As he stood, wondering how it all would end, a soldier, wrapped in his white cloak, rolled over and sat up on the ground in front of the camp fire next to his, and Philip started as he heard him say, in perfectly good English: “For G-d’s sake give me a chew, Con Daily.”
“Divil a wan have I,” answered a voice from the depths of a military cloak on the other side of the fire.
“Then give me a cigarette,” persisted the first speaker, yawning and stretching. “Wake up, man; you’ve time to sleep after taps. And you too, ‘ Red,’ sit up, you lazy devil!” He shook a soldier who was lying before the fire, his chin on his hands, and who responded: “Aw, what t’ hell!”
“Con Daily,” repeated the soldier, “chuck me a cigarette, will you?”
“Now, do I shmoke thim at all, at all!” grumbled Daily, without moving. “Ask Red McGlone; he has some plug.”
“And Red McGlone keeps his plug; mind that, Con Daily!” put in a red-headed young man with well developed under jaw and a tired eye. He added, apparently as an after-thought: “What t’ hell!”
“What the hell, is it?” said Daily, sitting up; “an’ me lendin’ ye the loan av me pipe—”
“Who’s got yer pipe?” demanded McGlone.
“Me pipe? Ye have me pipe, ye murtherin’ divil! Gimme me pipe now!”
“Charlie,” drawled McGlone, “have I got his pipe?”
“I’ll have me pipe,” persisted Daily, angrily; “Charlie McBarron, ye seen me give it un—”
“Shut up, Con,” said McBarron; “I have your pipe all safe enough, but I haven’t a d — d thing to put in it.” McGlone slowly produced a plug of tobacco from the mysterious depths of his zouave trousers and handed it to McBarron, who chipped off enough for his pipe and passed it back.
“I’ll take a chew, Red, me by,” suggested Daily, and McGlone tossed over the plug, from which the Irishman gnawed a piece and tossed it back across the fire. Red picked it up, thoughtfully chewed off a mouthful, rolled it into some cavern in his bulldog jaw, and slowly pushed the remainder into the depths of his trousers.
“When that’s gone you’ll have to come to cigarettes again, Con Daily,” said McBarron.
“Will I now,” snorted Daily.
“Yer gettin’ to look like a frog-eating Mounseer, Daily,” said McGlone, sending a thin stream of tobacco juice into the fire. The hiss of the saliva in the coals aroused another Turco, a Frenchman, who protested.
“Aw, dry up ‘r I’ll sma-a-sh yer in the jaw,” drawled McGlone, with a contemptuous shot at the fire again.
McBarron calmed the frenzied Frenchman and sternly told McGlone to be careful. “We want no more fights now,” he said, “you’ll get your bellyful to-morrow at Clamart.”
“Can’t I spit? — what t’ hell!” demanded Red.
“You hear me,” repeated McBarron. McGlone glared at the Frenchman, who glared at him.
“Assez nom de Dieu!” growled Daily; “let him be, Red McGlone, ye bull-necked scrapper; voyons, un peu de complaisance, mes camarades? — Ne crache pas comme un voyou, Red, me lad, what the divil should ye worrit the frog-eater fur, I dunno!”
“If you do that again I’ll help the Frenchman punch your head,” added McBarron.
“What t’ hell!” yawned McGlone, “je ne crach ploo, esker say bieng mantinong, — you monkey-faced snail-eating—”
“Shut up, Red, — can’t you see he’s satisfied. Don’t spoil it, do you hear?” said McBarron, angrily.
The Frenchman lay down again and covered his head with his blanket. McGlone ostentatiously expectorated upon the ground, leered at the fire, and observed: “Aw, the regiment makes me tired, see?”
“‘T is a sthrange rigimint, sure,” mused Daily.
“Bum!” said McGlone, sulkily.
“The biggest lot of cutthroats that ever marched,” said McBarron, “except Billy Wilson’s Zouaves—”
“I was there,” said Daily, angrily.
“So was Red McGlone,” sneered McBarron; “both of you marched with Billy Wilson, and a bigger lot of rascals never left New York City!”
“Do ye refer to me?” cried Daily.
“Aw, dry up,” snarled McGlone, “I’m goin’ to sleep; what t’ hell! Yer a goat-faced burn, Con Daily, and yer know it.”
Daily looked around for a brick; seeing none, he started to his feet, his mouth open, but as he was on the point of emitting a yell of defiance, the bugles sang out “taps,” and a group of officers passed with a guard and lanterns. Philip crept into the circle of firelight and drew his cloak well about him. Before he could find a place a hand fell on his shoulder and a sentinel pointed to the next camp fire.
“That is your squad,” he said sharply; “go!” When at last he lay, swathed in his mantle, before the fire, he looked up into the starry vault above and his heart sank. What was to be the end of all this? Could it be possible that he, Philip Landes, was a soldier of the Commune?
The bell buttons on his embroidered sleeves tinkled with every movement as he lay there shivering and crushing his clenched fists over his face. The fire flared and crackled and the smoke blew in gusts across his head. He could hear Con Daily, at the next fire, still muttering threats, while McBarron soothed him in whispers, and Red McGlone snored. When he first heard the familiar sound of his own language he had felt for a moment comforted and anxiously hopeful, but now, the ruffians at the next fire seemed more distant and foreign to him than the worst ragamuffin in the battalion. The whole thing resembled an awful nightmare, — his escape from the claws of Raoul Rigault, his arrest in the Passage Stanislas just as he had started to climb the wall, his frightful experience with Sarre, and his hasty march through the black city where insurgent thousands lined the streets, howling and cheering for anarchy and the Commune.
The death of Georgias, murderer and robber though he was, also affected him strangely. Even when he had stood with eyes closed before Sarre’s revolver, trying to pray, trying to think of Jeanne, a vision of Georgias flashed before him, lying as he had seen him, a tumbled heap of clothes in a widening pool of blood. In his ears rang a voice: “Vengeance is mine!” and he clasped his trembling fingers over his ears and cowered under the blanket, while the terrible voice repeated: “I will repay! I will repay!”
When at length he fell into a troubled slumber, the voice ceased and only a distant tumult came to his ears. He dreamed fitfully — now of the garden where the fountain rippled under the lilacs, now of the white face of the old Archbishop, now of rivers and rivers of splendid diamonds which caught him up — carried him away, away to a sparkling sea. Then he dreamed that the blackbird was singing in the almond tree, and he saw Jeanne come out on the doorstep, holding Tcherka in her arms. He strove to speak, but could not. How loud the blackbird was singing, — how strong, how piercing! He started up. The bugles were clanging a frenzied summons, the stars sparkled in the depths of a fathomless black zenith, and from the reviving embers of the camp fires came the stench of simmering soup. All about him sleepy soldiers stumbled to their feet, and stumped away in the darkness where a dark line was forming, and figures passed to and fro with scores of swinging lanterns.
“Come!” cried somebody beside him, and he rose and hobbled after the others. Sarre, in a fiendish temper, passed him, followed by his staff, and far into the darkness of the early morning Philip heard him cursing his Maker. When the roll was called he answered to his name, and followed the corvée to where a bundle of axes lay in the shelter of an embankment. The wood was oak and beech, but the exercise did him good, and after the smoke-begrimed pots were lifted from the fires, he drank his soup with the rest.
It was not yet daylight when the battalion swung through the gate of the fortifications and marched out into the open country. The air was cold and fresh and sweet, but there was no wind across the shadowy plain where the shredded mist still lingered in filmy streamers.
Philip marched in the first company. Just ahead of him the drummers and buglers plodded along in
silence. Ahead of them he could see the vague forms of mounted men and hear the sharp stroke of steel-shod hoofs where Sarre and his staff, who had ridden on, were picking their way along the crowded military road. They halted frequently and other regiments passed them. Sometimes it was a battery of cannon, creaking and bumping, the horses straining under the heavy harness, the gunners clinging to the iron railings on the caissons; sometimes a turbulent battalion of National Guard infantry; sometimes a column of Garibaldians, red-shirted, bearded, and swarthy. Once a ghostly troop of horse rode by with muffled hoof-beats, the gaunt riders shrouded in their long mantles, knots of crêpe drooping on their shoulders. Even the ruffianly Turcos shrank back as the grim troop trampled past, for the Hussars of Death seemed to taint the morning air with the odor of death and decay.
Morning was breaking and still the troops poured along the military road toward the wooded heights beyond, which now loomed up black and mysterious against the paling horizon.
It was four o’clock in the morning when the battalion entered the Rond-Point of Courbevoie, evacuated a few hours before by the Versailles troops. Philip saw that the village was occupied by masses of Federal infantry and artillery. As he stood at ease, leaning upon his rifle, he heard McBarron say in English to one of his companions, that the artillery was “rotten.” It certainly did look forlorn, although there were guns enough for an army twice their strength. The cannon were of all sizes, shapes, and calibres, and were drawn by horses hastily seized from omnibuses and cabs. Behind the cannon, long files of wagons, furniture vans, bakers’ carts, and in fact types of every vehicle to be found in Paris, stretched away toward the route de Rueil. These were filled with provisions and arms. An omnibus bearing the sign “Batignolles-Clichy-Odéon” rumbled past loaded down with cases of cartridges and casks of powder.
“Correspondence, si’l vous plait!” cried an irrepressible Turco, “I am going to the Hôtel de Ville to see my mother-in-law.” This put the battalion into good humor.
“Is there a place outside for a poor orphan?” shouted a soldier.
“No,” bellowed a National Guard, “Monsieur Thiers has reserved the Imperial!” The officers passed along the front laughing, and the troops began to sing:
“Petit bonhomme vit encore,
Mais! Mais! Ma-a-is!”
Philip watched the “marine” artillerymen laboring with their huge pieces which they had started with two days before and only now were placing in battery. Suddenly a cheering broke out across the river where the right wing of the army rested, and in a few minutes an uncovered carriage, drawn by two horses, traversed the Avenue de Neuilly.
“Bergeret!” cried Sarre; “Attention! Present arms!”
It was Bergeret. Glittering like an aurora borealis in his gaudy uniform, he lounged back in his carriage smoking a cigarette, insolently returning the salutes of the regimental commanders. His carriage, preceded by a Turco who acted as ordonnance, and followed by a gorgeous staff, pulled up in the centre of the square. Bergeret rose in his carriage, turned dramatically toward Versailles, and lifted his hand. It was the signal. The drums beat, the bugles sounded, and an immense clamor arose: “À Versailles! à Versailles!”
Bergeret in his carriage, surrounded by twelve cannon, led the column; behind crowded three battalions of the National Guard, the 24th, the 128th, and the 188th, cheering madly. Then came the 1st Battalion of Paris Turcos, Colonel Sarre, marching well and singing at the top of their voices:
“Voici le sabre! le sabre! le sabre!” which was so appropriate that a staff-officer came from Bergeret with a request that the Turcos change their song. Unconscious of the irony, the Turcos refused, and General Bergeret swore under his breath that he would “purge” the battalion on their return. Behind the Turcos came six more battalions, yelling for instant slaughter.
“Their lungs are all right,” sneered Red McGlone to Con Daily, who replied, “an’ I’m thinkin’ their appetites is better!”
“Wait until we get out of the village,” said McBarron, with an ominous smile.
“Phwat’s there?” demanded Daily.
“Look!”
As he spoke the battalion wheeled into the open country, and at the same moment Sarre threw up his hand and the captains repeated the order: “Halt! halt! halt!” The three battalions in front had also stopped, and every head was turned toward a great grey hill which loomed up in the morning light, silent and weird as a gigantic tomb.
It was Mont-Valérien.
An involuntary shiver passed through the entire column. Somewhere among the shadows of that hill huge guns were hidden; for the hill itself was an enormous fortress, and it overhung the route de Rueil.
Bergeret turned his carriage and rattled along the front of the column, chattering and jabbering. “It’s all right, there’s nothing to fear, my friends,” he cried. “The fort is occupied by the marines! The marines are for the people! The fort is with us! Forward, and Vive la Commune!”
“Vive your grandmother, you empty-headed ape!” growled McBarron. But Bergeret’s words inspired confidence, and the troops pushed on, until the head of the column reached the turn in the road where the route de Rueil passes scarcely eight hundred mètres from the fortress.
Suddenly an awful explosion shook the solid earth, then another, then another, then three together. It was the Gibets redoubt. Almost at the same instant the upper bastions of the fortress were belted with lightning, and the majestic thunder of the siege guns reverberated among the highlands opposite.
A frightful panic ensued. Some of the Federals lay mangled, some dead, others threw themselves on their faces to escape the bursting shells, but the great majority of the troops, terror-stricken, broke into a wild stampede. In vain their officers attempted to rally them, the old familiar cry: “Treason! treason! we are betrayed!” spread among the ranks, and drowned the shouts of the officers. Everywhere troops were throwing away their arms and flying in wild disorder. Artillery horses, panic-stricken, dashed about in all directions, dragging the cannon with them. Some of the troops seized the horses, and, cutting the traces, fled to Paris, ventre à terre.
The two horses attached to Bergeret’s vehicle were blown into atoms, but the “General” escaped, and disappeared in the direction of Paris at the top of his speed. Flourens, the hot-headed and impetuous, fell with his skull split clean in two; the commandant of the 24th Battalion, was disembowelled by a shell, and twenty-five of his men lay dead or wounded in the roadway; the 128th Battalion lost a lieutenant and eighteen men; and the 188th, two officers blown to smithereens, and fifteen men scattered among the ditches. And this was only the first salvo as salute from the fortress of Mont-Valérien.
The 1st Paris Turcos had not been directly in the line of fire, having halted almost at the entrance to the village, but two giant shells crashed into their ranks and burst as they struck. Three men in the first company, including Cartier, the captain, lay on the ground; in the fifth company seven men were killed, and the captain, Isidor Weser, was lying under his dying horse. Sarre took it very coolly.
“D — n you,” he cried, wheeling through the ranks,—” d — n you! What do you expect when you come out to fight, — a volley of confetti? Steady there — steady! If anybody doesn’t like it I’ll give him something he’ll like less! Captain Weser, get up, — here, lieutenant, just give him a pull. Your horse is in the molasses, but you ‘re not hurt, Captain Weser.
I’d like to hear anybody say ‘treason’ in my battalion! Attention! lie down!”
As he spoke a tempest of lead broke over the heads of the soldiers and the rattle of a mitrailleuse echoed from the lower slopes of the fortressed hill. Two men were wounded, one a boy who screamed and pitched headlong into the ditch below. Philip, lying on his stomach, saw Red McGlone quivering beside him, drenched with blood. Daily and McBarron were holding his head.
“Red,” said McBarron, kindly. But the wounded man only gasped: “What t’ hell!” and his life went out in the dust of the Rueil r
oad.
Philip turned anxiously toward the looming fortress, now silent and crowned with clouds, but from those grey battlements no cannon flashed; only the billowy sea of smoke belted its bastions. He saw his captain, Cartier, rise from the ground, dazed and rumpled, with a long red gash across his forehead; he saw McBarron methodically examining Red McGlone’s pockets, and as, at a signal from Sarre, he stood up with the others, he caught a glimpse of Weser, green with terror, staring at the fortress as though hypnotized.
On every side streamed the wreck of Bergeret’s corps, legging it for Paris, howling like Indians. Two guns, the wreck of a mounted battery, stood uninjured in a foot-path to the right; the cannoniers had cut the traces and galloped off, and there was nothing to be done in that direction. Sarre saw it and leered at the flying troops. Then he turned to his major, a stupid-eyed Breton named Gloanec, who sat on his horse and watched the stampede with almost as much emotion as a cow.
“Fine view, Major,” sneered Sarre.
“Yes,” replied that officer, without visible interest.
“The jig’s up in Paris,” said Sarre.
“Ma doui,” replied the Major, tranquilly. An officer in the uniform of the National Guard galloped up to Sarre and saluted nervously.
“Well?” demanded Sarre.
“ — The — the twenty thousand troops of the reserve across the river — General Bergeret’s corps, have gone—”
“Gone!” shrieked Sarre, leaping straight up in his saddle.
“Gone, — run away, Colonel—”
“Then by G-d!” yelled Sarre, “I’ll take my battalion to Clamart where a scented monkey doesn’t command, — by G-d! I will, — I’ve had enough of tin soldiers! Sound the alert! Attention! By columns of four — here, take command, Major — I’ll show this traitor Bergeret what I can do, — yes, traitor; I’ve said it! It’s the word! I may not be able to manœuvre a battalion, but I can fight; — you’ll all see! — Weser, climb on a horse d — n quick, or there may be a few unpleasant words between us. Cartier, can you ride? — good; it’s only a scratch as you say. Leave the dead in the village and detail four men and a corporal to bury them. Any of the wounded who can’t come must wait there for the ambulances. So they ran, did they? The twenty thousand National Guards — ran away from Neuilly when they heard the voice of Mont-Valérien! Look! there go the Hussars of Death, trailing it for Clamart. Good carrion crows! Follow them, soldiers, their scent is keen! March!”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 41
