After eighteen months of service Gustav Weise was made bombardier.
Captain von Wegstetten thought this would now be a safe experiment with
the erstwhile social-democrat.
But more non-commissioned officers were still required.
Sergeant Wiegandt had gone away on April 1: Wegstetten's best
non-com., and now the blissful husband of the beaming Frieda. He would
have been made deputy sergeant-major very shortly; but not even this
prospect had been sufficient to retain him. At Michaelmas two more
non-commissioned officers would obtain their discharge; Heppner was
dead; Heimert was in a mad-house; there were strange faces everywhere,
instead of the old tried experienced men. And even so there were not
enough of them.
In this embarrassment Wegstetten bethought himself of Vogt. He was an
honest steady lad, on whom one could depend. All his superiors praised
him, and, besides, he had good blood in his veins, inherited from his
father, the brave old sergeant, with his iron cross and his medal for
bravery.
Vogt did not prove to be particularly willing. Every plough in its
furrow, every mower deftly at work, awakened in him longings for his
old agricultural pursuits. He wore his uniform with a good grace; there
was no help for it, and grumbling would have only made the life harder.
But to stay on longer than necessary--for that he had no hankering.
Wegstetten knew how to tackle his men. He talked glibly to the gunner
about the honour and distinction to be won as a non-commissioned
officer, not forgetting to observe how much the father at home would
rejoice to see the son following in his footsteps.
Vogt asked his father's advice, and the turnpike-keeper wrote back:
"Jump at your captain's offer, my lad. As an old soldier, I am very
glad to think of my boy as a non-commissioned officer. Never mind about
me. The pleasure you give me will make me young and strong, so that I
shall be able to keep the place going till you come home again at
last."
So Vogt signed on for another year.
But directly he found himself committed he began to regret his
decision.
He had been very lonely in the battery since his comrade Klitzing's
death. He had not felt inclined to strike up a friendship with any one
else; none of them were quite his sort. Despite his good nature,
Truchsess was a lazy obtuse kind of fellow. Count Plettau, to be sure,
was different; for though one never quite knew whether he was in jest
or earnest, still one could have something like rational conversation
with him. And Plettau took a real interest in the sturdy peasant lad,
in whom he recognised an outlook on life so different from his own as
to fill him with constant amazement. He told Vogt about the peasants of
his own Westphalian home, who in many cases had lived on their land
from generation to generation, and knew no higher source of pride than
to call themselves peasant-farmers.
Then Vogt's eyes would brighten up. These men of the red mother-earth
were people after his own heart.
"Yes," he said, "so it should be everywhere in Germany:
Peasant farm by peasant farm,
Then shall none have hunger or harm!"
Vogt was grateful to the count for talking to him so sensibly and
kindly; but still things were totally changed: he could not find any
one to replace his faithful friend Klitzing. The poor fellow felt more
and more lonely every day.
In addition to this he had many vexations to bear when on duty. Captain
von Wegstetten and Lieutenant Reimers, who certainly both knew their
business well, had always shown themselves satisfied with him; but a
new senior-lieutenant was imported into the battery, a certain
Brettschneider, who was always pulling Vogt up and finding fault with
him.
Senior-lieutenant Brettschneider came from the Staff College, and the
non-commissioned officers whispered it about that he was considered no
end of a swell. Well, he might be clever and smart enough; but,
nevertheless, the new officer was not infallible. When the exercises
were going on he could make mistakes like every one else. One thing was
certain: he was tremendously well-set-up. He always stood as straight
and stiff as a ramrod, and he could scarcely turn his carefully groomed
head, so high was his collar! Moreover, his pink, clean-shaven face
never for one moment lost its expression of haughty disdain. The men
avoided him as far as they could, for one seldom came near him without
being called back and found fault with; and everybody--non-coms. and
all--felt exasperated by the young man's conceited behaviour.
Devil take the fellow! Wegstetten and Reimers certainly did not make
themselves cheap with the men. But when things were going right, they
always had time for a word of praise and an appreciative smile. Even
the sharp eyes of little Wegstetten could look quite good-humoured
on occasion. But Senior-lieutenant Brettschneider always remained
stand-offish, looking as if he had swallowed a poker.
All this incensed our honest Vogt. Of course it was true--confound it!
that a soldier was only doing his duty; still, one is but human, and
one deserves a little recognition for hard and faithful service. And
isn't that the right way to knit a lasting bond between officers and
men, one that should prove valuable when hard times come?
During the gun-practice Vogt had been several times called over the
coals by Senior-lieutenant Brettschneider. The bombardier did his duty
in a cheerful spirit, and sometimes let fall half-audible jokes and
chaff for his comrades' benefit. This much annoyed the officer in
question, and he spiced his rebuke with the remark that he didn't know
how a man who couldn't observe the first rudiments of discipline could
aspire to being a non-commissioned officer!
Vogt laid this scolding to heart. He had meant no harm when he had
called out "Hurry up!" to that dilatory old Truchsess. On the other
hand, it could not be denied that Brettschneider was in the right:
they were forbidden to speak unless it was absolutely necessary, and
"necessary" his admonition had certainly not been.
Nevertheless, a bitter feeling of having been unjustly treated remained
in Vogt's mind.
When they came back from the practice-camp he rejoiced to be once more
doing ordinary drill; for at this he knew he was especially good,
particularly in the gun-drill. He would be able now to show the
senior-lieutenant what a capable fellow he was. And this time they
would have to be more than usually particular over the exercises; the
colonel himself was going to review the sixth battery.
The mantling and dismantling of the guns needed great promptitude and
dexterity. Imaginary accidents were therefore said to have happened,
and the men keenly competed together to see who should remedy them most
quickly and satisfactorily.
The pole of Vogt's gun was supposed to be broken. In a second he had
put on the spare iron bands that should in reality be fixed with nails,
and then he wound coil after coil of stout rope round the join, till
the pole was as if held in a strong web of cordage, and would be more
likely to break in a new place than to give way again where it had
broken before.
He had just finished this piece of work, when a gunner came running to
say that the off-wheel of the gun-carriage had been destroyed by a
shot, and must be replaced by a new one.
This was a serious piece of business. Three men would have to hold the
heavy carriage while the two others fixed the scarcely less heavy wheel
on to the axle. To make things worse, that blockhead Truchsess had hurt
himself in removing the wheel that had been "destroyed," so that only
four men were left. Vogt rolled up the spare wheel, but it was almost
impossible to fix it; the heavy wheel was too cumbersome for a single
man.
The sweat ran in streams down Vogt's forehead into his eyes, making
them smart terribly; but he would not give up, and at last with a
tremendous effort managed to lift the wheel into place and slide it on
to the axle. There was nothing to do now but to run the linch-pin
through the axle and screw on the nave to keep all safe. This he did
with trembling fingers.
Vogt raised himself. Thank God! Neither of the other five guns had got
as far as his, and yet his had been the heaviest job. He told his men
to keep still, and ran over to Senior-lieutenant Brettschneider to
report the completion of his task.
Brettschneider was standing at the edge of the parade-ground in the
shade of the baggage-shed, talking to Senior-lieu-tenant Reimers.
It was only while he was running that Vogt first noticed how severely
he had strained himself. His heart hammered as though it would burst
from his body, and his legs were trembling. With the back of his hand
he wiped the sweat from his brow, and drew himself up in the prescribed
fashion as he reported: "Gun six ready, sir. Pole mended and spare
wheel fixed."
As through a mist he saw that Senior-lieutenant Reimers was smiling a
little, probably at his over-heated appearance. Then suddenly he heard
the sharp high voice of Brettschneider.
"Please stand in a more respectful attitude, Bombardier Vogt, when you
have something to say to me," the voice snapped out.
Vogt pulled himself up and repeated his announcement.
But now the senior-lieutenant began to correct him and find fault with
him: he was to put his right shoulder higher, his cap was not straight,
he must place the tip of his little finger on his trouser-seam, and put
his feet wider apart.
"Straighten your knees!" commanded he at last.
Vogt felt how his legs were trembling. He might have been able to obey;
but he was at the end of his patience.
Brettschneider again and in a louder tone commanded: "Bombardier Vogt,
straighten your knees!"
But Vogt did not care; a mad resentment surged up in him. He would not
obey this idiot at any price. He raised his head, and looked the
officer straight in the face with eyes full of open mutiny.
Brettschneider shouted again: "Bombardier Vogt, I order you to
straighten your knees. Do you know that you are being guilty of
disobedience to orders, and that that is a military crime?"
But Bombardier Vogt remained unmoved, with his mutinous eyes fixed on
the senior-lieutenant.
Brettschneider waited a few seconds, then he called quietly to one of
the corporals: "Put Bombardier Vogt under arrest!"
The corporal looked blankly, first at Brettschneider, then at Vogt.
The senior-lieutenant repeated his order, whereupon the corporal took
the bombardier by his right arm and marched away with him through the
gate into the courtyard of the barrack.
When they were out of hearing, Reimers turned to his companion: "Were
you not a little hard on him, Brettschneider?"
The clean-shaven face turned towards him languidly, and Brettschneider
asked coolly: "How do you mean, my dear fellow?"
"Well, you must know yourself!" pursued Reimers. "The man had just done
a good piece of work, he came running to you and expected a word of
recognition,--he deserved it, Brettschneider,--and you let him be taken
off like that! I don't think that's the way to make men love their
work."
"One must preserve discipline, and prevent these rascals from getting
thoroughly demoralised."
Reimers shrugged his shoulders. "Vogt was the best soldier in the whole
battery," he declared.
"Then the battery is in a bad way!" retorted Brettschneider
impatiently. "The man commits an undeniable piece of disobedience
before your eyes and you defend him? I am much obliged!" Brettschneider
put on his haughtiest expression, smiled with the utmost politeness,
and said amiably: "You must confess, my dear Reimers, that I am
entitled to my own opinion about the matter."
In Room IX. that evening the conversation was of a heated description.
Truchsess swore that he would not put up with that low fellow, that
Brettschneider. All of them were furious with the stuck-up young man;
and though they had hitherto gone through their duty without much fuss
or grumbling, they were now filled with a thorough repugnance for the
soldier's uniform and a perfect hatred for military life in which one
had to knuckle under to idiots like that. You half killed yourself and
what did you get by it? More kicks than halfpence, or perhaps you even
get clapped into prison!
"Keep your hair on, brewer!" said Count Plettau to Truchsess; and
putting on a superior tone: "We don't understand all this, you see!
this is the higher kind of patriotism! Lieutenant Brettschneider ought
to have a medal, instead of being blamed by such as you!"
He also was beside himself with rage over the exasperating piece of
folly he had witnessed. Hang it all! if he had not been so seriously
concerned to get to the end of his long years of service he would
certainly have put a spoke in the wheel of this young gentleman, the
senior-lieutenant. But no; that would be too foolish. Only a few days
more and he would be free at last; he could not play tricks with his
chances.
Suddenly he laughed aloud.
"You keep your mouths shut, boys!" he said, "otherwise you may get into
trouble yourselves. But don't worry! When I have got over the next few
days I'll give the senior-lieutenant the lesson he wants!"
The turnpike-keeper, Friedrich August Vogt, was gazing in surprise on a
letter which the postman had just pushed in at the little window. The
superscription was in the hand-writing of his son, but the post-mark
bore the name of the capital.
What was the boy doing there? He had written nothing as to any
prospective change. Well, the letter itself must explain.
At first the old man could not understand the written words. He read
them through a second and a third time. At last he comprehended what
had happened. He sat on his chair as if paralysed, and read the last
page of the letter over and over again without attaching any meaning to
it.
His son wrote from the prison where he was now detained as a prisoner
awaiting trial. He related all that had passed straightforwardly and
without excusing himself.
"To-day I have been shown the charge against me," he concluded. "It is
a case of wilful disobedience before all the other men. I believe it is
an offence that is rather severely punished, and I know, too, that I am
not without blame. But perhaps, dear father, you will not condemn me
altogether; perhaps you will be able to imagine what my feelings must
have been. For your sake alone I ought to have been able to control
myself, and I beg you to forgive me for not having done so."
The turnpike-keeper jumped up suddenly from his chair. He flung the
letter violently down on the table and struck it with his fist. He felt
full of uncontrollable anger against this boy, who had brought shame
upon him in his old age at the end of an honourable and blameless life.
And why? because my gentleman did not choose to obey orders! because he
had chosen to feel injured! A soldier to feel himself "injured" by the
blame of his superior! So these were the new-fangled times of no
discipline and no respect for one's betters!
And this was the reward of his trouble in bringing up the boy to be
loyal and true: that he had now got a son in prison! When the
neighbours asked: "Your son is in the artillery, isn't he?" he must
reply: "Oh, no; he was once! Now he is carting sand." "What! carting
sand?" "Oh, yes; he is carting sand, dressed in a grey shirt, and with
a lot of other gentlemen in a long row A Oh, very honourable gentlemen,
all of them! A thief on one side of him, and on the other a person who
did not quite know the difference between mine and thine." "Your son!"
"My son, neighbour."
The turnpike-keeper seized the letter again to see how the thing went
exactly.
Nice sort of business this! There it was right enough: "Wilful
disobedience before all the other men!" Nothing else was to be made of
it.
But this Senior-lieutenant Brettschneider--by God!--he was not one of
the right sort, if the boy was telling the truth. With all due respect
for an officer, he seemed to be a perfect popinjay. There were people
like that here and there who were ready to burst with pride and
conceit, and who looked upon an inferior as scarcely a human being.
And again he snatched up the letter.
What the boy wrote was all very clear and straightforward honestly and
truthfully put. One could not help believing what was there on the
paper; and, of course, it was easy to understand how the thing had come
about. After all, every man has his feelings, whether he be a gunner or
a senior-lieutenant. The devil! he himself would have done exactly as
Franz did; though, of course, in his case life in a charity-school had
made him used to giving in to people. But the boy had always been so
independent, no one could help feeling for him.
And after all, when one looked at it rightly, it was a clumsy thing for
Lieutenant Brettschneider to have done, and his son's fault had been
the outcome of an unfortunate set of circumstances,--not a very serious
fault either, though the poor lad would have to pay for it dearly
enough!
Wilful disobedience--what sort of punishment would there be for that?
It had such an imposing, ceremonious sound! He racked his brains to
think whom he could ask about it. But there was no one in the village
who would be of any use.
After a sleepless night he rose from his bed with his decision made. He
milked the cow, and asked a neighbour to see to the animals during the
day. Then he put on his old-fashioned black Sunday coat and the top hat
which he only wore on great occasions, such as the king's birthday. On
his breast he fastened his medal and cross. Over all he wore his old
cloak, and he put some pieces of bread and sausage in his pocket. He
was ready for travelling.
On the way to the station he passed a field of barley. It was ripe for
cutting, and he had meant to begin reaping that morning. But what did
it matter about the barley? He had got to see after his boy and
petition for him. He would go straight to the right person: he would go
to the garrison and seek out the head of his son's battery, Captain von
Wegstetten.
Throughout the whole journey he was alone in the railway carriage;
other people did not travel so early. He looked stupidly out of the
window. It was all one to him to-day what the fields looked like and
how the harvest was getting on. He could only think of what he should
say for his boy. Perhaps it was still possible to make them give up the
charge against him.
In the capital he sat for an hour and a half in the waiting-room,
waiting for his train. He got a cup of coffee, and ate his breakfast
from the provisions in his pocket.
It was close and hot in the big room. He felt uncomfortable in such an
atmosphere, as every one must do who is accustomed to work in the open
air, and at last he threw back his cloak to relieve his oppression.
People stared at his medals, nudged one another, and would not take
their eyes off him, looking curious but respectful.
The turnpike-keeper sighed and buttoned his cloak again. Oh, if people
only knew in what trouble he was!
It was just eight o'clock when he reached the garrison town. Of course
that was somewhat early to be making such a visit as his; but he had no
time to lose, and he knew that an officer must always begin the day
early.
The porter at the station did not know where Captain von Wegstetten
lived. But the turnpike-keeper had a piece of luck: outside the station
he met a gunner, who readily told him the address--"11 Markt Strasse,
up two flights of stairs"--and showed him the way to go.
The two flights of stairs tried the old man sorely. He had to wait on
the first landing in order to get his breath. "Have I grown old all of
a sudden?" he asked himself in surprise.
A soldier in a red coat opened the door to him.
"Is the captain at home?" asked the turnpike-keeper.
"Sorry, but he's not," answered the lad.
"Can you tell me where I can find him?"
"That would be no good. The captain's gone away--to a court-martial."
The turnpike-keeper started violently.
"Is the court-martial on Bombardier Vogt?" he asked.
The soldier answered in the affirmative, and inquired in surprise, "Who
are you, then?"
"Vogt's father. I--I wanted to talk to the captain about my son. But it
is too late, I see."
He turned about, saying, "Thank you all the same," and went towards the
stairs. In the dark he missed the first step and stumbled; the lad ran
after him. He led the old man to the banister and said, "Take care you
don't fall; it is rather dark here. And you know, Herr Vogt, the men of
the battery all say it is a mean shame, what's happened to Vogt, a mean
shame."
But the turnpike-keeper did not seem to understand him. He only nodded
and said, "Thank you, thank you," and tramped slowly down the stairs in
his heavy boots.
Whilst Friedrich August Vogt waited for his train in the station of the
little garrison town, the trial of his son was taking place before the
military court of the district.
There was no doubt about the circumstances of the case. The two
eye-witnesses, Senior-lieutenant Brettschneider and Senior-lieutenant
Reimers, were unanimous on the subject, and the accused gave his assent
to the correctness of the particulars.
The trial would therefore have come to an end very quickly had there
not been a number of witnesses for the accused.
Captain von Wegstetten, as head of the battery; Captain Güntz, who had
commanded it during Wegstetten's temporary absence; Senior-lieutenant
Reimers and Lieutenant Landsberg, as officers in the battery; the
sergeant-major and other non-commissioned officers: all united in
giving Vogt the very best possible character. Wegstetten had had a
violent altercation with Brettschneider, not only from personal feeling
for the bombardier, but also from annoyance that his best candidate for
a non-commissioned officer's post was lost to him through a piece of
such tactless mismanagement. Brettschneider had complained about this
reprimand, but no notice had been taken of his complaint, and that in
itself spoke volumes for the accused. Güntz and Reimers were very warm
in their praise of Vogt, and even Lieutenant Landsberg remembered the
man as being particularly willing and diligent on duty.
Things looked favourable for the accused.
One of the officers present, a captain of the pioneers, asked Vogt:
"You had just been working very hard, had you not? had fixed the heavy
wheel single-handed, and had run very fast to tell Senior-lieutenant
Brettschneider?--were you not very much exhausted and out of breath?"
"Yes, sir."
"I mean, you were rather over-tired and your eyes were dazed?"
"Yes, sir."
"Perhaps you did not quite know what you were doing?"
The accused hesitated a moment.
Wegstetten and Reimers had remained in the room. The former moved
restlessly from one foot to the other. If Vogt were only to say "Yes,"
then the whole thing would be put down to a temporary aberration of
mind due to hurry and fatigue, and the affair would end with his
acquittal.
But the bombardier answered: "No, sir, I knew quite well what I was
doing."
Now that was honest, but distinctly stupid.
The countenance of the prosecutor lightened up. He was a very young
man, with many scars on his face. He sat stiffly on his chair, tightly
buttoned into an immaculate brand-new uniform; and hitherto he had been
regarding with a bored expression a silver bangle that he wore on his
right wrist.
The hearing of witnesses was at an end. The president of the
court-martial, a fat, good-humoured man of mature years, asked: "Is
there anything that you wish to say, Bombardier Vogt?"
"No, thank you, sir."
"You acknowledge your guilt, then?"
"Yes, sir."
But the president wanted to give the man a chance, and asked another
question, to which an affirmative answer would be a matter of course.
"But you are sorry for your conduct?" he asked.
The accused, however, again hesitated. Naturally every one expected him
to say "yes," so that people were not listening very attentively. But
when this "yes" did not appear to be forthcoming, all eyes were
suddenly fixed upon Vogt.
"No," said he firmly.
The president looked amazed. "You cannot have understood me," he said.
"I asked you if you were not sorry for your conduct?"
But the answer came, clear and decided: "No, I cannot be sorry."
Every one present looked dumfounded. Wegstetten thrust his sword
angrily against the ground. God in heaven! was the fellow an ass? Now
his fate was sealed!
Those who were assisting at the court-martial looked indignant; the
chief of them, a major of dragoons, tapped impatiently on the table
with his gold pencil-case, and gave a condemnatory shake of his head.
The youngest of his colleagues, a senior-lieutenant in the grenadiers,
twirled his moustache briskly; the expression of his face said plainly:
"Just wait a bit! we'll give you a lesson!"
The public prosecutor beamed. He rose with an air of triumph, and
demanded, "having full regard for all the extenuating circumstances of
the case, but also in consideration of the obstinate persistence of the
accused in his offence," a punishment of nine months' imprisonment.
Vogt turned as pale as death when he heard these words. This was
impossible! It could not, it ought not to be!
The court was not long in coming to its decision, and its judgment was
read out by the president in a quiet even tone of voice.
The accused hung on his lips with anxious expectation. At last, after
all the formalities, came the verdict: "five months' imprisonment." He
leant against the railing that separated him from his judges. The wood
gave a creak. Long after the fat gentleman had sat down again Vogt went
on listening. Surely something more was coming; some mitigation of this
terrible sentence? But the trial was at an end.
The condemned man was taken away by a non-commissioned officer; he
walked with unsteady steps, his eyes staring into vacancy. In the
passage outside he caught sight of Wegstetten. The captain was talking
to an old man in civilian clothes. Vogt felt a thrill when he saw the
white hair that surrounded the old man's face. But it was only after he
had gone round the next corner of the passage that the recognition
struck him: great God, it was his father!
Involuntarily he stopped and tried to turn back; but the non-com, took
his arm and pushed him forward, not roughly, yet in such fashion that
the prisoner gave up his attempt.
"You fool, you!" said his companion; "if you had said you were quite
sick with shame for your silly behaviour, you'd have got off with a
month!"
After endless questions the turnpike-keeper had managed to find his way
to the court-house of the army-corps. He had been wandering through
street after street; the busy traffic of the capital had made his head
spin, and he was tired to death with this unwonted tramping over hard
stone pavements.
He had arrived before the court-room door just as the witnesses were
leaving. He had recognised Captain von Wegstetten immediately--his boy
had so often described the little man with his gigantic red moustache
and sparkling eyes--and he was not afraid of addressing him on the
spot.
Wegstetten was at first not particularly pleased at this encounter; but
the honest troubled face of the old soldier touched him, and he
listened patiently.
The turnpike-keeper had not much to say; it only amounted to an earnest
representation of how well-conducted his son had always hitherto been;
of how glad he had been to be a soldier; and he ended with a bitter
lamentation that all this should have happened to such a good, brave
lad; the boy must have gone clean out of his senses. The old man said
it all with the most touching self-restraint. He took great pains to
preserve a soldierly bearing, and omitted none of the customary tokens
of respect, just as if he had been still clad in his old sergeant's
uniform, and standing before an officer of the most severe type. Yet
all the time the tears ran down his weather-beaten furrowed cheeks and
his snow-white beard, and as he tried to draw up his bent shoulders the
medals clinked together on his breast.
Wegstetten had but little comfort for the poor old man. He told him how
favourably all the witnesses had spoken of his son, both officers and
non-commissioned officers; how he as captain of the battery had always
been glad to have such a capable man under him; and how the whole
wretched business had come about through the mismanagement of an
officer who had only lately returned to the regiment.
The face of the turnpike-keeper lighted up as he listened to the
captain's words. He breathed again. Thank God! things could not go so
badly with the boy. A few weeks under arrest--and the affair would be
at an end.
But Wegstetten proceeded to tell him of the continued obstinacy of his
son, and at last was forced to impart to the old man the severe
sentence that had been passed.
Five months' imprisonment! It struck the old turnpike-keeper like a
blow. He staggered, and the captain was obliged to support him.
But the weakness soon passed, and Vogt begged the officer's pardon.
He could not, however, listen to Wegstetten's explanation of the harsh
verdict. This was a terrible, a crying piece of injustice; on the
one side was an offence, a perfectly trivial offence, committed
by a brave well-behaved soldier (as by common consent his boy
had been pronounced), who had been driven into it moreover by the
"mismanagement" of his superior; and on the other side was this heavy
punishment of five months' imprisonment! The disproportion between
crime and sentence was incomprehensible to his mind.
He walked in silence beside Wegstetten, who was speaking to him
earnestly the while. At the door of the court-house the old man stood
still and saluted, meaning to take leave of the captain.
Then the officer asked him: "Would you not like to speak to your son? I
will get you a permit."
"Thank you, sir," said the turnpike-keeper, "if you would have the
kindness, sir."
This was soon done. Wegstetten exchanged a few words with the
superintendent of the military prison and returned with the pass. He
himself conducted the old man to the gate of the prison building.
"Don't take all this too hard, Herr Vogt," he said in farewell. "Your
son has committed an excusable offence, and has been very severely but
not unjustly punished. He remains an honourable soldier all the same."
"Yes, sir," answered the turnpike-keeper. He looked darkly after the
little officer. What sort of talk was that? Was it any comfort to be
told that his boy was not a dishonourable rascal? He knew himself what
his boy was; none knew better! Bravery and honour, that was Franz all
over. Nobody need tell him that.
And the poor lad had been punished as if he had stolen something! Many
thieves, indeed, got off easier. They had condemned his boy to a
dishonourable punishment,--and why? because he had too much sense of
honour!
He rang violently at the entrance gate of the prison. A sentry opened
the door, took the permit, and ushered him into the waiting-room. "I
will tell the inspector you are here," he said, and left the room.
After a few moments the door of the waiting-room opened again and an
inspector appeared on the threshold, a dried-up looking man with a
leathery complexion. He looked at the permit through his spectacles,
and turned curious eyes towards the medals on the breast of the
veteran. He shook his head deprecatingly, and called out an order from
the door.
Shortly afterwards a grenadier announced: "Bombardier Vogt is here,
sir."
"Let him come in," said the inspector. Then he turned away, and stood
looking out of the window.
Franz Vogt went quietly up to his father and looked into his face with
his frank honest eyes.
"Good-day, father," he said simply.
The turnpike-keeper took his son's hand in both his own. The tears came
into his eyes and he looked at him as through a veil. Thank God, the
boy still wore his artillery uniform! The old man was spared the sight
of him in the grey prison garb.
As the father was silent the son began to speak. He described in his
plain hearty way how the whole unfortunate business had played itself
out, and related truthfully everything that was in his own favour,
while acknowledging his fault without further excuse. "Do you know,
father," he concluded, "what the sentence is?"
The turnpike-keeper nodded. Franz cast his eyes down and said in a
troubled voice: "It seems to me very hard, father."
He felt a spasmodic pressure of his hand, and his father nodded his
head in assent.
"The corporal said I had only myself to thank for it," the prisoner
went on. "They asked me if I was sorry, and I said 'no.' The corporal
said that was stupid. But I couldn't say otherwise. And I should have
to say the same if they asked me again."
Then the turnpike-keeper opened his mouth for the first time since he
had entered the room.
"You were _right_!" he said, so loudly and emphatically that the
inspector at the window started and gave a warning cough.
Now that he had seen his son again, this brave honest lad, a change
seemed to have come over the old man. The boy had been a willing
dutiful soldier, everybody said so, and yet they were going to shut
him up in prison for five long months, all because of a piece of
fiddle-faddle! Devil take them all! What was the use of being a good
soldier? And at a stroke every trace disappeared of the obedient and
respectful old sergeant who had worn the uniform so proudly; he was
peasant pure and simple, hard-headed and stiff-necked, a peasant who
would stand up for what he thought right and defend it through thick
and thin.
"You are _right_" he said, "and you were right all along."
But the son was more discriminating than the father, even though the
punishment affected himself.
"You are not in earnest, father," he remonstrated; "I know I was in
fault. But the punishment is too hard, even so; and I can appeal."
The turnpike-keeper laughed softly.
"Yes, you can be a fool," he said, "and get yourself into a worse mess!
No, boy, if you take my advice you will leave appealing alone. If they
have been unjust to you then you must put up with the injustice
proudly, it won't last for ever! but never beg for justice!"
Franz Vogt looked disappointed. He had hoped that the higher courts
might mitigate his sentence, but his father's advice must be best.
The inspector turned round from the window. The visitor's time was up.
Once more the son regarded with loving pride the venerable appearance
of his father.
"Why, you have put on all your medals, father!" he said, smiling a
little.
"Yes," replied the turnpike-keeper. "I put on all my medals when I came
to see you." And, in a loud voice, that the inspector might hear, he
repeated: "I put them on for you, my dear good boy, and for you only."
And for the first time in his life he embraced his son, took the boy's
head between his hands, and kissed him on the forehead. Franz Vogt felt
the trembling of the old man's lips, and choked back his own tears. As
the warder was taking him back down the long passage he looked round
once more. His father was just going out of the door, and a ray of
sunlight fell on the venerable white head. Then the folding-doors
closed, and shut in the grey twilight of the corridor.
The villagers had always regarded the turnpike-keeper as rather an
eccentric person; but henceforth they began to look upon him as
downright crazy. The old widow who had hitherto done his housekeeping
was the first to spread this rumour.
The old man took to shutting himself up more and more. Nobody was ever
allowed to cross his threshold.
The peasants, however, let him go his way. Every one has a right to do
as he likes; and the turnpike-keeper's manner of life was beginning to
be looked on as a matter of course, when suddenly he drew upon himself
universal attention.
There was to be a fresh election for the Reichstag in the district, the
conservative candidate's victory having been disallowed. He had only
been successful after a second ballot, in which the votes of the two
parties had held the balance almost even; and the election had just
been declared null and void, in consequence of the protest made by the
social-democrats. The two rival parties, social-democrats and
conservatives, were now preparing anew for battle. Every single vote
was of consequence, and canvassing went on busily. Election literature
flooded the constituency; it was thrown in at open windows and pushed
under door-sills.
The turnpike-keeper had hitherto always placed himself at the disposal
of the conservative candidate.
The conservative party liked to display names of the "small people" of
the neighbourhood on the list of their supporters, in addition to
signatures of councillors of state, burgomasters, landlords, &c.
And now suddenly Friedrich August Vogt came and demanded to have his
name taken off the list.
The president of the election committee, a cavalry officer in the
reserve and the lord of the manor, attempted to make him reconsider his
determination. He wanted to know the reasons for this sudden change of
conviction, and asked pathetically if the old soldier was going to be
unfaithful at this time of day to the motto: "God, King, and Country"?
Vogt stuck to his demand, but he declined to give any reasons.
On the day of the election the turnpike-keeper was troubled with a
feverish unrest. Ten times and more he put on his hat and stood at the
house door with his big stick in his hand, but he always turned back
again.
The polling was to end at six o'clock. Shortly before that hour he
strung himself up to a resolve. He left the house hastily, and hurried
to the ale-house, in the garden of which the polling-booth had been
erected.
Before the door stood the two men who were distributing voting-papers.
Tired with their day's work, they were leaning against the paling in
front of the tavern. One of them, employed by the conservatives, was a
superannuated farm labourer from the manor; the socialist was an
invalided stonemason, who had lost a leg in consequence of a fall from
some scaffolding. They were chatting together in a friendly fashion,
notwithstanding the antagonism of their employers.
The one-legged man did not even give himself the trouble to offer Vogt
one of his voting-papers. Everybody knew old Vogt. The blood of an old
soldier ran in his veins, he was conservative to the bone.
The farm labourer held out a conservative voting-paper, and said:
"You are nearly too late, Herr Vogt. Here is your vote."
But the turnpike-keeper turned away with a lowering look. He stretched
out his hand to the other man and demanded a voting-paper, with which
the stonemason hastened to furnish him; and Friedrich August Vogt
stumped heavily up the steps into the polling-station.
The magistrate of the district was taking charge of the proceedings.
Beside him sat the schoolmaster of the church schools, and the
inspector of the manor. A few peasants and a workman from the fire-clay
factory, his clothes covered with lime, were standing about.
The schoolmaster announced the name: "Vogt, Friedrich August, retired
turnpike-keeper, registered number 41."
The old man stretched out the folded voting-paper with a hesitating
movement; the magistrate took it and placed it in the tin-box which
served as a receptacle for the votes. He nodded familiarly to the
elector; this was a certain vote for the conservatives.
But the turnpike-keeper did not respond to the greeting. He stood
stiffly by the table looking at the box that contained the
voting-papers; suddenly his erect figure seemed to collapse, and the
old man slunk out of the polling-station almost like an evil-doer.
The results of the election were known in the village by seven o'clock.
One hundred and fifty-three votes had been registered: seventy-seven
for the social-democrats, seventy-six for the conservatives. It was the
first time there had been a socialist majority in this place. The
social-democrats had, therefore, every reason for rejoicing. They sat
in the little inn at the end of the village, which was only able to
maintain itself through the political disagreements of the villagers,
and drank success to their party in the ultimate result of the election
throughout the whole constituency. The peasants in the bar of the big
inn were not less hopeful; they comforted themselves by declaring
that the result in such a small place was of no real consequence.
Nevertheless, it was a disgrace to think that there were now in the
village more red revolutionists than loyal subjects.
The morning of August the 10th dawned bright and glorious; the day on
which Plettau, after so many long years, came once more under the
jurisdiction of civil law. It was one of those mornings when it is a
joy to be a soldier; when every wearer of the uniform feels heartily
thankful that his day's work is to be done out in God's free open world
of nature, and not behind a desk or in some overheated factory.
The inspection of the battery was fixed for half-past seven. Lieutenant
Brettschneider had had his men out since six, and had already robbed
them of their last remnants of good temper. Here he had discovered a
helmet the polish of which was not bright enough to please him, there a
coat the sleeves of which were too long; or he had waxed wroth over
some head of hair that he considered insufficiently cropped. And all
this, while "stand at attention" was the order; so that the men got
cramp in their legs, and sneezing fits from staring the whole time in
the face of the morning sun.
At last the battery was drawn up on the parade-ground, and
Senior-lieutenant Brettschneider was ready to do himself credit. The
colonel was seen slowly approaching, accompanied by Major Schrader on
one side, and by Captain von Wegstetten on the other. Brettschneider
hastened towards them to report that the battery was in position.
The colonel received his announcement graciously. "Let the men stand at
ease," he commanded. And when Brettschneider had called out the order,
he returned to his place to begin the parade.
Then occurred something very startling.
A shout was heard: "Holdrio, hoho!" And then again:
"Holdrio--yoho-hoho o!" And again a third time:
"Holdrio--yoho--yoho--hoho--o--o!"
The yodel was evidently sounding from the slope of the opposite hill.
Every one looked that way; and, behold, on the hillside appeared the
figure of Count Egon Plettau, still dressed as for his discharge, in
the grey drill trousers and much-patched coat.
He waved his cap to the battery; then he lowered his hands, while the
eyes of the onlookers followed in suspense his every movement.
He let down the grey drill trousers; and there in the full blaze of the
morning sunshine he went through a certain performance which even the
Scythians--suggesting though they did to Greek art the original
conception of the centaur--could certainly not have achieved without
descending from horseback.
If Plettau, like Janus, had had eyes in the back of his head, down
below in the parade-ground he would have seen an array of wide-open
eyes and gaping mouths.
After a short interval he arose, picked up a big piece of white
cardboard from the ground, and pointed to it as he brandished it in the
air. Then he laid it down again, and once more he yodelled gaily:
"Holdrio--yoho--yoho--hoho--o--o!" He then bowed politely, and vanished
precipitately among the bushes.
Down on the parade-ground every one was speechless. The men looked
sheepish; they longed to burst into peals of laughter, but were afraid
of getting into trouble. So they took great pains not to commit
themselves, and tried to look as if something perfectly ordinary had
been happening.
Wegstetten was beside himself with anger and resentment. "I beg you
will allow me, sir," he said to the colonel, "to send a couple of
non-commissioned officers to arrest that fellow. This is an unheard-of
insult to the whole army--a scandal a disgrace!"
Falkenhein's lips twitched. He, too, thought this piece of impudence
quite beyond a joke. But he held the same opinion as did the Grand Duke
of Oldenburg concerning _lêse-majesté_: that the insult of a fool is no
insult.
"Be calm, my dear Wegstetten," he said. "Let your count take himself
off. But you had better just send some one up there--one of the
non-coms, upon whom you can rely--to fetch down that placard before any
of the men can get hold of it. Who knows what impertinence the fellow
may not have scrawled?"
Corporal von Frielinghausen was charged with the mission, and ascended
the hillside. The exercises were begun meanwhile.
Frielinghausen found the piece of cardboard neatly placed against a
bank beside the last traces of Count Egon Plettau. Carrying the placard
with its back carefully turned to the battery, he descended the slope
again, and returned to the three officers. With the tips of his fingers
the colonel took the document from him. The inscription was short
enough:
"Senior-lieutenant Brettschneider," cried Major Schrader suddenly,
"please be good enough to come here for a moment."
Brettschneider advanced in haste: "You called me, sir?"
Schrader pointed to the placard. "A few words in elucidation of the
demonstration up yonder!" he said, shaking with suppressed laughter.
On the cardboard was neatly written in gigantic letters, coloured
artistically with red and blue: "A farewell greeting to
Senior-lieutenant Brettschneider!"
"A reminiscence of 'Ekkehard,'" said the colonel. "This Count Plettau
has read a certain amount. One must give the devil his due!"
But Major Schrader, who in his leisure hours occupied himself with
modern literature, who had seen "Die Weber" and "Seine Kleine" in
Berlin, and was even acquainted with "Rosenmontag," murmured softly to
himself; "A farewell to the regiment!"