[#] On a sick bed."That!" replied the Englishman, and therewith smote the fat Austrian a most tremendous smack across his heavy blue jowl with the open hand, sending him staggering several yards. Without paying further attention to the great man's ambassador, he strode in the direction of the great man himself, with blazing eyes and clenched jaw."You want me, do you?" he shouted at the astonished Luigi, who was rising open-mouthed from his bed; and, putting the whole weight of his body behind the blow, drove most skilfully and scientifically straight at the point of his jaw.It must be confessed that the Italian was taken unawares, and in the very act of getting up, so that his hands were down, and he was neither standing nor sitting.He was down and out, and lay across his bed stunned and motionless.Into the perfect silence of thechambréefell the voice of the Bucking Bronco. Solemnly he counted from one to ten, and then with a shout of "OUT!" threw his képi to the roof and roared "Hurrah!" repeatedly."Il ira loin," remarked Monsieur Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat, viewing Rupert's handiwork with experienced, professional eye.Exclamatory oaths went up in all the languages of Europe."Il a fait de bon boulet," remarked a grinning greybeard known as "Tant-de-Soif" to the astounded and almost awe-stricken crowd.But le Légionnaire Jean Boule looked ahead."You've made two bad enemies, my boy, I'm afraid.... What about when he comes round?""I'll give him some more, if I can," replied Rupert. "Don't interfere, anyhow.""Shake, sonny," said the Bucking Bronco solemnly. "An' look at hyar. Let's interfere, to the extent o' makin' thet cunning coyote fight down in the squar'.... Yew won't hev no chance--so don't opine yew will--but yew'll hev' more chance than yew will right hyar.... Yew want space when you roughhouses with Loojey. Once he gits a holt on yew--yure monica's up. Savvy?""Thanks," replied the Englishman. "Right-ho! If he won't fight downstairs, tell him he can take the three of us.""Fower, matey. Us fower Henglishmen agin' 'im an' 'is 'ole bleedin' gang," put in 'Erb. "'E's a bloke as wants takin' dahn a peg.... Too free wiv' hisself.... Chucks 'is weight abaht too much.... An' I'll tell yer wot, Cocky. Keep a heye on that cove as you giv' a smack in the chops.""Sure thing," agreed the Bucking Bronco, and turned to the Belgian who stood ruefully holding his face and looking as venomous as a broken-backed cobra, added: "Yew look at hyar, Mounseer Malvin, my lad. Don't yew git handlin' yure Rosalie[#] any dark night. Yew try terzigouiller[#] my pal Rupert, an' I'll draw yure innards up through yure mouth till yew look like half a pound of dumplin' on the end of half a yard of macaroni. Twiggez vous?Je tirerai vos gueutes à travers votre bouche jusqu'à vous resemblez un demi-livre de ponding au bout d'un demi-yard de macaroni.... Got it? ..."[#] Bayonet.[#] To bayonet.Rivoli twitched, stirred, and groaned. It was interesting to note that none of his clients and henchmen offered any assistance. The sceptre of the great man swayed in his hand. Were he beaten, those whom he ruled by fear, rather than by bribery, would fall upon him like a pack of wolves. The hands of Monsieur Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat twitched and he licked his lips."Je m'en souviendrai," he murmured.Rivoli sat up."Donna e Madonna!" he said. "Corpo di Bacco!" and gazed around. "What has happened?..." and then he remembered. "A minute," he said. "Wait but a minute--and then bring him to me."Obedience and acquiescence awoke in the bosoms of his supporters. The great Luigi was alive and on his throne again. The Greek passed him a mug of water."Yes, wait but a moment, and then just hand him to me.... One of you might go over to the hospital and say a bed will be wanted shortly," he added. "And another of you might look up old Jules Latour down at the cemetery and tell him to start another grave.""You're coming to me, for a change, Rivoli," cut in Rupert contemptuously. "You're going to fight me down below. There's going to be a ring, and fair play. Will you come now, or will you wait till to-morrow? I can wait if you feel shaken.""Plug the ugly skunk while he's rattled, Bub," advised the American, and turning to the Italian added, "Sure thing, Loojey. Ef yew ain't hed enuff yew kin tote downstairs and hev' a five-bunch frame-up with the b'y. Ef yew start rough-housin' up hyar, I'll take a hand too. I would anyhaow, only the b'y wants yew all to himself.... Greedy young punk.""I will kill him and eat himnow," said the Italian rising magnificently. Apparently his splendid constitution and physique had triumphed completely, and it was as though the blow had not been struck."Come on, b'ys," yelped the American, "an' ef thet Dago don't fight as square as he knows haow, I'll pull his lower jaw off his face."In a moment the room was empty, except for Mikhail Kyrilovitch, who sat on the edge of his brother's bed and shuddered.Clattering down the stairs and gathering numbers as it went, the party made for the broad space, or passage, between high walls near the back entrance of the Company'scaserne, a safe and secluded spot for fights. As they went along, John Bull gave good advice to his young friend."Remember he's a wrestler and a savate man," he said, "and that public opinion here recognises the use of both in a fight--so you can expect him to clinch and kick as well as butt.""Right-o!" said Rupert.A large ring was formed by the rapidly growing crowd of spectators, a ring, into the middle of which the Bucking Bronco stepped to declare that he would rearrange the features, as well as the ideas, of any supporter of Luigi Rivoli who in any way interfered with the fight.The two combatants stripped to the waist and faced each other. It was a pleasant surprise to John Bull to notice that his friend looked bigger "peeled," than he did when dressed. (It is a good test of muscular development.) Obviously the youth was in the pink of condition and had systematically developed his muscles. But for the presence of Rivoli, the arms and torso of the Englishman would have evoked admiring comments. As it was, the gigantic figure of the Italian dwarfed him, for he looked what he was--a professional Strong Man whose stock-in-trade was his enormous muscles and their mighty strength.... It was not so much a contrast between David and Goliath as between Apollo and Hercules.The Italian assumed his favourite wrestling attitude with open hands advanced; the Englishman, the position of boxing.The two faced each other amidst the perfect silence of the large throng.As, to the credit of human nature, is always the case, the sentiment of the crowd was in favour of the weaker party. No one supposed for a moment that the recruit would win, but he was a "dark horse," and English--of a nation proverbially dogged and addicted tola boxe.... He might perhaps be merely maimed and not killed.... For a full minute the antagonists hung motionless, eyeing each other warily. Suddenly the Italian swiftly advanced his left foot and made a lightning grab with his left hand at the Englishman's neck. The latter ducked; the great arm swung, harmless, above his head, and two sharp smacks rang out like pistol-shots as the Englishman planted a left and right with terrific force upon the Italian's ribs. Rivoli's gasp was almost as audible as the blows. He sprang back, breathing heavily.John Bull moistened his Lips and thanked God. Rupert circled round his opponent, sparring for an opening. Slowly ... slowly ... almost imperceptibly, the Italian's head and shoulders bent further and further back. What the devil was he doing?--wondered the Englishman--getting his head out of danger? Certainly his jaw was handsomely swollen.... Anyhow he was exposing his mark, the spot where the ribs divide. If he could get a "right" in there, with all his weight and strength, Il Signor Luigi Rivoli would have to look to himself in the ensuing seconds. Rupert made a spring. As he did so, the Italian's body turned sideways and leant over until almost parallel with the ground, as his right knee drew up to his chest and his right foot shot out with the force of a horse's kick. It caught the advancing Englishman squarely on the mouth, and sent him flying head over heels like a shot rabbit. The Italian darted forward--and so did the Bucking Bronco."Assez!" he shouted. "Let him get up." At this point his Legion French failed him, and he added in his own vernacular, "Ef yew think yu're gwine ter kick him while he's down, yew've got another think comin', Loojey Rivoli," and barred his path.John Bull raised Rupert's head on to his knee. He was senseless and bleeding from mouth and nose.Pushing his way through the ring, came 'Erb, a mug of water in one hand, a towel in the other. Filling his mouth with water, he ejected a fine spray over Rupert's face and chest, and then, taking the towel by two corners of a long side, flapped it mightily over the prostrate man.The latter opened his eyes, sat up, and spat out a tooth."Damned kicking cad," he remarked, on collecting his scattered wits and faculties."No Queensberry rules here, old chap," said John Bull."You do the sime fer 'im, matey. Kick 'is bleedin' faice in.... W'y carn't 'e fight like a man, the dirty furriner?" and turning from his ministrations to where the great Luigi received the congratulations of his admiring supporters, he bawled with the full strength of his lungs: "Yah! you dirty furriner!" and crowned the taunt by putting his fingers to his nose and emitting a bellowingBoo-oo-oo!of incredibly bull-like realism. "If I wasn't yer second, matey, I'd go an' kick 'im in the stummick naow, I would," he muttered, resuming his labour of love.Rupert struggled to his feet."Give me the mug," he said to 'Erb, and washed out his mouth. "How long 'time' is observed on these occasions?" he asked of John Bull."Oh, nothing's regular," was the reply. "'Rounds' end when you fall apart, and 'time' ends when both are ready.... You aren't going for him again, are you?""I'm going for him as long as I can stand and see," was the answer. 'Erb patted him on the back."Blimey! You're a White Man, matey," he commended. "S'welp me, you are!""Seconds out of the ring," bawled the Bucking Bronco, and unceremoniously shoved back all who delayed.A look of incredulity spread over the face of the Italian. Could it be possible that the fool did not know that he was utterly beaten and abolished? ... He tenderly felt his jaw and aching ribs....It was true. The Englishman advanced upon him, the light of battle in his eyes, and fierce determination expressed in the frown upon his white face. His mouth bore no expression--it was merely a mess.A cheer went up from the spectators.A recruit asking for ittwice, from Luigi Rivoli!That famous man, though by no means anxious, was slightly perplexed. There was something here to which he was not accustomed. It was the first time in his experience that this had happened. Few men had defied and faced him once--none had done it twice. This, in itself was bad, and in the nature of a faint blow to his prestige.... He had tried a grapple--with unfortunate results; he had tried a kick--most successfully, and he would try another in a moment. Lest his opponent should be warily expecting it, he would now administer a battering-ram butt. He crouched forward, extending his open hands as though to grapple, and, suddenly ducking his head, flung himself forward, intending to drive the breath from his enemy's body and seize him by the throat ere he recovered.Lightly and swiftly the Englishman side-stepped and, as he did so, smote the Italian with all his strength full upon the ear--a blow which caused that organ to swell hugely, and to "sing" for hours. Rivoli staggered sideways and fell. The Englishman stood back and waited. Rivoli arose as quickly as he fell, and, with a roar of rage, charged straight at the Englishman, who drove straight at his face, left and right, cutting his knuckles to the bone. Heavy and true as were the blows, they could not avail to stop that twenty-stone projectile, and, in a second, the Italian's arms were round him. One mighty hug and heave, and his whole body, clasped as in a vice to that of the Italian, was bent over backward in a bow."Thet's torn it," groaned the American, and dashed his képi upon the ground. "Fer two damns I'd..."John Bull laid a restraining hand upon his arm."Go it, Rupert," bawled 'Erb, dancing in a frenzy of excitement. "Git 'is froat.... Swing up yer knee.... Kick 'im.""Shut up," snapped John Bull. "He's not a hooligan...."One of Rupert's arms was imprisoned in those of the Italian. True to his training and standards, he played the game as he had learnt it, and kept his free right hand from his opponent's throat. With his failing strength he rained short-arm blows on the Italian's face, until it was turned sideways and crushed against his neck and shoulder.John Bull mistook the bully's action."If you bite his throat, I'll shoot you, Rivoli," he shouted, and applauding cheers followed the threat.The muscles of Rivoli's back and arms tightened and bunched as he strained with all his strength. Slowly but surely he bent further over, drawing the Englishman's body closer and closer in his embrace.To John Bull, the seconds seemed years. Complete silence reigned. Rupert's blows weakened and became feeble. They ceased. Rivoli bent over further. As Rupert's right arm fell to his side, the Italian seized it from behind. His victim was now absolutely powerless and motionless. John Bull was reminded of a boa-constrictor which he had once seen crush a deer. Suddenly the Italian's left arm was withdrawn, his right arm continuing to imprison Rupert's left while his right hand retained his grip of the other. Thrusting his left hand beneath the Englishman's chin he put all his colossal strength into one great effort--pushing the head back until it seemed that the neck must break, and at the same time contracting his great right arm and bending himself almost double. He then raised his opponent and dashed him to the ground....Reginald Rupert recovered consciousness in the Legion's Hospital.A skilful, if somewhat brutal, surgeon soon decided that his back was not broken but only badly sprained. On leaving hospital, a fortnight later, he did eight dayssalle de policeby way of convalescence.On return to duty, he found himself something of a hero in the Seventh Company, and decidedly the hero of the recruits of hischambrée.Disregarding the earnest entreaties of John Bull and the reiterated advice of the Bucking Bronco, and of the almost worshipping 'Erb--he awaited Luigi Rivoli on the evening after his release and challenged him to fight.The great man burst into explosive laughter--laughter almost too explosive to be wholly genuine."Fight you, whelp! Fight you,whelp!" he scoffed. "Whyshould I fight you? Pah! Out of my sight--I have something else to do.""Oh have you? Well, don't forget that I have nothing else to do, any time you feel like fighting. See?" replied the Englishman.The Italian again roared with laughter, and Rupert with beating heart and well-concealed sense of mighty relief, returned to his cot to work.It was noticeable that Il Signor Luigi Rivoli invariably had something else to do, so far as Rupert was concerned, and molested him no more.CHAPTER VILE CAFARD AND OTHER THINGSFor Légionnaire Reginald Rupert the days slipped past with incredible rapidity, and, at the end of six months, this adaptable and exceedingly keen young man felt himself to be an old and seasoned Legionary, for whom the Depôt held little more in the way of instruction and experience.His thoughts began to turn to Foreign Service. When would he be able to volunteer for a draft going to Tonkin, Madagascar, Senegal, or some other place of scenes and experiences entirely different from those of Algeria? When would he see some active service--that which he had come so far to see, and for which he had undergone these hardships and privations?Deeply interested as he was in all things military, and anxious as he was to learn and become the Compleat Soldier, he found himself beginning to grow very weary of the trivial round, the common task, of Life in the Depôt. Once he knew his drill as an Infantryman, he began to feel that the proportion of training and instruction to that of corvée and fatigues was small. He had not travelled all the way to Algiers to handle broom and wheelbarrow, and perform non-military labours at a wage of a halfpenny per day. Of course, one took the rough with the smooth and shrugged one's shoulders with the inevitable "Que voulez-vous? C'est la Légion," but, none the less, he had had enough, and more than enough, of Depôt life.He sometimes thought of going to theAdjudant-Major, offering to provide proofs that he had been a British officer, and claiming to be placed in the class ofangehende corporale(as he called theélèves Caporauxor probationary Corporals) with a view to promotion and a wider and different sphere of action.There were reasons against this course, however. It would, very probably, only result in his being stuck in the Depôt permanently, as a Corporal-Instructor--the more so as he spoke German. Also, it was neither quite worth while, nor quite playing the game, as he did not intend to spend more than a year in the Legion and was looking forward to his attempt at desertion as his first real Great Adventure.He had heard horrible stories of the fate of most of those who go "on pump," as, for no discoverable reason, the Legionary calls desertion. In every barrack-room there hung unspeakably ghastly photographs of the mangled bodies of Legionaries who had fallen into the hands of the Arabs and been tortured by their women. He had himself seen wretched deserters dragged back by Goums,[#] a mass of rags, filth, blood and bruises; their manacled hands fastened to the end of a rope attached to an Arab's saddle. Inasmuch as the captor got twenty-five francs for returning a deserter, alive or dead, he merely tied the wounded, or starved and half-dead wretch to the end of a rope and galloped with him to the nearest outpost or barracks. When the Roumi[#] could no longer run, he was quite welcome to fall and be dragged.[#] Arab gens d'armes.[#] White man.Rupert had also gathered a fairly accurate idea of the conditions of life--if "life" it can be called--in the Penal Battalions.Yes, on the whole, desertion from the Legion would be something in the nature of an adventure, when one considered the difficulties, risks, and dangers, which militated against success, and the nature of the punishment which attended upon failure. No wonder that desertion was regarded by all and sundry as being a feat of courage, skill and endurance to which attached no slightest stigma of disgrace! One gathered that most men "made the promenade" at some time or other--generally under the influence ofle cafardin some terrible Southern desert-station, and were dealt with more or less leniently (provided they lost no articles of their kit) in view of the fact that successful desertion from such places was utterly impossible, and only attempted by them "while of unsound mind." Only once or twice, in the whole history of the Legion, had a man got clear away, obtained a camel, and, by some miracle of luck, courage and endurance, escaped death at the hands of the Arabs, thirst, hunger, and sunstroke, to reach the Moroccan border and take service with the Moors--who are the natural and hereditary enemies of the Touaregs and Bedouins.Yes, he had begun to feel that he had certainly come to the end of a period of instruction and experience, and was in need of change to fresh fields and pastures new. Vegetating formed no part of his programme of life, which was far too short, in any case, for all there was to see and to do....Sitting one night on his cot, and talking to the man for whom he now had a very genuine and warm affection, he remarked--"Don't you get fed up with Depôt life, Bull?""I have been fed up with life, Depôt and otherwise, for over twenty years," was the reply.... "Don't forget that life here in Sidi is a great deal better than life in a desert station in the South. It is supportable anyhow; there--it simply isn't; and those who don't desert and die, go mad and die. The exceptions, who do neither, deteriorate horribly, and come away very different men.... Make the most of Sidi, my boy, while you are here, and remember that foreign service, when in Tonkin, Madagascar, or Western Africa, inevitably means fever and dysentery, and generally broken health for life.... Moreover, Algeria is the only part of the French colonial possessions in which the climate lets one enjoy one's pipe."That very night, shortly after thecasernehad fallen silent and still, its inmates wrapped in the heavy sleep of the thoroughly weary, an alarm-bugle sounded in the barrack-square, and, a minute later, non-commissioned officers hurried from room to room, bawling, "Aux armes! Aux armes! Aux armes!" at the top of their voices.Rupert sat up in his bed, as Corporal Achille Martel began to shout, "Levez-vous donc. Levez-vous! Faites le sac! Faites le sac! En tenue de Campagne d'Afrique.""'Ooray!" shrilled 'Erb. "Oo-bloomin'-ray.""Buck up, Rupert," said John Bull. "We've got to be on the barrack-square in full 'African field equipment' in ten minutes."Thechambréebecame the scene of feverish activity, as well as of delirious excitement and joy. In spite of it being the small hours of the morning, every man howled or whistled his own favourite song, without a sign of that liverish grumpiness which generally accompanies early-morning effort. The great Luigi's slaves worked at double pressure since they had to equip their lord and master as well as themselves. Feodor Kyrilovitch appeared to pack his own knapsack with one hand and that of Mikhail with the other, while he whispered words of cheer and encouragement. The Dutch boy, Hans Djoolte, having finished his work, knelt down beside his bed and engaged in prayer. Speculation was rife as to whether France had declared war on Morocco, or whether the Arabs were in rebellion, for the hundredth time, and lighting the torch of destruction all along the Algerian border.In ten minutes from the blowing of the alarm-bugle, the Battalion was on parade in the barrack-square, every man fully equipped and laden like a beast of burden. One thought filled every mind as the ammunition boxes were brought from the magazine and prised open.What would the cardboard packets contain? A few seconds after the first packet had been torn open by the first man to whom one was tossed, the news had spread throughout the Battalion.Ball-Cartridge!The Deity in that moment received the heartfelt fervid thanks of almost every man in the barrack-square, for ball-cartridge meant active service--in any case, a blessed thing, whatever might result--the blessing of death, of promotion, of decorations, of wounds and discharge from the Legion. The blessing of change, to begin with.There was one exception however. When Caporal Achille Martel "told off" Légionnaire Mikhail Kyrilovitch for orderly-duty to theAdjudant Vaguemestre,[#] duty which would keep him behind in barracks, that Legionary certainly contrived to conceal any disappointment that he may have felt.[#] The postmaster.A few minutes later the Legion's magnificent band struck up the Legion's march of "Tiens, voilà du boudin," and the Battalion swung out of the gate, past the barracks of the Spahis, through the quiet sleeping streets into the main road, and so out of the town to which many of them never returned.In the third row of fours of the Seventh Company marched the Bucking Bronco, John Bull, Reginald Rupert, and Herbert Higgins. In the row in front of them, Luigi Rivoli, Edouard Malvin, the Grass hopper, and Feodor Kyrilovitch. In the front row old Tant-de-Soif, Franz Josef Meyer, Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat, and Hans Djoolte. In front of them marched the four drummers. At the head of the Company rode Captain d'Armentières, beside whom walked Lieutenant Roberte.Marching "at ease," the men discussed the probabilities and possibilities of the expedition. All the signs and tokens to be read by experienced soldier-eyes, were those of a long march and active service."It'll be a case of 'best foot foremost' a few hours hence, Rupert, I fancy," remarked John Bull. "I shouldn't be surprised if we put up thirty miles on end, with no halt but the 'cigarette spaces.'""Sure thing," agreed the Bucking Bronco. "I got a hunch we're gwine ter throw our feet some, to-day. We wouldn't hev' hiked off like this with sharp ammunition and made out get-away in quarter of an hour ef little Johnnie hadn't wanted the doctor. Well, I'm sorry fer the b'ys as ain't good mushers... Guess we shan't pound our ears[#] before we wants tew, this trip."[#] Sleep.Marching along the excellent sandy road through the cool of the night, under a glorious moon, with the blood of youth, and health, and strength coursing like fire through his veins, it was difficult for Rupert to realise that, within a few hours, he would be wearily dragging one foot after the other, his rifle weighing a hundredweight, his pack weighing a ton, his mouth a lime-kiln, his body one awful ache. He had had some pretty gruelling marches before, but this was the first time that the Battalion had gone out on a night alarm with ball-cartridge, and every indication of it being the "real thing."On tramped the Legion.Anon there was a whistle, a cry ofHalt!and there was a few minutes' rest. Men lit cigarettes; some sat down; several fumbled at straps and endeavoured to ease packs by shifting them. Malvin made his master lie down after removing his pack altogether. It is a pack well worth removing--that of the Legion--save when seconds are too precious to be thus spent, and you consider it the wiser plan to fall flat and lie from the word "Halt!" to the word "Fall in!" The knapsack of black canvas is heavy with two full uniforms, underclothing, cleaning materials and sundries. Weighty tent-canvas and blankets are rolled round it, tent-supports are fastened at the side, firewood, a cooking-pot, drinking-mug and spare boots go on top.Attached to his belt the Legionary carries a sword-bayonet with a steel scabbard, four hundred rounds of ammunition in his cartridge-pouches, an entrenching tool, and his "sac." Add his rifle and water-bottle, and you have the most heavily laden soldier in the world. He does not carry his overcoat--he wears it, and is perhaps unique in considering a heavy overcoat to be correct desert wear. Under his overcoat he has only a canvas shirt and white linen trousers (whenen tenue de campagne d'Afrique), tucked into leather gaiters. Round his waist, his blue sash--four yards of woollen cloth--acts as an excellent cholera-belt and body-support. The linen neckcloth, or couvre-nuque, buttoned on to the white cover of his képi, protects his neck and ears, and, to some extent, his face, and prevents sunstroke....The Battalion marched on through the glorious dawn, gaily singing "Le sac, ma foi, toujours au dos," and the old favourite marching songs "Brigadier," "L'Empereur de Danmark," "Père Bugeaud," and "Tiens, voilà du boudin." Occasionally a German would lift up his splendid voice and soon more than half the battalion would be singing--"Trinken wir noch ein TröpfchenAus dem kleinen Henkeltöpfchen."orDie Wacht am Rheinor the patheticMorgenlied.At the second halt, when some eight miles had been covered, there were few signs of fatigue, and more men remained standing than sat down. As the long column waited by the side of the road, a small cavalcade from the direction of Sidi-bel-Abbès overtook it. At the head rode a white-haired, white-moustached officer on whose breast sparkled and shone that rare and glorious decoration, the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honour."That's the Commander-in-Chief in Algeria," said John Bull to Rupert. "That settles it: we're out for business this time, and I fancy you'll see some Arab-fighting before you are much older.... Feet going to be all right, do you think?""Fine," replied Rupert. "My boots are half full of tallow, and I've got a small bottle of bapédi in my sack...."On tramped the Legion.The day grew hot and packs grew heavy. The Battalion undeniably and unashamedly slouched. Many men leant heavily forward against their straps, while some bent almost double, like coal-heavers carrying sacks of coal. Rifles changed frequently from right hand to left. There was no singing now. The only sound that came from dry-lipped, sticky mouths was an occasional bitter curse. Rupert began to wonder if his shoulder straps had not turned to wires. His arms felt numb, and the heavy weights, hung about his shoulders and waist, caused a feeling of constriction about the heart and lungs. He realised that he quite understood how people felt when they fainted....By the seventh halt, some forty kilometres, or twenty-seven miles lay behind the Battalion. At the wordHalt!every man had thrown himself at full length on the sand, and very few wasted precious moments of the inexorably exact five minutes of the rest-period in removing knapsacks. Hardly a man spoke; none smoked.On tramped the Legion.Gone was all pretence of smartness and devil-may-care humour--that queermacabreand bitter humour of the Legion. Men slouched and staggered, and dragged their feet in utter hopeless weariness. Backs rounded more and more, heads sank lower, and those who limped almost outnumbered those who did not. A light push would have sent any man stumbling to the ground.As the whistle blew for the next halt, the Legion sank to the ground with a groan, as though it would never rise again. As the whistle blew for the advance the Legion staggered to its feet as one man.... Oh, the Legion marches! Is not its motto, "March or Die"? The latter it may do, the former it must. The Legion has its orders and its destination, and it marches. If it did not reach its destination at the appointed time, it would be because it had died in getting there.On tramped the Legion.With horrible pains in its blistered shoulders, its raw-rubbed backs, its protesting, aching legs and blistered heels and toes, the Legion staggered on, a silent pitiable mass of suffering. Up and down the entire length of the Battalion rode its Colonel, "the Marching Pig." Every few yards he bawled with brazen throat and leathern lungs: "March or die, my children! March or die!" And the Legion clearly understood that it must march or it must die. To stagger from the ranks and fall was to die of thirst and starvation, or beneath theflissaof the Arab.Legionary Rupert blessed those "Breakfasts of the Legion" and the hard training which achieved and maintained the hard condition of the Legionary. Sick, giddy, and worn-out as he felt, he knew he could keep going at least as long as the average, and by the time the average man had reached the uttermost end of his tether, the end of their march must be reached. After all, though they were Legionaries whose motto was "March or Die," they were only human beings--and to all human effort and endeavour there is a limit. He glanced at his comrades. The Bucking Bronco swung along erect, his rifle held across his shoulder by the muzzle, and his belt, with all its impedimenta, swinging from his right hand. He stared straight ahead and, with vacant mind and tireless iron body, "threw his feet."Beside him, John Bull looked very white and worn and old. He leant heavily against the pull of his straps and marched with his chest bare. On Rupert's left, 'Erb, having unbuttoned and unbuckled everything unbuttonable and unbuckleable, slouched along, a picture of slack unsoldierliness and of dauntless dogged endurance. Suddenly throwing up his head he screamed from parched lips, "Aw we dahn'earted?" and, having painfully swallowed, answered his own strident question with a long-drawn, contemptuous "Ne--a--ow." Captain d'Armentières, who knew England and the English, looked round with a smile.... "Bon garçon," he nodded.On the right of the second row of fours marched Luigi Rivoli, in better case than most, as the bulk of his kit was now impartially distributed among Malvin, Meyer, Tou-tou and Tant-de-Soif. (The power of money in the Legion is utterly incredible.) Feodor Kyrilovitch was carrying the Grasshopper's rifle--and that made a mighty difference toward the end of a thirty-mile march.At the end of the next halt, the Grasshopper declared that he could not get up.... At the command, "Fall in!" the unfortunate man did not stir."Kind God! WhatshallI do?" he groaned. It was his first failure as a soldier."Come on, my lad," said John Bull sharply. "Here, pull off his kit," he added and unfastened the Belgian's belt. Between them they pulled him to his feet and dragged him to his place in the ranks. John Bull took his pack, the Bucking Bronco his belt and its appurtenances, and Feodor his rifle. His eyes were closed and he sank to the ground."Here," said Rupert to 'Erb. "Get in his place and let him march in yours beside me. We'll hold him up.""Give us yer rifle, matey," replied 'Erb, and left Rupert with hands free to assist the Grasshopper.With his right arm round the Belgian's waist, he helped him along, while John Bull insisted on having the poor fellow's right hand on his left shoulder.On tramped the Legion.Before long, almost the whole weight of the Grasshopper's body was on Rupert's right arm and John Bull's left shoulder."Stick to it, my son," said the latter from time to time, "we are sure to stop at the fifty-kilometre stone."The Belgian seemed to be semiconscious, and did not reply. His feet began to drag, and occasionally his two comrades bore his full weight for a few paces. Every few yards Feodor looked anxiously round. These four, in their anxiety for their weaker brother, forgot their own raw thighs, labouring lungs, inflamed eyes, numbed arms and agonising feet.Just as the Colonel rode by, the Grasshopper's feet ceased to move, and dragged lifeless along the ground.Rupert stumbled and the three fell in a heap, beneath the Colonel's eye."Sacré Baptême!" he swore--the oath he only used when a Legionary fell out on the march--"March or die, accursed pigs."Rupert and John Bull staggered to their feet, but the Grasshopper lay apparently lifeless. The Colonel swore again, and shouted an order. The Grasshopper was dragged to the side of the road, and a baggage-cart drove up. A tent-pole was thrust through its sides and tied securely. To this pole the Belgian was lashed, the pole passing across the upper part of his back and under his arms, which were pulled over it and tied together. If he could keep his feet, well and good. If he could not, he would hang from the pole by his arms (as an athlete hangs from a parallel-bar in a gymnasium, before revolving round and round it).On tramped the Legion.Before long, the Grasshopper's feet dragged in the dust as he drooped inanimate, and then hung in the rope which lashed him to the pole.At the fifty-fifth kilometre, thirty-five miles from Sidi-bel-Abbès, the command to halt was followed by the thrice-blessed God-sent order:"Campez!"Almost before the words, "Formez les faisceaux" were out of the Company-Commanders' mouths, the men had piled arms. Nor was the order "Sac à terre" obeyed in any grudging spirit. In an incredibly short space of time the jointed tent-poles and canvas had been removed from the knapsacks. Corporals of sections had stepped forward, holding the tent-poles above their heads, marking each Company's tent-line, and a city of small white tents had come into being on the face of the desert. A few minutes later, cooking-trenches had been dug, camp-fires lighted and water, containing meat and macaroni, put on to boil.A busy and profitable hour followed for Madame la Cantinière, who, even as her cart stopped, had set out her folding tables, benches and bar for the sale of her Algerian wine. Her first customer was the great Luigi, who, thanks to Carmelita's money, could sit and drink while his employees did his work. The fly in the worthy man's ointment was the fact that his Italian dinner and Italian wine were thirty-five miles behind him at Carmelita's café. Like ordinary men, he must, to-night and for many a night to come, content himself with the monotonous and meagre fare of common Legionaries. However--better half a sofa than no bed; and he was easily prime favourite with Madame.... This would be an excellent chance for consolidating his position with her, winning her for his bride, and apprising Carmelita, from afar, of the fact that he was now respectably settled in life. Thus would a disagreeable scene be avoided and, on the return of the Battalion to Sidi-bel-Abbès, he would give the Café de la Légion a wide berth.... Could he perhapssellhis rights and goodwill in thecaféand Carmelita to some Legionary of means? One or two of his ownchambréeseemed to have money--the Englishman; the Russians.... Better still, sell out to Malvin, Tou-tou, Meyer, or some other penniless toady andmake him pay a weekly percentageof what he screwed out of Carmelita. Excellent! And if the scoundrel did not get him enough, he would supplant him with a more competent lessee.... Meanwhile, to storm Madame's experienced and undecided heart. Anyhow, if she wouldn't have Luigi she shouldn't have anyone else....There was, that evening, exceeding little noise and movement, and "the stir and tread of armed camps." As soon as they had fed--and, in many cases, before they had fed--the soldiers lay on their blankets, their heads on their knapsacks and their overcoats over their bodies.Scarcely, as it seemed to Rupert, had they closed their eyes, when it was time to rise and resume their weary march. At one o'clock in the morning, the Battalion fell in, and each man got his two litres of water and strict orders to keep one quarter of it for to-morrow's cooking purposes. If he contributed no water to the cooking-cauldron he got no cooked food.On tramped the Legion.Day after day, day after day, it marched, and, on the twelfth day from Sidi-bel-Abbès, had covered nearly three hundred and fifty miles. Well might the Legion be known in the Nineteenth Division as theCavalerie à pied.
[#] On a sick bed.
"That!" replied the Englishman, and therewith smote the fat Austrian a most tremendous smack across his heavy blue jowl with the open hand, sending him staggering several yards. Without paying further attention to the great man's ambassador, he strode in the direction of the great man himself, with blazing eyes and clenched jaw.
"You want me, do you?" he shouted at the astonished Luigi, who was rising open-mouthed from his bed; and, putting the whole weight of his body behind the blow, drove most skilfully and scientifically straight at the point of his jaw.
It must be confessed that the Italian was taken unawares, and in the very act of getting up, so that his hands were down, and he was neither standing nor sitting.
He was down and out, and lay across his bed stunned and motionless.
Into the perfect silence of thechambréefell the voice of the Bucking Bronco. Solemnly he counted from one to ten, and then with a shout of "OUT!" threw his képi to the roof and roared "Hurrah!" repeatedly.
"Il ira loin," remarked Monsieur Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat, viewing Rupert's handiwork with experienced, professional eye.
Exclamatory oaths went up in all the languages of Europe.
"Il a fait de bon boulet," remarked a grinning greybeard known as "Tant-de-Soif" to the astounded and almost awe-stricken crowd.
But le Légionnaire Jean Boule looked ahead.
"You've made two bad enemies, my boy, I'm afraid.... What about when he comes round?"
"I'll give him some more, if I can," replied Rupert. "Don't interfere, anyhow."
"Shake, sonny," said the Bucking Bronco solemnly. "An' look at hyar. Let's interfere, to the extent o' makin' thet cunning coyote fight down in the squar'.... Yew won't hev no chance--so don't opine yew will--but yew'll hev' more chance than yew will right hyar.... Yew want space when you roughhouses with Loojey. Once he gits a holt on yew--yure monica's up. Savvy?"
"Thanks," replied the Englishman. "Right-ho! If he won't fight downstairs, tell him he can take the three of us."
"Fower, matey. Us fower Henglishmen agin' 'im an' 'is 'ole bleedin' gang," put in 'Erb. "'E's a bloke as wants takin' dahn a peg.... Too free wiv' hisself.... Chucks 'is weight abaht too much.... An' I'll tell yer wot, Cocky. Keep a heye on that cove as you giv' a smack in the chops."
"Sure thing," agreed the Bucking Bronco, and turned to the Belgian who stood ruefully holding his face and looking as venomous as a broken-backed cobra, added: "Yew look at hyar, Mounseer Malvin, my lad. Don't yew git handlin' yure Rosalie[#] any dark night. Yew try terzigouiller[#] my pal Rupert, an' I'll draw yure innards up through yure mouth till yew look like half a pound of dumplin' on the end of half a yard of macaroni. Twiggez vous?Je tirerai vos gueutes à travers votre bouche jusqu'à vous resemblez un demi-livre de ponding au bout d'un demi-yard de macaroni.... Got it? ..."
[#] Bayonet.
[#] To bayonet.
Rivoli twitched, stirred, and groaned. It was interesting to note that none of his clients and henchmen offered any assistance. The sceptre of the great man swayed in his hand. Were he beaten, those whom he ruled by fear, rather than by bribery, would fall upon him like a pack of wolves. The hands of Monsieur Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat twitched and he licked his lips.
"Je m'en souviendrai," he murmured.
Rivoli sat up.
"Donna e Madonna!" he said. "Corpo di Bacco!" and gazed around. "What has happened?..." and then he remembered. "A minute," he said. "Wait but a minute--and then bring him to me."
Obedience and acquiescence awoke in the bosoms of his supporters. The great Luigi was alive and on his throne again. The Greek passed him a mug of water.
"Yes, wait but a moment, and then just hand him to me.... One of you might go over to the hospital and say a bed will be wanted shortly," he added. "And another of you might look up old Jules Latour down at the cemetery and tell him to start another grave."
"You're coming to me, for a change, Rivoli," cut in Rupert contemptuously. "You're going to fight me down below. There's going to be a ring, and fair play. Will you come now, or will you wait till to-morrow? I can wait if you feel shaken."
"Plug the ugly skunk while he's rattled, Bub," advised the American, and turning to the Italian added, "Sure thing, Loojey. Ef yew ain't hed enuff yew kin tote downstairs and hev' a five-bunch frame-up with the b'y. Ef yew start rough-housin' up hyar, I'll take a hand too. I would anyhaow, only the b'y wants yew all to himself.... Greedy young punk."
"I will kill him and eat himnow," said the Italian rising magnificently. Apparently his splendid constitution and physique had triumphed completely, and it was as though the blow had not been struck.
"Come on, b'ys," yelped the American, "an' ef thet Dago don't fight as square as he knows haow, I'll pull his lower jaw off his face."
In a moment the room was empty, except for Mikhail Kyrilovitch, who sat on the edge of his brother's bed and shuddered.
Clattering down the stairs and gathering numbers as it went, the party made for the broad space, or passage, between high walls near the back entrance of the Company'scaserne, a safe and secluded spot for fights. As they went along, John Bull gave good advice to his young friend.
"Remember he's a wrestler and a savate man," he said, "and that public opinion here recognises the use of both in a fight--so you can expect him to clinch and kick as well as butt."
"Right-o!" said Rupert.
A large ring was formed by the rapidly growing crowd of spectators, a ring, into the middle of which the Bucking Bronco stepped to declare that he would rearrange the features, as well as the ideas, of any supporter of Luigi Rivoli who in any way interfered with the fight.
The two combatants stripped to the waist and faced each other. It was a pleasant surprise to John Bull to notice that his friend looked bigger "peeled," than he did when dressed. (It is a good test of muscular development.) Obviously the youth was in the pink of condition and had systematically developed his muscles. But for the presence of Rivoli, the arms and torso of the Englishman would have evoked admiring comments. As it was, the gigantic figure of the Italian dwarfed him, for he looked what he was--a professional Strong Man whose stock-in-trade was his enormous muscles and their mighty strength.... It was not so much a contrast between David and Goliath as between Apollo and Hercules.
The Italian assumed his favourite wrestling attitude with open hands advanced; the Englishman, the position of boxing.
The two faced each other amidst the perfect silence of the large throng.
As, to the credit of human nature, is always the case, the sentiment of the crowd was in favour of the weaker party. No one supposed for a moment that the recruit would win, but he was a "dark horse," and English--of a nation proverbially dogged and addicted tola boxe.... He might perhaps be merely maimed and not killed.... For a full minute the antagonists hung motionless, eyeing each other warily. Suddenly the Italian swiftly advanced his left foot and made a lightning grab with his left hand at the Englishman's neck. The latter ducked; the great arm swung, harmless, above his head, and two sharp smacks rang out like pistol-shots as the Englishman planted a left and right with terrific force upon the Italian's ribs. Rivoli's gasp was almost as audible as the blows. He sprang back, breathing heavily.
John Bull moistened his Lips and thanked God. Rupert circled round his opponent, sparring for an opening. Slowly ... slowly ... almost imperceptibly, the Italian's head and shoulders bent further and further back. What the devil was he doing?--wondered the Englishman--getting his head out of danger? Certainly his jaw was handsomely swollen.... Anyhow he was exposing his mark, the spot where the ribs divide. If he could get a "right" in there, with all his weight and strength, Il Signor Luigi Rivoli would have to look to himself in the ensuing seconds. Rupert made a spring. As he did so, the Italian's body turned sideways and leant over until almost parallel with the ground, as his right knee drew up to his chest and his right foot shot out with the force of a horse's kick. It caught the advancing Englishman squarely on the mouth, and sent him flying head over heels like a shot rabbit. The Italian darted forward--and so did the Bucking Bronco.
"Assez!" he shouted. "Let him get up." At this point his Legion French failed him, and he added in his own vernacular, "Ef yew think yu're gwine ter kick him while he's down, yew've got another think comin', Loojey Rivoli," and barred his path.
John Bull raised Rupert's head on to his knee. He was senseless and bleeding from mouth and nose.
Pushing his way through the ring, came 'Erb, a mug of water in one hand, a towel in the other. Filling his mouth with water, he ejected a fine spray over Rupert's face and chest, and then, taking the towel by two corners of a long side, flapped it mightily over the prostrate man.
The latter opened his eyes, sat up, and spat out a tooth.
"Damned kicking cad," he remarked, on collecting his scattered wits and faculties.
"No Queensberry rules here, old chap," said John Bull.
"You do the sime fer 'im, matey. Kick 'is bleedin' faice in.... W'y carn't 'e fight like a man, the dirty furriner?" and turning from his ministrations to where the great Luigi received the congratulations of his admiring supporters, he bawled with the full strength of his lungs: "Yah! you dirty furriner!" and crowned the taunt by putting his fingers to his nose and emitting a bellowingBoo-oo-oo!of incredibly bull-like realism. "If I wasn't yer second, matey, I'd go an' kick 'im in the stummick naow, I would," he muttered, resuming his labour of love.
Rupert struggled to his feet.
"Give me the mug," he said to 'Erb, and washed out his mouth. "How long 'time' is observed on these occasions?" he asked of John Bull.
"Oh, nothing's regular," was the reply. "'Rounds' end when you fall apart, and 'time' ends when both are ready.... You aren't going for him again, are you?"
"I'm going for him as long as I can stand and see," was the answer. 'Erb patted him on the back.
"Blimey! You're a White Man, matey," he commended. "S'welp me, you are!"
"Seconds out of the ring," bawled the Bucking Bronco, and unceremoniously shoved back all who delayed.
A look of incredulity spread over the face of the Italian. Could it be possible that the fool did not know that he was utterly beaten and abolished? ... He tenderly felt his jaw and aching ribs....
It was true. The Englishman advanced upon him, the light of battle in his eyes, and fierce determination expressed in the frown upon his white face. His mouth bore no expression--it was merely a mess.
A cheer went up from the spectators.
A recruit asking for ittwice, from Luigi Rivoli!
That famous man, though by no means anxious, was slightly perplexed. There was something here to which he was not accustomed. It was the first time in his experience that this had happened. Few men had defied and faced him once--none had done it twice. This, in itself was bad, and in the nature of a faint blow to his prestige.... He had tried a grapple--with unfortunate results; he had tried a kick--most successfully, and he would try another in a moment. Lest his opponent should be warily expecting it, he would now administer a battering-ram butt. He crouched forward, extending his open hands as though to grapple, and, suddenly ducking his head, flung himself forward, intending to drive the breath from his enemy's body and seize him by the throat ere he recovered.
Lightly and swiftly the Englishman side-stepped and, as he did so, smote the Italian with all his strength full upon the ear--a blow which caused that organ to swell hugely, and to "sing" for hours. Rivoli staggered sideways and fell. The Englishman stood back and waited. Rivoli arose as quickly as he fell, and, with a roar of rage, charged straight at the Englishman, who drove straight at his face, left and right, cutting his knuckles to the bone. Heavy and true as were the blows, they could not avail to stop that twenty-stone projectile, and, in a second, the Italian's arms were round him. One mighty hug and heave, and his whole body, clasped as in a vice to that of the Italian, was bent over backward in a bow.
"Thet's torn it," groaned the American, and dashed his képi upon the ground. "Fer two damns I'd..."
John Bull laid a restraining hand upon his arm.
"Go it, Rupert," bawled 'Erb, dancing in a frenzy of excitement. "Git 'is froat.... Swing up yer knee.... Kick 'im."
"Shut up," snapped John Bull. "He's not a hooligan...."
One of Rupert's arms was imprisoned in those of the Italian. True to his training and standards, he played the game as he had learnt it, and kept his free right hand from his opponent's throat. With his failing strength he rained short-arm blows on the Italian's face, until it was turned sideways and crushed against his neck and shoulder.
John Bull mistook the bully's action.
"If you bite his throat, I'll shoot you, Rivoli," he shouted, and applauding cheers followed the threat.
The muscles of Rivoli's back and arms tightened and bunched as he strained with all his strength. Slowly but surely he bent further over, drawing the Englishman's body closer and closer in his embrace.
To John Bull, the seconds seemed years. Complete silence reigned. Rupert's blows weakened and became feeble. They ceased. Rivoli bent over further. As Rupert's right arm fell to his side, the Italian seized it from behind. His victim was now absolutely powerless and motionless. John Bull was reminded of a boa-constrictor which he had once seen crush a deer. Suddenly the Italian's left arm was withdrawn, his right arm continuing to imprison Rupert's left while his right hand retained his grip of the other. Thrusting his left hand beneath the Englishman's chin he put all his colossal strength into one great effort--pushing the head back until it seemed that the neck must break, and at the same time contracting his great right arm and bending himself almost double. He then raised his opponent and dashed him to the ground....
Reginald Rupert recovered consciousness in the Legion's Hospital.
A skilful, if somewhat brutal, surgeon soon decided that his back was not broken but only badly sprained. On leaving hospital, a fortnight later, he did eight dayssalle de policeby way of convalescence.
On return to duty, he found himself something of a hero in the Seventh Company, and decidedly the hero of the recruits of hischambrée.
Disregarding the earnest entreaties of John Bull and the reiterated advice of the Bucking Bronco, and of the almost worshipping 'Erb--he awaited Luigi Rivoli on the evening after his release and challenged him to fight.
The great man burst into explosive laughter--laughter almost too explosive to be wholly genuine.
"Fight you, whelp! Fight you,whelp!" he scoffed. "Whyshould I fight you? Pah! Out of my sight--I have something else to do."
"Oh have you? Well, don't forget that I have nothing else to do, any time you feel like fighting. See?" replied the Englishman.
The Italian again roared with laughter, and Rupert with beating heart and well-concealed sense of mighty relief, returned to his cot to work.
It was noticeable that Il Signor Luigi Rivoli invariably had something else to do, so far as Rupert was concerned, and molested him no more.
CHAPTER VI
LE CAFARD AND OTHER THINGS
For Légionnaire Reginald Rupert the days slipped past with incredible rapidity, and, at the end of six months, this adaptable and exceedingly keen young man felt himself to be an old and seasoned Legionary, for whom the Depôt held little more in the way of instruction and experience.
His thoughts began to turn to Foreign Service. When would he be able to volunteer for a draft going to Tonkin, Madagascar, Senegal, or some other place of scenes and experiences entirely different from those of Algeria? When would he see some active service--that which he had come so far to see, and for which he had undergone these hardships and privations?
Deeply interested as he was in all things military, and anxious as he was to learn and become the Compleat Soldier, he found himself beginning to grow very weary of the trivial round, the common task, of Life in the Depôt. Once he knew his drill as an Infantryman, he began to feel that the proportion of training and instruction to that of corvée and fatigues was small. He had not travelled all the way to Algiers to handle broom and wheelbarrow, and perform non-military labours at a wage of a halfpenny per day. Of course, one took the rough with the smooth and shrugged one's shoulders with the inevitable "Que voulez-vous? C'est la Légion," but, none the less, he had had enough, and more than enough, of Depôt life.
He sometimes thought of going to theAdjudant-Major, offering to provide proofs that he had been a British officer, and claiming to be placed in the class ofangehende corporale(as he called theélèves Caporauxor probationary Corporals) with a view to promotion and a wider and different sphere of action.
There were reasons against this course, however. It would, very probably, only result in his being stuck in the Depôt permanently, as a Corporal-Instructor--the more so as he spoke German. Also, it was neither quite worth while, nor quite playing the game, as he did not intend to spend more than a year in the Legion and was looking forward to his attempt at desertion as his first real Great Adventure.
He had heard horrible stories of the fate of most of those who go "on pump," as, for no discoverable reason, the Legionary calls desertion. In every barrack-room there hung unspeakably ghastly photographs of the mangled bodies of Legionaries who had fallen into the hands of the Arabs and been tortured by their women. He had himself seen wretched deserters dragged back by Goums,[#] a mass of rags, filth, blood and bruises; their manacled hands fastened to the end of a rope attached to an Arab's saddle. Inasmuch as the captor got twenty-five francs for returning a deserter, alive or dead, he merely tied the wounded, or starved and half-dead wretch to the end of a rope and galloped with him to the nearest outpost or barracks. When the Roumi[#] could no longer run, he was quite welcome to fall and be dragged.
[#] Arab gens d'armes.
[#] White man.
Rupert had also gathered a fairly accurate idea of the conditions of life--if "life" it can be called--in the Penal Battalions.
Yes, on the whole, desertion from the Legion would be something in the nature of an adventure, when one considered the difficulties, risks, and dangers, which militated against success, and the nature of the punishment which attended upon failure. No wonder that desertion was regarded by all and sundry as being a feat of courage, skill and endurance to which attached no slightest stigma of disgrace! One gathered that most men "made the promenade" at some time or other--generally under the influence ofle cafardin some terrible Southern desert-station, and were dealt with more or less leniently (provided they lost no articles of their kit) in view of the fact that successful desertion from such places was utterly impossible, and only attempted by them "while of unsound mind." Only once or twice, in the whole history of the Legion, had a man got clear away, obtained a camel, and, by some miracle of luck, courage and endurance, escaped death at the hands of the Arabs, thirst, hunger, and sunstroke, to reach the Moroccan border and take service with the Moors--who are the natural and hereditary enemies of the Touaregs and Bedouins.
Yes, he had begun to feel that he had certainly come to the end of a period of instruction and experience, and was in need of change to fresh fields and pastures new. Vegetating formed no part of his programme of life, which was far too short, in any case, for all there was to see and to do....
Sitting one night on his cot, and talking to the man for whom he now had a very genuine and warm affection, he remarked--
"Don't you get fed up with Depôt life, Bull?"
"I have been fed up with life, Depôt and otherwise, for over twenty years," was the reply.... "Don't forget that life here in Sidi is a great deal better than life in a desert station in the South. It is supportable anyhow; there--it simply isn't; and those who don't desert and die, go mad and die. The exceptions, who do neither, deteriorate horribly, and come away very different men.... Make the most of Sidi, my boy, while you are here, and remember that foreign service, when in Tonkin, Madagascar, or Western Africa, inevitably means fever and dysentery, and generally broken health for life.... Moreover, Algeria is the only part of the French colonial possessions in which the climate lets one enjoy one's pipe."
That very night, shortly after thecasernehad fallen silent and still, its inmates wrapped in the heavy sleep of the thoroughly weary, an alarm-bugle sounded in the barrack-square, and, a minute later, non-commissioned officers hurried from room to room, bawling, "Aux armes! Aux armes! Aux armes!" at the top of their voices.
Rupert sat up in his bed, as Corporal Achille Martel began to shout, "Levez-vous donc. Levez-vous! Faites le sac! Faites le sac! En tenue de Campagne d'Afrique."
"'Ooray!" shrilled 'Erb. "Oo-bloomin'-ray."
"Buck up, Rupert," said John Bull. "We've got to be on the barrack-square in full 'African field equipment' in ten minutes."
Thechambréebecame the scene of feverish activity, as well as of delirious excitement and joy. In spite of it being the small hours of the morning, every man howled or whistled his own favourite song, without a sign of that liverish grumpiness which generally accompanies early-morning effort. The great Luigi's slaves worked at double pressure since they had to equip their lord and master as well as themselves. Feodor Kyrilovitch appeared to pack his own knapsack with one hand and that of Mikhail with the other, while he whispered words of cheer and encouragement. The Dutch boy, Hans Djoolte, having finished his work, knelt down beside his bed and engaged in prayer. Speculation was rife as to whether France had declared war on Morocco, or whether the Arabs were in rebellion, for the hundredth time, and lighting the torch of destruction all along the Algerian border.
In ten minutes from the blowing of the alarm-bugle, the Battalion was on parade in the barrack-square, every man fully equipped and laden like a beast of burden. One thought filled every mind as the ammunition boxes were brought from the magazine and prised open.What would the cardboard packets contain? A few seconds after the first packet had been torn open by the first man to whom one was tossed, the news had spread throughout the Battalion.
Ball-Cartridge!
The Deity in that moment received the heartfelt fervid thanks of almost every man in the barrack-square, for ball-cartridge meant active service--in any case, a blessed thing, whatever might result--the blessing of death, of promotion, of decorations, of wounds and discharge from the Legion. The blessing of change, to begin with.
There was one exception however. When Caporal Achille Martel "told off" Légionnaire Mikhail Kyrilovitch for orderly-duty to theAdjudant Vaguemestre,[#] duty which would keep him behind in barracks, that Legionary certainly contrived to conceal any disappointment that he may have felt.
[#] The postmaster.
A few minutes later the Legion's magnificent band struck up the Legion's march of "Tiens, voilà du boudin," and the Battalion swung out of the gate, past the barracks of the Spahis, through the quiet sleeping streets into the main road, and so out of the town to which many of them never returned.
In the third row of fours of the Seventh Company marched the Bucking Bronco, John Bull, Reginald Rupert, and Herbert Higgins. In the row in front of them, Luigi Rivoli, Edouard Malvin, the Grass hopper, and Feodor Kyrilovitch. In the front row old Tant-de-Soif, Franz Josef Meyer, Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat, and Hans Djoolte. In front of them marched the four drummers. At the head of the Company rode Captain d'Armentières, beside whom walked Lieutenant Roberte.
Marching "at ease," the men discussed the probabilities and possibilities of the expedition. All the signs and tokens to be read by experienced soldier-eyes, were those of a long march and active service.
"It'll be a case of 'best foot foremost' a few hours hence, Rupert, I fancy," remarked John Bull. "I shouldn't be surprised if we put up thirty miles on end, with no halt but the 'cigarette spaces.'"
"Sure thing," agreed the Bucking Bronco. "I got a hunch we're gwine ter throw our feet some, to-day. We wouldn't hev' hiked off like this with sharp ammunition and made out get-away in quarter of an hour ef little Johnnie hadn't wanted the doctor. Well, I'm sorry fer the b'ys as ain't good mushers... Guess we shan't pound our ears[#] before we wants tew, this trip."
[#] Sleep.
Marching along the excellent sandy road through the cool of the night, under a glorious moon, with the blood of youth, and health, and strength coursing like fire through his veins, it was difficult for Rupert to realise that, within a few hours, he would be wearily dragging one foot after the other, his rifle weighing a hundredweight, his pack weighing a ton, his mouth a lime-kiln, his body one awful ache. He had had some pretty gruelling marches before, but this was the first time that the Battalion had gone out on a night alarm with ball-cartridge, and every indication of it being the "real thing."
On tramped the Legion.
Anon there was a whistle, a cry ofHalt!and there was a few minutes' rest. Men lit cigarettes; some sat down; several fumbled at straps and endeavoured to ease packs by shifting them. Malvin made his master lie down after removing his pack altogether. It is a pack well worth removing--that of the Legion--save when seconds are too precious to be thus spent, and you consider it the wiser plan to fall flat and lie from the word "Halt!" to the word "Fall in!" The knapsack of black canvas is heavy with two full uniforms, underclothing, cleaning materials and sundries. Weighty tent-canvas and blankets are rolled round it, tent-supports are fastened at the side, firewood, a cooking-pot, drinking-mug and spare boots go on top.
Attached to his belt the Legionary carries a sword-bayonet with a steel scabbard, four hundred rounds of ammunition in his cartridge-pouches, an entrenching tool, and his "sac." Add his rifle and water-bottle, and you have the most heavily laden soldier in the world. He does not carry his overcoat--he wears it, and is perhaps unique in considering a heavy overcoat to be correct desert wear. Under his overcoat he has only a canvas shirt and white linen trousers (whenen tenue de campagne d'Afrique), tucked into leather gaiters. Round his waist, his blue sash--four yards of woollen cloth--acts as an excellent cholera-belt and body-support. The linen neckcloth, or couvre-nuque, buttoned on to the white cover of his képi, protects his neck and ears, and, to some extent, his face, and prevents sunstroke....
The Battalion marched on through the glorious dawn, gaily singing "Le sac, ma foi, toujours au dos," and the old favourite marching songs "Brigadier," "L'Empereur de Danmark," "Père Bugeaud," and "Tiens, voilà du boudin." Occasionally a German would lift up his splendid voice and soon more than half the battalion would be singing--
"Trinken wir noch ein TröpfchenAus dem kleinen Henkeltöpfchen."
"Trinken wir noch ein TröpfchenAus dem kleinen Henkeltöpfchen."
"Trinken wir noch ein Tröpfchen
Aus dem kleinen Henkeltöpfchen."
orDie Wacht am Rheinor the patheticMorgenlied.
At the second halt, when some eight miles had been covered, there were few signs of fatigue, and more men remained standing than sat down. As the long column waited by the side of the road, a small cavalcade from the direction of Sidi-bel-Abbès overtook it. At the head rode a white-haired, white-moustached officer on whose breast sparkled and shone that rare and glorious decoration, the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honour.
"That's the Commander-in-Chief in Algeria," said John Bull to Rupert. "That settles it: we're out for business this time, and I fancy you'll see some Arab-fighting before you are much older.... Feet going to be all right, do you think?"
"Fine," replied Rupert. "My boots are half full of tallow, and I've got a small bottle of bapédi in my sack...."
On tramped the Legion.
The day grew hot and packs grew heavy. The Battalion undeniably and unashamedly slouched. Many men leant heavily forward against their straps, while some bent almost double, like coal-heavers carrying sacks of coal. Rifles changed frequently from right hand to left. There was no singing now. The only sound that came from dry-lipped, sticky mouths was an occasional bitter curse. Rupert began to wonder if his shoulder straps had not turned to wires. His arms felt numb, and the heavy weights, hung about his shoulders and waist, caused a feeling of constriction about the heart and lungs. He realised that he quite understood how people felt when they fainted....
By the seventh halt, some forty kilometres, or twenty-seven miles lay behind the Battalion. At the wordHalt!every man had thrown himself at full length on the sand, and very few wasted precious moments of the inexorably exact five minutes of the rest-period in removing knapsacks. Hardly a man spoke; none smoked.
On tramped the Legion.
Gone was all pretence of smartness and devil-may-care humour--that queermacabreand bitter humour of the Legion. Men slouched and staggered, and dragged their feet in utter hopeless weariness. Backs rounded more and more, heads sank lower, and those who limped almost outnumbered those who did not. A light push would have sent any man stumbling to the ground.
As the whistle blew for the next halt, the Legion sank to the ground with a groan, as though it would never rise again. As the whistle blew for the advance the Legion staggered to its feet as one man.... Oh, the Legion marches! Is not its motto, "March or Die"? The latter it may do, the former it must. The Legion has its orders and its destination, and it marches. If it did not reach its destination at the appointed time, it would be because it had died in getting there.
On tramped the Legion.
With horrible pains in its blistered shoulders, its raw-rubbed backs, its protesting, aching legs and blistered heels and toes, the Legion staggered on, a silent pitiable mass of suffering. Up and down the entire length of the Battalion rode its Colonel, "the Marching Pig." Every few yards he bawled with brazen throat and leathern lungs: "March or die, my children! March or die!" And the Legion clearly understood that it must march or it must die. To stagger from the ranks and fall was to die of thirst and starvation, or beneath theflissaof the Arab.
Legionary Rupert blessed those "Breakfasts of the Legion" and the hard training which achieved and maintained the hard condition of the Legionary. Sick, giddy, and worn-out as he felt, he knew he could keep going at least as long as the average, and by the time the average man had reached the uttermost end of his tether, the end of their march must be reached. After all, though they were Legionaries whose motto was "March or Die," they were only human beings--and to all human effort and endeavour there is a limit. He glanced at his comrades. The Bucking Bronco swung along erect, his rifle held across his shoulder by the muzzle, and his belt, with all its impedimenta, swinging from his right hand. He stared straight ahead and, with vacant mind and tireless iron body, "threw his feet."
Beside him, John Bull looked very white and worn and old. He leant heavily against the pull of his straps and marched with his chest bare. On Rupert's left, 'Erb, having unbuttoned and unbuckled everything unbuttonable and unbuckleable, slouched along, a picture of slack unsoldierliness and of dauntless dogged endurance. Suddenly throwing up his head he screamed from parched lips, "Aw we dahn'earted?" and, having painfully swallowed, answered his own strident question with a long-drawn, contemptuous "Ne--a--ow." Captain d'Armentières, who knew England and the English, looked round with a smile.... "Bon garçon," he nodded.
On the right of the second row of fours marched Luigi Rivoli, in better case than most, as the bulk of his kit was now impartially distributed among Malvin, Meyer, Tou-tou and Tant-de-Soif. (The power of money in the Legion is utterly incredible.) Feodor Kyrilovitch was carrying the Grasshopper's rifle--and that made a mighty difference toward the end of a thirty-mile march.
At the end of the next halt, the Grasshopper declared that he could not get up.... At the command, "Fall in!" the unfortunate man did not stir.
"Kind God! WhatshallI do?" he groaned. It was his first failure as a soldier.
"Come on, my lad," said John Bull sharply. "Here, pull off his kit," he added and unfastened the Belgian's belt. Between them they pulled him to his feet and dragged him to his place in the ranks. John Bull took his pack, the Bucking Bronco his belt and its appurtenances, and Feodor his rifle. His eyes were closed and he sank to the ground.
"Here," said Rupert to 'Erb. "Get in his place and let him march in yours beside me. We'll hold him up."
"Give us yer rifle, matey," replied 'Erb, and left Rupert with hands free to assist the Grasshopper.
With his right arm round the Belgian's waist, he helped him along, while John Bull insisted on having the poor fellow's right hand on his left shoulder.
On tramped the Legion.
Before long, almost the whole weight of the Grasshopper's body was on Rupert's right arm and John Bull's left shoulder.
"Stick to it, my son," said the latter from time to time, "we are sure to stop at the fifty-kilometre stone."
The Belgian seemed to be semiconscious, and did not reply. His feet began to drag, and occasionally his two comrades bore his full weight for a few paces. Every few yards Feodor looked anxiously round. These four, in their anxiety for their weaker brother, forgot their own raw thighs, labouring lungs, inflamed eyes, numbed arms and agonising feet.
Just as the Colonel rode by, the Grasshopper's feet ceased to move, and dragged lifeless along the ground.
Rupert stumbled and the three fell in a heap, beneath the Colonel's eye.
"Sacré Baptême!" he swore--the oath he only used when a Legionary fell out on the march--"March or die, accursed pigs."
Rupert and John Bull staggered to their feet, but the Grasshopper lay apparently lifeless. The Colonel swore again, and shouted an order. The Grasshopper was dragged to the side of the road, and a baggage-cart drove up. A tent-pole was thrust through its sides and tied securely. To this pole the Belgian was lashed, the pole passing across the upper part of his back and under his arms, which were pulled over it and tied together. If he could keep his feet, well and good. If he could not, he would hang from the pole by his arms (as an athlete hangs from a parallel-bar in a gymnasium, before revolving round and round it).
On tramped the Legion.
Before long, the Grasshopper's feet dragged in the dust as he drooped inanimate, and then hung in the rope which lashed him to the pole.
At the fifty-fifth kilometre, thirty-five miles from Sidi-bel-Abbès, the command to halt was followed by the thrice-blessed God-sent order:
"Campez!"
Almost before the words, "Formez les faisceaux" were out of the Company-Commanders' mouths, the men had piled arms. Nor was the order "Sac à terre" obeyed in any grudging spirit. In an incredibly short space of time the jointed tent-poles and canvas had been removed from the knapsacks. Corporals of sections had stepped forward, holding the tent-poles above their heads, marking each Company's tent-line, and a city of small white tents had come into being on the face of the desert. A few minutes later, cooking-trenches had been dug, camp-fires lighted and water, containing meat and macaroni, put on to boil.
A busy and profitable hour followed for Madame la Cantinière, who, even as her cart stopped, had set out her folding tables, benches and bar for the sale of her Algerian wine. Her first customer was the great Luigi, who, thanks to Carmelita's money, could sit and drink while his employees did his work. The fly in the worthy man's ointment was the fact that his Italian dinner and Italian wine were thirty-five miles behind him at Carmelita's café. Like ordinary men, he must, to-night and for many a night to come, content himself with the monotonous and meagre fare of common Legionaries. However--better half a sofa than no bed; and he was easily prime favourite with Madame.... This would be an excellent chance for consolidating his position with her, winning her for his bride, and apprising Carmelita, from afar, of the fact that he was now respectably settled in life. Thus would a disagreeable scene be avoided and, on the return of the Battalion to Sidi-bel-Abbès, he would give the Café de la Légion a wide berth.... Could he perhapssellhis rights and goodwill in thecaféand Carmelita to some Legionary of means? One or two of his ownchambréeseemed to have money--the Englishman; the Russians.... Better still, sell out to Malvin, Tou-tou, Meyer, or some other penniless toady andmake him pay a weekly percentageof what he screwed out of Carmelita. Excellent! And if the scoundrel did not get him enough, he would supplant him with a more competent lessee.... Meanwhile, to storm Madame's experienced and undecided heart. Anyhow, if she wouldn't have Luigi she shouldn't have anyone else....
There was, that evening, exceeding little noise and movement, and "the stir and tread of armed camps." As soon as they had fed--and, in many cases, before they had fed--the soldiers lay on their blankets, their heads on their knapsacks and their overcoats over their bodies.
Scarcely, as it seemed to Rupert, had they closed their eyes, when it was time to rise and resume their weary march. At one o'clock in the morning, the Battalion fell in, and each man got his two litres of water and strict orders to keep one quarter of it for to-morrow's cooking purposes. If he contributed no water to the cooking-cauldron he got no cooked food.
On tramped the Legion.
Day after day, day after day, it marched, and, on the twelfth day from Sidi-bel-Abbès, had covered nearly three hundred and fifty miles. Well might the Legion be known in the Nineteenth Division as theCavalerie à pied.