A BARRACK-ROOM OF THE LEGION
The room which Reginald Rupert entered, with a dozen of his fellow
"blues," was long and lofty, painfully orderly, and spotlessly clean.
Fifteen cots were exactly aligned on each long side, and down the middle
of the floor ran long wooden tables and benches, scoured and polished to
immaculate whiteness. Above each bed was a shelf on which was piled a
very neat erection of uniforms and kit. To the eye of Rupert
(experienced in barrack-rooms) there was interesting novelty in the
absence of clothes-boxes, and the presence of hanging-cupboards
suspended over the tables from the ceiling.
Evidently the French authorities excelled the English in the art of
economising space, as nothing was on the floor that could be
accommodated above it. In the hanging cupboards were tin plates and cups
and various utensils of the dinner-table.
The Englishman noted that though the Lebel rifles stood in a rack in a
corner of the room, the long sword-bayonets hung by the pillows of their
owners, each near a tin quart-pot and a small sack.
On their beds, a few Legionnaires lay sleeping, or sat laboriously
polishing their leatherwork--the senseless, endless and detested
_astiquage_ of the Legion--or cleaning their rifles, bayonets, and
buttons. Whatever else the Legionnaire is, or is not, he is
meticulously clean, neat, and smart, and when his day's work is done (at
four or five o'clock) he must start a half-day's work in "making
_fantasie_"--in preparation for the day's work of the morrow.
Rising from his bed in the corner as the party entered, Legionary John
Bull approached the Corporal in charge of the room and suggested that
the English recruit should be allotted the bed between his own and that
of Legionnaire Bronco, as he was of the same mother-tongue, and would
make quicker progress in their hands than in those of foreigners. As
the Corporal, agreeing, indicated the second bed from the window, to
Rupert, and told him to take possession of it and make his _paquetage_
on the shelf above, the Cockney recruit pushed forward:
"'Ere, I'm Henglish too! I better jine these blokes."
"Qu'est-ce-qu'il dit, Jean Boule?" enquired the Corporal.
On being informed, Corporal Achille Martel allotted the fourth bed, that
on the other side of the Bucking Bronco, to Recruit Higgins with an
intimation that the sooner he learnt French, and ceased the use of
barbarous tongues the better it would be for his welfare. The Corporal
then assigned berths to the remaining recruits, each between those of
two old soldiers, of whom the right-hand man was to be the new recruit's
guide, philosopher and friend, until he, in his turn, became a prideful,
full-blown Legionary.
The young Russian who had given his name as Mikhail Kyrilovitch Malekov
observed that the card at the head of the cot on his right-hand bore the
inscription: "Luigi Rivoli, No. 13874, Soldat 2ieme Classe."
As he stood, irresolute, and apparently in great anxiety and
perturbation, nervously opening and shutting a cartridge-pouch, his face
suddenly brightened as his twin entered the room and intercepted the
departing Corporal.
"_Mille pardons_, Monsieur," he said, saluting smartly and respectfully.
"But I earnestly and humbly request that you will permit me to inhabit
this room in which is my brother. As we reached this door another
_sous-officier_ took me and the remainder to the next room when twelve
had entered here.... Alas! My brother was twelfth, and I thirteenth,"
he added volubly. "Look you, Monsieur, he is my twin, and we have never
been separated yet. We shall get on much faster and better, helping
each other, and be more credit to you and your room, _petit pere_."
"Sacre Dieu, and Name of a Purple Frog! Is this a scurvy and lousy
beggar, whining for alms at a mosque door? And am I a God-forsaken and
disgusting _pekin_ that you address me as 'Monsieur'? Name of a Pipe!
Have I no rank? Address me henceforth as Monsieur le Caporal, thou
kopeck-worth of Russian."
"Oui, oui; milles pardons, Monsieur le Caporal. But grant me this favour
and I and my brother will be your slaves."
"Va t'en, babillard! Rompez, jaseur!" snarled the Corporal.
But the Russian, true to type, was tenacious. Producing a five-franc
piece he scratched his nose therewith, and dropping the wheedling and
suppliant tone, asked the testy Corporal if he thought it likely
Messieurs les Caporaux of the Seventh Company could possibly be induced
to drink the health of so insignificant an object as Recruit Feodor
Kyrilovitch Malekov.
"Corporals do not drink with Legionnaires," was the answer, "but
doubtless Corporal Gilles of the next room will join me in a drink to
the health of a worthy and promising 'blue,'" and, removing his kepi, he
stretched his gigantic frame and yawned hugely as the Russian
dexterously, and apparently unnoticed, slipped the coin into the kepi.
Having casually examined the lining of his kepi, Monsieur le Caporal
Martel replaced it on his head, and with astounding suddenness and
ferocity pounced upon an ugly, tow-haired German, and with a shout of
"Out, pig! Out of my beautiful room! Thy face disfigures it," he
hunted him forth and bestowed him upon the neighbouring Corporal, M.
Auguste Gilles, together with a promise of ten bottles of Madame la
Cantiniere's best, out of the thirty-and-five which the Russian's
five-franc piece would purchase.
In a moment the Russian had opened negotiations with the Spaniard who
had taken the bed next but one to that of Mikhail.
Like all educated Russians, Feodor Kyrilovitch was an accomplished
linguist, and, while speaking French and English idiomatically, could
get along very comfortably in Spanish, Italian, and German.
A very few minutes enabled him to make it clear to the Spaniard that an
exchange of beds would do him no harm, and enrich him by a two-franc
piece.
"No hay de que, Senor. Gracias, muchas gracias," replied the Spaniard.
"En seguida, con se permiso," and transferred himself and his belongings
to the berth vacated by the insulted and dispossessed German.
Meanwhile, Reginald Rupert, with soldierly promptitude, lost no time in
setting about the brushing and arrangement of his kit, gathering up, as
he did so, the pearls of local wisdom that fell from the lips of his
kindly mentor, whose name and description he observed to be "Legionnaire
John Bull, No. 11867, Soldat 2ieme Classe."
Having shown his pupil the best and quickest way of folding his uniform
in elbow-to-finger-tip lengths, and so arranging everything that he
could find it in the dark, and array himself _en tenue de campagne
d'Afrique_ in ten minutes without a light, he invited him to try his own
hand at the job.
"Now you try and make that '_paquetage_ of the Legion,'" observed the
instructor, "and the sooner you learn to make it quickly, the better.
As you see, you have no chest for your kit as you had in the British
Army, and so you keep your uniform on your shelf, _en paquetage_, for
tidiness and smartness, without creases. The Legionnaire is as _chic_
and particular as the best trooper of the crackest English
cavalry-corps. We look down on the _piou-piou_ from a fearful height,
and swagger against the _Chasseur d'Afrique_ himself. I wish to God we
had spurs, but there's no cavalry in the Legion--though there are kinds
of Mounted-Rifle Companies on mules, down South. I miss spurs damnably,
even after fourteen years of foot-slogging in the Legion. You can't
really swagger without spurs--not that the women will look at a
Legionary in any case, or the men respect him, save as a fighter. But
you can't swing without spurs."
"No," agreed Rupert, "I was just thinking I should miss them, and it'll
take me some time to get used to a night-cap, a neck-curtained kepi, a
knapsack, and a steel bayonet-scabbard."
"You'll appreciate the first when you sleep out, and the second when you
march, down South. The nights are infernally cold, and the days
appallingly hot--and yet sunstroke is unknown in the Legion. Some put
it down to wearing the overcoat to march in. The steel scabbard is
bad--noisy and heavy. The knapsack is the very devil on the march, but
it's the one and only place in the world in which you can keep a photo,
letter, book, or scrap of private property, besides spare uniform and
small kit. You'll soon learn to pack it, to stow underclothing in the
haversack, and to know the place for everything, so that you can get
from bed to barrack-square, fully equipped and accoutred in nine minutes
from the bugle.... And don't, for Heaven's sake, lose anything, for a
spiteful N.C.O. can send you to your death in Biribi--that's the Penal
Battalion--by running you in two or three times for 'theft of
equipment.' Lost kit is regarded as stolen kit, and stolen kit is sold
kit (to a court-martial), and the penalty is six months with the
Zephyrs. It takes a good man to survive that.... If you've got any
money, try and keep a little in hand, so that you can always replace
missing kit. The fellows here are appalling thieves--of uniform. It is
regarded as a right, natural and proper thing to steal uniforms and kit,
and yet we'd nearly kill a man who stole money, tobacco, or food. The
former would be 'decorating' yourself, the latter disgracing yourself.
We've some queer beasts here, but we're a grand regiment."
The disorderly heap of garments having become an exceedingly neat and
ingenious little edifice, compact, symmetrical, and stable, Rupert's
instructor introduced the subject of that bane of the Legionary's
life--the eternal _astiquage_, the senseless and eternal polishing of
the black leather straps and large cartridge-pouches.
"This stuff looks as though it had been left here by the Tenth Legion of
Julius Caesar, rather than made for the Foreign Legion," he remarked.
"Let's see what we can make of it. Watch me do this belt, and then you
can try the cartridge-cases. Don't mind firing off all the questions
you've got to ask, meanwhile."
"Thanks. What sort of chaps are they in this room?" asked Rupert,
seating himself on the bed beside his friendly preceptor, and inwardly
congratulating himself on his good luck in meeting, on the threshold of
his new career, so congenial and satisfactory a bunk-mate.
"Very mixed," was the reply. "The fellow on the other side of your
berth is an American, an _ex_-U.S.A. army man, miner, lumber-jack,
tramp, cow-boy, bruiser, rifle and revolver trick-shooter, and my very
dear friend, one of the whitest men I ever met, and one of the most
amusing. His French conversation keeps me alive by making me laugh, and
he's learning Italian from a twopenny dictionary, and a Travellers'
Phrase Book, the better to talk to Carmelita. The next but one is a
Neapolitan who calls himself Luigi Rivoli. He used to be a champion
Strong Man, and music-hall wrestler, acrobat, and juggler. Did a bit of
lion-taming too, or, at any rate, went about with a show that had a
cageful of mangy performing lions. He is not really very brave though,
but he's a most extraordinary strong brute. Quite a millionaire here
too, for Carmelita gives him a whole franc every day of his life."
"What made him enlist then?" asked Rupert, carefully watching the
curious _astiquage_ methods, so different from the pipe-clay to which he
was accustomed.
"This same girl, and she's worth a thousand of Rivoli. It seems she
pretended to turn him down, and take up with some other chap to punish
Rivoli after some lover's quarrel or other, and our Luigi in a fit of
jealous madness stabbed the other chap in the back, and then bolted and
enlisted in the Legion, partly to pay her out, but chiefly to save
himself. He was doing a turn at a _cafe-chantant_ over in Algiers at
the time. Of course, Carmelita flung herself in transports of grief,
repentance, and self-accusation upon Luigi's enormous bosom, and keeps
him in pocket-money while she waits for him. She followed him, and runs
a _cafe_ for Legionnaires here in Sidi-bel-Abbes. She gets scores of
offers from our Non-coms., and from Frenchmen of the regular army
stationed in Sidi, and her _cafe_ is a sort of little Italian club. My
friend, the Bucking Bronco, proposes to her once a week, but she remains
true to Luigi, whom she intends to marry as soon as he has done his
time. The swine's carrying on at the same time with Madame la
Cantiniere, who is a widow, and whose canteen he would like to marry.
Between the two women he has a good time, and, thanks to Carmelita's
money, gets all his work done for him. The brute never does a stroke.
Pays substitutes for all fatigues and corvees, has his kit and
accoutrements polished, and his clothes washed. Spends the balance of
Carmelita's money at the Canteen, ingratiating himself with Madame!
Keeps up his great strength with extra food too. He is a Hercules, and,
moreover, seems immune from African fever and _le cafard_, which is
probably due to his escaping three-parts of the work done by the average
penniless. And he's as nasty as he is strong."
"What's his particular line of nastiness--besides cheating women I
mean?" asked Rupert, who already knew only too well how much depends on
the character, conduct, manners, and habits of room-mates with whom one
is thrown into daily and nightly intimate contact, year after year,
without change, relief, or hope of improvement.
"Oh, he's the Ultimate Bounder," replied the other, as he struck a match
and began melting a piece of wax with which to rub his leather belt.
"He's the Compleat Cad, and the Finished Bully. He's absolute monarch
of the rank-and-file of the Seventh Company by reason of his vast
wealth, and vaster strength. Those he does not bribe he intimidates.
Remember that the Wages of Virtue here is one halfpenny a day as opposed
to the Wages of Sin which is rather worse than death.
"Think of the position of a man who has the income of all in this room
put together, in addition to the run of his best girl's own _cafe_.
What with squaring Non-coms., hiring substitutes, and terrorising
'fags,' he hasn't done a stroke, outside parades of course, since he
joined--except hazing recruits, and breaking up opponents of his rule."
"How does he fight?" asked Rupert.
"Well, wrestling's his _forte_--and he can break the back of any man he
gets his arms round--and the rest's a mixture of boxing, ju-jitsu, and
_la savate_, which, as you know, is kicking. Yes, he's a dirty tighter,
though it's precious rarely that it comes to what you could call a
fight. What I'm waiting for is the most unholy and colossal turn-up
that's due to come between him and Buck sooner or later. It's bound to
come, and it'll be a scrap worth seeing. Buck has been a professional
glove-man among other things, and he holds less conservative views than
I do, as to what is permissible against an opponent who kicks, clinches,
and butts.... No, fighting's apt to be rather a dirty business here,
and, short of a proper duel, a case of stand face to face and do all you
can with all Nature's weapons, not forgetting your teeth.... '_C'est la
Legion._'"
"How disgustin'!" murmured the young man. "Will this bird trouble me?"
"He will," answered the other, "but I'll take a hand, and then Buck will
too. He hates Luigi like poison, and frequently remarks that he has it
in for him when the time comes, and Luigi isn't over anxious to tackle
him, though he hankers. Doesn't understand him, nor like the look in
his eye. Buck is afraid of angering Carmelita if he 'beats up'
Rivoli.... Yes, I dare say Buck and I can put the gentle Neapolitan off
between us."
Reginald Rupert stiffened.
"I beg that you will in no way interfere," he observed coldly. "I
should most strongly resent it."
The heart of the old soldier warmed to the youth, as he contrasted his
slim boyish grace with the mighty strength, natural and developed, of
the professional Strong Man, Wrestler, and Acrobat--most tricky,
cunning, and dangerous of relentless foes.
"You keep clear of Luigi Rivoli as long as you can," he said with a
kindly smile. "And at least remember that Buck and I are with you.
Personally, I'm no sort of match for our Luigi in a rough-and-tumble
nowadays, should he compel one. But he has let me alone since I told
him with some definiteness that he would have to defend himself with
either lead or steel, if he insisted on trouble between him and me."
"There now," he continued, rising, "now try that for yourself on a
cartridge-pouch.... First melt the wax a bit, with a match--and don't
forget that matches are precious in the Legion as they're so damned
dear--and rub it on the leather as I did. Then take this flat block of
wood and smooth it over until it's all evenly spread. And then rub hard
with the coarse rag for an hour or two, then harder with the fine rag
for about half an hour. Next polish with your palm, and then with the
wool. Buck and I own a scrap of velvet which you can borrow before
Inspection Parades, and big shows--but we don't use it extravagantly of
course....
"Well, that's the _astiquage_ curse, and the other's washing white kit
without soap, and ironing it without an iron. Of course, Madame la
Republique couldn't give us glazed leather, or khaki webbing--nor could
she afford to issue one flat-iron to a barrack-room, so that we could
iron a white suit in less than a couple of hours.... The devil of it is
that it's all done in our 'leisure' time when we're supposed to be
resting, or recreating.... Think of the British 'Tommy' in India with
his _dhobi_, his barrack-sweeper, his table-servant, and his _syce_--or
his share in them. If we did nothing in the world but our daily
polishing, washing and ironing, we should be busy men. However! '_C'est
la Legion!_' And one won't live for ever.... You won't want any help
with the rifle and bayonet, I suppose?"
"No, thanks, I've 'had some,' though I haven't handled a Lebel before,"
and Reginald Rupert settled down to work while Legionary John Bull
proceeded with his toilet.
"Anything else you want to know?" enquired the latter, as he put a final
polish upon his gleaming sword-bayonet. "You know enough not to cut
your rifle-sling stropping your razor on it.... Don't waste your cake
of soap making a candlestick of it. Too rare and precious here."
"Well, thanks very much; the more you tell me, the better for me, if
it's not troubling you, Sir."
John Bull paused and looked at the recruit.
"Why do you call me 'Sir'?" he enquired.
"Why? ... Because you are senior and a Sahib, I suppose," replied the
youth.
"Thanks, my boy, but don't. I am just Legionnaire John Bull 11867,
Soldier of the Second Class. You'll be a soldier of the First Class,
and my senior in a few months, I hope.... I suppose you've assumed a
_nom de guerre_ too," replied the other, making a mental note that the
recruit had served in India. He had already observed that he pointed
his toes as he walked, and had a general cavalry bearing.
"Yes, I gave part of my own name; I'm 'Reginald Rupert' now. Didn't see
why I should give my own. I've only come to have a look round and learn
a bit. Very keen on experiences, especially military ones."
"Merciful God!" ejaculated John Bull softly. "Out for experiences!
You'll get 'em, here."
"Keen on seein' life, y'know," explained the young man.
"Much more likely to see death," replied the other. "Do you realise that
you're in for five years--and that no money, no influence, no diplomatic
representations, no extradition can buy, or beg, or drag you out; and
that by the end of five years, if alive, you'll be lucky if you're of
any use to the Legion, to yourself, or to anyone else? I, personally,
have had unusual luck, and am of unusual physique. I re-enlisted twice,
partly because at the end of each five years I was turned loose with
nothing in the world but a shapeless blue slop suit--partly for other
reasons...."
"Oh! I've only come for a year, and shall desert. I told them so
plainly at the enlistment bureau, in Paris," was the ingenuous reply.
The old Legionary smiled.
"A good many of our people desert, at least once," he said, "when under
the influence of _le cafard_--especially the Germans. Ninety-nine per
cent come to one of three ends--death, capture, or surrender. Death with
torture at the hands of the Arabs; capture, or ignominious return and
surrender after horrible sufferings from thirst, starvation and
exposure."
"Yes; I heard the Legion was a grand military school, and a pretty warm
thing, and that desertion was a bit of a feat, and no disgrace if you
brought it off--so I thought I'd have a year of the one, and then a shot
at the other," replied the young man coolly. "Also, I was up against it
somewhat, and well--you know--seeking sorrow."
"You've come to the right place for it then," observed Legionary John
Bull, sheathing his bayonet with a snap, as the door banged open....
"Ah! Enter our friend Luigi," he added as that worthy swaggered into
the room with an obsequious retinue, which included le bon Legionnaire
Edouard Malvin, looking very smart and dapper in the uniform of
Legionnaire Alphonse Dupont of the Eleventh Company.
"Pah! I smell 'blues'! Disgusting! Sickening!" ejaculated Legionnaire
Luigi Rivoli in a tremendous voice, and stood staring menacingly from
recruit to recruit.
Reginald Rupert, returning his hot, insolent glare with a cold and
steady stare, beheld a huge and powerful-looking man with a pale, cruel
face, coarsely handsome, wherein the bold, heavily lashed black eyes
were set too close together beneath their broad, black, knitted brows,
and the little carefully curled black moustache, beneath the little
plebeian nose, hid nothing of the over-ripe red lips of an over-small
mouth.
"Corpo di Bacco!" he roared in Italian and Legion French. "The place
reeks of the stinking 'blues.' Were it not that I now go _en ville_ to
dine and drink my Chianti wine (none of your filthy Algerian slops for
Luigi Rivoli), and to smoke my _sigaro estero_ at my _cafe_, I would
fling them all down three flights of stairs," and, like his companions,
he commenced stripping off his white uniform. Having bared his truly
magnificent arms and chest, he struck an attitude, ostentatiously
contracted his huge right biceps, and smote it a resounding smack with
the palm of his left hand.
"Aha!" he roared, as all turned to look at him.
"Disgustin' bounder," remarked Reginald Rupert very distinctly, as, with
a second shout of "Aha!" Rivoli did the same with the left biceps and
right hand, and then bunched the vast _pectoralis major_ muscles of his
chest.
"Magnifique:" cried Legionnaire Edouard Malvin, who was laying out his
patron's uniform from his _paquetage_, preparatory to helping him to
dress.
"As thou sayest, my _gallo_, 'C'est magnifique,'" replied Luigi Rivoli,
and for five minutes contracted, flexed, and slapped the great muscles
of his arms, shoulders, and chest.
"Come hither--thou little bambino Malvin, thou Bad Wine, thou Cattevo
Vino Francese, and stand behind me.... What of the back? Canst thou
see the 'bull's head' as I set the _trapezius_, _rhomboideus_, and
_latissimus dorsi_ muscles?"
"As clearly as I see your own head, Main de Fer," replied the Austrian
in affected astonishment and wonder. "It is the World's Most Wonderful
Back! Why, were Maxick and Saldo, Hackenschmidt, the three Saxons,
Sandow--yea--Samson and Hercules themselves here, all would be
humiliated and envious."
"Aha!" again bawled Rivoli, "thou art right, _piccolo porco_," and,
sinking to a squatting position upon his raised heels, he rose and fell
like a jack-in-the-box for some time, before rubbing and smiting his
huge thighs and calves to the accompaniment of explosive shouts.
Thereafter, he fell upon his hands and toes, and raised and lowered his
stiffened body a few dozen times.
The display finished, he enquired with lordly boredom: "And what are the
absurd orders for walking-out dress to-night. Is it blue and red, or
blue and white, or overcoats buttoned on the left--or what?"
"Tunic and red, Hercule, and all ready, as you see," replied Malvin, and
he proceeded to assist at the toilet of the ex-acrobat, the plutocrat
and leader of the rank-and-file of the Seventh Company by virtue of his
income of a franc a day, and his phenomenal strength and ferocity.
Turning round that Malvin might buckle his belt and straighten his
tunic, the great man's foot touched that of Herbert Higgins (late of
Hoxton and the Loyal Whitechapel Regiment) who had been earnestly
endeavouring for the past quarter of an hour to follow the instructions
of the Bucking Bronco--instructions given in an almost incomprehensible
tongue, of choice American and choicer French compact.
Profound disgust, deepening almost to horror, was depicted on the face
of the Italian as he bestowed a vicious, hacking kick upon the shin of
the offending "blue."
"Body of Bacchus, what is this?" he cried. "Cannot I move without
treading in _vidanges_? Get beneath the bed and out of my sight,
_cauchemar_!"
But far from retreating as bidden, the undersized Cockney rose promptly
to his feet with a surprised and aggrieved look upon his face, hitherto
expressive only of puzzled bewilderment.
"'Ere! 'Oo yer fink you're a kickin' of?" he enquired, adding with
dignity, "I dunno' 'oo yer fink you _are_. I'm 'Erb 'Iggins, I am, an'
don't yer fergit it."
That Mr. Herbert Higgins stood rubbing his injured shin instead of
flying at the throat of the Italian, was due in no wise to personal
fear, but to an utter ignorance of the rank, importance, and powers of
this "narsty-lookin' furriner." He might be some sort of an officer,
and to "dot 'im one" might mean lingering gaol, or sudden death.
Bitterly he regretted his complete ignorance of the French tongue, and
the manners and customs of this strange place. Anyhow, he could give
the bloke some lip in good old English.
"Bit too 'andy wiv yer feet, ain't yer? Pretty manners, I _don't_ fink!
'Manners none, an' customs narsty's' abart your mark, ain't it?"
But ere he could proceed with further flowers of rhetoric, and rush in
ignorance upon his fate, the huge hand of the American fell upon his
shoulder from behind and pressed him back upon his cot.
"Hello, Loojey dear! Throwin' bouquets to yerself agin, air yew?
Gittin' fresh agin, air yew, yew greasy Eye-talian, orgin-grindin',
ice-cream-barrer-pushin', back-stabbin', garlic-eatin', street-corner,
pink-spangled-tights ackerobat," he observed in his own inimitable
vernacular, as he unwound his long blue sash preparatory to dressing for
the evening.
"Why don't yew per*chase* a barrel-orgin an' take yure dear pal Malvin
along on it? Snakes! I guess I got my stummick full o' yew an'
Mon-seer Malvin some. I wish yew'd kiss yureself good-bye, Loojey. Yew
fair git my goat, yew fresh gorilla! _Oui, vous gagnez mon chevre
proprement_."
"_Qu'est-ce qu'il dit?_" asked Rivoli, his contemptuously curled lips
baring his small, even teeth.
"Keskerdee? Why, yep! We uster hev a bunch o' dirty little'
keskerdees' at the ol' Glowin' Star mine, way back in Californey when I
was a road-kid. Keskerdees!--so named becos they allus jabbered
'Keskerdee' when spoke to. We uster use their heads fer cleanin'
fryin'-pans. 'Keskerdee' is Eye-talian--a kind o' sorter low French,"
observed the Bucking Bronco.
It is to be feared that his researches into the ethnological and
etymological truths of the European nations were limited and
unprofitable, in spite of the fact that (like all other Legionaries of
any standing) he spoke fluent Legion French on everyday military
matters, and studied Italian phrases for the benefit of Carmelita. The
Bucking Bronco's conversational method was to express himself
idiomatically in the American tongue, and then translate it literally
into the language of the benighted foreigner whom he honoured at the
moment.
The Italian eyed the American malevolently, and, for the thousandth
time, measured him, considered him, weighed him as an opponent in a
boxing-wrestling-kicking match, remembered his uncanny magic skill with
rifle and revolver, and, for the thousandth time, postponed the
inevitable settlement, misliking his face, his mouth, his eye, and his
general manner, air, and bearing.
"Give some abominable 'bleu' the honour of lacing the boots of Luigi
Rivoli," he roared, turning with a contemptuous gesture from the
American and the Cockney, to his henchman, Malvin. Fixing his eye upon
the swarthy, spike-moustached Austrian, who sat at the foot of the bed
opposite his own, he added:
"Here, dog, the privilege is thine. Allez schieblos"[#] and thrust out
the unlaced boots that Malvin had pulled on to his feet.
[#] A curious piece of Legion "French" meaning "Be quick."
The Austrian, squatting dejected, with his head between his fists,
affected not to understand, and made no move.
"_Koom. Adji inna. Balek! fahesh beghla,_"[#] adjured the Italian,
airing his Arabic, and insulting his intended victim by addressing him
as though he were a native.
[#] "Get up. Come here. Take care! You ugly mule."
The Austrian did not stir.
"Quick," hissed the Italian, and pointed to his boots that there might
be no mistake.
The Austrian snarled.
"Bring it to me," said the great man, and, in a second, the recruit was
run by the collar of his tunic, his ears, his twisted wrists, his woolly
hair, and by a dozen willing hands, to the welcoming arms of the bully.
"Oh, thou deserter from the _Straf Bataillon_,"[#] growled the latter.
A sudden grab, a swift twist, and the Austrian was on his face, his
elbows meeting and overlapping behind his back, and his arms drawn
upward and backward. He shrieked.
[#] Penal battalion.
A quick jerk and he was on his feet, and then swung from the ground face
downward, his wrists behind him in one of Rivoli's big hands, his
trouser-ends in the other. Placing his foot in the small of the
Austrian's back, the Italian appeared to be about to break the spine of
his victim, whose screams were horrible to hear. Dashing him violently
to the ground, Rivoli re-seated himself, and thrust forward his right
foot. Groaning and gasping, the cowed Austrian knelt to his task, but,
fumbling and failing to give satisfaction, received a kick in the face.
Reginald Rupert dropped the cartridge-pouch which he was polishing, and
stepped forward, only to find himself thrust back by a sweep of the
American's huge arm, which struck him in the chest like an iron bar, and
to be seized by Legionnaire John Bull who quietly remarked:
"Mind your own business, recruit.... _C'est la Legion_!"
No one noticed that the Russian, Mikhail, was white and trembling, and
that his brother came and led him to the other end of the room.
"Bungler! _Polisson_! _Coquin_! Lick the soles of my boots and go,"
cried Rivoli, and, as the lad hesitated, he rose to his feet.
Cringing and shrinking, the wretched "blue" hastened to obey, thrust
forth his tongue, and, as the boot was raised, obediently licked the
nether surface and the edges of the sole until its owner was satisfied.
"Austria's proper attitude to Italy," growled the bully. "Now lick the
other...."
Le Legionnaire Luigi Rivoli might expect prompt obedience henceforth
from le Legionnaire Franz Joseph Meyer.
Standing in the ring of amused satellites was the evil-looking _Apache_,
a deeply interested spectator of this congenial and enjoyable scene.
His hang-dog face caught the eye of the Italian.
"Come hither, thou _blanc-bec_," quoth he. "Come hither and show this
_vaurien_ how to lace the boots of a gentleman."
The Apache obeyed with alacrity, and, performing the task with rapidity
and skill, turned to depart.
"A nimble-fingered sharper," observed the Italian, and, rising swiftly,
bestowed a shattering kick upon the retreating Frenchman. Recovering
his balance after the sudden forward propulsion, the _Apache_ wheeled
round like lightning, bent double, and flew at his assailant. Courage
was his one virtue, and he was the finest exponent of the art of butting
in all the purlieus and environs of Montmartre, and had not only laid
out many a good bourgeois, but had overcome many a rival, by this
preliminary to five minutes' strenuous kicking with heavy boots. If he
launched himself--a one-hundred-and-fifty pound projectile--with his
hard skull as battering-ram, straight at the stomach of his tormentor,
that astounded individual ought to go violently to the ground, doubled
up, winded and helpless. A score of tremendous kicks would then teach
him that an _Apache_ King (and he, none other than Tou-Tou Boil-the-Cat,
_doyen_ of the heroes of the Rue de Venise, Rue Pirouette, and Rue des
Innocents, _caveau_-knight and the beloved of the beauteous Casque d'Or)
was not a person lightly to be trifled with.
But if Monsieur Tou-Tou Boil-the-Cat was a _Roi des Apaches_, Luigi
Rivoli was an acrobat and juggler, and, to mighty strength, added
marvellous poise, quickness and skill.
"_Ca ne marche pas, gobemouche,_" he remarked, and, at the right moment,
his knee shot up with tremendous force and crashed into the face of the
butting _Apache_. For the first time the famous and terrible attack of
the King of the Paris hooligans had failed. When the unfortunate
monarch regained his senses, some minutes later, and took stock of his
remaining teeth and features, he registered a mental memorandum to the
effect that he would move along the lines of caution, rather than
valour, in his future dealings with the Legionnaire Luigi Rivoli--until
his time came.
"_Je m'en souviendrai_," said he....
An interesting object-lesson in the effect, upon a certain type of mind,
of the methods of the Italian was afforded by the conduct of a Greek
recruit, named Dimitropoulos. Stepping forward with ingratiating bows
and smiles, as the unfortunate M. Tou-Tou was stretched senseless on the
floor, he proclaimed himself to be the best of the _lustroi_ of the city
of Corinth, and begged for the honour and pleasure of cleaning the boots
of Il Signor Luigi Rivoli.
Oh, but yes; a _lustros_ of the most distinguished, look you, who had
polished the most eminent boots in Greece at ten _leptas_ a time. Alas!
that he had not all his little implements and sponges, his cloth of
velvet, his varnish for the heel. Had he but the tools necessary to the
true artist in his profession, the boots of Il Illustrissimo Signor
should be then and thenceforth of a brightness dazzling and remarkable.
As he gabbled, the Greek scrubbed at Rivoli's boots with a rag and the
palm of his hand. Evidently the retinue of the great man had been
augmented by one who would be faithful and true while his patron's
strength and money lasted. As, at the head of his band of henchmen and
parasites, the latter hero turned to leave the barrack-room with a shout
of "_Allons, mes enfants d'Enfer,_" he bent his lofty brow upon, cocked
his ferocious eye at, and turned his haughty regard toward the remaining
recruits, finishing with Reginald Rupert:
"I will teach useful tricks to you little dogs later," he promised.
"You shall dance me the _rigolboche_, and the _can-can_," and swaggered
out....
"Nice lad," observed Rupert, looking up from his work--and wondered what
the morrow might bring forth. There should be a disappointed Luigi, or
a dead Rupert about, if it came to interference and trouble.
"Sure," agreed Legionnaire Bronco, seating himself on the bed beside his
beloved John Bull. "He's some stiff, that guy, an' I allow it'll soon
be up ter me ter _con_duct our Loojey ter the bone-orchard. He's a
plug-ugly. He's a ward-heeler. Land sakes! I wants ter punch our
Loojey till Hell pops; an' when it comes ter shootin' I got Loojey
skinned a mile--sure thing. _J'ai Loojey ecorche un mille_.... Nope,
there ain't 'nuff real room fer Looje an' me in Algery--not while
Carmelita's around....
"Say, John," he continued, turning to his friend, "she up an' axed me
las' night ef he ever went ter the Canteen an' ef Madam lar Canteenair
didn't ever git amakin' eyes at her beautiful Looje! Yep! It _is_ time
Loojey kissed hisself good-bye."
"Oh? What did you tell her?" enquired John Bull. "There is no doubt
the swine will marry the Canteen if he can. More profitable than poor
little Carmelita's show. He _is_ a low stinker, and she's one of the
best and prettiest and pluckiest little women who ever lived.... She's
so _debrouillarde_."
"Wot did I say? Wal, John, wot I ses was--'Amakin' eyes at yure Loojey,
my dear.' I ses, 'Madam lar Canteenair is a woman with horse-sense an'
two eyes in 'er 'ead. She wouldn't look twice at a boastin', swankin',
fat-slappin', back-stabbin', dime-show ackerobat,' I ses. 'Yure Loojey
flaps 'is mouth too much. _Il frappe sa bouche trop,_' I ses. But I
didn't tell her as haow 'e's amakin' up ter Madam lar Canteenaire all
his possible. She wouldn't believe it of 'im. She wouldn't even
believe that 'e _goes_ ter the Canteen. I only ses: 'Yure Loojey's a
leary lipper so don't say as haow I ain't warned yer, Carmelita honey,'
I ses--an' I puts it inter copper-bottomed Frencho langwago also. Yep!"
"What did Carmelita say?" asked John Bull.
"Nix," was the reply. "It passes my com*pre*hension wot she sees in
that fat Eye-talian ice-cream trader. Anyhaow, it's up ter Hiram C.
Milton ter git upon his hind legs an' _fer_bid the bangs ef she goes fer
ter marry a greasy orgin-grinder ... serposin' he don't git Madam lar
Canteenair," and the Bucking Bronco sighed deeply, produced some strong,
black Algerian tobacco, and asked High Heaven if he might hope ever
again to stuff some real Tareyton Mixture (the best baccy in the world)
into his "guley-brooley"--whereby Legionary John Bull understood him to
mean his _brule-gueule_, or short pipe--and relapsed into lethargic and
taciturn apathy.
"How would you like a prowl round?" asked John Bull, of Rupert.
"Nothing better, thank you, if you think I could pass the Sergeant of
the Guard before being dismissed recruit-drills."
"Oh, that'll be all right if you are correctly dressed. Hop into the
tunic and red breeches and we'll try it. You're free until five-thirty
to-morrow morning, and can do some more at your kit when we return.
We'll go round the barracks and I'll show you the ropes before we stroll
round Sidi-bel-Abbes, and admire the wonders of the Rue Prudon, Rue
Montagnac, and Rue de Jerusalem. Our band is playing at the Military
Club to-night, and the band of the Premiere Legion Etrangere is the
finest band in the whole world--largely Germans and Poles. We are
allowed to listen at a respectful distance. We'll look in at the
_Village d'Espagnol_, the _Mekerra_, and the _Faubourg des Palmiers_
another time, as they're out of bounds. Also the _Village Negre_ if you
like, but if we're caught there we get a month's hard labour, if not
solitary confinement and starvation in the foul and stinking
_cellules_--because we're likely to be killed in the _Village Negre_."
"Let's go there now," suggested Rupert eagerly, as he buttoned his
tunic.
"No, my boy. Wait until you know what _cellule_ imprisonment really is,
before you risk it. You keep out of the _trou_ just as long as you can.
It's different from the Stone Jug of a British regiment--very. Don't do
any _rabiau_[#] until you must. We'll be virtuous to-night, and when
you must go out of bounds, go with me. I'll take you to see Carmelita
this evening at the Cafe de la Legion, and we'll look in on Madame la
Cantiniere, at the Canteen, before the Last Post at nine o'clock....
Are you coming, Buck?"
[#] Time spent in prison or in the Penal Battalions--which does not
count towards the five years period of service.
And these three modern musketeers left the _chambree_ of their _caserne_
and clattered down the stone stairs to the barrack-square.