A little more and Jean Rasteaux would have been a giant. Brittany men
are small as a rule, but Jean was an exception. He was a powerful young
fellow who, up to the time he was compelled to enter the army, had
spent his life in dragging heavy nets over the sides of a boat. He knew
the Brittany coast, rugged and indented as it is, as well as he knew
the road from the little café on the square to the dwelling of his
father on the hillside overlooking the sea. Never before had he been
out of sound of the waves. He was a man who, like Hervé Riel, might
have saved the fleet, but France, with the usual good sense of
officialism, sent this man of the coast into the mountains, and Jean
Rasteaux became a soldier in the Alpine Corps. If he stood on the
highest mountain peak, Jean might look over illimitable wastes of snow,
but he could catch neither sound nor sight of the sea.
Men who mix with mountains become as rough and rugged as the rocks, and
the Alpine Corps was a wild body, harsh and brutal. Punishment in the
ranks was swift and terrible, for the corps was situated far from any
of the civilising things of modern life, and deeds were done which the
world knew not of; deeds which would not have been approved if reported
at headquarters.
The regiment of which Jean became a unit was stationed in a high valley
that had but one outlet, a wild pass down which a mountain river roared
and foamed and tossed. The narrow path by the side of this stream was
the only way out of or into the valley, for all around, the little
plateau was walled in by immense peaks of everlasting snow, dazzling in
the sunlight, and luminous even in the still, dark nights. From the
peaks to the south, Italy might have been seen, but no man had ever
dared to climb any of them. The angry little river was fed from a
glacier whose blue breast lay sparkling in the sunshine to the south,
and the stream circumnavigated the enclosed plateau, as if trying to
find an outlet for its tossing waters.
Jean was terribly lonely in these dreary and unaccustomed solitudes.
The white mountains awed him, and the mad roar of the river seemed but
poor compensation for the dignified measured thunder of the waves on
the broad sands of the Brittany coast.
But Jean was a good-natured giant, and he strove to do whatever was
required of him. He was not quick at repartee, and the men mocked his
Breton dialect. He became the butt for all their small and often mean
jokes, and from the first he was very miserable, for, added to his
yearning for the sea, whose steady roar he heard in his dreams at
night, he felt the utter lack of all human sympathy.
At first he endeavoured, by unfailing good nature and prompt obedience,
to win the regard of his fellows, and he became in a measure the slave
of the regiment; but the more he tried to please the more his burden
increased, and the greater were the insults he was compelled to bear
from both officers and men. It was so easy to bully this giant, whom
they nicknamed Samson, that even the smallest men in the regiment felt
at liberty to swear at him or cuff him if necessary.
But at last Samson's good nature seemed to be wearing out. His stock
was becoming exhausted, and his comrades forgot that the Bretons for
hundreds of years have been successful fighters, and that the blood of
contention flows in their veins.
Although the Alpine Corps, as a general thing, contain the largest and
strongest men in the French Army, yet the average French soldier may be
termed undersized when compared with the military of either England or
Germany. There were several physically small men in the regiment, and
one of these, like a diminutive gnat, was Samson's worst persecutor. As
there was no other man in the regiment whom the gnat could bully,
Samson received more than even he could be expected to bear. One day
the gnat ordered Samson to bring him a pail of water from the stream,
and the big man unhesitatingly obeyed. He spilled some of it coming up
the bank, and when he delivered it to the little man, the latter abused
him for not bringing the pail full, and as several of the larger
soldiers, who had all in their turn made Samson miserable, were
standing about, the little man picked up the pail of water and dashed
it into Samson's face. It was such a good opportunity for showing off
before the big men, who removed their pipes from their mouths and
laughed loudly as Samson with his knuckles tried to take the water out
of his eyes. Then Samson did an astonishing thing.
"You miserable, little insignificant rat," he cried. "I could crush
you, but you are not worth it. But to show you that I am not afraid of
any of you, there, and there!"
As he said these two words with emphasis, he struck out from the
shoulder, not at the little man, but at the two biggest men in the
regiment, and felled them like logs to the ground.
A cry of rage went up from their comrades, but bullies are cowards at
heart, and while Samson glared around at them, no one made a move.
The matter was reported to the officer, and Samson was placed under
arrest. When the inquiry was held the officer expressed his
astonishment at the fact that Samson hit two men who had nothing to do
with the insult he had received, while the real culprit had been
allowed to go unpunished.
"They deserved it," said Samson, sullenly, "for what they had done
before. I could not strike the little man. I should have killed him."
"Silence!" cried the officer. "You must not answer me like that."
"I shall answer you as I like," said Samson, doggedly.
The officer sprang to his feet, with a lithe rattan cane in his hand,
and struck the insubordinate soldier twice across the face, each time
raising an angry red mark.
Before the guards had time to interfere, Samson sprang upon the
officer, lifted him like a child above his head, and dashed him with a
sickening crash to the ground, where he lay motionless.
A cry of horror went up from every one present.
"I have had enough," cried Samson, turning to go, but he was met by a
bristling hedge of steel. He was like a rat in a trap. He stood
defiantly there, a man maddened by oppression, and glared around
helplessly.
Whatever might have been his punishment for striking his comrades,
there was no doubt now about his fate. The guard-house was a rude hut
of logs situated on the banks of the roaring stream. Into this room
Samson was flung, bound hand and foot, to await the court-martial next
day. The shattered officer, whose sword had broken in pieces under him,
slowly revived and was carried to his quarters. A sentry marched up and
down all night before the guard-house.
In the morning, when Samson was sent for, the guard-house was found to
be empty. The huge Breton had broken his bonds as did Samson of old. He
had pushed out a log of wood from the wall, and had squeezed himself
through to the bank of the stream. There all trace of him was lost. If
he had fallen in, then of course he had sentenced and executed himself,
but in the mud near the water were great footprints which no boot but
that of Samson could have made; so if he were in the stream it must
have been because he threw himself there. The trend of the footprints,
however, indicated that he had climbed on the rocks, and there, of
course, it was impossible to trace him. The sentries who guarded the
pass maintained that no one had gone through during the night, but to
make sure several men were sent down the path to overtake the runaway.
Even if he reached a town or a village far below, so huge a man could
not escape notice. The searchers were instructed to telegraph his
description and his crime as soon as they reached a telegraph wire. It
was impossible to hide in the valley, and a rapid search speedily
convinced the officers that the delinquent was not there.
As the sun rose higher and higher, until it began to shine even on the
northward-facing snow fields, a sharp-eyed private reported that he saw
a black speck moving high up on the great white slope south of the
valley. The officer called for a field-glass, and placing it to his
eyes, examined the snow carefully.
"Call out a detachment," he said, "that is Samson on the mountain."
There was a great stir in the camp when the truth became known.
Emissaries were sent after the searchers down the pass, calling them to
return.
"He thinks to get to Italy," said the officer. "I did not imagine the
fool knew so much of geography. We have him now secure enough."
The officer who had been flung over Samson's head was now able to
hobble about, and he was exceedingly bitter. Shading his eyes and
gazing at the snow, he said--
"A good marksman ought to be able to bring him down."
"There is no need of that," replied his superior. "He cannot escape. We
have nothing to do but to wait for him. He will have to come down."
All of which was perfectly true.
A detachment crossed the stream and stacked its arms at the foot of the
mountain which Samson was trying to climb. There was a small level
place a few yards wide between the bottom of the hill and the bank of
the raging stream. On this bit of level ground the soldiers lay in the
sun and smoked, while the officers stood in a group and watched the
climbing man going steadily upward.
For a short distance up from the plateau there was stunted grass and
moss, with dark points of rock protruding from the scant soil. Above
that again was a breadth of dirty snow which, now that the sun was
strong, sent little trickling streams down to the river. From there to
the long ridge of the mountain extended upwards the vast smooth slope
of virgin snow, pure and white, sparkling in the strong sunlight as if
it had been sprinkled with diamond dust. A black speck against this
tremendous field of white, the giant struggled on, and they could see
by the glass that he sunk to the knee in the softening snow.
"Now," said the officer, "he is beginning to understand his situation."
Through the glass they saw Samson pause. From below it seemed as if the
snow were as smooth as a sloping roof, but even to the naked eye a
shadow crossed it near the top. That shadow was a tremendous ridge of
overhanging snow more than a hundred feet deep; and Samson now paused
as he realised that it was insurmountable. He looked down and
undoubtedly saw a part of the regiment waiting for him below. He turned
and plodded slowly under the overhanging ridge until he came to the
precipice at his left. It was a thousand feet sheer down. He retraced
his steps and walked to the similar precipice at the right. Then he
came again to the middle of the great T which his footmarks had made on
that virgin slope. He sat down in the snow.
No one will ever know what a moment of despair the Breton must have
passed through when he realised the hopelessness of his toil.
The officer who was gazing through the glass at him dropped his hand to
his side and laughed.
"The nature of the situation," he said, "has at last dawned upon him.
It took a long time to get an appreciation of it through his thick
Breton skull."
"Let me have the glass a moment," said another. "He has made up his
mind about something."
The officer did not realise the full significance of what he saw
through the glass. In spite of their conceit, their skulls were thicker
than that of the persecuted Breton fisherman.
Samson for a moment turned his face to the north and raised his face
towards heaven. Whether it was an appeal to the saints he believed in,
or an invocation to the distant ocean he was never more to look upon,
who can tell?
After a moment's pause he flung himself headlong down the slope towards
the section of the regiment which lounged on the bank of the river.
Over and over he rolled, and then in place of the black figure there
came downwards a white ball, gathering bulk at every bound.
It was several seconds before the significance of what they were gazing
at burst upon officers and men. It came upon them simultaneously, and
with it a wild panic of fear. In the still air a low sullen roar arose.
"An avalanche! An avalanche!!" they cried.
The men and officers were hemmed in by the boiling torrent. Some of
them plunged in to get to the other side, but the moment the water laid
hold of them their heels were whirled into the air, and they
disappeared helplessly down the rapids.
Samson was hours going up the mountain, but only seconds coming down.
Like an overwhelming wave came the white crest of the avalanche,
sweeping officers and men into and over the stream and far across the
plateau.
There was one mingled shriek which made itself heard through the sullen
roar of the snow, then all was silence. The hemmed-in waters rose high
and soon forced its way through the white barrier.
When the remainder of the regiment dug out from the débris the bodies
of their comrades they found a fixed look of the wildest terror on
every face except one. Samson himself, without an unbroken bone in his
body, slept as calmly as if he rested under the blue waters on the
coast of Brittany.