Collected Works of Gaston Leroux

by Gaston Leroux

  “Yes, the little hut...”

  “Exactly, the Barcilleur’s little hut... You know, the sea-weed gatherer. You can’t mistake it, for it’s the only dwelling-place in the creek and there are always heaps of sea-weed behind it; real craquet, a species of sea-weed which is excellent for weak lungs to inhale. We ship any amount of it on board the Vengeance. That’s what created the impression that we have sea air around us even after the vessel has been submerged for three days.”

  “Am I to wait for you, Monsieur?”

  “Of course. We’ve only the one small boat belonging to the sea-weed merchant at our command. We shall land at Vigo secretly. And I am all the more anxious to be one of the party on a night like this. Have you already forgotten the cocktail?”

  “All right. I’ll wait for you. But don’t be long.”

  “I can promise you that,” he returned. “It won’t take me more than five minutes to see how matters stand. Afterwards, I must send a wireless to Captain Hyx and then I’ll rejoin you.... Jim will be startled when he sees me.”

  “Then I’ll meet you later... at the Barcilleur’s.”

  “Right you are.... Just one word. The doctor has already warned you, eh? No indiscretions. Cross the country with blinkers on....”

  “Blindly.”

  “All right. Caracho,” flung out the jovial “middy” as we hastened on our separate paths.

  When I no longer heard the sound of his footsteps, I came to a stand, and before I entered the sunken road which he had pointed out to me, I fell on my knees to thank Providence. From the moment that I felt myself free from the awful weight of my watery prison, it was an act that I ardently longed to perform, but, alas, is it not true that we invariably feel a secret shame in showing the finest instincts of our hearts before a third person? Is it pride, weakness, modesty, humility or stupid fear of what people will say?

  At last, O God, I thanked thee. And I thanked thee, too, enchanting nature. I joined my hands in the presence of thy nocturnal splendour. Yet beneath my knees there was but a little rock parched by the sea breeze; on my horizon but a little foam raised by Neptune’s breath; and above my head but the last sight of the stars, O Diana, O Venus, paling before the coming dawn. And yet the earth had never seemed so beautiful to me as since my escape from the grip of an adverse element, and neither the fulness of my heart as a Christian, nor all my pagan memories, nor the thought of all the world’s gods could be too much to celebrate this private mass wherein my soul kissed the face of the earth.

  When I rose to my feet I feared that I might be late, and I rushed into the heart of the ravine without troubling to wipe away my tears of thankfulness. It was a rather narrow road in which two carts would have found some difficulty in passing each other, and the steep walls on either side shut out my immediate field of vision.

  I must confess that I did not at all regret the conformation of the land, seeing that I had been recommended to keep my eyes shut. Accordingly no effort was needed on my part to fulfil my promise, and I only asked that my path would continue in this cavity to the very end.... For that matter, it was admirably kept. The causeway was paved with ordinary pebbles, and I soon observed the two thin lines of a light railway.

  At first no one crossed my path. I did not have to reply to any challenge. It was quite dark inside this narrow channel. But above my head I could see strange flashes of light, and these lightning-like flares lit up all that was visible of the night, in other words, the long ribbon which stretched out between the two parallel lines of the high sloping rocks rising up, on either side of me, like two impenetrable screens.

  Sometimes these flares were green and sometimes blue, and they shot across the canopy of heaven as from the open jaw of some stupendous crucible.

  I continued my journey. It was as though I had set foot in some forbidden road of a mysterious inferno, and I hesitated to raise my eyes to the flashes above me, remembering the words of the doctor and the “middy”: “Do your utmost to see nothing. Cross the country with blinkers on.”

  And to hear? Had I the right to hear? What were those heavy shocks with which the earth was trembling? At certain places I started as if I had been struck by some blow in return. What was the work that was being done in the Cies Islands? Had I the right to ask the question?

  Suddenly there was a subterranean rumble which sent me running with the ridiculous and instinctive object of escaping from it. In the same way the wretched people of Messina must have taken to their heels when caught unawares by the fury of the earthquake.

  I soon stopped, out of breath. I passed my feverish hands over my brow on which the sweat had broken out. Ought I not to have arrived by now? It seemed to me that I had been running like a madman for an hour. I looked at my watch — I had been running for ten minutes! Then I once more heard the sound of an explosion, which was followed by complete silence. The earth no longer trembled. Nor were there any more flashes of light, neither red nor pink, nor blue, nor green. Nor was there anything but the dawn which unceasingly pursued the night and it seemed as if, with the break of day, the whole island had consented to pause in its nocturnal travail.

  I went on my way more peacefully, and was hoping that I might have nothing more to fear, when I was compelled to step aside, or rather to throw myself against the rocky wall, to avoid being crushed by a diminutive electric train which darted like an arrow along the narrow gauge, and passed under my eyes, without making the least sound, like a shadow, like a phantom train. How was it that I was not killed? I ask myself the question to this day.

  Was there nobody in the train to notice a pedestrian on the line and to warn him by blowing the whistle? I did not see anybody. For one thing, there was not time to see anybody. And then, perhaps, there was nobody in the train. Phantom trains can well dispense with drivers!

  Why does the word phantom recur to my pen? Upon my word, simply because with the memory of that strange dawn in which the things of the night and the day were so singularly intermingled, I could fancy myself, all of a sudden, in the mysterious and undefined realm of ghosts.

  And then I saw — how could I help seeing them? — I saw soldiers. I swear to you that I thought I saw the slowly moving phantoms of soldiers. In the hollow of this dusky road, their grey uniforms were of a piece with the grey dawn. And they marched like soldiers, but how slowly, how slowly, particularly the artillerymen. I was witnessing the strangest march past of my life.

  Without being an artilleryman myself, or possessing any knowledge of the art, I could not mistake light artillery for heavy artillery, and if it had been the latter I should not have been astonished at the slowness of the pace. But I saw before me light and slow artillery. I had every reason to be astonished. I am well aware that I was not entitled to see anything, but from this point of view — I may indeed well say so — my conscience did not reproach me. It was through no fault of mine that I witnessed the march past.

  The march past itself was to blame, for it had crossed my path. It does not require a wizard to explain how the thing occurred. I had arrived at a considerably wider part of the sunken road, although the sides themselves were lower, and I noticed that there was a clearing. My road was crossed by another road, and the march past of light and slow artillery came down this other road.

  It was an extremely silent manœuvre, for not a single word of command rang out. From time to time an officer made a sign above his head, and seemed to order the artillerymen to go even slower still.... And all these artillerymen slipped to their knees and crept forward on their stomachs, pushing or dragging forward their light guns with the slowness of spectres. When by chance an artilleryman stood upright or went ahead on his feet, he either broke the ranks or advanced with the precautions of a gouty man who suffers from an affection of the joints.

  I had seen in the course of this terrible adventure many fantastic sights, but not one of them was so extraordinary, or impressed my imagination so greatly, as this manœuvre of slow artillery with its long guns c
reeping silently forward in the spectral light of dawn in the Cies Islands. And yet the sight was a mere trifle, perhaps, compared to what I should soon hear.

  I did not have the patience to wait for the end of the march past. Such slow movements might last for weeks, and daylight was coming, and the jovial “middy” would be waiting for me inside the Barcilleur’s hut in the deserted creek.

  The gunners did not pay any attention to me. Obviously they had seen me, for I was not so foolish as to beat a retreat which would immediately raise the alarm.

  My Vengeance uniform gave me the right to be there. Moreover, they were too much occupied in advancing slowly, as slowly as it was possible to advance, I thought, to have the time to interest themselves in my comings and goings.

  I seized the moment when a free space presented itself, to slip between two batteries, and I was able to get through them quite comfortably, I assure you, without running any risk of being crushed.

  Have you not encountered in the middle of your path, in a forest, an entire procession of caterpillars following each other, head to tail, and extending from column into line while crawling along in a steady, uniform, imperceptible movement? I had just crossed one of those caterpillar-trains, artillery caterpillars.

  I continued my way. I set off at a run. I ran on without turning my head. It was enough to see them once without wishing to see them again. A man with a brain less sound than mine, and less prepared by all that had transpired on board the Vengeance, might have been unsettled by it, and put aside for the rest of his life.

  CHAPTER XXXII

  IN WHICH I HEAR FOR THE FIRST TIME OF THE INVISIBLE BATTLE AND WHAT CAME OF IT

  I COULD SEE, while I was running, that the sides of the road were rising again, rising again enormously, in a manner that was absolutely menacing, overwhelming. The walls on either hand were like mountains. I was no longer in a sunken road, but in a veritable mountain pass, and I had to stop to take breath, for the road was uphill. Then it suddenly sloped downwards again, made a turn, and I saw before me the great calm, milky way of the morning sea.

  I hastened my steps, for on the summit of a rock, I made out the Barcilleur’s hut with its surrounding craquet sea-weed.

  One more turning and I should be at my destination.... I reached the creek.... But what was my astonishment to perceive a crowd of people on this rocky beach which was depicted to me as a deserted speck. How was I to discover the small boat intended for me among two steamers, a tug and several cutters and ships’ boats in constant movement in the creek?

  At the extremity of a headland I observed the little electric train which nearly ran over me. Between the train and the quays, if I may so express myself in speaking of a natural harbour wherein the hand of man had intervened so little, there was a continual movement of men carrying things to and fro. At first I could not make up my mind as to the nature of those burdens.

  I used all my efforts to reach, as quickly as possible, the Barcilleur’s hut, where I hoped, with the help of my two pass-words, to find a safe retreat from any indiscretion, and also to meet the “middy.” I feared that this unusual commotion might to some extent upset our plans. And this fear, as will be seen, was only too well grounded.

  Now at the very moment when I had clambered up the pedestal, as it were, on which the hut stood, and was on the point of making my way into it, I caught sight of Captain Hyx himself, leaning with his back against the hut, his arms folded, contemplating the spectacle of the sea in an attitude resembling that of Napoleon at St. Helena, and I barely had time to rush to the other side. He was still wearing his mask.... I fled... I fled....

  So this was the reason why the little train flashed past so quickly just now, so quickly that I was nearly knocked down by it! Captain Hyx was on board. To be sure, the drivers must lose their heads when the Captain wished to travel quickly anywhere!... The Captain, therefore, for some extraordinary reason had left the Vengeance. What was happening? What was happening that night, or rather that morning, on the Cies Islands?

  I was supposed to see nothing! Slightly confused by the headlong haste with which I scurried away from the rock on which Captain Hyx was standing, I mistook my path in my effort to reach a deserted road, and suddenly found myself in the midst of the men carrying things to whom I have already alluded.

  Not only could I now distinguish what they were carrying, but I could hear the burdens themselves gasping, groaning, lamenting. The misery of it all! In those years of horror when the world was torn asunder as in the worst epochs of barbarism, I could not make a step under the vault of heaven, any more than in the depths of the ocean, without seeing lacerated human flesh or hearing the sigh of grief.

  Still more wounded. Wounded soldiers on litters being removed with every precaution from the steamers in the creek to the little train to be taken away.

  What did it mean? Was I or was I not in Spain? Now there was no fighting in Spain. From what unknown battle were those soldiers returning, those soldiers who were begging for a glass of water with such affecting gestures?

  Some one touched me on the shoulder. I turned round and saw the Irishman. Yes, Lieutenant Smith, second in command of the Vengeance. I was inexpressibly agitated. If he recognised me I was doomed. But I was buoyed up by the supreme hope that, owing to my uniform, he would see in me merely one of the Vengeance’s sailors.

  The Man with the lifeless eyes did not look at me. He ordered me with a gesture to take my place between two stretchers, and I accepted without a murmur the work of stretcher-bearer. I should soon see where it led me!

  All I asked at the moment was that it might be some distance from the wild Irishman.

  Not far off I recognised two sailors from the Vengeance carrying a wounded man who had just been landed. The wounded man was a Hun who had received a bayonet thrust in the stomach, and who declared in his own language that he would never recover from such a wound, and it would be better to leave him to die in peace on the road in the sunshine. And, in fact, before he died the poor wretch saw the sun for the last time with an expression of such boundless and despairing love, that I shall never forget it as long as I live. One other thing... one other thing that I shall never forget either was this Hun soldier being lifted up in the arms of Lieutenant Smith the better to see the sun and breathe his last. The Irishman performed that charitable action. I did not expect it from him, nor did I stop to congratulate him upon it. I hurried away with my stretcher and my wounded man to the little train.

  I thought that once there I should be free, and be able to give them the slip as they say, but, as it happened, the man who held the other end of the stretcher and wore one red stripe on his arm, ordered me to stay in the little train with him and the wounded man. The train at once started, but by no means at the mad speed with which it had travelled before. It was full of wounded men, and it did its best to keep from jolting them too greatly....

  Suddenly I caught sight of the “middy” standing on a gangway. He saw and recognised me almost at the same time. It seemed to me that he changed countenance when his eyes met mine, and the idea that suggested itself to me did not contribute to calm my fears notwithstanding that, for the time being, the Irishman had disappeared from my horizon. Nevertheless, the officer came up to me and seating himself in a corner where others could not see him, he spoke in a low voice. The jovial “ middy” was not at all jovial.

  “Nasty accident,” he said. “ How is it you didn’t manage to get away earlier?”

  “Well,” I replied between my teeth, “ I was detained by a march past of artillery so slow that...”

  “Damn it all!” he swore. “Did you see the slow artillery?”

  “I couldn’t help myself.”

  “It’s a pity,” he returned. “ It’s a pity.”

  “But look here, it wasn’t my fault,” I grumbled, scarcely able to contain my rage against the endless injustice of men and things.

  “Of course, you didn’t do it on purpose, neither did we.... And then
who could have foreseen that they would be the first to attack?”

  “But where did the fighting take place?” I asked wearily, still speaking under my breath.

  “Do you wish me to explain to you the mystery of the Holy Trinity?” replied the “middy” in the same tone.

  And rising to his feet, finding I suppose that the conversation had lasted long enough, he left me standing there without a word.

  Almost immediately afterwards the little electric train stopped, and I noted that we were at the cross-roads, at the very spot where I was held up so long by the march past of the slow artillery. We were ordered to alight, and I had to take up my position with the stretchers while we evacuated the wounded. A number of men were in attendance to assist us.

  Soon we marched into large barracks, in the courtyard of which we could see, drilling in most leisurely fashion, several batteries of the slow artillery which continued to puzzle me beyond expression.

  What was the use of swearing to observe nothing? I must none the less keep my eyes open to see where I was going, since I was compelled to march as a unit in this strange and melancholy procession.

  The barracks appeared to have been converted into hospital wards. Here the first person I stumbled against was the doctor. The stretcher slipped from my hands, and he recognised me. He turned extremely pale. He looked quickly around, and made a sign intended for me alone, indicating that I was to follow him. He then gave orders for the wounded to be put to bed, and opening a small door, ushered me into a narrow room. Senorita Dolores was standing before a glass putting on a white veil with black crosses on it; and she looked one of the most charming nurses I have ever seen.

  Slow Artillery. Black Cross. Mysterious soldiers wounded in the Invisible Battle. What was I to think? What was I to believe? And I... was I to continue to pass my life in this incomprehensible adventure?