CHAPTER XI
FOUR EYES
Beyond the barracks of the Legion, going toward the Porte de Tlemcen,and opposite the drill-ground and cavalry barracks of the Spahis, thereis a sign: _Bureau de Recrutement_.
Early in the morning after taking his resolution, Max walked down thenarrow, lane-like way which led off from the Rue de Tlemcen and the longfront wall of the Legion's barracks, and found the door indicated by thesign.
In a bare office room, furnished with a table and a few benches, sat acorporal, busily writing. He looked up, surprised to see such a visitoras Max, and was at some trouble to hide his amazement on hearing thatthis well-dressed young man, evidently a gentleman, wished to enlist inthe Legion. Opening off the outer room, with its white-washed walls anddisplay of posters tempting to recruits, was another office, the _Bureaudu Commandant de Recrutement_, and there Max was received by alieutenant, older than most of the men of that rank in the English orAmerican armies. Something in his manner made Max wonder if the officerhad been told of him and his intention by Colonel DeLisle. At first heput only the perfunctory questions which a man entering the wide-opengate of the Legion may answer as he chooses. But when in its turn camean inquiry as to the recruit's profession, the officer looked at Maxsharply yet with sympathy.
"No profession," was the answer; a true one, for Max's resignation hadalready taken effect.
"At present, but--in the past?" the lieutenant encouraged him kindly."If you have military experience, you can rise quickly in the Legion."
For good or ill, Max stuck to yesterday's resolve, knowing that he mightbe weak enough to regret it, and anxious therefore to make itirrevocable. "I have done some military service," he explained, "enoughto help me learn my duties as a soldier quickly."
"Ah, well, no more on that subject, then!" and the lieutenant sighedaudibly. "Yet it is a pity, especially as you are of French birth andparentage, though brought up in America. Your chance of promotionwould--but let us hope that by good luck something may happen to giveyou the chance in any case. Who knows but both your countries may beproud of you some day? Is there--nothing you would care to tell me aboutyourself that might enable me to advise you later?"
"Nothing with which it is necessary to trouble you, my Lieutenant."
"_Bien!_ It remains then only for you to be examined by the _medecinmajor_. You have nothing to fear from his report. _Au contraire!_"
In an adjoining room two men were already waiting the arrival of thedoctor, who was due in a few minutes. One, evidently a Frenchman, with adark, dissipated face, volunteered the information that he was achauffeur, whose master had discharged him without notice on account ofan "unavoidable accident" at a small town within walking distance ofSidi-bel Abbes. The other, a blond boy who looked not a day oversixteen, announced that he was an Alsatian who had come to Algeria as awaiter in a restaurant car, on purpose to join the Legion, and escapemilitary service as a German. "I shall serve my five years, and become aFrench subject," he said joyously. "Take hold of my arm. Not bad, is it,for biceps? For what age would you take me?"
"Seventeen," replied Max, adding a year to his real guess.
But it was not enough. The girlish face blushed up to the lint-colouredhair, cut _en brosse_. "I call myself eighteen," said the child. "Don'tyou think the doctor will believe me when he feels my muscle?"
"I think he'll give you the benefit of the doubt," Max assured him,smiling.
"No trouble about _my_ age!" exulted the chauffeur. "I am twenty-seven."
He looked ten years older. But a recruit for the Legion may take the ageas well as the name he likes best, provided the _medecin major_ be nottoo critical.
Both his companions were keenly curious concerning Max, and consideredthemselves aggrieved that, after their frankness, he should choose to bereserved. They put this down to pride. But the Legion would take it outof him! All men were equal there. They had heard that among otherthings.
Before the stream of questions had run dry through lack ofencouragement, the door was thrown open, and in walked the doctor, abig, jovial man, accompanied by the middle-aged lieutenant who had showninterest in Max, and a weary-faced clerk plunged in gloom by a bad coldin the head. As they entered, the two officers looked at Max, andglanced quickly at each other. They had evidently been speaking of him.But his examination was left till the last. The chauffeur of"twenty-seven" and the waiter of "eighteen" were passed as physicallyfit--_bon pour le service_: and then came the turn of the third recruit,whose pale blue silk underclothing brought a slight twinkle to the eyeof the jolly _medecin major_. Max wished that it had occurred to him tobuy something cheaper and less noticeable. But it was too late to thinkof that now. At all events, he was grateful for the tact andconsideration which had given him the last turn.
"Magnifique!" exclaimed the doctor, when he had pinched and pounded Max,sounded heart and lungs, and squeezed his biceps. "Here we have anathlete." And he exchanged another glance with the lieutenant.
The clerk scribbled industriously and sadly in his book, as Max dressedhimself again; and the ordeal was over. When the third recruit of theday had been given a paper, first to read, and then to sign with his newname, his contract for five years to serve the Republic of France wasmade and completed. Maxime St. George was a soldier of the Legion.
He, with the ex-chauffeur and the ex-waiter, was marched by a corporalthrough a small side gate into the barrack square; and the guard,sitting on a bench by the guardhouse, honoured the newcomers with astare. The chauffeur and the waiter got no more than a passing glance,but all eyes, especially those of the sergeant of the guard, focussed onMax. Apparently it was not every day that the little gate beside thegreat gate opened for a gentleman recruit. Max realized again that hewas conspicuous, and resigned himself to the inevitable. This was thelast time he need suffer. In a few minutes the uniform of the Legionwould make him a unit among other units, and there would be nothing tosingle him out from the rest. He would no longer have even a name thatmattered. In losing his individuality he would become a number. But fora moment he felt like a new arrival in a Zoo: an animal of some rarespecies which drew the interest of spectators away from luckier beastsof commoner sorts.
The trio of recruits stood together in an unhappy group, awaiting ordersfrom the regimental offices; and the news of their advent must have runahead of them with magic speed, swiftly as news travels in the desert,for everywhere along the front of the yellow buildings surrounding thesquare, windows flew open, heads of soldiers peered out, and voicesshouted eagerly: "_Voila les bleus!_" There were only three newcomers,and the arrival of recruits in the barrack square was an everydayspectacle; but something to gaze at was better than nothing at all. Menin fatigue uniform of spotless white, their waists wound round with wideblue sashes, came running up to see the sight, before _les bleus_ shouldbe marched away and lose their value as objects of interest by donningsoldier clothes. Max recalled the day of his debut at West Point, ahumble, modest "Pleb." This huge, gravelled courtyard, surrounded onthree sides by tall, many-windowed barracks, and shut away from the Ruede Tlemcen by high iron railings, had no resemblance to the cadets'barracks of gray stone; but the emotions of the "Pleb" and of therecruit to the Legion were curiously alike. The same thought presenteditself to the soldier that had wisely counselled the new cadet. "I musttake it all as it comes, and keep my temper unless some one insults me.Then--well, I'll have to make myself respected now or never."
"_Les bleus! Voila les bleus!_" was the cry from every quarter: anddiscipline not being the order of the moment for Legionnaires off duty,young soldiers and old soldiers gathered round, making such remarks asoccurred to them, witty or ribald. _Les bleus_ were fair game.
As a schoolboy, Max had read in some book that, in the time of NapoleonFirst, French recruits had been nicknamed "les bleus" because of theasphyxiating high collars which had empurpled their faces with asuffusion of blood. Little had he dreamed in committing that fact tomemory that one day the name would be applied to
him! Thinking thus, hesmiled between amusement and bitterness; but the smile died as a voicewhispered in his ear: "For God's sake don't sell your clothes to theJews. Keep them for me. I'll get hold of them somehow."
The voice spoke in French. Max turned quickly, and could not resist aslight start at seeing close to his, the face which had seized hisattention days ago in the railway station.
The man who had then been dressed in dusty black was now a soldier ofthe Legion, in white fatigue uniform, like all the rest: but the darkface and night-black eyes had the same arresting, tragic appeal. Afterthis whisper, the Legionnaire drew back, his look asking for an answerby nod or shake of the head. Max caught the idea instantly. "By jove!the fellow has made up his mind to desert already!" he thought. "Why? Hehasn't the air of a slacker."
There was no language he could choose in this group made up from a dozencountries, which might not be understood by one or all. The only thingwas to trust to the other's quickness of comprehension, as the speakerhad trusted to his. He held out his hand, exclaiming: "_C'est vous, monami! Quel chance!_"
The ruse was understood. His handclasp was returned with meaning. Everyone supposed that _le bleu_ of four days ago and _le bleu_ of to-daywere old acquaintances who had found each other unexpectedly.
There was no chance for private speech. A quick fire of interrogationvolleyed at the three recruits, especially at Max. "Are you French? Areyou German? Are you from Switzerland--Alsace--Belgium--Italy--England?"Questions spattered round the newcomers like a rain of bullets, in asmany languages as the countries named, and Max amused himself byanswering in the same, whenever he was able.
"How many tongues have you stowed in that fly-trap of yours, my child?"inquired a thin, elderly Legionnaire with a long nose and clever,twinkling eyes. No nation but Holland could have produced that face, andit was unnecessary that the speaker should introduce himself as aDutchman. "Fourteen years have I served France in the Legion. I havebeen to Madagascar and Tonkin. Everywhere I have found myself thechampion of languages, which is only natural, for I was translator inthe State Department at home--a long while ago. But if you can speakeleven you will get the championship over me. I have only as manytongues as I have fingers."
"You beat me by six," laughed Max, and the jealous frown faded.
"Encore un champion!" gayly announced the round-faced youth who hadjocosely asked Max if he were a Belgian. "Voila notre joli heros,Pelle."
"Quatro oyos" ("Four Eyes") added a Spaniard. "Papa van Loo can beat youwith his tongue; Four Eyes beats with his fists."
Sauntering toward _les bleus_, with the manner of a big dog who deignsto visit a little one, came a man of average height but immense girth.His great beardless face was so hideous, so startling, that Max gaped athim rudely, lost in horror. Nose and lips had been partly cut away. Theteeth and gums showed in a ghastly, perpetual grin. But as if this werenot enough to single him out among a thousand, a pair of black,red-rimmed eyes had been tattooed on the large forehead, just above abushy, auburn line overhanging the eyes which nature had pushed deeplyin between protruding cheek and frontal bones.
"Good heavens!" Max blurted out aloud; and the Dutchman cackled withlaughter. "You're no Frenchman, boy!" he loudly asserted in English."Now we've got at your own jargon. Go away, Mister Pelle, you'refrightening our British baby. Or is it Yankee?"
An angry answer jumped to the tip of Max's tongue, but he bit it back.So this living corpse was Pelle, the champion boxer of the Legion, whowould fight the Frenchman!
The new recruit was ashamed of the sick spasm of disgust that closed histhroat. He felt that it was a sign of raw youth and amateurishness, aswhen a medical student faints at first sight of the dissecting table. Hefeared that his face had betrayed him to these soldiers, many of whomhad hardened their nerves on battlefields. Somehow he must justifyhimself, and force respect from the men who greeted Van Loo's cheap witwith an appreciative roar.
Pelle was the only one who did not laugh. He came lumbering along insilence as if he had not heard; but Max saw that the boxer was aimingstraight for him. The newly christened St. George stood still, waitingto see what the dragon would do. Within three feet of the recruit thehero of the Legion came to a stop and looked the slim figure in civilianclothes slowly over from head to foot, as Goliath may sarcastically havestudied the points of David. The whole group was hypnotized, enchanted,each man in white praying that it might be five minutes yet before thecorporal returned to shepherd his three lambs. Much can happen in fiveminutes. Battles can be won or lost! and at anything Pelle might do,under provocation, the powers that were would wink. Not an officer belowthe colonel but had money on the match which was to come off in thebarrack square to-morrow.
All four eyes of Quatro Oyos seemed to stare at the insignificant shrimpof a recruit. Max had but two eyes with which to return the compliment,but he made the most of them. Pelle was not only hideous: he wasformidable. The big square head and ravaged face were set on a strongthroat. Chest and shoulders were immense, the arms too long, theslightly bowed legs too short. Up went a sledgehammer hand, coated withred hair, to scratch the heavy jowl contemplatively, and Max thought ofa gorilla.
"So you don't think I'm pretty, eh?" the boxer challenged him, and Maxstarted with surprise at sound of the Cockney accent, which came with ahissing sound from the defaced mouth. Pelle was an Englishman!
The start was misunderstood, not only by the champion of the Legion, butby the surrounding Legionnaires, who tittered.
"Sorry if I was rude," remarked Max, with an air of nonchalance, to showthat he was ready for anything.
"That's no way to apologize," said Pelle. "Don't look at me like that.You'll have to learn better manners in the Legion."
"A cat may look at a king," retorted the recruit. "And as for manners, Iwon't ask you to teach them to me."
"Why, you damned little Yankee spy, do you want to be pinched between mythumb and finger as if you was a flea?" bellowed the boxer.
"Try it, and you'll find the flea can bite before he's pinched," saidMax. His heart was thumping, for despite his knowledge of _la boxe_ heknew that he might be pounded into a jelly in another minute. This manwas a heavyweight. He was a lightweight. But whatever happened he wouldshow himself game; and at that instant nothing else seemed much tomatter.
Somewhat to his surprise, Pelle burst out laughing. "Hark to thebantam!" he exclaimed in French--execrable French, but a proof that hewas no newcomer in the Legion. "If you weren't a newspaper spy, mychicken, I'd let you off for your cheek. But we have heard all aboutyou. Lieutenant de la Tour of the Spahis knows. He's told every one. Itdoesn't take long for news to get to the Legion. I'm going to teach younot to write lies about us for your damned papers. We get enough fromGermany. So I shall make chicken jelly of you. See!"
"All right. Come on!" said Max, more cheerfully than he felt. For hisone chance was in his youth and the method he had learned from thelightweight champion of the world.
A ring formed on the instant, to screen as well as to see the spectacle.Here would be no rounds timed by an official, no seconds to encourage orrevive their men. The encounter, such as it was, would be primitive andsavage, asking no quarter and giving none. But Max felt that his wholefuture in the Legion depended on its issue.
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