outlook will. That was the start of his demoralisation. He was the first
of all his line who had been told to hide himself from death. No more
the worsted bravery, the pipeclay, lace and scarlet. No more the old
military swagger. No more the drummer boy with a waist like a French
dancing girl, wrists like Bombardier Wells, and shoulders like a wooden
man out of a Noah's Ark. No more the throbbing and growling of the
drums; the staccato detonations and the insolent crescendoes of the
drums. No more the wild music that the bands played to the men who
fought at Minden, Malplaquet and Wynendael. No more the brushing of a
comrade's arm one's own, inspiring boldness; no more a thousand red
coats marching on the enemy with slow and unfaltering pace. Tim could
see the men of his dreams now, in his mind's eye, marching with heads
and eyes erect ... see, too, the smoke of continuous volleys bursting
out along the steady lines as they fired by sections and companies on
their foes. Well, it was all a thing of the past now. It was plainly his
duty not to be reckless. "Do not be dashing, do not expose yourself, do
not cheer and make a noise," they said; "creep along like a worm in the
grass; be crafty, be wary--and fall down on the face before death."
It did not stop there. Lastly and worst they took away the officers of
his dreams. They even dressed them like privates and some were armed
with rifles. There were no flashing swords to follow. Not once did he
see an officer anything like his father's picture of the Duke of
Wellington on the white horse pointing a curly sword to the skies and
waving a cocked hat. Then there came the day when Tim made his first
acquaintance with field training, and beheld a loose and disorderly
scramble which men called an advance. To him it seemed just a mob of
masterless men, crawling and crouching on the grass, firing as they
passed, and bowing cringingly before death. It was a sight he could
hardly endure--an exhibition offensive to any soldier whose forbears had
learnt to achieve the impossible as a matter of routine and had held
firm for half a day at Quatre Bras with never so much as the flicker of
an eye-lid. Gad! there could only be one end to this kow-towing to
death, and that would be disaster and disgrace.
* * * * *
The long dull plains of northern Europe stretched before Tim's
gaze--great undulations of hard, hot earth and waving grass. He'd been
marching all day, and it was hot. Hot!... ye Gods!... On those plains it
was like a Turkish bath. Then "down" came the order, and the battalion
flung itself to the ground. Oh, but it was good to rest! Towards sunset
the clouds piled up blacker and blacker, and some hung frothy over the
ridge in the distance. As the sun dropped, the west turned red--all
blood red--and he heard the order to march. He heard the word passed
down the line in half whispers, and the impressive sound of regiments
getting under arms came to his ears. Another five miles they marched
and halted for tea. Then all the men became very silent--and while they
rested they talked in whispers as they watched the awful sky. When it
grew dark the flick-flack of lightening played across the sky and it
showed the men's faces white and drawn. Presently Tim's Company
lieutenant came up with the news that they would not be able to rest
until morning as they had anticipated. There could be no stopping, for
the regiment had to reach the rendezvous at daybreak. As the storm
rolled nearer, the wind got up, in puffs--first warm and then cold, and
a few drops of rain fell--great drops that fell flop-flop-flop--on Tim's
face. With a flash that leapt crackling over the plain, the storm loosed
itself. The lightning turned the rain into sheets of glittering silver,
and the hot ground fairly boiled. Tim, with a thousand others drenched,
and blinded, struggled over the slippery turf. That was a storm. Tim
could have seen to read; and the thunder wrestled in the low churning
clouds like a million devils, and through it all ran the chorus of wind
and lashing rain. Presently the storm lessened and died away, and the
rain settled to pour down on them for an hour or so. The squelch-squelch
of soaking boots and the creaking of leather equipment was all he heard.
They halted for breakfast, and Tim chewed his rations sitting on the
sodden ground in sodden clothes; and as he sipped his lukewarm coffee,
he shivered in the coming dawn.
Almost immediately they went on again.
Right before them, at the head of a valley, rose a ridge. In the creepy
light it looked miles high and a million spitting points of fire flashed
from it. The British guns in the woods at the back then began, and they
seemed to have no relation to the unvarying plumes of smoke bursting
above the long lines of fresh-turned earth two thousand yards away--no
connection with the screeching of the shells overhead. "Extended order!"
came the command, and Tim with his regiment stumbled forward. His breath
came and went in little painful gasps. From the right came a curious
gasping choke, and looking, he saw the man next to him throw up his arms
and pitch forward on his face. Suddenly he became aware of a peculiar
wailing above him, as if the air itself was in torture. Again a long
line of fire flashed out ahead of him and again came the wailing sound.
A Boche machine-gun loosed a few belts of cartridges in the spasmodic
style of her kind. There was no mistake about it this time--massed
infantry were sweeping the plain with rifle fire, and the quick-firers
were feeling for an opening.
Another man was hit--close to Tim. He squealed like a girl; and a fellow
near turned a dirty white, stumbled, with a clatter fell in a fainting
fit. Tardily the men advanced, and any acute observer would have seen
they had little heart in the business. Some hung behind almost
unconsciously, and had to be hurried up by the sergeants. The bullets
became more thick. A man started to blubber behind. "Gawd 'ave mercy! I
... I can't stand it! I won't go on!" he whined. It turned out to be a
sergeant, who had broken down too. He'd had little rest, poor chap,
through shepherding his company ... and now he had knocked under. The
company swayed and hesitated. Some of them faced round. It was touch and
go. "Steady there! Steady! Come on, men;" said Stansfield, the little
company lieutenant, as the men wavered on the grey edge of collapse.
"Steady that company; what in hell's the matter with 'em. Keep your men
up and going, Sir!" shouted a captain rushing over. But the company had
gone all to pieces. The fire of battle had departed from them, and it
flung itself on the ground. And soon the whole battalion was taking
cover in the same way. A captain called on Tim's company to advance. Two
men obeyed and one of them was Tim. But the enemy's fire redoubled and
the other man was shot, and so Tim at once took cover again. The saying
of his sergeant-instructor in England came to his mind, that a man must
lie down and hide if he wished to live, and he felt quite justified in
hugging the earth. Tim ached in every inch of his body. Surely
something was snapping in his brain, for those dusty khaki figures on
the ground, the sky, the earth all seemed to be dancing madly about him.
It was not yet light and Tim strained his eyes to pierce the darkness.
Then he made a discovery. A dark mass, like some prehistoric monster,
was gradually approaching. Tim spoke to a man next to him who was softly
swearing and bandaging a shattered hand. He peered through the light and
half-light of dawn, and then started to laugh in a nervous way. "Hell,
mate;" he said, "the whole German race are advancing against us; it's
all up with us. Look, they are coming on like a solid wall ... springing
out of the earth just solid ... no end to 'em."
It was just about that time that Tim observed a light mist rising in
front of him. It seemed to scintillate and sparkle as it rose, and
curled in a sort of pillar or spiral. "Great Heaven!" he whispered to
himself, "the thing is taking shape."
And true enough, in a very few moments he saw standing erect in front of
him a tall man--and he was dressed in shining armour; that was the
strange thing about him. A strange-looking fellow this! He was more like
a Spaniard than an Englishman, with black eyes and olive complexion. His
expression was lofty and noble, and his tall lithe figure was in strict
accordance with British traditions. So were the bold features, which
were rather marred by a white scar which stretched from his left nostril
to the angle of his jaw. But the jet-black hair and the eyes--the deep,
dark, challenging eyes--were those of Seville. A straight sword by his
side and a painted long-bow at his shoulder proclaimed him a bowman. A
white surcoat with the red lion of St. George upon it covered his broad
chest, while a sprig of new-plucked furze at the side of his steel cap
gave a touch of gaiety to his grim war-worn clothes.
No sooner had Tim looked up than a deep rich voice exclaimed:
"_Corpus Domini!_ do you need a leader?"
Tim was not a man to be easily startled, and with the bullets whining
and ping-thudding all around him, it was no manner of a time to be
easily startled. But the voice, on account of its unearthly sound,
fairly made him jump. He picked up his rifle, and stood upright. "Come
along! Come along!" the voice went on. "Why dost stand there, De
Gamelyn?"
"Oh, my God! I ... I can't stand it! The loss of blood and the marching
has done for me!"
"So! coming into the fight like a lion, you go out like a lamb. By Saint
Paul! this is not in accordance with the De Gamelyn traditions. Take up
thy arms! Come along!" said the stranger tapping him on the shoulder
with a barbed shaft trimmed with grey goose feather.
"Oh! please ... please.... I'm so tired!" said Tim, like a child
speaking to its nurse.
The bowman saw that the boy's lips and tongue were black with thirst,
and his eyes were blood-shot. And when Tim staggered over to him all his
body heaved and trembled like an overdriven horse. Sick and dizzy with
pain, he cast himself to earth again, and waited for death. "Why don't
they hit me?... I've tried,--oh, so hard!" he sobbed.
"Steady there! Steady, De Gamelyn! Take this," said the bowman, and drew
something from his side and handed it to him. It was a sword, if swords
be made of fire, of lightning, of dazzling lights; and the moment Tim
grasped it all his pain and dizziness fell from him.
"What is this?" he asked.
"The Sword of Life and Death," said the bowman.
"Who the blazes are you?" Tim asked sceptically.
It was with a touch of the Irish brogue that a cheery voice answered. "A
friend to a friend," said the bowman, "and the devil to a foe."
"Irish?" Tim questioned.
"Citizen of the world in time past ... now a citizen of heaven."
Tim gazed at the strange man in earnest scrutiny. He appeared quite at
his ease with bullets whining around him and he unslung a jack of wine
and drank.
"May a parched man claim a drink of your wine?" Tim cried.
"Give what you have, ask what you need. That is the De Gamelyn code of
law," said the man, and handed Tim the flagon.
"You are cheerful, sir," said Tim, his blood somewhat warmed by the
wine. "In the name of the devil, who are you, and of what country?"
"My name is Nigel De Gamelyn. My Mother, dear soul, was French. My
father was wise enough to be an Irishman. So much for my blood, which
unites happily the practical and the dreamer fluids. I am of no country
but I know all places from the King's tombs at Rome to the old inns that
stand about the upper Arun. I have marched with armies over this
territory aforetime. There is no shadow, I believe, on my soul, has such
strength in him as I, and I rest content to be nothing to myself and all
things to every man. That being bliss."
As the bowman spoke, a bullet kicked up a cloud of dust at his feet.
"Hola, by my hilt! it is time that we were stirring," he said. "Leave
these fellows to grovel and remove yourself. Follow: who follows Nigel
de Gamelyn?" He hitched up his belt and strode forward with his great
bow, and Tim saw him send a shaft with a twanging noise five hundred and
thirty paces. One of the German officers, towering above the other men,
stood out distinctly, and then he dropped.
"I'd like to take a look at that knave," the bowman remarked, drawing a
fresh arrow from his sheaf. "By the twang of string! I'll swear I
drilled him clean between his eyes."
The enemy were getting closer now, and from the men lying around them
broke a violent fusillade. It was quite useless, but it relieved their
nerves. Some were discharging their shots into the turf a few yards in
front of them. Others were shooting at aeroplanes.
Then suddenly there came upon Tim a great anger. A bullet striking him
brought him to his senses, and he saw the men sprawling belly-flat about
him. This was not war, this ignominious crawling, this grovelling in the
soil, this halting! The spirit of his fathers spoke to him. He
remembered one of his father's favourite sayings: "The duty of a man of
the line is to fight, and if needs be, die, not to avoid dying." His
anger grew--"damn them for a pack of cringing, footling cowards: he, Tim
Gamelyn, descendant of the De Gamelyns who fought in a hundred battles,
would teach them how men of his father's house went into battle."
A senior officer called on those nearest to Tim to advance. And men rose
up.
"D. Company, fix bayonets! Close in!" came the order. Tim gripped his
sword and strode over to the Bowman. Then the advancing Germans poured a
blasting volley on them.
"The Old Battalion--_charge!_" came the stentorian voice of a senior.
The men scrambled to their feet, and Tim following the Bowman sprang
ahead of the Battalion. The men leapt across the blood-smeared grass
after them with the speed of a winged fury, but they struck the Germans
a dozen yards ahead of the battalion. The bowman had hurled aside his
long bow and was using a short battle mace with terrific effect. As for
Tim: all he wanted to do was to slash; stab and slash again with that
wonderful sword. There followed a nightmare of drawn, grinning faces, of
fierce yells and groans. The mud-stained grey figures struck at him
wildly, futilely. On and on Tim went, his glittering blade now at a
white face, now at a throat, now at a chest, still stabbing and
thrusting to pass through the wall of men which barred his way.
The man with the bow ranged up alongside him: "On, man, on, in the name
of God, march forward.... By St. George and Our Lady! we are breaking up
their front;" he muttered.
"Strike me crimson!" bellowed a man near to Tim, "but you're a blooming
marvel! Those German beggars are going down for twenty yards around
your (decorated) sword without being hit at all. Look! Look! there goes
another Hun down. Let me come over near you, mate!"
But Tim knew that De Gamelyn the Bowman had summoned to their help the
armies of the unconquered dead. They came, the De Gamelyns of all
generations from Crecy to Waterloo: they fought by his side, and the
machine gun bullets, which fell upon the dusty earth like tropical rain,
hurt them not.
Again and again the Bowman's mace smashed and lashed out before him, and
Tim thrust, and thrust yet again with his sword. He heard the
deep-throated roar of the bowman's singing "The Song of the Bow."
What of the shaft?
The shaft was cut in England:
A long shaft, a strong shaft,
Barbed and trim and true;
So we'll drink all together
To the grey goose feather
And the land where the grey goose flew.
Suddenly a yell, horrible and fierce, uprose from the soldiers, and he
heard the bowman's voice no more.
"They're on the run, by Gawd, they've got it right in the neck this
journey," bellowed a soldier as the German infantry broke and tailed
away. Then something took Tim in the chest, something wet and red, that
went through him.
The man next to Tim saw the long bayonet stand out beyond his back, saw
Tim sway, laughing, and snap the steel short as he fell upon it.
A body of kilted men suddenly swept from the right of the hard-pressed
battalion, swept by in silence, and in silence swept the remaining
Boches up one side of the ridge and down the other into eternity.
Two days later Colonel Arbuthnot inquired after the welfare of Private
Tim Gamelyn at the field hospital.
"He was admitted suffering from sunstroke, and a terrible bayonet wound.
He died early in the morning," said the doctor.
"Is it true that he saved the battalion by urging our fellows on at the
critical moment?"
"Yes," said Colonel Arbuthnot, "but do you happen to know if he had an
officer's sword with him by chance when he was carried in here? All my
men speak of a 'sword of flame' with which he drove the Huns before him.
Even hardened soldiers who have been through many campaigns have been
babbling all sorts of nonsense of ghostly regiments of bowmen who helped
to turn the German attack!"
The doctor walked over to a shelf, and, taking down a rusty old sword,
placed it on the table.
"Perhaps that is what you refer to, Colonel," he said. "Where the fellow
picked it up is a mystery to me. It must be some hundreds of years
old."
Colonel Arbuthnot took it in his hands and read this inscription on the
blade:
NIGEL DE GAMELYN
... ADSUM ...
III
THE MILLS OF GOD
They were putting little Boudru to bed--the R.H.A. and the Corps of
Royal Engineers and Stansfield, the big fat Infantry Sergeant. His
little sister, already tucked up in bed, was nearly asleep. Boudru had
been allowed to stay up till Sergeant Stansfield had come in from duty.
The special privilege had been accorded to the little French boy on
this, the last night that the British troops were to spend in the
village. Boudru's home was in a portion of our line in which the defence
trenches were of the semi-detached type--they did not join up with the
other part of the line, and at times the place was distinctly unhealthy.
Sometimes it was in the hands of the Huns, sometimes the British rushed
it, and held on for a few weeks; there had been times when it had been
occupied by both, at other times it was written on the squared official
maps as no man's land. It was a spot in which there was always a feeling
of something dreadful being close at hand; there was an air of
expectancy about it and one felt there was a marked atmosphere of
nerves about. You might be sniped from the house opposite, or blown out
of the windows by a seventeen-inch shell. You never know. The man who
sold you tobacco the day before might be lying stiff in the gutter next
day, or more probably still, he might be dining with the German Staff a
mile and a half away. All this uncertainty, coupled with the fact that
the place was full of spies, and that valuable information had been
finding its way through to the German lines, made the General decide to
withdraw his troops and take up some trenches behind it.
Boudru sat on the big armchair and swung his white bare legs defiantly.
Perhaps it had better be explained that my lord Boudru was five years
old. "Boudru going to shut eye?" said the fat infantry sergeant
suggestively.
"The cots are down and the beds unrolled," said the R.H.A. man falling
into the diction of the barrack-room.
"No," said Boudru. "You must tell me for the last time the story about
the wicked German baby killer who was turned into a pig. The man of the
guns must tell it, and the fat man of the infantry shall hide beneath
the bed and make pig shrieks--many pig shrieks--at the time when he is
killed."
"But we shall disturb little sister Elise," said the fat sergeant with
visions of a dismal ten minutes wedged beneath the small cot and the
floor.
"Elise is not bye-o yet," piped a thin voice from where two eyes were
sparkling elfishly from a tangle of golden locks.
"Go on, my English man--There was once a big fat baby killer who lived
in Potsdam ..."
Then the R.H.A. man (a journalist by profession, a duke by inclination,
and now by destiny a very clever gunner) began the famous story. Never
before had the telling of that tale been given with such splendour of
effect. The fat sergeant had made pig-noises with multitudinous yells in
at least fifteen different keys, and the little cross-eyed driver of the
Engineers had dressed up in a real Hun helmet and grey coat. The grand
finale in which the Engineer had turned into a pig on all fours and had
been mercilessly put to death with the fat sergeant's bayonet, had
filled Boudru's soul with joy. He reflected and gloated on the scene far
into the night. Then he fell fast asleep and met with most dazzling
adventures with a German soldier who had been hiding in the Jacobean oak
chest with the fleur-de-lis carved on the side, which stands beneath the
bulgy leaded window.
As a grey and wretched dawn came in with a cold and dispiriting rain
there came to the ears of little Boudru the steady champing of marching
feet in the street below. Slush, slush, slush went all those feet,
beating the muddy road, and then the noise of metal on metal woke the
silent village streets as the guns went by.
"The soldiers! The soldiers!" exclaimed Boudru as he bounded over and
jumped on to the Jacobean chest to watch them pass. It was fated that
they were the last English soldiers that Boudru would ever see.
Some weeks later Boudru's mother was busy with odd jobs in the kitchen
garden and the children were playing in the front room, there was a ring
at the door and the sound of a butt-end of a rifle, as it "grounded" on
the cobble stones. When Boudru on tiptoe lifted the latch, the door
swung open, and a big man in a greenish uniform stood before him. There
was no sign of cap-badge or title on his shoulder straps, and he was
horribly dirty. He carried two English ration bags, besides his own
rucksack, and they were all filled to bursting with loot. Evil beamed
from his narrow, leering eyes; and when he smiled at Boudru it twirled
his demon-like mouth into a grotesque shape. He looked both depraved and
suspicious, a disreputable scoundrel with a gun, and that, you will find
in the fullness of time, was just what he was.
"Let us shut the door," said Elise. "This is not a pretty man." But the
man from Stettin pushed past.
"Brat;" said he, "drink."
Boudru's mother had hurried up to the door as fast as her bulk and her
stout legs would permit.
Every day she had expected a visit from the Huns. It was useless to
argue with such a man, so she took the German in.
"Brandy," said the man.
"There is only a little left ... it is over there, on the sideboard."
The soldier walked over, finished half a bottle, and announced that it
was like water.
"More," he ordered, "Shoot you if no find."
The woman at last managed to unearth a bottle of good Burgundy and
another bottle of brandy.
He drank both the bottles, and when he had finished, he asked for more
like every other Boche will do. Then he chose the front bedroom and
threw himself down on the bed in a drunken sleep.
When the next morning broke the French woman went to awaken the thief
and while the latter was making his toilet little Boudru entered. He
regarded the Hun with gravity for at least five minutes and then
delivered himself of his opinion.
"I don't like you," he said slowly, regarding the Hun, with his elfish
eyes. "I don't like you. I think you may be like the man in the English
soldiers' story, who turned into a pig--a baby killer perhaps. It is
because of your red hair that I think you may turn ..."
The man from Stettin who had been trying to drag a comb through his
horrible beard and hair, turned, and he looked like a big red devil, the
sun being on his head, and red beard and all.
"What's that?" he said, as he lurched ominously across the room. He had
swallowed the contents of a flask of Benedictine which he had taken from
his rucksack, and the repeated drinks were taking effect.
"I'll sweep the house, so there isn't a bug in a blanket left--you
damned brat!" He was bellowing like a bull, chewing his red beard and
muttering to himself. As he passed a table, he knocked the empty flask
on the floor. It did not break, and he viciously stamped his feet on it,
smashing it to pieces. He began to go mad from that moment. As he kicked
the wreckage about the room, his glance fell upon his rifle with the
fixed bayonet. And then the swine-dog ran amok. Boudru stood with his
back to the door: the blood froze in his veins, and his little body
stiffened into absolute rigidity.
"Turn into a pig!" shrieked the Hun. "What did you say? Turn into ..."