THE CANTEEN OF THE LEGION
From the Canteen, a building in the corner of the barrack-square,
proceeded sounds of revelry by night.
"Blimey! Them furriners are singin' 'Gawd save the Queen' like bloomin'
Christians," remarked 'Erb as the little party approached the modest
Temple of Bacchus.
"No, they are Germans singing '_Heil dir im Sieges-Kranz_,' replied
Feodor Kyrilovitch in English.
"And singing it most uncommonly well," added Legionary John Bull.
"Fancy them 'eathens pinchin' the toon like that," commented 'Erb.
"They oughtn't to be allowed... Do they 'old concerts 'ere? I dessay
they'd like to 'ear some good Henglish songs...."
Reginald Rupert never forgot his first glimpse of the Canteen of the
Legion, though he entered it hundreds of times and spent hundreds of
hours beneath its corrugated iron roof. Scores of Legionaries,
variously clad in blue and red or white sat on benches at long tables,
or lounged at the long zinc-covered bar, behind which were Madame and
hundreds of bottles and large wine-glasses.
Madame la Vivandiere de la Legion was not of the school of "Cigarette."
Rupert failed to visualise her with any clearness as leading a cavalry
charge (the _Drapeau_ of La France in one hand, a pistol in the other,
and her reins in her mouth), inspiring Regiments, advising Generals,
softening the cruel hearts of Arabs, or "saving the day" for La Patrie,
in the manner of the vivandiere of fiction. Madame had a beady eye, a
perceptible moustache, a frankly downy chin, two other chins, a more
than ample figure, and looked, what she was, a female camp-sutler.
Perhaps Madame appeared more Ouidaesque on the march, wearing her
official blue uniform as duly constituted and appointed _fille du
regiment_. At present she looked... However, the bow of Reginald
Rupert, together with his smile and honeyed words, were those of
Mayfair, as he was introduced by Madame's admired friend ce bon Jean
Boule, and he stepped straight into Madame's experienced but capacious
heart. Nor was the brightness of the image dulled by the ten-franc
piece which he tendered with the request that Madame would supply the
party with her most blushful Hippocrene. 'Erb, being introduced, struck
an attitude, his hand upon his heart. Madame coughed affectedly.
"Makes a noise like a 'igh-class parlour-maid bein' jilted, don' she?"
he observed critically.
Having handed a couple of bottles and a large glass to each member of
the party, by way of commencement in liquidating the coin, she returned
to her confidential whispering with Monsieur le Legionnaire Luigi Rivoli
(who lolled, somewhat drunk, in a corner of the bar) as the group seated
itself at the end of a long table near the window.
It being "holiday," that is, pay-day, the Canteen was full, and most of
its patrons had contrived to emulate it. A very large number had laid
out the whole of their _decompte_--every farthing of two-pence
halfpenny--on wine. Others, wiser and more continent, had reserved a
halfpenny for tobacco. In one corner of the room an impromptu German
glee party was singing with such excellence that the majority of the
drinkers were listening to them with obvious appreciation. With hardly
a break, and with the greatest impartiality they proceeded from
part-song to hymn, from hymn to drinking-song, from drinking-song to
sentimental love-ditty. Finally _Ein feste burg ist unser Gott_ being
succeeded by _Die Wacht am Rhein_ and _Deutschland ueber Alles_, the
French element in the room thought that a little French music would be a
pleasing corrective, and with one accord, if not in one key, gave a
spirited rendering of the Marseillaise, followed by--
"Tiens, voila du boudin
Tiens, voila du boudin
Tiens, voia du boudin
Pour les Alsaciens, les Suisses, et les Lorraines,
Four les Belges il n'y en a plus
Car ce sont des tireurs du flanc..." etc.,
immediately succeeded by--
"As-tu vu la casquette
La casquette
Du Pere Bougeaud," etc.
As the ditty came to a close a blue-jowled little Parisian--quick,
nervous, and alert--sprang on to a table, and with a bottle in one hand,
and a glass in the other, burst into the familiar and favourite--
"C'est l'empereur de Danemark
Qui a dit a sa moitie
Depuis quelqu' temps je remarque
Que tu sens b'en fort les pieds..." etc.
"C'est la reine Pomare
Qui a pour tout tenue
Au milieu de l'ete..."
the song being brought to an untimely end by reason of the parties on
either side of the singer's table entering into a friendly tug-of-war
with his feet as rope-ends. As he fell, amid howls of glee and the
crashing of glass, the Bucking Bronco remarked to Rupert--
"Gwine ter be some rough-housin' ter-night ef we're lucky," but ere the
melee could become general, Madame la Cantiniere, descending from her
throne behind the bar, bore down upon the rioters and rated them
soundly--imbeciles, fools, children, vauriens, and _sales cochons_ that
they were. Madame was well aware of the fact that a conflagration
should be dealt with in its earliest stages and before it became
general.
"This is really extraordinarily good wine," remarked Rupert to John
Bull.
"Yes," replied the latter. "It's every bit as good at three-halfpence a
bottle as it is at three-and-six in England, and I'd advise you to stick
to it and let absinthe alone. It does one no harm, in reason, and is a
great comfort. It's our greatest blessing and our greatest curse.
Absinthe is pure curse--and inevitably means 'cafard.'"
"What is this same 'cafard' of which one hears so much?" asked Rupert.
"Well, the word itself means 'beetle,' I believe, and sooner or later
the man who drinks absinthe in this climate feels the beetle crawling
round and round in his brain. He then does the maddest things and
ascribes the impulse to the beetle. He finally goes mad and generally
commits murder or suicide, or both. That is one form of _cafard_, and
the other is mere fed-upness, a combination of liverish temper, boredom
and utter hatred and loathing of the terrible ennui of the life."
"Have you had it?" asked the other.
"Everyone has it at times," was the reply, "especially in the tiny
desert-stations where the awful heat, monotony, and lack of employment
leave one the choice of drink or madness. If you drink you're certain
to go mad, and if you don't drink you're sure to. Of course, men like
ourselves--educated, intelligent, and all that--have more chance than
the average 'Tommy' type, but it's very dangerous for the highly strung
excitable sort. He's apt to go mad and stay mad. We only get fits of
it."
"Don't the authorities do anything to amuse and employ the men in desert
stations, like we do in India?" enquired the younger man.
"Absolutely nothing. They prohibit the _Village Negre_ in every
station, compel men to lie on their cots from eleven till four, and do
nothing at all to relieve the maddening monotony of drill, sentry-go and
punishment. On the other hand, _cafard_ is so recognised an institution
that punishments for offences committed under its influence are
comparatively light. It takes different people differently, and is
sometimes comic--though generally tragic."
"I should think you're bound to get something of the sort wherever men
lead a very hard and very monotonous life, in great heat," said Rupert.
"Oh yes," agreed John Bull. "After all _le cafard_ is not the private
and peculiar speciality of the Legion. We get a very great deal of
madness of course, but I think it's nearly as much due to predisposition
as it is to the hard monotonous life.... You see we are a unique
collection, and a considerable minority of us must be more or less queer
in some way, or they wouldn't be here."
Rupert wondered why the speaker was "here" but refrained from asking.
"Can you classify the recruits at all clearly?" he asked.
"Oh yes," was the reply. "The bulk of them are here simply and solely
for a living; hungry men who came here for board and lodging. Thousands
of foreigners in France have found themselves down on their uppers, with
their last sou gone, fairly on their beam-ends and their room-rent
overdue. To such men the Foreign Legion offers a home. Then, again,
thousands of soldiers commit some heinous military 'crime' and desert to
the Foreign Legion to start afresh. We get most of our Germans and
Austrians that way, and not a few French who pretend to be Belgians to
avoid awkward questions as to their papers. We get Alsatians by the
hundred of course, too. It is their only chance of avoiding service
under the hated German. They fight for France, and by their five years'
Legion-service earn the right to naturalisation also. There are a good
many French, too, who are 'rehabilitating' themselves. Men who have
come to grief at home and prefer the Legion to prison. Then there is
undoubtedly a wanted-by-the-police class of men who have bolted from all
parts of Europe and taken sanctuary here. Yes, I should say the
out-of-works, deserters, runaways and Alsatians make up three parts of
the Legion."
"And what is the other part?"
"Oh, keen soldiers who have deliberately chosen the Legion for its
splendid military training and constant fighting experience--romantics
who have read vain imaginings and figments of the female mind like
'Under Two Flags'; and the queerest of Queer Fish, oddments and remnants
from the ends of the earth...." A shout of "Ohe, Grasshopper!" caused
him to turn.
In the doorway, crouching on his heels, was the man they had left lying
on the settee at Carmelita's. Emitting strange chirruping squeaks,
turning his head slowly from left to right, and occasionally brushing it
from back to front with the sides of his "forelegs," the Grasshopper
approached with long, hopping bounds.
"And that was once an ornament of Chancelleries and Courts," said John
Bull, as he rose to his feet. "Poor devil! Got his _cafard_ once and
for all at Ain Sefra. There was a big grasshopper or locust in his
_gamelle_ of soup one day.... I suppose he was on the verge at the
moment. Anyhow, he burst into tears and has been a grasshopper ever
since, except when he's a Jap or something of that sort.... He's a
grasshopper when he's 'normal' you might say."
Going over to where the man squatted, the old Legionary took him by the
arm. "Come and sit on my blade of grass and drink some dew, Cigale,"
said he.
Smiling up brightly at the face which he always recognised as that of a
sympathetic friend, the Grasshopper arose and accompanied John Bull to
the end of the long table at which sat the Englishmen, the Russians, and
the American....
Yet more wine had made 'Erb yet more expansive, and he kindly filled his
glass and placed it before the Grasshopper.
"'Ere drink that hup, Looney, an' I'll sing yer a song as'll warm the
cockles o' yer pore ol' 'eart," he remarked, and suiting the action to
the word, rose to his feet and, lifting up his voice, delivered himself
mightily of that song not unknown to British barrack-rooms--
"A German orficer crossin' the Rhine
'E come to a pub, an' this was the sign
Skibooo, skibooo,
Skibooo, skiana, skibooo."
The raucous voice and unwonted British accents (for Englishmen are rare
in the Legion) attracted some attention, and by the time 'Erb had
finished with the German officer and commenced upon "'Oo's that
aknockin' on the dawer," he was well across the footlights and had the
ear and eye of the assembly. Finding himself the cynosure of not only
neighbouring but distant eyes, 'Erb mounted the table and "obliged" with
a clog-dance and "double-shuffle-breakdown" to the huge delight of an
audience ever desiring a new thing. Stimulated by rounds of applause,
and by the cheers and laughter which followed the little Parisian's cry
of "Vive le goddam biftek Anglais," 'Erb burst into further Barrack-room
Ballads unchronicled by, and probably quite unknown to, Mr. Kipling, and
did not admit the superior claims of private thirst until he had dealt
faithfully with "The Old Monk," "The Doctor's Boy," and the indiscreet
adventure of Abraham the Sailor with the Beautiful Miss Taylor....
"Some boy, that _com_patriot o' yourn, John," remarked the Bucking
Bronco, "got a reg'lar drorin' room repertory, ain't 'e?" and the soul
of 'Erb was proud within him, and he drank another pint of wine.
"Nutthink like a little--_hic_--'armony," he admitted modestly, "fer
making a _swarry_ sociable an' 'appy. Wot I ses is--_hic_--wot I ses
is--_hic_--wot I ses is--_hic_...."
"It is so, sonny, and that's almighty solemn truth," agreed the Bucking
Bronco.
"Wot I ses is--_hic_--" doggedly repeated 'Erb.
"Right again, sonny.... He knows what 'e's sayin' all right," observed
the American, turning to the Russians.
"Wot I ses is--_hic_--" repeated 'Erb dogmatically....
"'_Hic jacet!_' Monsieur would say, perhaps?" suggested Feodor.
'Erb turned upon the last speaker with an entirely kindly contempt.
"Don't yer igspose yer _hic_-norance," he advised. "You're a foreiller.
You're a neathen. You're a pore _hic_-norant foreiller. Wot I was
goin' ter say was..." But 'Erb lost the thread of his discourse. "Wisht
me donah wos 'ere," he confided sadly to Mikhail Kyrilovitch, wept with
his arm about Mikhail's waist, his head upon Mikhail's shoulder, and
anon lapsed into dreams. Feodor roused the somnolent 'Erb with the
offer of another bottle of wine, and changed places with Mikhail. 'Erb
accepted this tribute to the attractiveness of his personality with
modesty, and with murmured words, the purport of which appeared to be
that Feodor was a discriminating heathen.
As the evening wore on, the heady wine took effect. The fun, which had
been fast and furious, grew uproarious. Dozens of different men were
singing as many different songs, several were merely howling in sheer
joyless glee, many were dancing singly, others in pairs, or in fours;
one, endeavouring to clamber on to the bar and execute a _pas seul_, was
bodily lifted and thrown half-way down the room by the fighting-drunk
Luigi Rivoli. It was noticeable that, as excitement waxed, the use of
French waned, as men reverted to their native tongues. It crossed the
mind of Rupert that a blindfolded stranger, entering the room, might
well imagine himself to be assisting at the building of the Tower of
Babel. A neighbouring party of Spaniards dropping their guttural,
sibilant Legion-French (with their _ze_ for _je_, _zamais_ for _jamais_,
and _zour_ for _jour_) with one accord broke into their liquid Spanish
and _Nombre de Dios_ took the place of _Nom de Dieu_, as their saturnine
faces creased into leathery smiles. Evidently the new recruit who sat
in their midst was paying his footing with the few francs that he had
brought with him, or obtained for his clothes, for each of the party had
four bottles in solemn row before him, and it was not with the clearest
of utterance that the recruit solemnly and portentously remarked, as he
drained his last bottle--
"Santissima Maria! Wine is the tomb of memory, but he who sows in sand
does not reap fish," the hearing of which moved his neighbour to drop
his empty bottles upon the ground with a tear, and a farewell to them--
"Vaya usted con Dios. Adios." He then turned with truculent ferocity
and a terrific scowl upon the provider of the feast and
growled--"_Sangre de Cristo!_ thou peseta-less burro, give me a
cigarillo or with the blessing and aid of el Eterno Padre I will cut thy
throat with my thumb-nail. Hasten, perro!"
With a grunt of "Cosas d'Espafia," the recruit removed his kepi, took a
cigarette therefrom and placed it in the steel-trap mouth of his
_amigo_, to be rewarded with an incredibly sweet and sunny smile and a
"Bueno! Gracias, Senor Jose...."
Letting his eye roam from this queer band of ex-muleteers, brigands and
smugglers to another party who were wading in the wassail, it needed not
the loud "Donnerwetters!" and rambling reminiscent monologue of a fat
brush-haired youth (on the unspeakable villainies of der Herr
Wacht-meister whose wicked _schadenfreude_ had sent good men to this
_schweinerei_ of a Legion, and who was only fit for the military-train
or to be decapitated with his own _pallasch_) to label them Germans
enjoying a _kommers_. Their stolid, heavy bearing, their business-like
and somewhat brutish way of drinking in great gulps and draughts--as
though a distended stomach rather than a tickled palate was the serious
business of the evening, if not the end and object of life--together
with their upturned moustaches, piggish little eyes, and tow-coloured
bristles, proclaimed them sons of Kultur.
Rupert could not forbear a smile at the heavy, philosophical gravity
with which the speaker, ceasing his monologue, heaved a deep, deep sigh
and delivered the weighty dictum that a _schoppen_ of the beer of Munich
was worth all the wine of Algiers, and the Hofbrauhaus worth all the
vineyards and canteens of Africa.
It interested him to notice that among all the nationalities
represented, the French were by far the gayest (albeit with a humour
somewhat _macabre_) and the Germans the most morose and gloomy. He was
to learn later that they provided by far the greatest number of
deserters, that they were eternally grumbling, notably bitter and
resentful, and devoid of the faintest spark of humour.
His attention was diverted from the Germans by a sudden and horrible
caterwauling which arose from a band of Frenchmen who suddenly commenced
at the tops of their voices to howl that doleful dirge the "Hymne des
Pacifiques." Until they had finished, conversation was impossible.
"Not all foam neither, Miss, please," murmured the sleeping 'Erb in the
comparative silence which followed the ending of this devastating chant.
"What's the penalty here for drunkenness?" asked Rupert of John Bull.
"Depends on what you do," was the reply. "There's no penalty for
drunkenness, as such, so long as it leads to no sins of omission nor
commission.... The danger of getting drunk is that it gives such an
opportunity to any Non-com. who has a down on you. When he sees his man
drunk, he'll follow him and give him some order, or find him some
_corvee_, in the hope that the man will disobey or abuse him--possibly
strike him. Then it's Biribi for the man, and a good mark, as well as
private vengeance, for the zealous Sergeant, who is again noted as a
strong disciplinarian.... I'm afraid it's undeniably true that nothing
helps promotion in the non-commissioned ranks so much as a reputation
for savage ferocity and a brutal insatiable love of punishing. A
knowledge of German helps too, as more than half the Legion speaks
German, but harsh domineering cruelty is the first requisite, and a
Non-commissioned Officer's merit is in direct proportion to the number
of punishments he inflicts. Our Sergeant-Major, for example, is known as
the 'Suicide-maker,' and is said to be very proud of the title. The
number of men he has sent to their graves direct, or _via_ the Penal
Battalions, must be enormous, and, so far as I can see, he has attained
his high and exceedingly influential position simply and solely by
excelling in the art of inventing crimes and punishing them
severely--for he is a dull uneducated peasant without brains or ability.
It is this type of Non-com., the monotony, and the poverty, that make
the Legion such a hell for anyone who is not dead keen on soldiering for
its own sake...."
"I'm very glad you're keen," he added.
"Oh, rather. I'm as keen as mustard," replied Rupert, "and I was
utterly fed up with peace-soldiering and poodle-faking. I have done
Sandhurst and had a turn as a trooper in a crack cavalry corps. I wanted
to have a look-in at the North-west Frontier Police in Canada after
this, and then the Cape Mounted Rifles. I shan't mind the hardships and
monotony here if I can get some active service, and feel I am learning
something. I have a few thousand francs, too, at the _Credit Lyonnais_,
so I shan't have to bear the poverty cross."
"A few thousand francs, my dear chap!" observed John Bull, smiling.
"Croesus I A few thousand francs will give you a few hundred
fair-weather friends, relief from a few hundred disagreeable corvees,
and duties; give you wine, tobacco, food, medicine, books,
distractions--almost anything but escape from the Legion's military
duties as distinguished from the menial. There is nowhere in the world
where money makes so much difference as in the Legion--simply because
nowhere is it so rare. If among the blind the one-eyed is king, among
Legionaries he who has a franc is a bloated plutocrat. Where else in
the world is tenpence the equivalent of the daily wages of twenty
men--twenty soldier-labourers? Yes, a few thousand francs will greatly
alleviate your lot in the Legion, or expedite your departure when you've
had enough--for it's quite hopeless to desert without mufti and money."
"I'll leave some in the bank then, against the time I feel I've had
enough.... By the way, if you or your friend--er--Mr. Bronco at any
time.... If I could be of service ... financially..." and he coloured
uncomfortably.
To offer money to this grave, handsome gentleman of refined speech and
manners was like tipping an Ambassador, or offering the "price of a pot"
to your Colonel, or your Grandfather.
"What do you mean by _corvee_ and the Legion's menial duties, and
soldier-labourers?" he continued hurriedly to change the subject.
"Yesterday," replied Sir Montague Merline coolly, "I was told off as one
of a fatigue-party to clean the congested open sewers of the native gaol
of Sidi-bel-Abbes. While I and my brothers-in-arms (some of whom had
fought for France, like myself, in Tonkin, Senegal, Madagascar, and the
Sahara) did the foulest work conceivable, manacled Negro and Arab
criminals jeered at us, and bade us strive to give them satisfaction.
Having been in India, you'll appreciate the situation. Natives watching
white 'sweepers' labouring on their behalf."
"One can hardly believe it," ejaculated Rupert, and his face froze with
horror and indignation.
"Yes," continued the other. "I reflected on the dignity of labour, and
remembered the beautiful words of John Bright, or John Bunyan, or some
other Johnnie about, 'Who sweeps a room as unto God, makes himself and
the action fine.' I certainly made myself very dirty.... The
Legionaries are the labourers, scavengers, gardeners, builders,
road-makers, street-cleaners, and general coolies of any place in which
they are stationed. They are drafted to the barracks of the Spahis and
Turcos--the Native Cavalry and Infantry--to do jobs that the Spahis and
Turcos would rather die than touch; and, of course, they're employed for
every kind of work to which Government would never dream of setting
French regulars. I have myself worked (for a ha'penny a day) at
wheeling clay, breaking stones, sawing logs, digging, carrying bricks,
hauling trucks, shovelling sand, felling trees, weeding gardens,
sweeping streets, grave-digging, and every kind of unskilled manual
corvee you can think of--in addition, of course, to the daily
routine-work and military training of a soldier of the Legion--which is
three times as arduous as that of any other soldier in the world."
"Sa--a--ay, John," drawled the Bucking Bronco, rousing himself at last
from the deep brooding reverie into which he had plunged in search of
mental images and memories of Carmelita, "give yure noo soul-affinity
the other side o' the medal likewise, or yew'll push him off the
water-waggon into the absinthe-barrel."
"Well," continued John Bull, "you can honestly say you belong to the
most famous, most reckless, most courageous regiment in the world; to
the regiment that has fought more battles, won more battles, lost more
men and gained more honours, than any in the whole history of war. You
belong to the Legion that never retreats, that dies--and of whose deaths
no record is kept.... It is the last of the real Mercenaries, the
Soldiers of Fortune, and if France sent it to-morrow to such a task that
five thousand men were wastefully and vainly killed, not a question
would be asked in the Chamber, nor the Press: nothing would be said,
nothing known outside the War Department. We exist to die for France in
the desert, the swamp, or the jungle, by bullet or disease--in Algeria,
Morocco, Sahara, the Soudan, West Africa, Madagascar, and Cochin
China--in doing what her regular French and Native troops neither could
nor would do. We are here to die, and it's the duty of our officers to
kill us--more or less usefully. To kill us for France, working or
fighting...."
"'Ear, 'ear, John!" applauded the Bucking Bronco. "Some orator, ain't
he?" he observed with pride, turning to Mikhail who had been following
the old Legionary with parted lips and shining eyes. "Guess ol' John's
some stump-speecher as well as a looker.... Go it, ol' section-boss, git
on a char," and he smote his beloved John resoundingly upon the back.
John Bull, despite his years and grey hairs, blushed painfully.
"Sorry," he grunted.
"But indeed, Monsieur speaks most interestingly and with eloquence.
Pray continue," said Mikhail with diffident earnestness.
John Bull looked still more uncomfortable.
"Do go on," said Rupert.
"Oh, that's all," replied John Bull.... "But we are the cheapest
labourers, the finest soldiers, the most dangerous, reckless devils ever
gathered together.... The incredible army--and there's anything from
eight to twelve thousand of us in Africa and China, and nobody but the
War Minister knows the real number. You're a ha'penny hero now, my boy,
and a ha'penny day-labourer, and you're not expected to wear out in less
than five years--unless you're killed by the enemy, disease, or the
Non-coms."
"Have you ever regretted coming here?" asked Rupert, and could have
bitten his tongue as he realised he had asked a personal and prying
question.
"Well, I have re-enlisted twice," parried the other, "and that is a
pretty good testimonial to La Legion. I have had unlimited experience of
active service of all kinds, against enemies of all sorts except
Europeans, and I hope to have that--against Germany[#]--before I've
done."
[#] Written in 1913.--AUTHOR.
"But what about all the Germans in the Legion, in that case?" enquired
Rupert.
"Oh, they wouldn't be sent," was the reply. "They'd all go to the
Southern Stations, and the Moroccan border, or to Madagascar and Tonkin.
Of course, the Alsatians and Lorraines would jump for joy at the
chance."
Conversation at this point again became more and more difficult in the
increasing din, which was not diminished as 'Erb awoke, yawned, stated
that he had a mouth like the bottom of a parrot's cage, that he was
thoroughly blighted, and indeed blasted, produced a large mouth-organ,
and rendered "Knocked 'em in the Old Kent Road," with enthusiastic soul
and vigorous lungs.
Roused to a pinnacle of joyous enthusiasm and yearning for emulation,
not only the little Parisian, but the whole party of Frenchmen leapt
upon their table with wild whoops, and commenced to dance, some the
_carmagnole_, some the _can-can_, some the cake-walk, and others the
_bamboula_, the _chachuqua_, or the "_singe-sur-poele_." Glasses and
bottles crashed to the ground, and Legionaries with them. A form broke.
Above the stamping, howling, smashing, and crashing, Madame's shrill
screams rang clear, as she mingled imprecations and commands with
lamentations that Luigi Rivoli had departed. Pandemonium increased to
"_tohuwabohu_." Louder wailed the mouth-organ, louder bawled the
Frenchmen, louder screamed Madame, loudest of all shrilled the "Lights
Out" bugle in the barrack-square--and peace reigned. In a minute the
room was empty, silent and dark, as the clock struck nine.
Sec.2
"You'll be awakened by yells of '_Au jus_' from the garde-chambre at
about five to-morrow," said John Pull to Rupert as they undressed. "As
soon as you have swallowed the coffee he'll pour into your mug from his
jug, hop out and sweep under your bed. The room-orderly has got to sweep
out the room and be on parade as soon as the rest, and it's impossible
unless everybody sweeps under his own bed and leaves the orderly to do
the rest."
"What about food?" asked the other, who had the healthy appetite of his
years and health.
"Oh--plain and sufficient," was the answer. "Good soup and bread; hard
biscuit twice a week; and wine every other day--monotonous of course.
Meals at eleven o'clock and five o'clock only.... By the way unless
your feet are fairly tough, you'd better wear _chaussettes russes_ until
they harden--strips of greasy linen bound round, you know. The skin
will soon toughen if you pour _bapedi_, or any other strong spirit into
your boots, and you can tallow your feet before a long march. Having no
socks will seem funny at first, but in time you come to hate the idea of
them. Much less cleanly really, and the cause of all blisters."
Rupert looked doubtful, and thought of his silk-sock bills. Even as a
trooper he had always kept one silk pair to put on after the bath which
followed a long march. (There are few things so refreshing as the
vigorous brushing of one's hair and the putting of silk socks on to
bathed feet after a heavy day.)
"Good night, and Good Luck in the Legion," added John Bull as he lay
down.
"Good night--and thanks awfully, sir, for your kindness," replied
Rupert, and vainly endeavoured to compose himself to sleep on his bed
which consisted of a straw-stuffed mattress, a straw-stuffed pillow, and
two thin raspy blankets....
Mikhail Kyrilovitch sat on his bed whispering with his brother, about
the medical examination of recruits which would take place on the
morrow.
"Well, we can only hope for the best," said Feodor at last, "and they
all say the same thing--that it is generally the merest formality. The
Medecin-Major looks at your face and teeth and asks if you are healthy.
It's not like what Ivan and I went through in Paris.... They wouldn't
have two searching medical examinations unless there appeared to be
signs of weakness, I should think."
When the room was wrapped in silence and darkness the latter arose.
"Good night, _golubtchik_," he whispered, "and when your heart fails
you, remember Marie Spiridinoff--and be thankful you are here rather
than There."
Mikhail shuddered.
Anon, every soul in the room was awakened by the uproarious entrance of
the great Luigi Rivoli supported by Messieurs Malvin, Borges and Bauer,
all very drunk and roaring "_Brigadier vous avez raison_," a song which
tailed off into an inane repetition of--
"Si le Caporal savait ca
Il dirait 'nom de Dieu,'"
in the midst of which the great man collapsed upon his bed, while, with
much hiccupping laughter and foul jokes, his faithful satellites
contrived to remove his boots and leave him to sleep the sleep of the
just and the drunken....
Anon the Dutch youth, Hans Djoolte, sat up and looked around. All was
quiet and apparently everyone was asleep. The conscience of Hans was
pricking him--he had said his prayers lying in bed, and that was not the
way in which he had been taught to say them by his good Dutch mother,
whose very last words, as she died, had been, "Say your prayers each
night, my son, wherever you may be."
Hans got out of bed, knelt him down, and said his prayers again.
Thenceforward, he always did so as soon as he had undressed, regardless
of consequences--which at first were serious. But even the good Luigi
Rivoli, in time, grew tired of beating him, particularly when the four
English-speaking occupants of the _chambree_ intimated their united
disapproval of Luigi's interference. The most startling novelty, by
repetition, becomes the most familiar commonplace, and the day, or
rather the night, arrived when Hans Djoolte could pray unmolested....
Occupants of less favoured _chambrees_ came to see the sight. The
_escouade_ indeed became rather proud of having two authentic
lunatics....