Ensign Knightley and Other Stories Part 14

"The flag of the Patrie," said Fevrier, and with one accord the deserters uncovered.

The match burned down to Fevrier's fingers, he dropped it and trod upon it and there was a moment's absolute stillness. Then in the darkness a ringing voice leapt out.

"Vive la France!"

It was not the lieutenant's voice, but the voice of a peasant from the south of the Loire, one of the deserters.

"Ah, but that is fine, that cry," said Fevrier.

He could have embraced that private on both cheeks. There was love in that cry, pain as well--it could not be otherwise--but above all a very pa.s.sion of confidence.

"Again!" said Fevrier; and this time all his men took it up, shouting it out, exultantly. The little ruined shop, in itself a contradiction of the cry, rang out and clattered with the noise until it seemed to Fevrier that it must surely pierce across the country into Metz and pluck the Mareschal in his headquarters from his diffidence. But they were only fifty deserters in a deserted village, lost in the darkness, and more likely to be overheard by the Prussian sentries than by any of their own blood.

It was Fevrier who first saw the danger of their ebullition. He cut it short by ordering them to seek quarters where they could sleep until daybreak. For himself, he thrust the little toy flag in his breast and walked forward to the larger house at the end of the village beneath the vine-hill; and as he walked, again the smell of paraffin was forced upon his nostrils.

He walked more slowly. That odour of paraffin began to seem remarkable. The looting of the village had not occurred to-day, for there had been thick dust about the general shop. But the paraffin had surely been freshly spilt, or the odour would have evaporated.

Lieutenant Fevrier walked on thinking this over. He found the broken door of his house, and still thinking it over, mounted the stairs.

There was a door fronting the stairs. He felt for the handle and opened it, and from a corner of the room a voice challenged him in German.

Fevrier was fairly startled. There were Germans in the village after all. He explained to himself now the smell of paraffin. Meanwhile he did not answer; neither did he move; neither did he hear any movement.

He had forgotten for the moment that he was a deserter, and he stood holding his breath and listening. There was a tiny window opposite to the door, but it only declared itself a window, it gave no light. And illusions came to Lieutenant Fevrier, such as will come to the bravest man so long as he listens hard enough in the dark--illusions of stealthy footsteps on the floor, of hands sc.r.a.ping and feeling along the walls, of a man's breathing upon his neck, of many infinitesimal noises and movements close by.

The challenge was repeated and Fevrier remembered his orders.

"I am Lieutenant Fevrier of Montaudon's division."

"You are alone."

Fevrier now distinguished that the voice came from the right-hand corner of the room, and that it was faint.

"I have fifty men with me. We are deserters," he blurted out, "and unarmed."

There followed silence, and a long silence. Then the voice spoke again, but in French, and the French of a native.

"My friend, your voice is not the voice of a deserter. There is too much humiliation in it. Come to my bedside here. I spoke in German, expecting Germans. But I am the cure of Vaudere. Why are you deserters?"

Fevrier had expected a scornful order to marshal his men as prisoners.

The extraordinary gentleness of the cure's voice almost overcame him.

He walked across to the bedside and told his story. The cure basely heard him out.

"It is right to obey," said he, "but here you can obey and disobey.

You can relieve Metz of your appet.i.tes, my friend, but you need not desert." The cure reached up, and drawing Fevrier down, laid a hand upon his head. "I consecrate you to the service of your country. Do you understand?"

Fevrier leaned his mouth towards the cure's ear.

"The Prussians are coming to-night to burn the village."

"Yes, they came at dusk."

Just at the moment, in fact, when Fevrier had been summoned to Metz, the Prussians had crept down into Vaudere and had been scared back to their repli by a false alarm.

"But they will come back you may be sure," said the cure, and raising himself upon his elbow he said in a voice of suspense "Listen!"

Fevrier went to the window and opened it. It faced the hill-side, but no sounds came through it beyond the natural murmurs of the night. The cure sank back.

"After the fight here, there were dead soldiers in the streets--French soldiers and so French cha.s.sepots. Ah, my friend, the Prussians have found out which is the better rifle--the cha.s.sepot or the needle gun.

After your retreat they came down the hill for those cha.s.sepots. They could not find one. They searched every house, they came here and questioned me. Finally they caught one of the villagers hiding in a field, and he was afraid and he told where the rifles had been buried.

The Prussians dug for them and the hole was empty. They believe they are still hidden somewhere in the village; they fancy, too, that there are secret stores of food; so they mean to burn the houses to the ground. They did not know that I was here this afternoon. I would have come into the French lines had it been possible, but I am tied here to my bed. No doubt G.o.d had sent you to me--you and your fifty men. You need not desert. You can make your last stand here for France."

"And perish," cried Fevrier, caught up from the depths of his humiliation, "as Frenchmen should, arms in hand." Then his voice dropped again. "But we have no arms."

The cure shook the lieutenant's arm gently.

"Did I not tell you the cha.s.sepots were not found? And why? Because too many knew where they were hidden. Because out of that many I feared there might be one to betray. There is always a Judas. So I got one man whom I knew, and he dug them up and hid them afresh."

"Where, father?"

The question was put with a feverish eagerness--it seemed to the cure with an eagerness too feverish. He drew his hand, his whole body away.

"You have matches? Light one!" he said, in a startled voice.

"But the window--!"

"Light one!"

Every moment of time was now of value. Fevrier took the risk and lit the match, shading it from the window so far as he could with his hand.

"That will do."

Fevrier blew out the light. The cure had seen him, his uniform and his features. He, too, had seen the cure, had noticed his thin emaciated face, and the eyes staring out of it feverishly bright and preternaturally large.

"Shall I tell you your malady, father?" he said gently. "It is starvation."

"What will you, my son? I am alone. There is not a crust from one end of Vaudere to the other. You cannot help me. Help France! Go to the church, stand with your back to the door, turn left, and advance straight to the churchyard wall. You will find a new grave there, the rifles in the grave. Quick! There is a spade in the tower. Quick! The rifles are wrapped from the damp, the cartridges too. Quick! Quick!"

Fevrier hurried downstairs, roused three of his soldiers, bade one of them go from house to house and bring the soldiers in silence to the churchyard, and with the others he went thither himself. In groups of two and three the men crept through the street, and gathered about the grave. It was already open. The spade was driven hard and quick, deeper and deeper, and at last rang upon metal. There were seventy cha.s.sepots, complete with bayonets and ammunition. Fifty-one were handed out, the remaining nineteen were hastily covered in again.

Fevrier was immeasurably cheered to notice his men clutch at their weapons and fondle them, hold them to their shoulders taking aim, and work the breech-blocks.

"It is like meeting old friends, is it not, my children, or rather new sweethearts?" said he. "Come! The Prussians may advance from the Bra.s.serie at Lanvallier, from Servigny, from Montay, or from Noisseville, straight down the hill. The last direction is the most likely, but we must make no mistake. Ten men will watch on the Lanvallier road, ten on the Servigny, ten on the Montay, twenty will follow me. March!"

An hour ago Lieutenant Fevrier was in command of fifty men who slouched along with their hands in their pockets, robbed even of self-respect. Now he had fifty armed and disciplined soldiers, men alert and inspired. So much difference a cha.s.sepot apiece had made.

Lieutenant Fevrier was moved to the conception of another plan; and to prepare the way for its execution, he left his twenty men in a house at the Prussian end of Vaudere, and himself crept in among the vines and up the hill.

Somewhere near to him would be the sentries of the field-watch. He went down upon his hands and knees and crawled, parting the vine leaves, that the swish of them might not betray him. In a little knoll high above his head he heard the cracking of wood, the sound of men stumbling. The Prussians were coming down to Vaudere. He lay flat upon the ground waiting and waiting; and the sounds grew louder and approached. At last he heard that for which he waited--the challenge of the field-watch, the answer of the burning-party. It came down to him quite clearly through the windless air. "Sadowa."

Lieutenant Fevrier turned about chuckling. It seemed that in some respects the world after all was not going so ill with him that night.

He crawled downwards as quickly as he could. But it was now more than even inspiration that he should not be detected. He dared not stand up and run; he must still keep upon his hands and knees. His arms so ached that he was forced now and then to stop and lie p.r.o.ne to give them ease; he was soaked through and through with perspiration; his blood hammered at his temples; he felt his spine weaken as though the marrow had melted into water; and his heart throbbed until the effort to breathe was a pain. But he reached the bottom of the hill, he got refuge amongst his men, he even had time to give his orders before the tread of the first Prussian was heard in the street.