THE BLACK BAND
The first Commune of Aramon had fallen. Its place was taken by a
Committee of Public Safety sitting at the Riding School. Of these the
chiefs were Georges Barres, the Catalan, who called himself "of
Perpignan"; Chanot, the cadet of a good house, just released from a term
of imprisonment (which he described as being for political offences);
Auroy, the proprietor of an hotel by no means of the highest class, and
Chardon, whose knowledge of the world extended as far as New Caledonia.
They were a crew of desperadoes who had been employed chiefly in
labourers' work at the factories. They knew no handicraft--at least none
sufficiently well to pass the eye of such foremen as worked for Dennis
Deventer. And, in addition, they were lazy in working hours, given to
obscene conversation and to drinking pure alcohol out of pocket flasks.
So it may be well believed that they were not popular with the oversmen
at the works, and when they fell under Jack Jaikes' rebuke he was apt to
chastise them with whips of scorpions.
At the same time, desperate and careless though they were, and backed by
the majority of the unthinking younger men of the National Guard, they
had some qualms as to disturbing Keller Bey in his fastness of the
Mairie. He had still a number of faithful defenders, and like an old
lion of the Atlas he would certainly sell his life dearly.
So Barres and the Committee of Public Safety laid aside his case for the
moment. They had other matters which pressed. Their "rapine and pillage"
adherents desired to begin work. On the outskirts were many villas and
houses of summer resort which promised loot. Barres had preached so
much, that (though with no great good-will) he was now driven to a
little practice. Yet he knew instinctively that in France offences
against property are far longer remembered and far more severely dealt
with than crimes against persons--shooting and assassination not
excluded.
Still, he had to satisfy his followers, and in the bosom of the
committee there were already experts--the ex-political prisoner Chanot
and the traveller to the coasts of Cayenne were not at their first essay
in "personal expropriation."
It was clearly unsafe to cross the river. The town of Aramon le Vieux
was a hornets' nest, all Gambetta republicans and royalists. The
department, too, had a fine National Guard, mostly Protestants or
commanded by Protestants, and the Moblots or Mobiles of the department
of Deux Rives were drilling every day. What plundering was to be done
must be on this side of the bridge, but there was abundance and to spare
for all, if the business were rightly managed.
The first step was to disarm the doubtful companies, and re-enlist only
those who were of proper anarchist hue and ready for "expropriation."
This was done in the Riding School where the Committee sat all day
devising mischief and laying out evil as on a map.
On the night of the 6th of April they were ready. The villas and country
houses left vacant by the officers of the troops formerly quartered in
Aramon had remained unoccupied, and, as the soldiers went right off to
the seat of war from Aramon Junction, the furniture and personal
belongings were equally untouched. The wives and children had been
dispatched to the care of parents paternal and maternal in Limousin
castles and Norman apple-orchards. Only an ancient caretaker or two
remained, hiding in some niche of the ground floor and cautiously
venturing out to make a hasty and furtive "market" in the grey of the
morning.
For the adepts of "individual redistribution" these served to whet an
appetite. By midnight Jack Jaikes called me up on the roof of the
Chateau. All along the river front houses were already flaming. Some, as
I looked, climaxed their particular display by the crashing down of
roofs and the falling in of floor after floor, followed by bursts of
flame many hundreds of feet high, which lit up the dim river and the
white houses of Aramon le Vieux. I could see the ancient battlements of
the Lycee St. Andre serrated against a velvet-black sky--nay, I could
make out that very forehead of promenade from which we had watched, that
day in January, the tricolour give place to the Tatter of Scarlet.
The rabble were giving tongue down there like packs of wolves, and at
the sound Jack Jaikes stamped and cursed as men swear only in Clydeside
ship-building yards.
"Whist now, Jackie," said the voice of Dennis Deventer at my elbow,
"what's the use of using all the Lord's fine big words that are meant to
embellish Scripture on the like of them? Is it not tempting Providence
to be cursing fools who are sprinting hot-foot to damnation by
themselves?"
"Wait--oh, wait," growled Jack Jaikes, jerking his joints till they
creaked in a way he had when he was excited; "I shall make them sing to
a different tune. Listen to them baying. Chief" (he turned suddenly to
Dennis) "could I not just lob over half a dozen shrapnel among these
cattle? They seem to be having it all their own way. Let me remind them
that there's a God left in the universe."
"You've got your business to attend to, young man. Be good enough to
leave your Maker's alone. He can manage His own affairs, Jack Jaikes,
and has been doing so for quite a while."
Yet I understood the haste of the senior lieutenant and gangforeman.
Apart from the uncompromising temperament of the Strathclyde man, it was
difficult even for me to stand idle and listen to the shrieks of
demoniac mirth as each new villa was attacked. In the silence of the
night we could hear the crash of doors beaten in, the splintering of
wood and the jangle of glass. Then came the dull rumble of many feet
beating irregularly on wooden floors, the rush upstairs, the windows
flung open, their green outer _volets_ clattering against the walls, to
let in the clear shining of a moon which had been full only the night
before.
"What could not a score of us be doing with plenty of ammunition and our
Deventer rifles?" I whispered to Jack Jaikes. He hardly looked at me. He
was in the mood for anything except disobedience. He merely heaved a
protesting sigh in the direction of his Chief, a sigh which was eloquent
of all that he could do if he were not controlled by a higher power.
"Will our turn never come?" I asked him, as he stood and gazed, his eyes
red and as if injected in the glowing of the burning buildings.
"I fear not to-night," he said, "the beasts will slink back to their
lairs to deposit their loot. To-morrow night we may expect something
serious for ourselves. But in any case I can't stand here hopping about
like a hen on a hot plate. Let us go and see that the posts are all on
the look-out."
I did not go out with him, however, instead I remained with Rhoda Polly,
whom I had run downstairs to find. She told me the names of the burning
houses and to whom they belonged--the Villa Mireille, built recently by
a great Paris grocer--Sans Souci, that of a local sausage-maker, and so
forth. All these people had long left the district, and, as I said, the
smaller houses had been let to the officers of the former Imperial
garrison.
Presently Dennis Deventer came and sat down beside us. Said Rhoda Polly,
"Father, I never knew that we harboured such wretches among our men.
Surely they do not come from the Works?"
"No," said Dennis, settling himself with his back to the chimney pots,
"I rather judge we have to thank your friend Gaston Cremieux for most of
these. His experience as Gambetta's Procureur made him intimately
acquainted with all bad characters in Marseilles. So when he became
dictator, a few executions along the Old Port, and the posting up of a
warning proclamation set the whole hive of cosmopolitan ill-doers
scattering northwards. I think Aramon got the cream of them, and they
are now acting after their kind, sure of an immunity which they could
not hope for under the rule of Gaston Cremieux."
"But Keller Bey?" said Rhoda Polly, astonishment in her accent, "why
should he allow it? He is a soldier. Alida told me of his campaigns in
the Atlas."
"Yes, Rhoda Polly," her father answered, "but though they let Keller Bey
alone in the Mairie, he has no more power in Aramon. The party of the
Reprise Individuelle, that is to say of plump and plain robbery, is in
full possession, and I doubt not but that before long we shall have such
a siege of Chateau Schneider as will make us forget the other
altogether. Only remember this, Miss Rhoda Polly Deventer, we about the
Yard and Works do not wish your assistance or countenance on any
pretext."
"I do not see why," said Rhoda Polly, pouting, "I know I am at least of
as much use as Hugh."
"He is a man--my son!"
"Well, if it is _that_ you are thinking of," snapped Rhoda Polly, "you
can afford better to lose a daughter than a son. You've got three of us,
Dennis, don't forget! Take my advice. Risk a daughter, and send Hugh
down cellar with the Mater!"
"Not one like you, little spitfire!" Her father spoke more tenderly than
I had ever heard him, and before going away he let his hand lie for an
instant on the vaporous curls about her brow.
We kept awake most of the night, while the moon sailed overhead and the
tall chimney stalks of the factories were made picturesque by the red
glow from the entire riverside quarter of Aramon. The shouting and the
tumult died down with the incendiary fires. The river, sometime of
molten copper, was again grey, unpolished silver under the moon, save
where the webbed and delicate shadow of the great suspension bridge
slept on the water.
At the dawning of the day mighty sleep passed upon the two of us sitting
there, and there Jack Jaikes found us sitting hand in hand, my head on
Rhoda Polly's shoulder, shamelessly slumbering under the risen sun.