that drove her to her knees, but she clung stubbornly, with rigid
fingers to the table-edge. Although she was dazed she retained
consciousness by a sharp effort of her failing will. She had not yet
achieved that for which she was fighting.
The dull thud of the blows, the confusion, the sight of the blood
drove the old woman in the corner suddenly upright on her tottering
feet. Her rheumy eyes glared affrighted at the sight of the only
friend she recognized in all her mad, black world lying there across
the table. She stood swaying in a petrified terror for a moment.
Then with a thin wail, "He's killing her!" she ran around them and
gained the door.
With a mighty effort Olga Brenner lifted her head so that her face,
swollen beyond recognition, was turned toward her mother-in-law. Her
almost sightless eyes fastened themselves on the old woman.
"Run!" she cried. "Run to the village!"
The mad woman, obedient to that commanding voice, flung open the
door and lurched over the threshold and disappeared in the fog. It
came to Mart that the woman running through the night with the wail
of terror was the greatest danger he would know. Olga Brenner saw
his look of sick terror. He started to spring after the mad woman,
forgetful of the half-conscious creature on her knees before him.
But as he turned, Olga, moved by the greatness of her passion,
forced strength into her maimed body. With a straining leap she
sprawled herself before him on the floor. He stumbled, caught for
the table, and fell with a heavy crash, striking his head on a
near-by chair. Olga raised herself on her shaking arms and looked at
him. Minute after minute passed, and yet he lay still. A second long
ten minutes ticked itself off on the clock, which Olga could barely
see. Then Mart opened his eyes, sat up, and staggered to his feet.
Before full consciousness could come to him again, his wife crawled
forward painfully and swiftly coiled herself about his legs. He
struggled, still dizzy from his fall, bent over and tore at her
twining arms, but the more he pulled the tighter she clung,
fastening her misshapen fingers in the lacing of his shoes. He swore!
And he became panic-stricken. He began to kick at her, to make
lunges toward the distant door. Kicking and fighting, dragging her
clinging body with him at every move, that body which drew him back
one step for every two forward steps he took, at last he reached the
wall. He clutched it, and as his hand slipped along trying to find a
more secure hold he touched the cold iron of a long-handled pan
hanging there.
With a snarl he snatched it down, raised it over his head, and
brought it down upon his wife's back. Her hands opened spasmodically
and fell flat at her sides. Her body rolled over, limp and broken.
And a low whimper came from her bleeding lips.
Satisfied, Mart paused to regain his breath. He had no way of
knowing how long this unequal fight had been going on.
But he was free. The way of escape was open. He laid his hand on the
door.
There were voices. He cowered, cast hunted glances at the bloody
figure on the floor, bit his knuckles in a frenzy.
As he looked, the eyes opened in his wife's swollen face, eyes aglow
with triumph. "You'll swing for it, Mart!" she whispered faintly.
"And the money's on the table! Tobey's saved!"
Rough hands were on the door. A flutter of breath like a sigh of
relief crossed her lips and her lids dropped as the door burst open
to a tide of men.
The big yellow butterfly swung low on his golden wings and came to
rest on her narrow, sunken breast.
NO FLOWERS
BY GORDON ARTHUR SMITH
From _Harper's Monthly Magazine_
Steve Dempsey was a conspicuously ingenious chief machinist's
mate--one of the most ingenious in the Naval Aviation Forces,
Foreign Service, and he was ingenious not only with his hands, but
with his tongue. That is why I cannot guarantee the veracity of what
follows; I can but guarantee that he guaranteed it.
Steve had had a varied and highly coloured career, and I think that
the war, or so much of it as he was permitted to see, seemed to him
a comparatively tame affair--something all in the year's work. When
he was fifteen years old he was conducting his father's public
garage in a town not far from Denver; at that age he knew as much
about motors as the men who built them, and he had, moreover, the
invaluable knack of putting his finger immediately on a piece of
erring mechanism and, with the aid of a bit of wire and a pair of
pliers, setting it to rights. Given enough wire and a pair of pliers,
I believe that he could have built the Eiffel Tower.
Becoming restless in the garage, he determined to make his fortune
quickly, and accordingly went out prospecting in the vicinity of the
Little Annie mine. He bought himself a small patch of promising
ground and he and another fellow shovelled away until they had no
money left. So then he took up aviation.
He was one of the pioneers of the flying-men in this country. He
used to fly at country fairs in an old ramshackle bus of the Wright
model--a thing of sticks and canvas and wires precariously hung
together. But he flew it. And he rehabilitated his finances.
When war was declared he enlisted as a gob and was sent on sea duty.
He knew, of course, nothing of sea duty, but lack of knowledge of a
subject had never daunted him, for he had the faculty of learning
things quickly by himself and for himself. His mechanical ability
asserting itself, he was made a machinist's mate, second class, and
transferred over to the Aviation. When I knew him he had proved so
valuable at the various air stations that he had been advanced to
chief machinist's mate and was an assistant in the Technical Division
at Paris headquarters.
He was a very friendly soul, always respectful enough, even when
outspoken, and no more in fear of an admiral than of--well, he
would have said than of a marine. During his year of service, you see,
he had absorbed most of the navy traditions. He spoke the navy
speech like an old-timer, and undoubtedly amplified the regular navy
vocabulary with picturesque expressions of his own. Of course he was
very profane....
Sunday morning at headquarters was apt to be a slack morning, with
not much work to do; but in intervals of idleness one could always
be certain of finding something of interest to see or hear in
Steve's office. Usually he would be in front of his drafting-board
working on a new design for a muffler or a machine-gun turret or a
self-starter, or figuring out the possibility of flying _through_
the Arc de Triomphe, which, he claimed could be done with six feet
to spare at each wing-tip. This, and climbing the Eiffel Tower on
its girders, were two of his pet projects.
On a Sunday in August of 1918 there were assembled around his
drafting-board an interested and receptive audience of four--Peters,
an ensign attached to the "lighter-than-air" section; Madden, a
pilot on his way up from Italy to the Northern Bombing Group; Erskine,
a lieutenant in the Operations Division; and Matthews, a chief yeoman.
"Yes," Dempsey was saying, "I'm _beaucoup_ sorry for these here
frawgs. They're just bein' massacred--that's all it is--_massacred_.
And there don't anybody take much notice, either. Say, somebody was
tellin' me the other day just how many the French has lost since the
beginnin' of the war. Just about one million. I wouldn't believe it,
but it's straight. It was a French colonel that was tellin' me out
to the Hispano factory day before yesterday, and he'd oughta know
because he was through the battle of the Marne and the Soam, and
everything."
"Did he tell you in French?" inquired Ensign Peters, meaningly, for
Dempsey's French was admittedly limited.
"Pardon?" said Dempsey, and then, grasping the innuendo: "No, sir,
he did _not_. Why, he talks English as good as you and me. That's
another thing about these frawgs--they can all _parlez-vous_ any
language. I never yet seen a Frenchie I couldn't talk to yet."
"Did you ever see anybody you couldn't talk to yet, Steve?"
suggested the chief yeoman.
"Here, you, how d'ya get that way? Who was it I seen th' other night
out walking in the Boy de Bullone with a skirt? And I guess you
wasn't talkin'--why, you was talkin' so fast you had to help out
with your hands, just like a frawg.... No, as I say, I feel sorry
for these French in more ways than one."
"Just how do you display that sorrow?" asked Ensign Madden.
Dempsey hesitated an instant, scratched his head, and very carefully
drew a line on the tracing-paper in front of him.
"Well, sir," he said, finally, "I displayed it last Sunday."
Then he relapsed into silence, and resumed work on the drawing. But
as he worked he grinned quietly--a provocative grin which inspired
curiosity.
"What did you do last Sunday?" prodded Peters.
The grin widened as Steve glanced up from the board. He laid aside
his instruments, tilted back in his chair, and said: "Well, it
wasn't very regular, what I done last Sunday, but I'll tell you if
you don't have me up before a court.... You remember last Sunday
was a swell day? Spring in the air, I guess, and everything, and
everybody was out walking like Matthews, here, with a Jane. I 'ain't
got a Jane, of course----"
"What!" roared Matthews.
"I 'ain't got a Jane, of course, so I decides to take a little look
around all by myself. Well, I goes down the Chomps-Eleezy feelin'
pretty good and sorta peppy and lookin' for trouble. I see all them
army heroes--the vets and the dentists and the S O S--each with a
skirt, and I passes Matthews, here, with _his_ skirt clingin' to him
like a cootie."
"Cut it out, you big stiff," interposed Matthews.
"Like a cootie," continued Steve, "and I got sorta de-pressed. So I
sez, me for the quiet, unfrequented streets over acrost the river.
Well, sir, I was just passin' the Loover--that big museum, or
whatever it is--when I see a hearse comin' in the opposite direction.
It was a pretty sick-lookin' hearse, too. It had a coupla animals
hitched to it that was probably called horses when they was young,
and that didn't have a steak minoot left on 'em. But they was all
covered with mangy black plumes and tassels and things--you know, the
way they rig 'em up when the corpse is takin' his last drive. And
there was an old bird sittin' up on the box-seat with a hat like
Napoleon One.
"Well, at first it looked to me like it was just the regular frawg
funeral, and I didn't pay no special attention, only I give it the
salute when I got opposite. Then I see that there weren't no flowers
nor tin wreaths on the coffin--except there was one little buncha
pinks, and they was a pretty sad-lookin' buncha pinks, too, sir.
Then I see that there weren't no procession walkin' along
behind--except there was one little old woman all in black and
lookin' sorta sick and scared. Yes, sir, there she was walkin' all
by herself and lookin' lonelier 'n hell.
"So I sez to myself: 'It's all wrong, Steve, it's all wrong. Here's
a poor dead frawg, the only son of his mother and her a
widow'--that's Bible stuff, sir--'goin' out to be planted with none
of the gang around. It's tough,' I sez. 'I'll say it is.' Well, I
told you I didn't have nothin' much to do, so I sez, 'Laffyette,
cheeri-o,' and steps up beside the old lady. That makes two mourners,
anyhow.
"Well, the old lady give me the once over and seen Mr. Daniels's
uniform and the rooster on my sleeve, and I guess decides that I'm
eligible to the club. Anyway, she sorta nodded at me and pretty soon
begun to snuffle and look for her handkerchief. It wasn't no use,
though, for she didn't have any.
"Meanwhile we was crossin' one of them bridges--just crawlin' along
like one of the motors had quit and the other was hittin' only on
three. If we'd been in the air we'd stalled sure and gone into a
tail-spin. All the time I was thinkin' how to say 'Cheer up' to the
old dame in French, but all I could think of at first was 'Bravo'
and '_Vous-ate tray jolee_!' Still it was sorta stupid walkin' along
and no conversation, so I guess I musta had an inspiration or
something, and I sez, pointing ahead at the coffin, '_Mort avec mon
Dieu_.' The old lady lost her step at that, because I suppose she
was surprised by a Yank speakin' good French, most of 'em relyin',
like Matthews here, on the sign language, although I'll say that
Matthews gets plenty far enough with that. Why, they're four girls
and a widow at home that if they knew how far Matthews was gettin'
with the sign language they'd be gray-headed to-day.... Aw, well,
Matthews, quit spoilin' this drawin'. Do you wanta get me and
Admiral Sims into trouble with the department?"
"Go ahead with your funeral, Steve," said Lieutenant Erskine--"unless
your power of invention has failed you."
Dempsey looked up with a hurt and innocent expression on his face.
"Oh, lootenant," he exclaimed, "what I'm tellin' is gospel. It's as
true--it's as true as the communikays."
"All right," said Erskine, "issue another, then."
"Well," Steve continued, "where was I? Oh yes, we was on the bridge
and I'd just told the old lady that the dead soldier was in heaven
by now."
"Soldier?" repeated Erskine. "What made you believe he was a soldier?"
"Why, ain't every frawg a soldier now, sir."
"How did you know, even, that it was a male frog?"
"I'm comin' to that, sir," replied Steve. "That comes next. You see,
once the old lady knew I could _parlez-vous_ with the best of 'em,
she continued the conversation and sez, '_Mon pover fees_.' Get that?
'_Mon pover fees_.' Well, that means, translated, 'My poor son.'"
At this revelation of startling linguistic ability Steve paused to
receive felicitations. When they were forthcoming he proceeded.
"So, of course, I know then that the corpse is a dead soldier, and I
decides to see him through until he's made a safe landing somewhere.
Well, just as we was acrost the bridge, the two ex-horses doin' fine
on the down grade, I seen a marine standin' on the corner tellin' a
buncha girls all about Château-Teery. Well, I thought that maybe it
'ud be a good thing if he joined the funeral, because, anyway, the
girls could hear all about Chateau-Teery the next marine they saw.
So I yell out at him: 'Hey, you! Come and join the navy and see the
world!'
"Well, he looks around, and, although I guess he didn't much wanta
leave them girls, he decides that he'll come and see what the big
game is. So he salutes the corpse and steps in beside me and whispers,
'Say, chief, what's the idea?'
"'Whadd 'ya think, you poor cheese?' I sez. 'D'ya think it's a
weddin'? Get in step. We're goin' to bury a French _poiloo_.'
"'Is that so?' he sez."
"'Yes, that's so,' I sez. 'Get over acrost on the other side of the
widowed mother and say somethin' cheerful to her in French--if you
know any.'"
"'If I know any!' sez he. 'Wasn't I at Château-Teery?'"
"'Well,' I sez, 'don't tell her about that. Tell her somethin' she
ain't heard already.'"
"'You go to blazes!' he sez, and crosses over like I told him. And
pretty soon I seen him gettin' all red and I knew he was goin' to
shoot some French at the old lady, and, sure enough, out he come with,
'_Madame je swee enchantay_.'"
"Well, sir, I like to 've died tryin' to keep from laughin' at that,
because what it means translated is, 'Madam, I'm deelighted.' Trust
them marines to say the right thing at the wrong time--I'll say they
do."
"By the time I get under control we're opposite the French Aviation
Headquarters--you know, the Service Technique on the Bullyvard
Saint-Germain. Well, there was a lot of doughboys hangin' around
there wastin' time, and I see one on a motor-cycle with a sergeant
sittin' in the side-car. So I step out of the ranks and sez to the
sergeant, 'What ya doin'?' And he sez, 'Waitin'--but there's nobody
home at all, at all.' So I sez: 'Well, you and your side-car is
commandeered for this funeral. We're buryin' a frawg and we need
some more mourners. The old lady is his widowed mother, and the
corpse, he's her only son and her a widow.' He sez: 'Shure, Oi'll
come, an' Oi'll be afther gettin' some o' thim other divvles to jine.
Me name is Roilly.' 'Right-o, old dear,' I sez. 'I didn't think it
was Moses and Straus.'"
"Well, sir, Reilly was a good scout, and inside of a minute he had
six doughboys lined up behind the hearse and him bringin' up the
rear in the side-car. The side-car kept backfirin', and it sounded
like we was firin' salutes to the dead all the way to the park.
"I wanta tell ya, that old lady was tickled. Why, there we was
already ten strong, with more to come, because I drafted three gobs
at the Bullyvard Raspail. They wasn't quite sober, but I kep' my eye
on 'em and they behaved fine. I sez to them: 'You drunken bums, you!
You join this funeral or I'll see you're put in the brig to-night.'
But to make sure they'd not disgrace Mr. Daniels's uniform I put 'em
right behind the widow and the marine and me.
"Well, it appears that one of 'em talks French good--real good, I
mean, sir--like a frawg waiter or a coacher."
"Or a what?" interjected Erskine.
"Or a coacher," repeated Steve, with dignity. "The fact is, he
talked it so good that--well, never mind that yet. He's a smart
fellow, though, Mr. Erskine, by the name of Rathbone. Well, never
mind--only he's a good fellow and 'ud be pretty useful here, with
his French and everything.
"Well, anyway, I begun to wonder after a while where that fellow
driving the hearse was takin' us to. We'd gone out the old Bullyvard
Raspail a deuce of a way, and Napoleon One showed no signs of
stoppin' them horses, and I didn't see no cemetery.
"I sez to the marine, 'I guess we're not goin' to stop till we get
to Château-Teery,' and he sez, 'You go to hell and stop _there_.' So
I sez, 'I hope the poor old lady don't understand your English.'
"The old dame, I could see, was beginnin' to get weak in the knees
and was walkin' about as unsteady as the three gobs behind us. So me
and the marine each grabbed an arm and she sez, '_Mercy_,' and tried
to start a smile. I guess it was pretty hard goin', because the
smile didn't get far.
"Well, anyway, we kep' right on and passed that stone lion out there
and went right through the gates, the boys all marchin' strong and
the motor-bike makin' one hell of a noise aft. When we get through
the gates I fall back and I sez to the gob, 'Rathbone,' I sez, 'ask
the lady where we're headed and if she trusts the driver.' So
Rathbone moves up and has quite a _parlez-vous_ with her.
"'Well,' I sez, 'what's she say?'
"'She sez,' sez Rathbone, 'that we're goin' to bury him in a field
out here, and that there ain't no priest will bury him and there
ain't no cemetery she can bury him in.'
"'That's funny,' I sez--'too poor, I guess. Well, anyway, it's a
shame--I'll say it is--it's a shame.'
"'Yes,' sez Rathbone, slowly, as if he was thinkin'--'yes, it's a
damn shame!'"
"And the other two gobs who wasn't as sober as Rathbone, they sez,
too, 'Yes, it's a damn shame.'"
"'That makes the navy unanimous,' I sez, and then I begin to work my
bean. I was still workin' it and it was respondin' about as well as
one of them black Kabyles that are pretendin' to help build our
station at Lacanau--I was still workin' it, when the old hearse
swings to the right through a gate in a stone wall and brings up
short in a field. There was grass in the field and daisies and things,
and a lotta tin crosses stuck on mounds that I guessed was graves.
It woulda been a pretty cheerful old field, I guess, if they'd let
it alone, but them tin crosses looked pretty sick and the paint was
peelin' off the tin flowers that people had stuck on the graves, and
I guess the head gardener wasn't much of a hand at weedin'."
"Well, anyway, we all line up in a sorta circle and every one looks
pretty downhearted and the three gobs gets perfectly sober, which
was a relief. Then Napoleon One climbs down from his box and says
somethin' in French to the old widow and points to two birds who're
diggin' a hole half-way acrost the field. Rathbone sez that he sez
that that is the grave and that the two birds is the grave-diggers
and pall-bearers combined."
"'They are, are they?' I sez. 'This is a military funeral, ain't it?
A military funeral conducted by the navy with the army for
pall-bearers. And I call on Sergeant Reilly to back me up.'
"'Shure,' sez Reilly, 'but who'll be providin' the priest?'
"Well, when he sez that my old bean give a sort of throb, and I sez:
'Don't bother your nut about the priest. He'll be forthcomin' when
and if needed.'
"So, while Reilly was explainin' to his six doughboys and Rathbone
was bringin' Napoleon One up to date, me and the widow and the
marine goes over to superintend the two birds diggin' the grave.
They was two funny-lookin' old birds, too--I'll say they was. They
was about a hundred years old apiece and had long white whiskers
like St. Peter, and, say, they talked a whole lot more than they dug.
I guess they musta been workin' on that grave for a coupla weeks--you
know, ten minutes _parlez-vous_ and then one shovela dirt. Me and
the marine had to grab their shovels and finish the job or there
wouldn't 'a' been no funeral _that_ day.
"When we get back the six doughboys is all ready to give first aid
to the coffin, and Rathbone is talkin' to Napoleon One like they was
brothers. So I go up to them and I sez to Rathbone:
"'Looka here, Rathbone. I'm the priest at this party. See?'
"'What's that?' sez Rathbone. 'Come again.'
"'I say I'm the priest. This dead _poiloo_ ain't gotta priest nor
nothin' and there's his poor mother and her a widow. So I'm that
missin' priest, and I'm not too proud to perform free and gratis.
Get that?'
"'Hold on, chief,' sez Rathbone. 'You ain't got nothin' to wear.'
"'Nothin' to wear!' I sez. 'You poor cheese, I'm a navy chaplain.'
"'You look more like a Charlie Chaplin,' sez Rathbone.
"I guess that bird wasn't sober yet, after all, because he thought
he was funny.
"'Can the comedy,' I sez, 'and you go tell the widow that Father
Dempsey, the head chaplain of the U.S. Navy, has consented to
perform this afternoon. Now, get it straight, and for Gawd's sake
don't go and laugh or I'll put you in the brig.'
"Well, Rathbone looks at me like I was goin' to my death.
"'Good-by, chief,' he sez. 'Wait till the admiral hears of this.'
"'Haw,' I sez--'if he does I'll get decorated.'
"Well, I give Reilly the high sign and out comes the coffin on the
doughboys' shoulders. Napoleon One leads the way, and Rathbone and
the widow step in after the coffin, and I see that they is talkin'
together _beaucoup_ earnestly.
"When we get to the grave the doughboys set down the coffin beside
it and all forms in a circle with me and the widow facin' each other.
And then there's an anxious silence. I'll say right here that I was
the most anxious, and I was sweatin' more than I guess any chaplain
oughta sweat. But, by luck, I happen to think that I have my old
logarithm-book in my pocket--you know, the one that's bound in black
patent-leather. Looks sorta as if it might be a prayer-book or
somethin' like that. Anyway, the widow, bein' a frawg widow, I
figgered how she'd think maybe it was a Yank Bible issued special to
the A.E.F. and condensed like malted milk or somethin'.
"So I draw the old logarithm-book outa my coat and ease up gently to
the edge of the grave. The doughboys and the gobs, all except
Rathbone, who is wise, acourse, begin to nudge each other and snicker.
I oughta warned 'em what was comin', but I didn't have no time, it
come to me so quick. So I pretended to read from the book, and sez,
in a low voice and very solemn, like I was openin' the funeral, 'If
any you birds here starts laughin' I'll see him after the show and
I'll knock the daylight outa him.'
"'Amen,' sez Rathbone, very piously.
"'We've come here to-day,' I sez, always like I was readin' from the
book--'we've come here to-day to plant a frawg soldier who's the
only son of his mother and her a widow. And she's so broke that
there ain't no regular priest or no regular cemetery that'll offer
their services. So I'm the priest, and it's goin' to make a lotta
difference to that poor widow's feelin's when she thinks her son's
got a swell U. S. Navy priest administering the rites. Now, get that
straight and don't start whinnyin' like a buncha horses and gum the
game.'
"Well, I stop there for breath, and Rathbone, who's right on the job,
comes across with another 'Amen,' and Reilly, who's a good Catholic,
sez, _'Pax vobiscum_.'
"So that's all right, and I give her the gun and go ahead.