"Freedom, that I sing--"
(_Von Schenkendorf._)
In August Corporal von Frielinghausen was ordered to the Fire-workers'
College in Berlin. The young fellow made a good appearance in his neat
uniform; his figure had filled out and become more manly, and on his
upper lip a slight moustache had begun to show. But his bronzed visage
had retained the old frank boyish expression, and altogether he was a
fine-looking lad, after whom the women already turned to gaze.
After two years had passed, his friends received a formal notification
of his marriage; it was sent with the greetings of Baron Walther von
Frielinghausen and Baroness Minna Victoria von Frielinghausen, _née_
Kettke.
Frielinghausen had obtained his discharge from the army. Minna Victoria
was the only child and heiress of the manager of a large place of
entertainment, and Baron Walther von Frielinghausen played the part of
manager in place of his father-in-law, the rather impossible Papa Willy
Kettke. He went about attired in an unimpeachable black coat, and with
a well-bred little bow would himself usher into their places any
specially distinguished-looking guests. Then he would stand with the
air of a young prince in the neighbourhood of the bar, and the waiters
and cooks, barmaids and kitchenmaids, had a mighty respect for him. He
waxed portly in figure, and Minna Victoria often felt herself obliged
to call him over the coals for paying too much attention to some one of
the elegant ladies who patronised the establishment.
The sixth battery of the 80th regiment, Eastern Division of the Field
Artillery, had occasion, however, to send another non-commissioned
officer to the Fire-workers' College--Gustav Weise.
Captain von Wegstetten was very well pleased with Weise; he considered
he had made him a permanent convert to the cause of king and country,
But Weise was rather inclined to domineer over his subordinates--which
was not what might have been expected of a former social-democrat--and
on that account his captain had hit upon the idea of persuading him to
be a fire-worker. The non-commissioned officer had a clear head, and it
might be hoped he would make a career for himself.
Under these circumstances Weise began more and more to curse the day
when he had had tattooed upon his arm that ridiculous jingle about
Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity. It caused him serious annoyance if
one of his comrades noticed a scrap of the motto peeping out from under
his sleeve, and wanted to see the whole inscription.
One day when he was out walking in the town he noticed on a door a
brass plate bearing the announcement: "Dr. Büchsenstein, specialist in
skin diseases, &c." It occurred to him that this gentleman might be of
assistance to him, and he put in an appearance at the hour of
consultation.
The little dark-haired doctor could not entirely restrain his intense
amusement when the patient bared his arm and came out with the request
that the tattooing might be scraped away.
"Well, my good man," he said, "I can't do that for you! You can't have
it scraped away! Anyhow, you're wearing the sleeve of the king's
uniform over the watchword of revolution; and if you want to do
more, you can put on a thick coating of lanoline and dust it with
rice-powder. Then nobody will see it."
"Thank you, doctor," said Weise, standing up. "What do I owe you for
your trouble?"
"Nothing at all, my man!" said the little doctor, laughing. "It's been
no trouble; only a pleasure!"
And the non-commissioned officer went off to the nearest druggist's,
where he bought the largest tube of lanoline in the shop and half a
pound of rice-powder.
The military prisoner Wolf could hardly believe his eyes when he saw
his former comrade Vogt dressed in the grey prison clothes. The
prisoners had been ordered out for open-air work and were standing in
the corridor, but at some distance from each other; it was quite
impossible to get nearer together, and speaking was strictly forbidden.
The guard stepped into their places around the little band, and it was
as usual well rubbed into the minds of the latter that these armed
sentries carried loaded weapons, and were not supposed to hold their
hands in any case of attempted escape. "Halt!" would be called three
times, and they would fire if the word of command were not obeyed. The
non-commissioned officer in command made this announcement, and then
the doors were unlocked and thrown open.
Out in the yard the sunlight only touched the upper storey of one of
the wings, and within the high walls the air felt icy cold. As from the
bottom of a shaft they looked up to the clear sky overhead, and then
stepped out into the real sunshine and felt the warmth of the bright
rays.
During the time of the autumn man[oe]uvres, and until the early part of
the new year, the enormous parade-ground was deserted. The drilling of
the troops went on in the barrack-yard, and it was only after the
inspection of recruits was completed that exercises took place in the
big ground.
The prisoners were ordered to get the place tidy for the spring
and repair any damages that had occurred during the summer. The
principal work, however, was the banking up of a high obstacle wall,
and beyond it to dig a deep ditch; both for use in the artillery
driving-exercises. This was an unspeakably fatiguing business. The
soil, to a depth of several feet, consisted of light fine sand. In this
they stood ankle deep, loading their wheelbarrows; yet the ditch never
seemed to grow any deeper, nor the wall any higher. It was like working
with water which continually flowed in again.
Whilst work was going on it was easy for one man to approach another.
When Vogt and Wolf passed each other for the first time, one pushing
his wheelbarrow before him, the other trotting with his empty barrow
down into the ditch, they exchanged melancholy nods. Later it came
about that they were standing next each other shovelling the loose sand
into their barrows. True, speaking was forbidden; but it was possible
to murmur words almost without moving the lips, yet so as to be
perfectly intelligible.
"How do you come to be here?" was Wolf's first question.
Vogt related his story, often interrupted by the progress of their
work; but when he had deposited his barrowful up above, he always
managed to return to the neighbourhood of his erstwhile comrade in the
regiment, and at last he had told the whole history of his crime.
Wolf gave a short bitter laugh. He was heartily sorry for this poor
fellow, but was not this a new example of the fact that socialists had
no need to work hard at propaganda? The ripe fruit was ready to drop
into their laps without any co-operation of their own. This Vogt, the
bravest of soldiers, the most amenable of men, fitted for a post in the
royal body-guard, was wheeling his barrow here amongst thieves and
ruffians of all sorts. And beside him the blood-red social-democrat!
And then he listened as Vogt went on to tell of his other acquaintances
in the battery; each day, of course, his narrative was interrupted, and
sometimes they had only time for a few words.
Weise had been promoted to be non-commissioned officer! That
everlasting chatterer, who only owed it to his gift of the gab that he
had been able to boast of himself as confidential agent of his union!
Was not this a topsy-turvy world?
But no. Weise fitted his position to a nicety. His fluent adaptability
was in its right place. Little Captain von Wegstetten would have no
non-commissioned officer under him better calculated to satisfy his
desires than Gustav Weise. If he had remained a social-democrat,
thought Wolf to himself, he would simply have been a pliant tool in the
hands of some stronger member of the party. He was not to be relied on
either here or there.
How different was Vogt, the peasant! Honour and steadfast faith looked
out of his quiet grey eyes. Wolf began to take him in hand.
The echoes of those hastily whispered words as to the great injustice
and oppression of the present, and the glorious equality and freedom of
the future, rang the clearer and the more insistently for being
awakened within the walls of a prison. Two men, who could with a clear
conscience acquit themselves of any guilty intention, were here herding
with common criminals and carting sand like them.
The peasant yielded this point at once. Wolf and he were both being
punished unjustly. And the world was full of injustice.
"Then you belong to us," said Wolf.
"How do you mean?" asked Vogt. "To you?"
"Why, you are a social-democrat!"
"Am I?" said Vogt. "Perhaps. I don't know."
"If you think like that you must be."
"Well, but I don't want a revolution, or anything of the kind; though
it is all the same to me whether we have a king or a republic. I only
want to have my work, and to do it as I like, and to be left alone."
"The one leads to the other," said Wolf. "If things are to become
better there must be a different form of government."
He went on further to speak of the brotherhood which should include all
nations of the earth, so that there should be no more war and no more
soldiers. Who else was it but the princes and rulers that hindered
the coming of this fair unity of hearts? The people certainly desired
ever-enduring peace. The oppressive sense of captivity stirred him to
eloquence that fired his own imagination, and finally even inflamed the
sober judgment of Vogt.
The peasant nodded: "Yes, yes. That would be fine!"
He could form no clear picture of that brilliant future. All men
brothers? No more quarrelling and no more war? No one who would give
orders to others? No one who would demand taxes and rent? Was this
really possible?
But the other man spoke in such a convinced manner, he seemed so
certain, that there was hardly room for doubt. And these were the aims
of those social-democrats of whom people were so afraid, thinking they
wanted to destroy and annihilate everything!
Of course they were right. Everything would be better then, and more
beautiful. And to work for that would be worth one's trouble! One could
give one's life for it if need be.
They were on the way back to the prison after their work. Vogt and Wolf
stepped along side by side in the ranks. The long lean man seemed to be
merely skin and bone; his cheeks had fallen in, the grey prison clothes
hung loosely on his limbs. But his eyes glowed and sparkled as though
with an inward fever, and a proud smile was on his lips. Vogt nodded to
him. The gesture was the expression of a solemn vow.
The troop of prisoners arrived at the gate. A heavy shower of rain
drove them to take shelter in the arched doorway, and they stood
pressed closely together waiting for the door to open.
Suddenly Vogt felt Wolf's hand seize his own in a firm grip.
"I think we are now at one about this, comrade?" he heard him whisper.
And the peasant returned the strong pressure, and answered, "Yes,
comrade."
Each day in prison resembled every other; they passed slowly by like a
chain of exactly equal links.
When the ground became frozen and neither spade nor pickaxe could be
used, the prisoners were given straw mats to plait or sacks to sew.
Then Vogt used to swear to himself. "Damn it all! Why didn't I
straighten my knees? What did it matter to me that the lieutenant had
such a stuck-up way with him?" Thank God the first three months of the
five had passed by, and in January he would return to the garrison.
Then there would be two more months to serve; till in March, in the
first days of spring, he would be free.
But before that, when December was just beginning, bad news came to him
from outside.
His father was dead. And, worse still, he was already buried when the
son first heard of the occurrence. But that had been the old man's
wish.
It all sounded like an old story, this that was told to the military
prisoner Vogt, as he stood in the office by the superintendent of the
prison, a little sickly-looking captain of infantry.
The village-elder from home had come himself all this long way to
inform the son of his father's death. There he stood, big, fat, and
strong, in his sheepskin cloak; a freer breath of air seemed to have
come in with him, and he related all there was to tell. It was not even
certain when the turnpike-keeper had died.
With the departure of summer the old man had seemed gradually to decay.
In spite of that, however, he steadily refused to have any one to help
him; and when the cold weather put a stop to work in the field he was
seen no more by the neighbours.
The little house looked lifeless with its closed shutters, and only the
thin line of smoke which ascended from the chimney at morning and
midday betrayed the presence of a living creature.
Then came the hard frost at the beginning of winter. The boy who daily
fetched away the milk that Vogt sold reported one day that the pitcher
of milk had not been left in the yard for him as usual. But there was
nothing extraordinary about that. Perhaps the queer old man had wanted
to make butter. The peasants thought it was just some new fancy of his.
At midday some one drove past the turnpike-keeper's house, taking corn
to the mill, and observed that no smoke was coming from the chimney.
Why had old Vogt got no fire? Even if he didn't want to cook food for
himself, the cows ought to have their warm meal. On his way home the
same peasant heard the cows mooing incessantly in a troubled manner,
and he related all this at the ale-house in the evening.
Then the villagers put their heads together. Possibly the old
turnpike-keeper was really ill. The more curious among the neighbours
left the warm parlour of the inn, and tramped along the high-road in
the biting east wind. They knocked at the door of the turnpike-keeper's
little house, and tapped on the window shutters. Nothing could be heard
but the sighing of the wind; and at last they turned away homewards.
But next morning the milk-pitcher was still absent, and there was no
smoke from the chimney. The village-elder was then informed. He ordered
out the gendarme, and sent a locksmith to force the door. Half the
village went after them and crowded round the turnpike-keeper's
cottage, so that the gendarme had some trouble in keeping the women and
children at a distance.
The village-elder banged on the door with his fist and rattled the
handle. "Herr Vogt!" he cried, "Herr Vogt! open the door!" And again:
"Herr Vogt! turnpike-keeper! open the door!" Then the gendarme, an old
comrade in arms of the turnpike-keeper, called loudly; "August! open
the door! or let us know if you are ill!"
All was silent. The shutters were closed; the whole house seemed
asleep.
Only the lowing of the cows sounded from their stable, and the rattling
of their chains, as if they had heard the cries that could not awaken
their old master.
Then the village-elder turned to the locksmith: "We must break the door
open."
The lock was soon forced, but the door would only open an inch or two;
an iron bar had been fixed across it, but that was soon lifted.
A couple of young men were posted at the door to keep out the crowd,
which thronged around the house in silent breathless curiosity.
The two officials stepped into the passage. The gendarme pushed the
kitchen-door open; the room was cold as ice. On the hearth a handful of
broken sticks had been placed, and the match-box lay beside them ready
for kindling the fire.
The front room was darkened by the closed shutters, and a close smell
as from a vault met them when the door was opened. There sat the
turnpike-keeper at the table dead. His head had fallen forward; the
body sat stiff and stark in the narrow arm-chair, and his hand, which
had evidently been supporting his chin, was still raised, stiffened by
the paralysis of death and by the icy cold. Papers of various kinds
were spread out before the dead man: account-books, and gilt-edged
testimonials dating from the turnpike-keeper's time in the army. Beside
these were cardboard boxes filled with money, each neatly labelled:
"Money for milk," "Money for corn," "Money for cattle." The old man had
evidently taken them out of a cash-box which stood open before him, and
at the bottom of which lay his medals and cross of honour.
The gendarme laid his hand on the shoulder of the dead man and said:
"You were just looking at your cross again, old comrade, were you, and
then you fell asleep?"
The two men put the money and the papers back into the cash-box, which
the village-elder placed in a cupboard that stood open. This he locked,
and took possession of the key.
"There is something else," cried the gendarme suddenly; and he pointed
to a folded paper lying on a little table by the door.
"My last will and testament. To be opened immediately," was written on
the document in the rather shaky but distinct handwriting of the
turnpike-keeper. The "immediately" was underlined three times.
Well, the injunction was plain enough; and the two officials did not
hesitate to comply with it. They had the legal right to do so, and
besides they were extremely curious.
The paper was not even sealed up. It contained nothing at all
extraordinary. Old Vogt desired in case of his death that the crippled
neighbour who had sometimes helped him to look after the place should
keep everything in order until his son returned from his military
service. He was to have the money obtained from the sale of the milk as
a reward for his trouble. Then the will continued: "Everything I have
belongs, of course, to my dear son Franz. The expenses of my burying
are to be defrayed from the money contained in the box labelled
'funeral money.' I wish to have a very simple funeral, and desire
particularly that my son shall only be informed of my death after the
ceremony is over, in case it should happen before February 3rd next
year."
"We shook our heads over that," said the village-elder to Franz. "It
seemed so funny that he should have fixed upon a date." He coughed and
went on in an embarrassed way. "Now of course we know that your father
did not want us to hear of your--misfortune, at least as long as he was
still above ground. Well, well, it has not been so bad after all,
according to what your captain told me."
The superintendent of the prison cut him short rather nervously: "That
has nothing to do with the case, sir, has it?"
Thereupon the peasant proceeded with his narrative. After they had left
the dead man, of course the first thing was to see to the cows. The
pigs had eaten all the straw in their sty and the poultry had rushed
like mad things upon the grain that was given them.
Everything was in order, and he, the village-elder, would see to it
that it was kept so. Besides, old Wackwitz was an honest, stupid sort
of fellow; he was quite to be trusted.
For the funeral, of course, everything had been arranged according to
the dead man's desire. But the old sergeant was not buried without
having the three salutes fired over his grave. And the lord of the
manor, in his uniform, with two old warriors of 1870-71, headed the
procession of mourners.
Franz Vogt sat on the bench in his dark cell and wept hot tears for his
father's death. The poor fellow had indeed grounds for lamenting his
fate. Death had taken from him first his friend and then his father.
Was he always to be lonely?
During the frosty days of winter Vogt had hardly set eyes upon his
regimental comrade Wolf. But now a few days of damp weather brought the
severe frost prematurely to an end. There was a sudden change one night
at the end of January, and next morning the smiling sun beamed down
from a clear blue sky upon the surprised, drowsy earth.
The military prisoners at once began their daily work again upon the
big parade-ground. The snow had to be removed before it could melt and
settle in pools upon the ground they had so carefully levelled. In the
grey morning twilight, therefore, a little troop of prisoners, with old
cloaks over their prison clothes, were set to work as usual, surrounded
by the armed sentries.
For Vogt and Wolf it was a meeting after a long separation. The peasant
recounted the particulars of his father's death; not without a certain
pride in the unusual circumstances under which the old man had met his
end in self-appointed loneliness.
"A true man to the last!" said Wolf. But he could not even press his
friend's hand in sympathy.
Then Vogt began to speak of the day of release. For him that would soon
come. He knew that every word must cut his comrade to the heart, for
poor Wolf had still to endure long years of martyrdom in prison; but he
could not help it. He could not restrain himself from expressing the
great joy that filled his breast. He counted the hours and the minutes
as they passed, and could scarcely sleep at night.
Vogt walked with uplifted head and bright eyes; he handled his spade
with cheerful zeal, and pushed his heavily-loaded wheelbarrow
energetically. Would he not be a free man in a few days?
But Wolf compressed his lips together, and the brighter the sunshine
the darker grew the cloud on his brow. His cheeks had fallen in more
and more, and at the slightest exertion the sweat poured down his thin
face. He looked ready to break down, and his eyes glowed with a
feverish light.
"I shall never last it out," he whispered to Vogt one morning. "I shall
go all to pieces. I would rather break away altogether and escape."
"You are mad," said Vogt. "Do you not see the sentries? You would not
be able to get a hundred yards away."
Wolf looked at him. The chance of escape out of this narrow circle was
indeed small. But he stuck to his project, adding: "What does it matter
if I am shot down? Would that not be better than going on in this way
for three more long years?"
Of a sudden his plan appeared to him in a new light. If his flight were
unsuccessful, if a sentry's bullet put a stop to it, would he not
equally have suffered for his opinions? Would not this bloody sacrifice
to the cause of revolution win new adherents? And would that not be
better in the end than if he got free and lived out a painful existence
in some foreign country?
Though formerly he had longed to be free at any price, death now shone
before him as a desirable goal. Better that than to be crippled merely.
Next day he whispered to Vogt, "Next time that the Jägers are on duty I
shall try it."
Vogt shook his head emphatically with a gesture of protest. His comrade
must have gone clean out of his wits. And why should Wolf want to make
the attempt just when the Jägers were mounting guard, the troops that
were most proficient in shooting? It looked as if he were courting
death.
The kind-hearted fellow set it before himself to dissuade his comrade
from his intention. It would never do to let such a brave man commit
suicide in a fit of despair. But he must manage it soon; in five days
he himself would be free, and before that Wolf must give him his
promise to abstain from his folly. Unfortunately the Jägers would be
mounting guard the very next day.
As he pushed his loaded wheelbarrow before him he sought to meet Wolf's
eyes; his comrade also had just filled his barrow. Vogt passed close by
him, and signed to Wolf to come with him. But Wolf purposely remained
behind and shook his head, smiling.
Soon afterwards they were called in. The prisoners put away their tools
and their barrows, and Vogt stood waiting in the half-dark shed till
the others were ready.
Suddenly he felt his hand gripped, and Wolf whispered in his ear:
"Farewell, comrade, and keep true!"
Next minute the tall lean man had glided past him, and others had
crowded between; it was impossible to get near him again.
On their way back to the prison he again intercepted a glance from
Wolf. His comrade looked cheerful and triumphant, like one who has
shaken off a heavy burden, and sees his future lie clear before him.
The guard that came on duty next morning in the parade-ground wore the
green Jäger uniform. One of the sentries, a smart young fellow with a
carefully waxed black moustache and quick eyes, had on his breast the
mark of distinction for shooting. He was doing this duty evidently for
the first time, and he looked the prisoners up and down with a curious
glance, as if they were some queer sort of wild beast. Then he took up
his position, and marched stiffly beside the procession as they left
the gate.
A thin mist covered the broad expanse of the big ground, but the sun
soon dispelled the damp vapour, and shone down warm and unclouded.
Vogt looked anxiously at Wolf. But his comrade seemed to have given up
his intention; he was bending diligently over his work, and had not
even taken his place in the outside rank of workers, but was digging
busily among the others. At a little distance from the prisoners the
sentries strolled up and down their beat.
Presently an orderly from head-quarters came riding by on a dark-brown
horse, which he was making step high in a stately manner as if on
parade.
The Jäger with the black moustache held his gun negligently on his
shoulder and looked on with an interested expression. It was very
boring to be always watching the prisoners messing about in the dirt.
Suddenly a lean figure detached itself from the little group of
workmen--it was Wolf. With long strides he fled behind the sentry in
the direction of the forest. The Jäger had not even remarked his
flight, and it was only the cry of the sergeant that drew his
attention.
Then he hastily took the gun from his shoulder, made ready to fire, and
cried the first "Halt!"
Wolf ran on without stopping. Then something happened which decidedly
bettered the chances of the fugitive: the mounted orderly felt called
upon to give chase. He set his horse to a gallop and dashed after the
escaping prisoner.
Wolf heard the hoofs behind him and glanced round hastily. The rider
was between himself and the sentry. Only a few more steps and he would
be in the forest and under cover, if the horse did not reach him before
that. At a stroke the despairing wish for a martyr's death had
vanished. He no longer wished to die; he wanted to live and be free.
Freedom was awaiting him, there in the forest towards which his
hurrying feet were carrying him. How would they ever be able to find
him in that thick labyrinth of young pine-trees? He would break through
the undergrowth at the forest's edge and take a lateral direction; then
he would lie crouching on the ground and let the bullets whistle over
his head.
From behind him sounded the second "Halt!" The sentry's voice rang more
sharply and insistently.
Yes, shout as you like! He was only a few paces from the forest's edge;
a little ditch separated it from the parade-ground, but it was only
about a yard wide and easy to leap.
Wolfs plan was made.
He knew that the forest extended to the outskirts of the town. The
first houses of the suburb were built among the trees. Workmen dwelt
there--iron-founders and metal-workers--members of his party. They
or some compassionate woman would certainly give the fugitive some
cast-off clothes, and then he thought he could make for the frontier.
From behind came the third warning "Halt!"
The mounted orderly had apparently perceived the hopelessness of his
efforts, and had reined in his horse; the sound of hoofs was no more to
be heard. Now for the ditch!
He sprang. He thought he could smell already the powerful odour of the
fir-trees. There, a little to the left, was an opening in the thicket;
he could slip in there and be safe.
Then, midway in his leap, a bullet struck him in the nape of the neck.
He stumbled forward with his face buried in the haven of the
undergrowth, his eyes gazing forwards towards the land of freedom.
Some weeks later the head physician of the military hospital in the
capital gave a lecture, with illustrations, before the Medical Society,
"Upon an interesting case of the effects of small bore ammunition."