In a day the last veil of mist that had shrouded his feelings and
thoughts, making them numb and sterile, vanished; in a day Hugo found
himself--or believed that he had; in a day his life changed and flung
itself on the course which, in a measure, destined its fixation. He
never forgot that day.
It began in the early morning when the anchor of the freighter thundered
into the harbour water. The crew was not given shore leave until noon.
Then the mysterious silence of the captain and the change in the ship's
course was explained. Through the third officer he sent a message to the
seamen. War had been declared. The seaways were unsafe. The _Katrina_
would remain indefinitely at Marseilles. The men could go ashore. They
would report on the following day.
The first announcement of the word sent Hugo's blood racing. War! What
war? With whom? Why? Was America in it, or interested in it? He stepped
ashore and hurried into the city. The populace was in feverish
excitement. Soldiers were everywhere, as if they had sprung up magically
like the seed of the dragon. Hugo walked through street after street in
the furious heat. He bought a paper and read the French accounts of
mobilizations, of a battle impending. He looked everywhere for some one
who could tell him. Twice he approached the American Consulate, but it
was jammed with frantic and frightened people who were trying only to
get away. Hugo's ambition, growing in him like a fire, was in the
opposite direction. War! And he was Hugo Danner!
He sat at a café toward the middle of the afternoon. He was so excited
by the contagion in his veins that he scarcely thrilled at the first use
of his new and half-mastered tongue. The _garçon_ hurried to his table.
"_De la bière_," Hugo said.
The waiter asked a question which Hugo could not understand, so he
repeated his order in the universal language of measurement of a large
glass by his hands. The waiter nodded. Hugo took his beer and stared out
at the people. They hurried along the sidewalk, brushing the table at
which he sat. They called to each other, laughed, cried sometimes, and
shook hands over and over. "_La guerre_" was on every tongue. Old men
gestured the directions of battles. Young men, a little more serious
perhaps, and often very drunk, were rushing into uniform as order
followed order for mobilization. And there were girls, thousands of
them, walking with the young men.
Hugo wanted to be in it. He was startled by the impact of that desire.
All the ferocity of him, all the unleashed wish to rend and kill, was
blazing in his soul. But it was a subtle conflagration, which urged him
in terms of duty, in words that spoke of the war as his one perfect
opportunity to put himself to a use worthy of his gift. A war. In a war
what would hold him, what would be superior to him, who could resist
him? He swallowed glass after glass of the brackish beer, quenching a
mighty thirst and firing a mightier ambition. He saw himself charging
into battle, fighting till his ammunition was gone, till his bayonet
broke; and then turning like a Titan and doing monster deeds with bare
hands. And teeth.
Bands played and feet marched. His blood rose to a boiling-point. A
Frenchman flung himself at Hugo's table. "And you--why aren't you a
soldier?"
"I will be," Hugo replied.
"Bravo! We shall revenge ourselves." The man gulped a glass of wine,
slapped Hugo's shoulder, and was gone. Then a girl talked to Hugo. Then
another man.
Hugo dwelt on the politics of the war and its sociology only in the most
perfunctory manner. It was time the imperialistic ambitions of the
Central Powers were ended. A war was inevitable for that purpose.
France and England had been attacked. They were defending themselves. He
would assist them. Even the problem of citizenship and the tangle of red
tape his enlistment might involve did not impress him. He could see the
field of battle and hear the roar of guns, a picture conjured up by his
knowledge of the old wars. What a soldier he would be!
While his mind was still leaping and throbbing and his head was
whirling, darkness descended. He would give away his life, do his duty
and a hundred times more than his duty. Here was the thing that was
intended for him, the weapon forged for his hand, the task designed for
his undertaking. War. In war he could bring to a full fruition the
majesty of his strength. No need to fear it there, no need to be ashamed
of it. He felt himself almost the Messiah of war, the man created at the
precise instant he was required. His call to serve was sounding in his
ears. And the bands played.
The chaos did not diminish at night, but, rather, it increased. He went
with milling crowds to a bulletin board. The Germans had commenced to
move. They had entered Belgium in violation of treaties long held
sacred. Belgium was resisting and Liége was shaking at the devastation
of the great howitzers. A terrible crime. Hugo shook with the rage of
the crowd. The first outrages and violations, highly magnified, were
reported. The blond beast would have to be broken.
"God damn," a voice drawled at Hugo's side. He turned. A tall, lean man
stood there, a man who was unquestionably American. Hugo spoke in
instant excitement.
"There sure is hell to pay."
The man turned his head and saw Hugo. He stared at him rather
superciliously, at his slightly seedy clothes and his strong, unusual
face. "American?"
"Yeah."
"Let's have a drink."
They separated themselves from the mob and went to a crowded café. The
man sat down and Hugo took a chair at his side. "As you put it," the man
said, "there is hell to pay. Let's drink on the payment."
Hugo felt in him a certain aloofness, a detachment that checked his
desire to throw himself into flamboyant conversation. "My name's
Danner," he said.
"Mine's Shayne, Thomas Mathew Shayne. I'm from New York."
"So am I, in a way. I was on a ship that was stranded here by the war.
At loose ends now."
Shayne nodded. He was not particularly friendly for a person who had met
a countryman in a strange city. Hugo did not realize that Shayne had
been besieged all day by distant acquaintances and total strangers for
assistance in leaving France, or that he expected a request for money
from Hugo momentarily. And Shayne did not seem particularly wrought up
by the condition of war. They lifted their glasses and drank. Hugo lost
a little of his ardour.
"Nice mess."
"Time, though. Time the Germans got their answer."
Shayne's haughty eyebrows lifted. His wide, thin mouth smiled. "Perhaps.
I just came from Germany. Seemed like a nice, peaceful country three
weeks ago."
"Oh." Hugo wondered if there were many pro-German Americans. His
companion answered the thought.
"Not that I don't believe the Germans are wrong. But war is such--such a
damn fool thing."
"Well, it can't be helped."
"No, it can't. We're all going to go out and get killed, though."
"We?"
"Sure. America will get in it. That's part of the game. America is more
dangerous to Germany than France--or England, for that matter."
"That's a rather cold-blooded viewpoint."
Shayne nodded. "I've been raised on it. _Garçon, l'addition, s'il vous
plaît._" He reached for his pocketbook simultaneously with Hugo. "I'm
sorry you're stranded," he said, "and if a hundred francs will help,
I'll be glad to let you have it. I can't do more."
Hugo's jaw dropped. He laughed a little. "Good lord, man, I said my ship
was stuck. Not me. And these drinks are mine." He reached into his
pocket and withdrew a huge roll of American bills and a packet of
French notes.
Shayne hesitated. His calmness was not severely shaken, however. "I'm
sorry, old man. You see, all day I've been fighting off starving and
startled Americans and I thought you were one. I apologize for my
mistake." He looked at Hugo with more interest. "As a matter of fact,
I'm a little skittish about patriotism. And about war. Of course, I'm
going to be in it. The first entertaining thing that has happened in a
dog's age. But I'm a conscientious objector on principles. I rather
thought I'd enlist in the Foreign Legion to-morrow."
He was an unfamiliar type to Hugo. He represented the American who had
been educated at home and abroad, who had acquired a wide horizon for
his views, who was bored with the routine of his existence. His clothes
were elegant and impeccable. His face was very nearly inscrutable.
Although he was only a few years older than Hugo, he made the latter
feel youthful.
They had a brace of drinks, two more and two more. All about them was
bedlam, as if the emotions of man had suddenly been let loose to sweep
him off his feet. Grief, joy, rage, lust, fear were all obviously there
in almost equal proportions.
Shayne extended his hand. "They have something to fight for, at least.
Something besides money and glory. A grudge. I wonder what it is that
makes me want to get in? I do."
"So do I."
Shayne shook his head. "I wouldn't if I were you. Still, you will
probably be compelled to in a while." He looked at his watch. "Do you
care to take dinner with me? I had an engagement with an aunt who is on
the verge of apoplexy because two of the Boston Shaynes are in Munich.
It scarcely seems appropriate at the moment. I detest her, anyway. What
do you say?"
"I'd like to have dinner with you."
They walked down the Cannebière. At a restaurant on the east side near
the foot of the thoroughfare they found a table in the corner. A pair of
waiters hastened to take their order. The place was riotous with voices
and the musical sounds of dining. On a special table was a great
demijohn of 1870 cognac, which was fast being drained by the guests.
Shayne consulted with his companion and then ordered in fluent French.
The meal that was brought approached a perfection of service and a
superiority of cooking that Hugo had never experienced. And always the
babble, the blare of bands, the swelling and fading persistence of the
stringed orchestra, the stream of purple Châteauneuf du Pape and its
flinty taste, the glitter of the lights and the bright colours on the
mosaics that represented the principal cities of Europe. It was a
splendid meal.
"I'm afraid I'll have to ask your name again," Shayne said.
"Danner. Hugo Danner."
"Good God! Not the football player?"
"I did play football--some time ago."
"I saw you against Cornell--when was it?--two years ago. You were
magnificent. How does it happen that--"
"That I'm here?" Hugo looked directly into Shayne's eyes.
"Well--I have no intention of prying into your affairs."
"Then I'll tell you. Why not?" Hugo drank his wine. "I killed a man--in
the game--and quit. Beat it."
Shayne accepted the statement calmly. "That's tough. I can understand
your desire to get out from under. Things like that are bad when you're
young."
"What else could I have done?"
"Nothing. What are you going to do? Rather, what were you going to do?"
"I don't know," Hugo answered slowly. "What do you do? What do people
generally do?" He felt the question was drunken, but Shayne accepted it
at its face value.
"I'm one of those people who have too much money to be able to do
anything I really care about, most of the time. The family keeps me in
sight and control. But I'm going to cut away to-morrow."
"In the Foreign Legion? I'll go with you."
"Splendid!" They shook hands across the table.
Three hours later found them at another café. They had been walking part
of the time in the throngs on the street. For a while they had stood
outside a newspaper office watching the bulletins. They were quite
drunk.
"Old man," Shayne said, "I'm mighty glad I found you."
"Me, too, old egg. Where do we go next?"
"I don't know. What's your favourite vice? We can locate it in
Marseilles."