HE HEARS ABOUT ALSACE AND RECEIVES A PRESENT
That was a good lesson for Tom and a practical demonstration of the
wisdom of Mr. Conne's advice. Not that he had exactly gone outside his
duties to indulge his appetite for adventure, but he had had a good
scare which reminded him what a suspicious and particular old gentleman
Uncle Sam is in wartime.
The officer, who had thus frightened him and, in Tom's opinion, cast a
slur upon the Scouts, made matters worse by scrutinizing him (or so he
fancied) whenever they met upon the deck. But that was all there was to
it, and the captain's mess boy did his allotted tasks each day, and
stood for no end of jollying from the soldiers, who called him "Whitey"
and "Eats," because he carried the captain's tray back and forth.
This banter he shared with Frenchy, who took it as good-humoredly as Tom
himself, when he understood it, and when he didn't Tom explained it to
him.
"Ziss--how you call--_can_ ze Kaiser?" he would inquire politely.
"That means putting him in a tin can," said Tom.
"Ze tin can? Ze--how you call--wipe ze floor wiz him?"
"They both mean the same thing," said Tom. "They mean beating him--good
and thorough--kind of."
Frenchy did not seem to understand but he would wave his hands and say
with great vehemence, "Ah, ze Kaiser, he must be defeat! Ze wretch!"
Frenchy's name was Armande Lateur. He was an American by adoption and
though he had spent much time among the people of his own nationality in
Canada, he was strong for Uncle Sam with a pleasant, lingering fondness
for the region of the "blue Alsatian mountains," whence he had come.
It was from Frenchy that Tom learned much which (if he had only known
it) was to serve him well in the perilous days to come.
The day before they entered the danger zone the two, secure for a
little while from the mirthful artillery fire of the soldiers, had a
little chat which Tom was destined long to remember.
They were sitting at dusk in the doorway of the unoccupied guardhouse
which ordinarily was the second cabin smoking-room.
"Alsace-Lorraine is part of Germany," said Tom, his heavy manner of
talking contrasting strangely with Frenchy's excitability. "So you were
a German citizen before you got to be an American; and your people over
there must be German citizens."
"Zey are Zherman _slaves_--yess! Citizens--no! See! When still I am a
leetle boy, I must learn ze Zherman. I must go to ze Zherman school. My
pappa have to pay fine when hees cheeldren speak ze French. My little
seester when she sing ze Marsellaise--she must go t'ree days to ze
Zherman zhail!"
"You mean to prison?" Tom asked. "Just for singing the Marsellaise! Why,
the hand-organs play that where I live!"
"Ah, yess--Americ'! In Alsace, even before ze war--you sing ze
Marsellaise, t'ree days you go to ze zhail. You haf' a book printed in
ze French--feefty marks you must pay!" He waived his cigarette, as if
it might have been a deadly sword, and hurled it over the rail.
"After Germany took Alsace-Lorraine away from France," said Tom,
unmoved, "and began treating the French people that way, I should think
lots of 'em would have moved to France."
"Many--yess; but some, no. My pappa had a veenyard. Many years ziss
veenyard is owned by my people--my anceestors. Even ze village is name
for my family--Lateur. You know ze Franco-Prussian War--when Zhermany
take Alsace-Lorraine--yess?"
"Yes," said Tom.
"My pappa fight for France. Hees arm he lose. When it is over and Alsace
is lost, he haf' lost more than hees arm. Hees spirit! Where can he go?
Away from ze veenyard? Here he hass lived--always."
"I understand," said Tom.
"Yess," said Frenchy with great satisfaction. "Zat is how eet is--you
will understand. My pappa cannot go. Zis is hees _home_. So he
stay--stay under ze Zhermans. Ah! For everything, _everything_, we must
pay ze tax. Five hundred soldiers, zey keep, _always_--in zis little
village--and only seven hundred people. Ziss is ze way. Ugh! Even ze
name zey change--Dundgart! Ugh!"
"I don't like it as well as Lethure," said matter-of-fact Tom.
Frenchy laughed at Tom's pronunciation. "Zis is how you say--Le-teur.
See? I will teach you ze French."
"How did you happen to come to America?" Tom asked.
"Ah! I will tell you," Frenchy said, as a grim, dangerous look gathered
in his eyes. "You are--how many years, my frien'!"
"I'm seventeen," said Tom.
"One cannot tell wiz ze Americans," Frenchy explained. "Zey grow so
queeck--so beeg. In Europe, zey haf' nevaire seen anyzing like zis--zis
army," he added, indicating with a sweeping wave of his hand the groups
of lolling, joking soldiers.
"They make fun of you a lot, don't they?"
"Ah, zat I do not mind."
"Maybe that's why they all like you."
"I will tell you," said Frenchy, reverting to Tom's previous question.
"I am zhust ze same age as you--sefenteen--when zey throw my seester in
ze zhail because she sing ze Marsellaise. Zat I cannot stand! You
see?--When ze soldiers--fat Zhermans, ugh! When zey come for her, I
strike zis fat one--here--so."
"I'm glad you did," said Tom.
"Hees eye I cut open, _so_. Wiz my fist--zhust boy's fist, but so
sharp."
"I don't blame you," said Tom.
"So zen I must flee. Even to be rude to ze Zherman soldier--zis is
crime. So I come to Americ'. Zey are looking for me, but I go by night,
I sleep in ze haystack--zis I show. (He exhibited a little iron button
with nothing whatever upon it.) You see? Zis is--what you
call--talisman. Yess?
"So I come to Epinal across ze border, through ze pass in ze mountains.
I am free! I go to my uncle in Canada who is agent to our wines. Zen I
come to Chicago, where I haf' other uncle--also agent. Now I go to
France wiz ze Americans to take Alsace back. What should I care if they
laugh at me? We go to take Alsace back! Alsace!--Listen--I will tell
you!
"Vive la France!
A bas la Prusse!
D'Schwowe mien
Zuem Elsass 'nuess!
See if you can say zis," he smiled.
Tom shook his head.
"I will tell you--see.
"Long live France!
Down with Prussia!
The Boches must
Get out of Alsace!"
"It must make you feel good after all that to go back now and make them
give up Alsace," said Tom, his stolid nature moved by the young fellow's
enthusiasm. "I'd like it if I'd been with you when you escaped and ran
away like that. I like long hikes and adventures and things, anyway. It
must be a long time since you saw your people."
"Saw! Even I haf' not _heard_ for t'ree year. Eight years ago I fled
away. Even before America is in ze war I haf' no letters. Ze Zhermans
tear zem up! Ah, no matter. When it is all over and ze boundary line is
back at ze Rhine again--zen I will see zem. My pappa, my moother, my
seester Florette----"
His eyes glistened and he paused.
"I go wiz Uncle Sam! My seester will sing ze Marsellaise!"
"Yes," said Tom. "She can sing it all she wants."
"If zey are not yet killed," Frenchy added, looking intently out upon
the ocean.
"I kind of feel that they're not," said Tom simply. "Sometimes I have
feelings like that and they usually come out true."
Frenchy looked suddenly at him, then embraced him. "See, I will give you
ziss," he said, handing Tom the little iron button. "I haf' two--see? I
will tell you about zis," he added, drawing close and holding it so that
Tom could see. "It is made from ze cannon in my pappa's regiment. Zis is
when Alsace and Lorraine were lost--you see? Zey swear zey would win or
die together--and so zey all die--except seventy. So zese men, zey swear
zey will stand by each other, forever--zese seventy. You see? Even in
poor Alsace--and in Lorraine. So zese, ze haf' make from a piece of ze
cannon. You see? If once you can get across ze Zherman lines into
Alsace, zis will find you friends and shelter. Ah, but you must be
careful. You see? You must watch for zis button and when you see--zen
you can show zis. You will know ze person who wears ze button is
French--man, woman, peasant, child. Ze Zhermans do not know. Zey are
fine spies, fine sneaks! But zis zey do not know. You see?"
It was as much to please the generous Frenchy as for any other reason
(though, to be sure, he was glad to have it) that Tom took the little
button and put it in his pocket.
"Ze iron cross--you know zat?"
"I've heard about it," said Tom.
"Zat means murder, savagery, death! Zis little button means friendship,
help. Ze Zhermans do not know. You take this for--what you call--lucky
piece?"
"I'll always keep it," said Tom, little dreaming what it would mean to
him.
An authoritative voice was heard and they saw the soldiers throwing away
their cigars and cigarettes and emptying their pipes against the rail.
At the same time the electric light in the converted guard house was
extinguished and an officer came along calling something into each of
the staterooms along the promenade tier. They were entering the danger
zone.