of a man

whose liquor is dully burning at his brain. Five or six of his fellows

crowded after him. The guitar, which had been thrummed doggedly during

the time of the high words, now suddenly stopped. They contemplated

each other. Richardson sat very straight and still, his right hand lost

in his blanket. The Mexicans jostled in the light of the torch, their

eyes blinking and glittering.

The fat one posed in the manner of a grandee. Presently his hand

dropped to his belt, and from his lips there spun an epithet--a hideous

word which often foreshadows knife-blows, a word peculiarly of Mexico,

where people have to dig deep to find an insult that has not lost its

savour. The American did not move. He was staring at the fat Mexican

with a strange fixedness of gaze, not fearful, not dauntless, not

anything that could be interpreted. He simply stared.

The fat Mexican must have been disconcerted, for he continued to

pose as a grandee, with more and more sublimity, until it would have

been easy for him to have fallen over backward. His companions were

swaying very drunkenly. They still blinked their little beady eyes at

Richardson. Ah, well, sirs, here was a mystery! At the approach of

their menacing company, why did not this American cry out and turn

pale, or run, or pray them mercy? The animal merely sat still, and

stared, and waited for them to begin. Well, evidently he was a great

fighter! Or perhaps he was an idiot? Indeed, this was an embarrassing

situation, for who was going forward to discover whether he was a great

fighter or an idiot?

To Richardson, whose nerves were tingling and twitching like live

wires, and whose heart jolted inside him, this pause was a long horror;

and for these men, who could so frighten him, there began to swell in

him a fierce hatred--a hatred that made him long to be capable of

fighting all of them, a hatred that made him capable of fighting all

of them. A 44-calibre revolver can make a hole large enough for little

boys to shoot marbles through; and there was a certain fat Mexican with

a moustache like a snake who came extremely near to have eaten his last

tomale merely because he frightened a man too much.

José had slept the first part of the night in his fashion, his body

hunched into a heap, his legs crooked, his head touching his knees.

Shadows had obscured him from the sight of the invaders. At this point

he arose, and began to prowl quakingly over toward Richardson, as if he

meant to hide behind him.

Of a sudden the fat Mexican gave a howl of glee. José had come within

the torch's circle of light. With roars of ferocity the whole group of

Mexicans pounced on the American's servant. He shrank shuddering away

from them, beseeching by every device of word and gesture. They pushed

him this way and that. They beat him with their fists. They stung him

with their curses. As he grovelled on his knees, the fat Mexican took

him by the throat and said--"I am going to kill you!" And continually

they turned their eyes to see if they were to succeed in causing the

initial demonstration by the American. But he looked on impassively.

Under the blanket his fingers were clenched, as iron, upon the handle

of his revolver.

Here suddenly two brilliant clashing chords from the guitar were

heard, and a woman's voice, full of laughter and confidence, cried

from without--"Hello! hello! Where are you?" The lurching company of

Mexicans instantly paused and looked at the ground. One said, as he

stood with his legs wide apart in order to balance himself--"It is the

girls. They have come!" He screamed in answer to the question of the

woman--"Here!" And without waiting he started on a pilgrimage toward

the blanket-covered door. One could now hear a number of female voices

giggling and chattering.

Two other Mexicans said--"Yes, it is the girls! Yes!" They also started

quietly away. Even the fat Mexican's ferocity seemed to be affected.

He looked uncertainly at the still immovable American. Two of his

friends grasped him gaily--"Come, the girls are here! Come!" He cast

another glower at Richardson. "But this----," he began. Laughing, his

comrades hustled him toward the door. On its threshold, and holding

back the blanket, with one hand, he turned his yellow face with a last

challenging glare toward the American. José, bewailing his state in

little sobs of utter despair and woe, crept to Richardson and huddled

near his knee. Then the cries of the Mexicans meeting the girls were

heard, and the guitar burst out in joyous humming.

The moon clouded, and but a faint square of light fell through the

open main door of the house. The coals of the fire were silent, save

for occasional sputters. Richardson did not change his position. He

remained staring at the blanket which hid the strategic door in the far

end. At his knees José was arguing, in a low, aggrieved tone, with the

saints. Without, the Mexicans laughed and danced, and--it would appear

from the sound--drank more.

In the stillness and the night Richardson sat wondering if some

serpent-like Mexican were sliding towards him in the darkness, and if

the first thing he knew of it would be the deadly sting of a knife.

"Sssh," he whispered, to José. He drew his revolver from under the

blanket, and held it on his leg. The blanket over the door fascinated

him. It was a vague form, black and unmoving. Through the opening it

shielded were to come, probably, threats, death. Sometimes he thought

he saw it move. As grim white sheets, the black and silver of coffins,

all the panoply of death, affect us, because of that which they hide,

so this blanket, dangling before a hole in an adobe wall, was to

Richardson a horrible emblem, and a horrible thing in itself. In his

present mood he could not have been brought to touch it with his finger.

The celebrating Mexicans occasionally howled in song. The guitarist

played with speed and enthusiasm. Richardson longed to run. But in this

vibrating and threatening gloom his terror convinced him that a move

on his part would be a signal for the pounce of death. José, crouching

abjectly, mumbled now and again. Slowly, and ponderous as stars, the

minutes went.

Suddenly Richardson thrilled and started. His breath for a moment left

him. In sleep his nerveless fingers had allowed his revolver to fall

and clang upon the hard floor. He grabbed it up hastily, and his glance

swept apprehensively over the room. A chill blue light of dawn was

in the place. Every outline was slowly growing; detail was following

detail. The dread blanket did not move. The riotous company had gone

or fallen silent. He felt the effect of this cold dawn in his blood.

The candour of breaking day brought his nerve. He touched José. "Come,"

he said. His servant lifted his lined yellow face, and comprehended.

Richardson buckled on his spurs and strode up; José obediently lifted

the two great saddles. Richardson held two bridles and a blanket on his

left arm; in his right hand he had his revolver. They sneaked toward

the door.

The man who said that spurs jingled was insane. Spurs have a mellow

clash--clash--clash. Walking in spurs--notably Mexican spurs--you

remind yourself vaguely of a telegraphic linesman. Richardson was

inexpressibly shocked when he came to walk. He sounded to himself like

a pair of cymbals. He would have known of this if he had reflected; but

then, he was escaping, not reflecting. He made a gesture of despair,

and from under the two saddles José tried to make one of hopeless

horror. Richardson stooped, and with shaking fingers unfastened the

spurs. Taking them in his left hand, he picked up his revolver, and

they slunk on toward the door. On the threshold he looked back. In a

corner he saw, watching him with large eyes, the Indian man and woman

who had been his hosts. Throughout the night they had made no sign, and

now they neither spoke nor moved. Yet Richardson thought he detected

meek satisfaction at his departure.

The street was still and deserted. In the eastern sky there was a

lemon-coloured patch. José had picketed the horses at the side of the

house. As the two men came round the corner Richardson's beast set up

a whinny of welcome. The little horse had heard them coming. He stood

facing them, his ears cocked forward, his eyes bright with welcome.

Richardson made a frantic gesture, but the horse, in his happiness at

the appearance of his friends, whinnied with enthusiasm. The American

felt that he could have strangled his well-beloved steed. Upon the

threshold of safety, he was being betrayed by his horse, his friend! He

felt the same hate that he would have felt for a dragon. And yet, as he

glanced wildly about him, he could see nothing stirring in the street,

nothing at the doors of the tomb-like houses.

José had his own saddle-girth and both bridles buckled in a moment. He

curled the picket-ropes with a few sweeps of his arm. The American's

fingers, however, were shaking so that he could hardly buckle the

girth. His hands were in invisible mittens. He was wondering,

calculating, hoping about his horse. He knew the little animal's

willingness and courage under all circumstances up to this time; but

then--here it was different. Who could tell if some wretched instance

of equine perversity was not about to develop? Maybe the little fellow

would not feel like smoking over the plain at express speed this

morning, and so he would rebel, and kick, and be wicked. Maybe he would

be without feeling of interest, and run listlessly. All riders who have

had to hurry in the saddle know what it is to be on a horse who does

not understand the dramatic situation. Riding a lame sheep is bliss

to it. Richardson, fumbling furiously at the girth, thought of these

things.

Presently he had it fastened. He swung into the saddle, and as he did

so his horse made a mad jump forward. The spurs of José scratched and

tore the flanks of his great black beast, and side by side the two

horses raced down the village street. The American heard his horse

breathe a quivering sigh of excitement. Those four feet skimmed. They

were as light as fairy puff balls. The houses glided past in a moment,

and the great, clear, silent plain appeared like a pale blue sea of

mist and wet bushes. Above the mountains the colours of the sunlight

were like the first tones, the opening chords of the mighty hymn of the

morning.

The American looked down at his horse. He felt in his heart the first

thrill of confidence. The little animal, unurged and quite tranquil,

moving his ears this way and that way with an air of interest in the

scenery, was nevertheless bounding into the eye of the breaking day

with the speed of a frightened antelope. Richardson, looking down, saw

the long, fine reach of forelimb as steady as steel machinery. As the

ground reeled past, the long, dried grasses hissed, and cactus plants

were dull blurs. A wind whirled the horse's mane over his rider's

bridle hand.

José's profile was lined against the pale sky. It was as that of a man

who swims alone in an ocean. His eyes glinted like metal, fastened

on some unknown point ahead of him, some fabulous place of safety.

Occasionally his mouth puckered in a little unheard cry; and his legs,

bended back, worked spasmodically as his spurred heels sliced his

charger's sides.

Richardson consulted the gloom in the west for signs of a hard-riding,

yelling cavalcade. He knew that, whereas his friends the enemy had

not attacked him when he had sat still and with apparent calmness

confronted them, they would take furiously after him now that he had

run from them--now that he had confessed himself the weaker. Their

valour would grow like weeds in the spring, and upon discovering his

escape they would ride forth dauntless warriors. Sometimes he was sure

he saw them. Sometimes he was sure he heard them. Continually looking

backward over his shoulder, he studied the purple expanses where the

night was marching away. José rolled and shuddered in his saddle,

persistently disturbing the stride of the black horse, fretting and

worrying him until the white foam flew, and the great shoulders shone

like satin from the sweat.

At last, Richardson drew his horse carefully down to a walk. José

wished to rush insanely on, but the American spoke to him sternly. As

the two paced forward side by side, Richardson's little horse thrust

over his soft nose and inquired into the black's condition.

Riding with José was like riding with a corpse. His face resembled a

cast in lead. Sometimes he swung forward and almost pitched from his

seat. Richardson was too frightened himself to do anything but hate

this man for his fear. Finally, he issued a mandate which nearly caused

José's eyes to slide out of his head and fall to the ground, like two

coins:--"Ride behind me--about fifty paces."

"Señor----" stuttered the servant. "Go," cried the American furiously.

He glared at the other and laid his hand on his revolver. José looked

at his master wildly. He made a piteous gesture. Then slowly he fell

back, watching the hard face of the American for a sign of mercy. But

Richardson had resolved in his rage that at any rate he was going to

use the eyes and ears of extreme fear to detect the approach of danger;

so he established his panic-stricken servant as a sort of outpost.

As they proceeded, he was obliged to watch sharply to see that the

servant did not slink forward and join him. When José made beseeching

circles in the air with his arm, he replied by menacingly gripping his

revolver. José had a revolver too; nevertheless it was very clear in

his mind that the revolver was distinctly an American weapon. He had

been educated in the Rio Grande country.

Richardson lost the trail once. He was recalled to it by the loud sobs

of his servant.

Then at last José came clattering forward, gesticulating and wailing.

The little horse sprang to the shoulder of the black. They were off.

Richardson, again looking backward, could see a slanting flare of dust

on the whitening plain. He thought that he could detect small moving

figures in it.

José's moans and cries amounted to a university course in theology.

They broke continually from his quivering lips. His spurs were

as motors. They forced the black horse over the plain in great

headlong leaps. But under Richardson there was a little insignificant

rat-coloured beast who was running apparently with almost as much

effort as it takes a bronze statue to stand still. The ground seemed

merely something to be touched from time to time with hoofs that were

as light as blown leaves. Occasionally Richardson lay back and pulled

stoutly at the bridle to keep from abandoning his servant. José harried

at his horse's mouth, flopped about in the saddle, and made his two

heels beat like flails. The black ran like a horse in despair.

Crimson serapes in the distance resemble drops of blood on the great

cloth of plain. Richardson began to dream of all possible chances.

Although quite a humane man, he did not once think of his servant. José

being a Mexican, it was natural that he should be killed in Mexico;

but for himself, a New Yorker----! He remembered all the tales of such

races for life, and he thought them badly written.

The great black horse was growing indifferent. The jabs of José's spurs

no longer caused him to bound forward in wild leaps of pain. José had

at last succeeded in teaching him that spurring was to be expected,

speed or no speed, and now he took the pain of it dully and stolidly,

as an animal who finds that doing his best gains him no respite. José

was turned into a raving maniac. He bellowed and screamed, working his

arms and his heels like one in a fit. He resembled a man on a sinking

ship, who appeals to the ship. Richardson, too, cried madly to the

black horse. The spirit of the horse responded to these calls, and

quivering and breathing heavily he made a great effort, a sort of a

final rush, not for himself apparently, but because he understood

that his life's sacrifice, perhaps, had been invoked by these two men

who cried to him in the universal tongue. Richardson had no sense of

appreciation at this time--he was too frightened; but often now he

remembers a certain black horse.

From the rear could be heard a yelling, and once a shot was fired--in

the air, evidently. Richardson moaned as he looked back. He kept his

hand on his revolver. He tried to imagine the brief tumult of his

capture--the flurry of dust from the hoofs of horses pulled suddenly

to their haunches, the shrill, biting curses of the men, the ring of

the shots, his own last contortion. He wondered, too, if he could not

somehow manage to pelt that fat Mexican, just to cure his abominable

egotism.

It was José, the terror-stricken, who at last discovered safety.

Suddenly he gave a howl of delight and astonished his horse into a

new burst of speed. They were on a little ridge at the time, and the

American at the top of it saw his servant gallop down the slope and

into the arms, so to speak, of a small column of horsemen in grey and

silver clothes. In the dim light of the early morning they were as

vague as shadows, but Richardson knew them at once for a detachment of

Rurales, that crack cavalry corps of the Mexican army which polices

the plain so zealously, being of themselves the law and the arm of

it--a fierce and swift-moving body that knows little of prevention

but much of vengeance. They drew up suddenly, and the rows of great

silver-trimmed sombreros bobbed in surprise.

Richardson saw José throw himself from his horse and begin to jabber

at the leader. When he arrived he found that his servant had already

outlined the entire situation, and was then engaged in describing him,

Richardson, as an American señor of vast wealth, who was the friend

of almost every governmental potentate within two hundred miles.

This seemed profoundly to impress the officer. He bowed gravely to

Richardson and smiled significantly at his men, who unslung their

carbines.

The little ridge hid the pursuers from view, but the rapid thud of

their horses' feet could be heard. Occasionally they yelled and called

to each other. Then at last they swept over the brow of the hill, a

wild mob of almost fifty drunken horsemen. When they discerned the

pale-uniformed Rurales, they were sailing down the slope at top speed.

If toboggans half-way down a hill should suddenly make up their minds

to turn round and go back, there would be an effect something like that

produced by the drunken horsemen. Richardson saw the Rurales serenely

swing their carbines forward, and, peculiar-minded person that he was,

felt his heart leap into his throat at the prospective volley. But the

officer rode forward alone.

It appeared that the man who owned the best horse in this astonished

company was the fat Mexican with the snaky moustache, and, in

consequence, this gentleman was quite a distance in the van. He tried

to pull up, wheel his horse, and scuttle back over the hill as some of

his companions had done, but the officer called to him in a voice harsh

with rage. "----!" howled the officer. "This señor is my friend, the

friend of my friends. Do you dare pursue him,----?----!----!----!----!"

These dashes represent terrible names, all different, used by the

officer.

The fat Mexican simply grovelled on his horse's neck. His face was

green: it could be seen that he expected death. The officer stormed

with magnificent intensity: "----!----!----!" Finally he sprang from

his saddle, and, running to the fat Mexican's side, yelled--"Go!" and

kicked the horse in the belly with all his might. The animal gave

a mighty leap into the air, and the fat Mexican, with one wretched

glance at the contemplative Rurales, aimed his steed for the top of the

ridge. Richardson gulped again in expectation of a volley, for--it is

said--this is a favourite method for disposing of objectionable people.

The fat, green Mexican also thought that he was to be killed on the

run, from the miserable look he cast at the troops. Nevertheless, he

was allowed to vanish in a cloud of yellow dust at the ridge-top.

José was exultant, defiant, and, oh! bristling with courage. The black

horse was drooping sadly, his nose to the ground. Richardson's little

animal, with his ears bent forward, was staring at the horses of the

Rurales as if in an intense study. Richardson longed for speech, but

he could only bend forward and pat the shining, silken shoulders. The

little horse turned his head and looked back gravely.

DEATH AND THE CHILD

I

The peasants who were streaming down the mountain trail had in their

sharp terror evidently lost their ability to count. The cattle and

the huge round bundles seemed to suffice to the minds of the crowd

if there were now two in each case where there had been three. This

brown stream poured on with a constant wastage of goods and beasts.

A goat fell behind to scout the dried grass and its owner, howling,

flogging his donkeys, passed far ahead. A colt, suddenly frightened,

made a stumbling charge up the hill-side. The expenditure was always

profligate and always unnamed, unnoted. It was as if fear was a river,

and this horde had simply been caught in the torrent, man tumbling

over beast, beast over man, as helpless in it as the logs that fall

and shoulder grindingly through the gorges of a lumber country. It

was a freshet that might sear the face of the tall quiet mountain; it

might draw a livid line across the land, this downpour of fear with

a thousand homes adrift in the current--men, women, babes, animals.

From it there arose a constant babble of tongues, shrill, broken, and

sometimes choking as from men drowning. Many made gestures, painting

their agonies on the air with fingers that twirled swiftly.

The blue bay with its pointed ships and the white town lay below them,

distant, flat, serene. There was upon this vista a peace that a bird

knows when high in the air it surveys the world, a great calm thing

rolling noiselessly toward the end of the mystery. Here on the height

one felt the existence of the universe scornfully defining the pain

in ten thousand minds. The sky was an arch of stolid sapphire. Even

to the mountains raising their mighty shapes from the valley, this

headlong rush of the fugitives was too minute. The sea, the sky, and

the hills combined in their grandeur to term this misery inconsequent.

Then too it sometimes happened that a face seen as it passed on the

flood reflected curiously the spirit of them all and still more. One

saw then a woman of the opinion of the vaults above the clouds. When

a child cried it cried always because of some adjacent misfortune,

some discomfort of a pack-saddle or rudeness of an encircling arm. In

the dismal melody of this flight there were often sounding chords of

apathy. Into these preoccupied countenances, one felt that needles

could be thrust without purchasing a scream. The trail wound here and

there as the sheep had willed in the making of it.

Although this throng seemed to prove that the whole of humanity was

fleeing in one direction--with every tie severed that binds us to the

soil--a young man was walking rapidly up the mountain, hastening to

a side of the path from time to time to avoid some particularly wide

rush of people and cattle. He looked at everything in agitation and

pity. Frequently he called admonitions to maniacal fugitives, and at

other moments he exchanged strange stares with the imperturbable ones.

They seemed to him to wear merely the expressions of so many boulders

rolling down the hill. He exhibited wonder and awe with his pitying

glances.

Turning once toward the rear, he saw a man in the uniform of a

lieutenant of infantry marching the same way. He waited then,

subconsciously elate at a prospect of being able to make into words

the emotion which heretofore had only been expressed in the flash of

eyes and sensitive movements of his flexible mouth. He spoke to the

officer in rapid French, waving his arms wildly, and often pointing

with a dramatic finger. "Ah, this is too cruel, too cruel, too cruel.

Is it not? I did not think it would be as bad as this. I did not

think--God's mercy--I did not think at all. And yet I am a Greek. Or at

least my father was a Greek. I did not come here to fight. I am really

a correspondent, you see? I was to write for an Italian paper. I have

been educated in Italy. I have spent nearly all my life in Italy. At

the schools and universities! I knew nothing of war! I was a student--a

student. I came here merely because my father was a Greek, and for his

sake I thought of Greece--I loved Greece. But I did not dream----"

He paused, breathing heavily. His eyes glistened from that soft

overflow which comes on occasion to the glance of a young woman.

Eager, passionate, profoundly moved, his first words, while facing

the procession of fugitives, had been an active definition of his own

dimension, his personal relation to men, geography, life. Throughout he

had preserved the fiery dignity of a tragedian.

The officer's manner at once deferred to this outburst. "Yes," he said,

polite but mournful, "these poor people! These poor people! I do not

know what is to become of these poor people."

The young man declaimed again. "I had no dream--I had no dream that it

would be like this! This is too cruel! Too cruel! Now I want to be a

soldier. Now I want to fight. Now I want to do battle for the land of

my father." He made a sweeping gesture into the north-west.

The officer was also a young man, but he was very bronzed and steady.

Above his high military collar of crimson cloth with one silver star

upon it, appeared a profile stern, quiet, and confident, respecting

fate, fearing only opinion. His clothes were covered with dust; the

only bright spot was the flame of the crimson collar. At the violent

cries of his companion he smiled as if to himself, meanwhile keeping

his eyes fixed in a glance ahead.

From a land toward which their faces were bent came a continuous

boom of artillery fire. It was sounding in regular measures like the

beating of a colossal clock, a clock that was counting the seconds in

the lives of the stars, and men had time to die between the ticks.

Solemn, oracular, inexorable, the great seconds tolled over the hills

as if God fronted this dial rimmed by the horizon. The soldier and

the correspondent found themselves silent. The latter in particular

was sunk in a great mournfulness, as if he had resolved willy-nilly

to swing to the bottom of the abyss where dwell secrets of his kind,

and had learned beforehand that all to be met there was cruelty

and hopelessness. A strap of his bright new leather leggings came

unfastened, and he bowed over it slowly, impressively, as one bending

over the grave of a child.

Then suddenly, the reverberations mingled until one could not separate

an explosion from another, and into the hubbub came the drawling sound

of a leisurely musketry fire. Instantly, for some reason of cadence,

the noise was irritating, silly, infantile. This uproar was childish.

It forced the nerves to object, to protest against this racket which

was as idle as the din of a lad with a drum.

The lieutenant lifted his finger and pointed. He spoke in vexed

tones, as if he held the other man personally responsible for the

noise. "Well, there!" he said. "If you wish for war you now have an

opportunity magnificent."

The correspondent raised himself upon his toes. He tapped his chest

with gloomy pride. "Yes! There is war! There is the war I wish to

enter. I fling myself in. I am a Greek, a Greek, you understand. I wish

to fight for my country. You know the way. Lead me. I offer myself."

Struck by a sudden thought he brought a case from his pocket, and

extracting a card handed it to the officer with a bow. "My name is

Peza," he said simply.

A strange smile passed over the soldier's face. There was pity and

pride--the vanity of experience--and contempt in it. "Very well," he

said, returning the bow. "If my company is in the middle of the fight

I shall be glad for the honour of your companionship. If my company is

not in the middle of the fight--I will make other arrangements for you."

Peza bowed once more, very stiffly, and correctly spoke his thanks.

On the edge of what he took to be a great venture toward death, he

discovered that he was annoyed at something in the lieutenant's tone.

Things immediately assumed new and extraordinary proportions. The

battle, the great carnival of woe, was sunk at once to an equation with

a vexation by a stranger. He wanted to ask the lieutenant what was his

meaning. He bowed again majestically; the lieutenant bowed. They flung

a shadow of manners, of capering tinsel ceremony across a land that

groaned, and it satisfied something within themselves completely.

In the meantime, the river of fleeing villagers had changed to simply

a last dropping of belated creatures, who fled past stammering and

flinging their hands high. The two men had come to the top of the great

hill. Before them was a green plain as level as an inland sea. It swept

northward, and merged finally into a length of silvery mist. Upon the

near part of this plain, and upon two grey treeless mountains at the

side of it, were little black lines from which floated slanting sheets

of smoke. It was not a battle to the nerves. One could survey it with

equanimity, as if it were a tea-table; but upon Peza's mind it struck a

loud clanging blow. It was war. Edified, aghast, triumphant, he paused

suddenly, his lips apart. He remembered the pageants of carnage that

had marched through the dreams of his childhood. Love he knew that he

had confronted, alone, isolated, wondering, an individual, an atom

taking the hand of a titanic principle. But, like the faintest breeze

on his forehead, he felt here the vibration from the hearts of forty

thousand men.

The lieutenant's nostrils were moving. "I must go at once," he said. "I

must go at once."

"I will go with you wherever you go," shouted Peza loudly.

A primitive track wound down the side of the mountain, and in their

rush they bounded from here to there, choosing risks which in the

ordinary caution of man would surely have seemed of remarkable danger.

The ardour of the correspondent surpassed the full energy of the

soldier. Several times he turned and shouted, "Come on! Come on!"

At the foot of the path they came to a wide road, which extended

toward the battle in a yellow and straight line. Some men were

trudging wearily to the rear. They were without rifles; their clumsy

uniforms were dirty and all awry. They turned eyes dully aglow with

fever upon the pair striding toward the battle. Others were bandaged

with the triangular kerchief upon which one could still see through

bloodstains the little explanatory pictures illustrating the ways to

bind various wounds. "Fig. 1."--"Fig. 2."--"Fig. 7." Mingled with

the pacing soldiers were peasants, indifferent, capable of smiling,

gibbering about the battle, which was to them an ulterior drama. A man

was leading a string of three donkeys to the rear, and at intervals

he was accosted by wounded or fevered soldiers, from whom he defended

his animals with ape-like cries and mad gesticulation. After much

chattering they usually subsided gloomily, and allowed him to go with

his sleek little beasts unburdened. Finally he encountered a soldier

who walked slowly with the assistance of a staff. His head was bound

with a wide bandage, grimey from blood and mud. He made application to

the peasant, and immediately they were involved in a hideous Levantine

discussion. The peasant whined and clamoured, sometimes spitting like

a kitten. The wounded soldier jawed on thunderously, his great hands

stretched in claw-like graspings over the peasant's head. Once he

raised his staff and made threat with it. Then suddenly the row was at

an end. The other sick men saw their comrade mount the leading donkey

and at once begin to drum with his heels. None attempted to gain the

backs of the remaining animals. They gazed after them dully. Finally

they saw the caravan outlined for a moment against the sky. The soldier

was still waving his arms passionately, having it out with the peasant.

Peza was alive with despair for these men who looked at him with such

doleful, quiet eyes. "Ah, my God!" he cried to the lieutenant, "these

poor souls! These poor souls!"

The officer faced about angrily. "If you are coming with me there is

no time for this." Peza obeyed instantly and with a sudden meekness. In

the moment some portion of egotism left him, and he modestly wondered

if the universe took cognizance of him to an important degree. This

theatre for slaughter, built by the inscrutable needs of the earth, was

an enormous affair, and he reflected that the accidental destruction of

an individual, Peza by name, would perhaps be nothing at all.

With the lieutenant he was soon walking along behind a series of little

crescent-shape trenches, in which were soldiers, tranquilly interested,

gossiping with the hum of a tea-party. Although these men were not at

this time under fire, he concluded that they were fabulously brave.

Else they would not be so comfortable, so at home in their sticky brown

trenches. They were certain to be heavily attacked before the day was

old. The universities had not taught him to understand this attitude.

At the passing of the young man in very nice tweed, with his new

leggings, his new white helmet, his new field-glass case, his new

revolver holster, the soiled soldiers turned with the same curiosity

which a being in strange garb meets at the corners of streets. He might

as well have been promenading a populous avenue. The soldiers volubly

discussed his identity.

To Peza there was something awful in the absolute familiarity of each

tone, expression, gesture. These men, menaced with battle, displayed

the curiosity of the café. Then, on the verge of his great encounter

toward death, he found himself extremely embarrassed, composing his

face with difficulty, wondering what to do with his hands, like a gawk

at a levée.

He felt ridiculous, and also he felt awed, aghast, at these men who

could turn their faces from the ominous front and debate his clothes,

his business. There was an element which was new born into his theory

of war. He was not averse to the brisk pace at which the lieutenant

moved along the line.

The roar of fighting was always in Peza's ears. It came from some short

hills ahead and to the left. The road curved suddenly and entered a

wood. The trees stretched their luxuriant and graceful branches over

grassy slopes. A breeze made all this verdure gently rustle and speak

in long silken sighs. Absorbed in listening to the hurricane racket

from the front, he still remembered that these trees were growing, the

grass-blades were extending according to their process. He inhaled a

deep breath of moisture and fragrance from the grove, a wet odour which

expressed all the opulent fecundity of unmoved nature, marching on with

her million plans for multiple life, multiple death.

Further on, they came to a place where the Turkish shells were landing.

There was a long hurtling sound in the air, and then one had sight of a

shell. To Peza it was of the conical missiles which friendly officers

had displayed to him on board warships. Curiously enough, too, this

first shell smacked of the foundry, of men with smudged faces, of the

blare of furnace fires. It brought machinery immediately into his mind.

He thought that if he was killed there at that time it would be as

romantic, to the old standards, as death by a bit of falling iron in a

factory.

II

A child was playing on a mountain and disregarding a battle that was

waging on the plain. Behind him was the little cobbled hut of his fled

parents. It was now occupied by a pearl-coloured cow that stared out

from the darkness thoughtful and tender-eyed. The child ran to and fro,

fumbling with sticks and making great machinations with pebbles. By a

striking exercise of artistic license the sticks were ponies, cows, and

dogs, and the pebbles were sheep. He was managing large agricultural

and herding affairs. He was too intent on them to pay much heed to

the fight four miles away, which at that distance resembled in sound

the beating of surf upon rocks. However, there were occasions when

some louder outbreak of that thunder stirred him from his serious

occupation, and he turned then a questioning eye upon the battle, a

small stick poised in his hand, interrupted in the act of sending his

dog after his sheep. His tranquillity in regard to the death on the

plain was as invincible as that of the mountain on which he stood.

It was evident that fear had swept the parents away from their home

in a manner that could make them forget this child, the first-born.

Nevertheless, the hut was clean bare. The cow had committed no

impropriety in billeting herself at the domicile of her masters. This

smoke-coloured and odorous interior contained nothing as large as

a humming-bird. Terror had operated on these runaway people in its

sinister fashion, elevating details to enormous heights, causing a man

to remember a button while he forgot a coat, overpowering every one

with recollections of a broken coffee-cup, deluging them with fears for

the safety of an old pipe, and causing them to forget their first-born.

Meanwhile the child played soberly with his trinkets.

He was solitary; engrossed in his own pursuits, it was seldom that he

lifted his head to inquire of the world why it made so much noise. The

stick in his hand was much larger to him than was an army corps of the

distance. It was too childish for the mind of the child. He was dealing

with sticks.

The battle lines writhed at times in the agony of a sea-creature on

the sands. These tentacles flung and waved in a supreme excitement of

pain, and the struggles of the great outlined body brought it nearer

and nearer to the child. Once he looked at the plain and saw some men

running wildly across a field. He had seen people chasing obdurate

beasts in such fashion, and it struck him immediately that it was

a manly thing which he would incorporate in his game. Consequently

he raced furiously at his stone sheep, flourishing a cudgel, crying

the shepherd calls. He paused frequently to get a cue of manner from

the soldiers fighting on the plain. He reproduced, to a degree, any

movements which he accounted rational to his theory of sheep-herding,

the business of men, the traditional and exalted living of his father.

III

It was as if Peza was a corpse walking on the bottom of the sea, and

finding there fields of grain, groves, weeds, the faces of men, voices.

War, a strange employment of the race, presented to him a scene crowded

with familiar objects which wore the livery of their commonness,

placidly, undauntedly. He was smitten with keen astonishment; a spread

of green grass lit with the flames of poppies was too old for the

company of this new ogre. If he had been devoting the full lens of his

mind to this phase, he would have known he was amazed that the trees,

the flowers, the grass, all tender and peaceful nature had not taken to

heels at once upon the outbreak of battle. He venerated the immovable

poppies.

The road seemed to lead into the apex of an angle formed by the two

defensive lines of the Greeks. There was a straggle of wounded men and

of gunless and jaded men. These latter did not seem to be frightened.

They remained very cool, walking with unhurried steps and busy in

gossip. Peza tried to define them. Perhaps during the fight they

had reached the limit of their mental storage, their capacity for

excitement, for tragedy, and had then simply come away. Peza remembered

his visit to a certain place of pictures, where he had found himself

amid heavenly skies and diabolic midnights--the sunshine beating

red upon desert sands, nude bodies flung to the shore in the green

moon-glow, ghastly and starving men clawing at a wall in darkness, a

girl at her bath with screened rays falling upon her pearly shoulders,

a dance, a funeral, a review, an execution, all the strength of

argus-eyed art: and he had whirled and whirled amid this universe with

cries of woe and joy, sin and beauty piercing his ears until he had

been obliged to simply come away. He remembered that as he had emerged

he had lit a cigarette with unction and advanced promptly to a café. A

great hollow quiet seemed to be upon the earth.

This was a different case, but in his thoughts he conceded the same

causes to many of these gunless wanderers. They too may have dreamed

at lightning speed until the capacity for it was overwhelmed. As he

watched them, he again saw himself walking toward the café, puffing

upon his cigarette. As if to reinforce his theory, a soldier stopped

him with an eager but polite inquiry for a match. He watched the

man light his little roll of tobacco and paper and begin to smoke

ravenously.

Peza no longer was torn with sorrow at the sight of wounded men.

Evidently he found that pity had a numerical limit, and when this was

passed the emotion became another thing. Now, as he viewed them, he

merely felt himself very lucky, and beseeched the continuance of his

superior fortune. At the passing of these slouched and stained figures

he now heard a reiteration of warning. A part of himself was appealing

through the medium of these grim shapes. It was plucking at his sleeve

and pointing, telling him to beware; and so it had come to pass that he

cared for the implacable misery of these soldiers only as he would have

cared for the harms of broken dolls. His whole vision was focussed

upon his own chance.

The lieutenant suddenly halted. "Look," he said. "I find that my duty

is in another direction. I must go another way. But if you wish to

fight you have only to go forward, and any officer of the fighting

line will give you opportunity." He raised his cap ceremoniously; Peza

raised his new white helmet. The stranger to battles uttered thanks to

his chaperon, the one who had presented him. They bowed punctiliously,

staring at each other with civil eyes.

The lieutenant moved quietly away through a field. In an instant it

flashed upon Peza's mind that this desertion was perfidious. He had

been subjected to a criminal discourtesy. The officer had fetched him

into the middle of the thing, and then left him to wander helplessly

toward death. At one time he was upon the point of shouting at the

officer.

In the vale there was an effect as if one was then beneath the battle.

It was going on above somewhere. Alone, unguided, Peza felt like a

man groping in a cellar. He reflected too that one should always see

the beginning of a fight. It was too difficult to thus approach it

when the affair was in full swing. The trees hid all movements of

troops from him, and he thought he might be walking out to the very

spot which chance had provided for the reception of a fool. He asked

eager questions of passing soldiers. Some paid no heed to him; others

shook their heads mournfully. They knew nothing save that war was hard

work. If they talked at all it was in testimony of having fought well,

savagely. They did not know if the army was going to advance, hold its

ground, or retreat; they were weary.

A long pointed shell flashed through the air and struck near the base

of a tree, with a fierce upheaval, compounded of earth and flames.

Looking back, Peza could see the shattered tree quivering from head

to foot. Its whole being underwent a convulsive tremor which was an

exhibition of pain, and, furthermore, deep amazement. As he advanced

through the vale, the shells continued to hiss and hurtle in long low

flights, and the bullets purred in the air. The missiles were flying

into the breast of an astounded nature. The landscape, bewildered,

agonized, was suffering a rain of infamous shots, and Peza imagined a

million eyes gazing at him with the gaze of startled antelopes.

There was a resolute crashing of musketry from the tall hill on the

left, and from directly in front there was a mingled din of artillery

and musketry firing. Peza felt that his pride was playing a great trick

in forcing him forward in this manner under conditions of strangeness,

isolation, and ignorance. But he recalled the manner of the lieutenant,

the smile on the hill-top among the flying peasants. Peza blushed and

pulled the peak of his helmet down on his forehead. He strode onward

firmly. Nevertheless he hated the lieutenant, and he resolved that on

some future occasion he would take much trouble to arrange a stinging

social revenge upon that grinning jackanapes. It did not occur to

him until later that he was now going to battle mainly because at a

previous time a certain man had smiled.

IV

The road curved round the base of a little hill, and on this hill a

battery of mountain guns was leisurely shelling something unseen. In

the lee of the height the mules, contented under their heavy saddles,

were quietly browsing the long grass. Peza ascended the hill by a

slanting path. He felt his heart beat swiftly; once at the top of

the hill he would be obliged to look this phenomenon in the face. He

hurried, with a mysterious idea of preventing by this strategy the

battle from making his appearance a signal for some tremendous renewal.

This vague thought seemed logical at the time. Certainly this living

thing had knowledge of his coming. He endowed it with the intelligence

of a barbaric deity. And so he hurried; he wished to surprise war, this

terrible emperor, when it was growling on its throne. The ferocious and

horrible sovereign was not to be allowed to make the arrival a pretext

for some fit of smoky rage and blood. In this half-lull, Peza had

distinctly the sense of stealing upon the battle unawares.

The soldiers watching the mules did not seem to be impressed by

anything august. Two of them sat side by side and talked comfortably;

another lay flat upon his back staring dreamily at the sky; another

cursed a mule for certain refractions. Despite their uniforms, their

bandoliers and rifles, they were dwelling in the peace of hostlers.

However, the long shells were whooping from time to time over the brow

of the hill, and swirling in almost straight lines toward the vale of

trees, flowers, and grass. Peza, hearing and seeing the shells, and

seeing the pensive guardians of the mules, felt reassured. They were

accepting the condition of war as easily as an old sailor accepts

the chair behind the counter of a tobacco-shop. Or, it was merely

that the farm-boy had gone to sea, and he had adjusted himself to the

circumstances immediately, and with only the usual first misadventures

in conduct. Peza was proud and ashamed that he was not of them, these

stupid peasants, who, throughout the world, hold potentates on their

thrones, make statesmen illustrious, provide generals with lasting

victories, all with ignorance, indifference, or half-witted hatred,

moving the world with the strength of their arms and getting their

heads knocked together in the name of God, the king, or the Stock

Exchange; immortal, dreaming, hopeless asses who surrender their reason

to the care of a shining puppet, and persuade some toy to carry their

lives in his purse. Peza mentally abased himself before them, and

wished to stir them with furious kicks.

As his eyes ranged above the rim of the plateau, he saw a group of

artillery officers talking busily. They turned at once and regarded

his ascent. A moment later a row of infantry soldiers in a trench

beyond the little guns all faced him. Peza bowed to the officers. He

understood at the time that he had made a good and cool bow, and he

wondered at it, for his breath was coming in gasps, he was stifling

from sheer excitement. He felt like a tipsy man trying to conceal his

muscular uncertainty from the people in the street. But the officers

did not display any knowledge. They bowed. Behind them Peza saw the

plain, glittering green, with three lines of black marked upon it

heavily. The front of the first of these lines was frothy with smoke.

To the left of this hill was a craggy mountain, from which came a

continual dull rattle of musketry. Its summit was ringed with the white

smoke. The black lines on the plain slowly moved. The shells that came

from there passed overhead with the sound of great birds frantically

flapping their wings. Peza thought of the first sight of the sea during

a storm. He seemed to feel against his face the wind that races over

the tops of cold and tumultuous billows.

He heard a voice afar off--"Sir, what would you?" He turned, and saw

the dapper captain of the battery standing beside him. Only a moment

had elapsed. "Pardon me, sir," said Peza, bowing again. The officer was

evidently reserving his bows; he scanned the new-comer attentively.

"Are you a correspondent?" he asked. Peza produced a card. "Yes, I came

as a correspondent," he replied, "but now, sir, I have other thoughts.

I wish to help. You see? I wish to help."

"What do you mean?" said the captain. "Are you a Greek? Do you wish to

fight?"

"Yes, I am a Greek. I wish to fight." Peza's voice surprised him

by coming from his lips in even and deliberate tones. He thought

with gratification that he was behaving rather well. Another shell

travelling from some unknown point on the plain whirled close and

furiously in the air, pursuing an apparently horizontal course as if it

were never going to touch the earth. The dark shape swished across the

sky.

"Ah," cried the captain, now smiling, "I am not sure that we will be

able to accommodate you with a fierce affair here just at this time,

but----" He walked gaily to and fro behind the guns with Peza, pointing

out to him the lines of the Greeks, and describing his opinion of the

general plan of defence. He wore the air of an amiable host. Other

officers questioned Peza in regard to the politics of the war. The

king, the ministry, Germany, England, Russia, all these huge words

were continually upon their tongues. "And the people in Athens? Were

they----" Amid this vivacious babble Peza, seated upon an ammunition

box, kept his glance high, watching the appearance of shell after

shell. These officers were like men who had been lost for days in the

forest. They were thirsty for any scrap of news. Nevertheless, one of

them would occasionally dispute their informant courteously. What would

Servia have to say to that? No, no, France and Russia could never allow

it. Peza was elated. The shells killed no one; war was not so bad. He

was simply having coffee in the smoking-room of some embassy where

reverberate the names of nations.

A rumour had passed along the motley line of privates in the trench.

The new arrival with the clean white helmet was a famous English

cavalry officer come to assist the army with his counsel. They stared

at the figure of him, surrounded by officers. Peza, gaining sense of

the glances and whispers, felt that his coming was an event.

Later, he resolved that he could with temerity do something finer.

He contemplated the mountain where the Greek infantry was engaged,

and announced leisurely to the captain of the battery that he thought

presently of going in that direction and getting into the fight. He

re-affirmed the sentiments of a patriot. The captain seemed surprised.

"Oh, there will be fighting here at this knoll in a few minutes," he

said orientally. "That will be sufficient? You had better stay with us.

Besides, I have been ordered to resume fire." The officers all tried to

dissuade him from departing. It was really not worth the trouble. The

battery would begin again directly. Then it would be amusing for him.

Peza felt that he was wandering with his protestations of high

patriotism through a desert of sensible men. These officers gave no

heed to his exalted declarations. They seemed too jaded. They were

fighting the men who were fighting them. Palaver of the particular kind

had subsided before their intense pre-occupation in war as a craft.

Moreover, many men had talked in that manner and only talked.

Peza believed at first that they were treating him delicately. They

were considerate of his inexperience. War had turned out to be such a

gentle business that Peza concluded he could scorn this idea. He bade

them a heroic farewell despite their objections.

However, when he reflected upon their ways afterward, he saw dimly that

they were actuated principally by some universal childish desire for a

spectator of their fine things. They were going into action, and they

wished to be seen at war, precise and fearless.

V

Climbing slowly to the high infantry position, Peza was amazed to

meet a soldier whose jaw had been half shot away, and who was being

helped down the sheep track by two tearful comrades. The man's breast

was drenched with blood, and from a cloth which he held to the wound

drops were splashing wildly upon the stones of the path. He gazed at

Peza for a moment. It was a mystic gaze, which Peza withstood with

difficulty. He was exchanging looks with a spectre; all aspect of the

man was somehow gone from this victim. As Peza went on, one of the

unwounded soldiers loudly shouted to him to return and assist in this

tragic march. But even Peza's fingers revolted; he was afraid of the

spectre; he would not have dared to touch it. He was surely craven in

the movement of refusal he made to them. He scrambled hastily on up the

path. He was running away.

At the top of the hill he came immediately upon a part of the line that

was in action. Another battery of mountain guns was here firing at the

streaks of black on the plain. There were trenches filled with men

lining parts of the crest, and near the base were other trenches, all

crashing away mightily. The plain stretched as far as the eye can see,

and from where silver mist ended this emerald ocean of grass, a great

ridge of snow-topped mountains poised against a fleckless blue sky. Two

knolls, green and yellow with grain, sat on the prairie confronting the

dark hills of the Greek position. Between them were the lines of the

enemy. A row of trees, a village, a stretch of road, showed faintly

on this great canvas, this tremendous picture, but men, the Turkish

battalions, were emphasized startlingly upon it. The ranks of troops

between the knolls and the Greek position were as black as ink.

The first line of course was muffled in smoke, but at the rear of it

battalions crawled up and to and fro plainer than beetles on a plate.

Peza had never understood that masses of men were so declarative, so

unmistakable, as if nature makes every arrangement to give information

of the coming and the presence of destruction, the end, oblivion. The

firing was full, complete, a roar of cataracts, and this pealing of

connected volleys was adjusted to the grandeur of the far-off range of

snowy mountains. Peza, breathless, pale, felt that he had been set upon

a pillar and was surveying mankind, the world. In the meantime dust had

got in his eye. He took his handkerchief and mechanically administered

to it.

An officer with a double stripe of purple on his trousers paced in the

rear of the battery of howitzers. He waved a little cane. Sometimes

he paused in his promenade to study the field through his glasses. "A

fine scene, sir," he cried airily, upon the approach of Peza. It was

like a blow in the chest to the wide-eyed volunteer. It revealed to him

a point of view. "Yes, sir, it is a fine scene," he answered. They

spoke in French. "I am happy to be able to entertain monsieur with a

little practice," continued the officer. "I am firing upon that mass of

troops you see there a little to the right. They are probably forming

for another attack." Peza smiled; here again appeared manners, manners

erect by the side of death.

The right-flank gun of the battery thundered; there was a belch of

fire and smoke; the shell flung swiftly and afar was known only to the

ear in which rang a broadening hooting wake of sound. The howitzer had

thrown itself backward convulsively, and lay with its wheels moving

in the air as a squad of men rushed toward it. And later, it seemed

as if each little gun had made the supreme effort of its being in

each particular shot. They roared with voices far too loud, and the

thunderous effort caused a gun to bound as in a dying convulsion. And

then occasionally one was hurled with wheels in air. These shuddering

howitzers presented an appearance of so many cowards always longing to

bolt to the rear, but being implacably held to their business by this

throng of soldiers who ran in squads to drag them up again to their

obligation. The guns were herded and cajoled and bullied interminably.

One by one, in relentless program, they were dragged forward to

contribute a profound vibration of steel and wood, a flash and a roar,

to the important happiness of man.

The adjacent infantry celebrated a good shot with smiles and an

outburst of gleeful talk.

"Look, sir," cried an officer to Peza. Thin smoke was drifting lazily

before Peza, and dodging impatiently he brought his eyes to bear upon

that part of the plain indicated by the officer's finger. The enemy's

infantry was advancing to attack. From the black lines had come forth

an inky mass which was shaped much like a human tongue. It advanced

slowly, casually, without apparent spirit, but with an insolent

confidence that was like a proclamation of the inevitable.

The impetuous part was all played by the defensive side. Officers

called, men plucked each other by the sleeve; there were shouts,

motions, all eyes were turned upon the inky mass which was flowing

toward the base of the hills, heavily, languorously, as oily and thick

as one of the streams that ooze through a swamp.

Peza was chattering a question at every one. In the way, pushed aside,

or in the way again, he continued to repeat it. "Can they take the

position? Can they take the position? Can they take the position?"

He was apparently addressing an assemblage of deaf men. Every eye

was busy watching every hand. The soldiers did not even seem to see

the interesting stranger in the white helmet who was crying out so

feverishly.

Finally, however, the hurried captain of the battery espied him and

heeded his question. "No, sir! no, sir! It is impossible," he shouted

angrily. His manner seemed to denote that if he had sufficient time he

would have completely insulted Peza. The latter swallowed the crumb of

news without regard to the coating of scorn, and, waving his hand in

adieu, he began to run along the crest of the hill toward the part of

the Greek line against which the attack was directed.

VI

Peza, as he ran along the crest of the mountain, believed that his

action was receiving the wrathful attention of the hosts of the foe.

To him then it was incredible foolhardiness thus to call to himself

the stares of thousands of hateful eyes. He was like a lad induced by

playmates to commit some indiscretion in a cathedral. He was abashed;

perhaps he even blushed as he ran. It seemed to him that the whole

solemn ceremony of war had paused during this commission. So he

scrambled wildly over the rocks in his haste to end the embarrassing

ordeal. When he came among the crowning rifle-pits filled with eager

soldiers he wanted to yell with joy. None noticed him save a young

officer of infantry, who said--"Sir, what do you want?" It was obvious

that people had devoted some attention to their own affairs.

Peza asserted, in Greek, that he wished above everything to battle for

the fatherland. The officer nodded; with a smile he pointed to some

dead men covered with blankets, from which were thrust upturned dusty

shoes.

"Yes, I know, I know," cried Peza. He thought the officer was

poetically alluding to the danger.

"No," said the officer at once. "I mean cartridges--a bandolier. Take

a bandolier from one of them."

Peza went cautiously toward a body. He moved a hand toward the corner

of a blanket. There he hesitated, stuck, as if his arm had turned to

plaster. Hearing a rustle behind him he spun quickly. Three soldiers of

the close rank in the trench were regarding him. The officer came again

and tapped him on the shoulder. "Have you any tobacco?" Peza looked at

him in bewilderment. His hand was still extended toward the blanket

which covered the dead soldier. "Yes," he said, "I have some tobacco."

He gave the officer his pouch. As if in compensation, the other

directed a soldier to strip the bandolier from the corpse. Peza, having

crossed the long cartridge belt on his breast, felt that the dead man

had flung his two arms around him.

A soldier with a polite nod and smile gave Peza a rifle, a relic of

another dead man. Thus, he felt, besides the clutch of a corpse about

his neck, that the rifle was as inhumanly horrible as a snake that

lives in a tomb. He heard at his ear something that was in effect like

the voices of those two dead men, their low voices speaking to him

of bloody death, mutilation. The bandolier gripped him tighter; he

wished to raise his hands to his throat like a man who is choking. The

rifle was clammy; upon his palms he felt the movement of the sluggish

currents of a serpent's life; it was crawling and frightful.

All about him were these peasants, with their interested countenances,

gibbering of the fight. From time to time a soldier cried out in

semi-humorous lamentations descriptive of his thirst. One bearded man

sat munching a great bit of hard bread. Fat, greasy, squat, he was like

an idol made of tallow. Peza felt dimly that there was a distinction

between this man and a young student who could write sonnets and play

the piano quite well. This old blockhead was coolly gnawing at the

bread, while he, Peza, was being throttled by a dead man's arms.

He looked behind him, and saw that a head by some chance had been

uncovered from its blanket. Two liquid-like eyes were staring into

his face. The head was turned a little sideways as if to get better

opportunity for the scrutiny. Peza could feel himself blanch; he was

being drawn and drawn by these dead men slowly, firmly down as to some

mystic chamber under the earth where they could walk, dreadful figures,

swollen and blood-marked. He was bidden; they had commanded him; he was

going, going, going.

When the man in the new white helmet bolted for the rear, many of the

soldiers in the trench thought that he had been struck, but those

who had been nearest to him knew better. Otherwise they would have

heard the silken sliding tender noise of the bullet and the thud

of its impact. They bawled after him curses, and also outbursts of

self-congratulation and vanity. Despite the prominence of the cowardly

part, they were enabled to see in this exhibition a fine comment upon

their own fortitude. The other soldiers thought that Peza had been

wounded somewhere in the neck, because as he ran he was tearing madly

at the bandolier, the dead man's arms. The soldier with the bread

paused in his eating and cynically remarked upon the speed of the

runaway.

An officer's voice was suddenly heard calling out the calculation of

the distance to the enemy, the readjustment of the sights. There was

a stirring rattle along the line. The men turned their eyes to the

front. Other trenches beneath them to the right were already heavily in

action. The smoke was lifting toward the blue sky. The soldier with the

bread placed it carefully on a bit of paper beside him as he turned to

kneel in the trench.

VII

In the late afternoon, the child ceased his play on the mountain with

his flocks and his dogs. Part of the battle had whirled very near to

the base of his hill, and the noise was great. Sometimes he could see

fantastic smoky shapes which resembled the curious figures in foam

which one sees on the slant of a rough sea. The plain indeed was etched

in white circles and whirligigs like the slope of a colossal wave. The

child took seat on a stone and contemplated the fight. He was beginning

to be astonished; he had never before seen cattle herded with such

uproar. Lines of flame flashed out here and there. It was mystery.

Finally, without any preliminary indication, he began to weep. If the

men struggling on the plain had had time and greater vision, they could

have seen this strange tiny figure seated on a boulder, surveying them

while the tears streamed. It was as simple as some powerful symbol.

As the magic clear light of day amid the mountains dimmed the

distances, and the plain shone as a pallid blue cloth marked by the red

threads of the firing, the child arose and moved off to the unwelcoming

door of his home. He called softly for his mother, and complained of

his hunger in the familiar formula. The pearl-coloured cow, grinding

her jaws thoughtfully, stared at him with her large eyes. The peaceful

gloom of evening was slowly draping the hills.

The child heard a rattle of loose stones on the hillside, and facing

the sound, saw a moment later a man drag himself up to the crest of the

hill and fall panting. Forgetting his mother and his hunger, filled

with calm interest, the child walked forward and stood over the heaving

form. His eyes too were now large and inscrutably wise and sad like

those of the animal in the house.

After a silence he spoke inquiringly. "Are you a man?"

Peza rolled over quickly and gazed up into the fearless cherubic

countenance. He did not attempt to reply. He breathed as if life was

about to leave his body. He was covered with dust; his face had been

cut in some way, and his cheek was ribboned with blood. All the spick

of his former appearance had vanished in a general dishevelment, in

which he resembled a creature that had been flung to and fro, up and

down, by cliffs and prairies during an earthquake. He rolled his eye

glassily at the child.

They remained thus until the child repeated his words. "Are you a man?"

Peza gasped in the manner of a fish. Palsied, windless, and abject, he

confronted the primitive courage, the sovereign child, the brother of

the mountains, the sky and the sea, and he knew that the definition of

his misery could be written on a grass-blade.