THE SPORT OF KINGS
John Scott, who was suffering from his second immersion in a French
river, came up with mouth, eyes and nose full of water. The stream
around him was crowded with men swimming or with those who had reached
water shallow enough to permit of wading. As well as he could see, the
shell had done no damage besides giving them a huge bath, of which every
one stood in much need.
But he had a keen and active mind and it never worked quicker than it
did now. He had thought his chance for escape might come in the
confusion of a hurried crossing, and here it was. He dived and swam down
the stream toward the willows that lined the bank. When he could hold
his breath no longer he came up in one of the thickest clumps. The water
reached to his waist there, and standing on the bottom in all the
density of willows and bushes he was hidden thoroughly from all except
watchful searchers. And who would miss him at such a time, and who, if
missing, would take the trouble to look for him while the French cannon
were thundering upon them and a perilous crossing was to be made?
It was all so ridiculously easy. He knew that he had nothing to do but
stand close while the men pulled themselves out of the river and the
remaining boats made their passage. For further protection he moved into
water deep enough to reach to his neck, while he still retained the
cover of the willows and bushes. Here he watched the German troops pass
over, and listened to the heavy cannonade. He soon noted that the
Germans, after crossing, were taking up strong positions on the other
side. He could tell it from the tremendous artillery fire that came from
their side of the Marne.
John now found that his position, while safe from observation, was far
from comfortable. The chill of the water began to creep into his bones
and more shells struck unpleasantly near. Another fell into the river
and he was blinded for a moment by the violent showers of foam and
spray. He began to feel uneasy. If the German and French armies were
going to fight each other from the opposing sides of the Marne he would
be held there indefinitely, either to be killed by a shell or bullet or
to drown from cramp.
But time passed and he saw no chance of leaving his watery lair. The
chill went further into his bones. He was lonesome too. He longed for
the companionship of Fleury, and he wondered what had become of him. He
sincerely hoped that he too had reached a covert and that they should
meet again.
No rumbling came from the bridge below, and, glancing down the stream,
John saw that it was empty. There must be many other bridges over the
Marne, but he believed that the German armies had now crossed it, and
would devote their energy to a new attack. He was squarely between the
lines and he did not see any chance to escape until darkness.
He looked up and saw a bright sun and blue skies. Night was distant, and
so far as he was concerned it might be a year away. If two armies were
firing shells directly at a man they must hit him in an hour or two, and
if not, a polar stream such as the Marne had now become would certainly
freeze him to death. He had no idea French rivers could be so cold. The
Marne must be fed by a whole flock of glaciers.
His teeth began to chatter violently, and then he took stern hold of
himself. He felt that he was allowing his imagination to run away with
him, and he rebuked John Scott sternly and often for such foolishness.
He tried to get some warmth into his veins by jumping up and down in the
water, but it was of little avail. Yet he stood it another hour. Then he
made one more long and critical examination of the ground.
Shells were now screaming high overhead, but nobody was in sight. He
judged that it was now an artillery battle, with the foes perhaps three
or four miles apart, and, leaving the willows, he crept out upon the
bank. It was the side held by the Germans, but he knew that if he
attempted to swim the river to the other bank he would be taken with
cramps and would drown.
There was a little patch of long grass about ten yards from the river,
and, crawling to it, he lay down. The grass rose a foot high on either
side of him, but the sun, bright and hot, shone directly down upon his
face and body. It felt wonderfully good after that long submersion in
the Marne. Removing all his heavy wet clothing, he wrung the water out
of it as much as he could, and lay back in a state of nature, for both
himself and his clothing to dry. Meanwhile, in order to avoid cold, he
stretched and tensed his muscles for a quarter of an hour before he lay
still again.
A wonderful warmth and restfulness flowed back into his veins. He had
feared chills and a serious illness, but he knew now that they would not
come. Youth, wiry and seasoned by hard campaigning, would quickly
recover, but knowing that, for the present, he could neither go forward
nor backward, he luxuriated in the grass, while the sun sucked the damp
out of his clothing.
Meanwhile the battle was raging over his head and he scarcely noticed
it. The shells whistled and shrieked incessantly, but, midway between
the contending lines, he felt that they were no longer likely to drop
near. So he relaxed, and a dreamy feeling crept over him. He could hear
the murmur of insects in the grass, and he reflected that the smaller
one was, the safer one was. A shell was not likely to take any notice of
a gnat.
He felt of his clothing. It was not dry yet and he would wait a little
longer. Anyhow, what was the use of hurrying? He turned over on his
side and continued to luxuriate in the long grass.
The warmth and dryness had sent the blood pulsing in a strong flood
through his veins once more, and the mental rebound came too. Although
he lay immediately between two gigantic armies which were sending
showers of metal at each other along a line of many miles, he considered
his escape sure and the thought of personal danger disappeared. If one
only had something to eat! It is curious how the normal instincts and
wants of man assert themselves even under the most dangerous conditions.
He began to think of the good German brown bread and the hot sausage
that he had devoured, and the hot coffee that he had drunk. One could
eat the food of an enemy without compunction.
But it was folly to move, even to seek dinner or supper, while the
shells were flying in such quantities over his head. As he turned once
more and lay on his back he caught glimpses as of swift shadows passing
high above, and the whistling and screaming of shells and shrapnel was
continuous. It was true that a missile might fall short and find him in
the grass, but he considered the possibility remote and it did not give
him a tremor. As he was sure now that he would suffer no bodily ill from
his long bath in the Marne he might remain in the grass until night and
then creep away. Blessed night! It was the kindly veil for all
fugitives, and no one ever awaited it with more eagerness than John
Scott.
The sun was now well beyond the zenith, and its golden darts came
indirectly. His clothing was thoroughly dry at last, and he put it on
again. Clad anew he was tempted to seek escape at once, but the sound of
a footstep caused him to lie down in the shelter of the grass again.
His ear was now against the earth and the footsteps were much more
distinct. He was sure that they were made by a horse, and he believed
that a Uhlan was riding near. He remembered how long and sharp their
lances were, and he was grateful that the grass was so thick and tall.
He longed for the automatic revolver that had been such a trusty friend,
but the Germans had taken it long since, and he was wholly unarmed.
He was afraid to raise his head high enough to see the horseman, lest he
be seen, but the footsteps, as if fate had a grudge against him, were
coming nearer. His blood grew hot in a kind of rebellion against chance,
or the power that directed the universe. It was really a grim joke that,
after having escaped so much, a mere wandering scout of a Uhlan should
pick him up, so to speak, on the point of his lance.
He pressed hard against the earth. He would have pressed himself into it
if he could, and imagination, the deceiver, made him think that he was
doing so. The temptation to raise his head above the grass and look
became more violent, but will held him firm and he still lay flat.
Then he noticed that the hoofbeats wandered about in an irregular,
aimless fashion. Not even a scout hunting a good position for
observation would ride in such a way, and becoming more daring he
raised his head slowly, until he could peep over the grass stems. He saw
a horse, fifteen or twenty feet from him, but without rider, bridle or
saddle. It was a black horse of gigantic build like a Percheron, with
feet as large as a half-bushel measure, and a huge rough mane.
The horse saw John and gazed at him out of great, mild, limpid eyes. The
young American thought he beheld fright there and the desire for
companionship. The animal, probably belonging to some farmer who had
fled before the armies, had wandered into the battle area, seeking the
human friends to whom he was so used, and nothing living was more
harmless than he. He reminded John in some ways of those stalwart and
honest peasants who were so ruthlessly made into cannon food by the
gigantic and infinitely more dangerous Tammany that rules the seventy
million Germans.
The horse walked nearer and the look in his eyes became so full of
terror and the need of man's support that for the time he stood as a
human being in John's imagination.
"Poor old horse!" he called, "I'm sorry for you, but your case is no
worse than mine. Here we both are, wishing harm to nobody, but with a
million men shooting over our backs."
The horse, emboldened by the friendly voice, came nearer and nuzzled at
the human friend whom he had found so opportunely, and who, although so
much smaller than himself, was, as he knew, so much more powerful. This
human comrade would show him what to do and protect him from all harm.
But John took alarm. He too found pleasure in having a comrade, even if
it were only a horse, but the animal would probably attract the
attention of scouts or skirmishers. He tried to shoo him away, but for a
long time the horse would not move. At last he pulled a heavy bunch of
grass, wadded it together and threw it in his face.
The horse, staring at him reproachfully, turned and walked away. John's
lively fancy saw a tear in the huge, luminous eye, and his conscience
smote him hard.
"I had to do it, Marne, old fellow," he called. "You're so big and you
stick up so high that you arouse attention, and that's just what I don't
want."
He had decided to call the horse Marne, after the river near by, and he
noticed that he did not go far. The animal, reassured by John's friendly
after-word, began to crop the grass about twenty feet away. He had a
human friend after all, one on whom he could rely. Man did not want to
be bothered by him just then, but that was the way of man, and he did
not mind, since the grass was so plentiful and good. He would be there,
close at hand, when he was needed.
John was really moved by the interlude. The loneliness, and then the
friendliness of the horse appealed to him. He too needed a comrade, and
here he was. He forgot, for a time, the moaning of the shells over his
head, and began to think again about his escape. So thinking, the horse
came once more into his mind. He showed every sign of grazing there
until dark came. Then why not ride away on him? It was true that a
horse was larger and made more noise than a fugitive man slipping
through the grass, but there were times when strength and speed,
especially speed, counted for a lot.
The last hours of the afternoon waned, trailing their slow length,
minute by minute, and throughout that time the roar of the battle was as
steady as the fall of Niagara. It even came to the point that John paid
little attention to it, but the sport of kings, in which thousands of
men were ground up, they knew not why, went merrily on. None of the
shells struck near John, and with infinite joy he saw the coming of the
long shadows betokening the twilight. The horse, still grazing near by,
raised his head more than once and looked at him, as if it were time to
go. As the sun sank and the dusk grew John stood up. He saw that the
night was going to be dark and he was thankful. The Marne was merely a
silver streak in the shadow, and in the wood near by the trees were
fusing into a single clump of darkness.
He stood erect, stretching his muscles and feeling that it was glorious
to be a man with his head in the air, instead of a creature that
grovelled on the ground. Then he walked over to the horse and patted him
on the shoulder.
"Marne, old boy," he said, "I think it's about time for you and me to
go."
The horse rubbed his great head against John's arm, signifying that he
was ready to obey any command his new master might give him. John knew
from his build that he was a draught horse, but there were times in
which one could not choose a particular horse for a particular need.
"Marne, old fellow," he said, stroking the animal's mane, "you're not to
be a menial cart horse tonight. I am an Arabian genie and I hereby turn
you into a light, smooth, beautifully built automobile for one passenger
only, and I'm that passenger."
Holding fast to the thick mane he sprang upon the horse's back, and
urged him down the stream, keeping close to the water where there was
shelter among the willows and bushes. He had no definite idea in his
head, but he felt that if he kept on going he must arrive somewhere. He
was afraid to make the horse swim the river in an effort to reach the
French army. Appearing on the surface of the water he felt that he would
almost certainly be seen and some good rifleman or other would be sure
to pick him off.
He concluded at last that if no German troops came in sight he would let
the horse take him where he would. Marne must have a home and a master
somewhere and habit would send him to them. So he ceased to push at his
neck and try to direct him, and the horse continued a slow and peaceful
progress down the stream in the shadow of small trees. The night was
darker than those just before it, and the dampness of the air indicated
possible flurries of rain. Cannon still rumbled on the horizon like the
thunder of a summer night.
While trusting to the horse to lead him to some destination, John kept a
wary watch, with eyes now growing used to the darkness. If German
troops appeared and speed to escape were lacking, he would jump from
Marne's back and hunt a new covert. But he saw nobody. The evidences of
man's work were present continually in the cannonade, but man himself
was absent.
The horse went on with ponderous and sure tread. Evidently he had
wandered far under the influence of the firing, but it was equally
evident that his certain instinct was guiding him back again. He crossed
a brook flowing down into the Marne, passed through a wheat field, and
entered a little valley, where grew a number of oaks, clear of
undergrowth.
When he saw what was lying under the oaks he pulled hard at the rough
mane, until the horse stopped. He had distinctly made out the figures of
men, stretched upon the ground, apparently asleep, and sure to be
Germans. He stared hard at them, but the horse snorted and tried to pull
away. The action of the animal rather than his own eyesight made him
reckon aright.
A horse would not be afraid of living men, and, slipping from the back
of Marne, John approached cautiously. A few rays of wan moonlight
filtered through the trees, and when he had come close he shuddered over
and over again. About a dozen men lay on the ground and all were stone
dead. The torn earth and their own torn figures showed that a shell had
burst among them. Doubtless it had been an infantry patrol, and the
survivors had hurried away.
John, still shuddering, was about to turn back to his horse, when he
remembered that he needed much and that in war one must not be too
scrupulous. Force of will made him return to the group and he sought for
what he wanted. Evidently the firing had been hot there and the rest of
the patrol had not lingered in their flight.
He took from one man a pair of blankets. He could have had his choice of
two or three good rifles, but he passed them by in favor of a large
automatic pistol which would not be in the way. This had been carried by
a young man whom he took to be an officer, and he also found on him many
cartridges for the pistol. Then he searched their knapsacks for food,
finding plenty of bread and sausage and filling with it one knapsack
which he put over his shoulder.
He returned hastily to his horse, guided him around the fatal spot, and
when he was some distance on the other side dismounted and ate as only a
half-starved man can eat. Water was obtained from a convenient brook and
carefully storing the remainder of the food in the knapsack he remounted
the horse.
"Now go on, my good and gallant beast," he said, "and I feel sure that
your journey is nearly at an end. A draught horse like you, bulky and
slow, would not wander any great distance."
The horse himself immediately justified his prediction by raising his
head, neighing and advancing at a swifter pace. John saw, standing among
some trees, a low and small house, built of stone and evidently very
old, its humble nature indicating that it belonged to a peasant. Behind
it was a tiny vineyard, and there was a stable and another outhouse.
"Well, Marne, my lad, here's your home, beyond a doubt," said John. But
no answer came to the neigh. The house remained silent and dark. It
confirmed John's first belief that the horse belonged to some peasant
who had fled with his family from the armies. He stroked the animal's
neck, and felt real pity for him, as if he had been a child abandoned.
"I know that while I'm a friend I'm almost a stranger to you, but come,
we'll examine things," he said.
He sprang off the horse, and drew his automatic. The possession of the
pistol gave him an immense amount of courage and confidence, but he did
not anticipate any trouble at the house as he was sure that it was
abandoned.
He pushed open the door and saw a dark inside. Staring a little he made
out a plainly furnished room, from which all the lighter articles had
been taken. There was a hearth, but with no fire on it, and John decided
that he would sleep in the house. It was in a lonely place, but he would
take the risk.
The horse had already gone to the stable and was pushing the door with
his nose. John let him in, and found some oat straw which he gave him.
Then he left him munching in content, and as he departed he struck him a
resounding blow of friendliness on the flank.
"Good old Marne," he said, "you're certainly one of the best friends
I've found in Europe. In fact, you're about the only living being I've
associated with that doesn't want to kill somebody."
He entered the house and closed the door. In addition to the
sitting-room there was a bedroom and a kitchen, all bearing the signs of
recent occupancy. He found a small petroleum lamp, but he concluded not
to light it. Instead he sat on a wooden bench in the main room beside a
small window, ate a little more from the knapsack, and watched a while
lest friend or enemy should come.
It had grown somewhat darker and the clouds were driving across the sky.
The wind was rising and the threatened flurries of rain came, beating
against the cottage. John was devoutly glad that he had found the little
house. Having spent many hours immersed to his neck in a river he felt
that he had had enough water for one day. Moreover, his escape, his snug
shelter and the abundance of food at hand, gave him an extraordinary
sense of ease and rest. He noticed that in the darkness and rain one
might pass within fifty feet of the cottage without seeing it.
The wind increased and moaned among the oaks that grew around the house,
but above the moaning the sounds of battle, the distant thunder of the
artillery yet came. The sport of kings was going merrily on. Neither
night nor storm stopped it and men were still being ground by thousands
into cannon food. But John had now a feeling of detachment. Three days
of continuous battle had dulled his senses. They might fight on as they
pleased. It did not concern him, for tonight at least. He was going to
look out for himself.
He fastened the door securely, but, as he left the window open,
currents of fresh cool air poured into the room. He was now fully
revived in both mind and body, and he took present ease and comfort,
thinking but little of the future. The flurries of rain melted into a
steady pour. The cold deepened, and as he wrapped the two blankets
around him his sense of comfort increased. Lightning flared at
infrequent intervals and now and then real thunder mingled with that of
the artillery.
He felt that he might have been back at home. It was like some snug
little place in the high hills of Pennsylvania or New York. Like many
other Americans, he often felt surprise that Europe should be so much
like America. The trees and the grass and the rivers were just the same.
Nothing was different but the ancient buildings. He knew now that
history and a long literature merely created the illusion of difference.
He wondered why the artillery fire did not die, with the wind sweeping
such gusts of rain before it. Then he remembered that the sound of so
many great cannon could travel a long distance, and there might be no
rain at the points from which the firing came. The cottage might stand
in a long narrow valley up which the clouds would travel.
Not feeling sleepy yet he decided to have another look about the house.
A search revealed a small box of matches near the lamp on the shelf.
Then he closed the window in order to shut in the flame, and, lighting
the lamp, pursued his investigation.
He found in the kitchen a jar of honey that he had overlooked, and he
resolved to use a part of it for breakfast. Europeans did not seem able
to live without jam or honey in the mornings, and he would follow the
custom. Not much was left in the other rooms, besides some old articles
of clothing, including two or three blue blouses of the kind worn by
French peasants or workmen, but on one of the walls he saw an excellent
engraving of the young Napoleon, conqueror of Italy.
It showed him, horseback, on a high road looking down upon troops in
battle, Castiglione or Rivoli, perhaps, his face thin and gaunt, his
hair long and cut squarely across his forehead, the eyes deep, burning
and unfathomable. It was so thoroughly alive that he believed it must be
a reproduction of some great painting. He stood a long time, fascinated
by this picture of the young republican general who rose like a meteor
over Europe and who changed the world.
John, like nearly all young men, viewed the Napoleonic cycle with a
certain awe and wonder. A student, he had considered Napoleon the great
democratic champion and mainly in the right as far as Austerlitz. Then
swollen ambition had ruined everything and, in his opinion, another
swollen ambition, though for far less cause, was now bringing equal
disaster upon Europe. A belief in one's infallibility might come from
achievement or birth, but only the former could win any respect from
thinking men.
It seemed to John presently that the deep, inscrutable eyes were gazing
at him, and he felt a quivering at the roots of his hair. It was young
Bonaparte, the republican general, and not Napoleon, the emperor, who
was looking into his heart.
"Well," said John, in a sort of defiance, "if you had stuck to your
early principles we wouldn't have all this now. First Consul you might
have been, but you shouldn't have gone any further."
He turned away with a sigh of regret that so great a warrior and
statesman, in the end, should have misused his energies.
He returned to the room below, blew out the lamp and opened the window
again. The cool fresh air once more poured into the room, and he took
long deep breaths of it. It was still raining, though lightly, and the
pattering of the drops on the leaves made a pleasant sound. The thunder
and the lightning had ceased, though not the far rumble of artillery.
John knew that the sport of kings was still going on under the
searchlights, and all his intense horror of the murderous monarchies
returned. He was not sleepy yet, and he listened a long time. The sound
seemed to come from both sides of him, and he felt that the abandoned
cottage among the trees was merely a little oasis in the sea of war.
The rain ceased and he concluded to scout about the house to see if any
one was near, or if any farm animals besides the horse had been left.
But Marne was alone. There was not even a fowl of any kind. He concluded
that the horse had probably wandered away before the peasant left, as so
valuable an animal would not have been abandoned otherwise.
His scouting--he was learning to be very cautious--took him some
distance from the house and he came to a narrow road, but smooth and
hard, a road which troops were almost sure to use, while such great
movements were going on. He waited behind a hedge a little while, and
then he heard the hum of motors.
He had grown familiar with the throbbing, grinding sound made by many
military automobiles on the march, but he waited calmly, merely
loosening his automatic for the sake of precaution. He felt sure that
while he stood behind a hedge he would never be seen on a dark night by
men traveling in haste. The automobiles came quickly into view and in
those in front he saw elderly men in uniforms of high rank. Nearly all
the German generals seemed to him to be old men who for forty or fifty
years had studied nothing but how to conquer, men too old and hardened
to think much of the rights of others or ever to give way to generous
emotions.
He also saw sitting erect in one of the motors the man for whom he had
felt at first sight an invincible repulsion. Prince Karl of Auersperg.
Young von Arnheim had represented the good prince to him, but here was
the medieval type, the believer in divine right, and in his own
superiority, decreed even before birth. John noted in the moonlight his
air of ownership, his insolent eyes and his heavy, arrogant face. He
hoped that the present war would sweep away all such as Auersperg.
He watched nearly an hour while the automobiles, cyclists, a column of
infantry, and then several batteries of heavy guns drawn by motors,
passed. He judged that the Germans were executing a change of front
somewhere, and that the Franco-British forces were still pressing hard.
The far thunder of the guns had not ceased for an instant, although it
must be nearly midnight. He wished he knew what this movement on the
part of the Germans meant, but, even if he had known, he had no way of
reaching his own army, and he turned back to the cottage.
Having fastened the door securely again he spread the blankets on the
bench by the window and lay down to sleep. The tension was gone from his
nerves now, and he felt that he could fall asleep at once, but he did
not. A shift in the wind brought the sound of the artillery more
plainly. His imagination again came into vivid play. He believed that
the bench beneath him, the whole cottage, in fact, was quivering before
the waves of the air, set in such violent motion by so many great guns.
It annoyed him intensely. He felt a sort of personal anger against
everybody. It was past midnight of the third day and it was time for the
killing to stop. At least they might rest until morning, and give his
nerves a chance. He moved restlessly on the bench a half hour or more,
but at last he sank gradually to sleep. As his eyes closed the thunder
of the cannonade was as loud and steady as ever. He slept, but the
murderous sport of kings went on.