Complete weird tales of.., p.931
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 931
The Hun is beating his painted drum;
His war horns blare! The Hun is come!”
“Father, I feel his fœtid breath:
The thick air reeks with the stench of death;
My will is Thine. Thy will be done
On Turk and Bulgar, Czech and Hun!”
II
She understands.
Where the dead headland flare
Mocks sea and sand;
Where death-lights shed their glare
On No-Man’s-Land.
France takes her stand.
Magnificently fair,
The Flaming Brand
Within her slender hand;
Christ’s lilies in her hair.
III
“Daughter of Grief, thy House is sand!
Thy towers are falling athwart the land.
They’ve flayed the earth to its ribs of chalk
And over its bones the spectres stalk!”
“Father, I see my high spires reel;
My breast is scarred by the Hun’s hoofed heel.
What was, shall be! I read Thy sign:
Thy ocean yawns for the smitten swine!”
IV
Then, from Verdun
Pealed westward to the Somme
From every gun
God’s summons: “Daughter! Come!”
Then the red sun
Stood still. Grew dumb
The universal hum
Of life, and numb
The lips of Life, undone
By Death.... And so — France won!
V
“Daughter of God, the End is here!
The swine rush on: the sea is near!
My wild flowers bloom on the trenches’ edge;
My little birds sing by shore and sedge.”
“Father, raise up my martyred land!
Clothe her bones with Thy magic hand;
Receive the Brand Thy angel lent,
And stanch my blood with Thy sacrament.”
CHAPTER I
FED UP
SO THIS IS what happened to the dozen-odd malcontents who could no longer stand the dirty business in Europe and the dirtier politicians at home.
There was treachery in the Senate, treason in the House. A plague of liars infested the Republic; the land was rotting with plots.
But if the authorities at Washington remained incredulous, stunned into impotency, while the din of murder filled the world, a few mere men, fed up on the mess, sickened while awaiting executive galvanization, and started east to purge their souls.
They came from the four quarters of the continent, drawn to the decks of the mule transport by a common sickness and a common necessity. Only two among them had ever before met. They represented all sorts, classes, degrees of education and of ignorance, drawn to a common rendezvous by coincidental nausea incident to the temporary stupidity and poltroonery of those supposed to represent them in the Congress of the Great Republic.
The rendezvous was a mule transport reeking with its cargo, still tied up to the sun-scorched wharf where scores of loungers loafed and gazed up at the rail and exchanged badinage with the supercargo.
The supercargo consisted of this dozen-odd fed-up ones — eight Americans, three Frenchmen and one Belgian.
There was a young soldier of fortune named Carfax, recently discharged from the Pennsylvania State Constabulary, who seemed to feel rather sure of a commission in the British service.
Beside him, leaning on the blistering rail, stood a self-possessed young man named Harry Stent. He had been educated abroad; his means were ample; his time his own. He had shot all kinds of big game except a Hun, he told another young fellow — a civil engineer — who stood at his left and whose name was Jim Brown.
A youth on crutches, passing along the deck behind them, lingered, listening to the conversation, slightly amused at Stent’s game list and his further ambition to bag a Boche.
The young man’s lameness resulted from a trench acquaintance with the game which Stent desired to hunt. His regiment had been, and still was, the 2nd Foreign Legion. He was on his way back, now, to finish his convalescence in his old home in Finistère. He had been a writer of stories for children. His name was Jacques Wayland.
As he turned away from the group at the rail, still amused, a man advancing aft spoke to him by name, and he recognized an American painter whom he had met in Brittany.
“You, Neeland?”
“Oh, yes. I’m fed up with watchful waiting.”
“Where are you bound, ultimately?”
“I’ve a hint that an Overseas unit can use me. And you, Wayland?”
“Going to my old home in Finistère where I’ll get well, I hope.”
“And then?”
“Second Foreign.”
“Oh. Get that leg in the trenches?” inquired Neeland.
“Yes. Came over to recuperate. But Finistère calls me. I’ve got to smell the sea off Eryx before I can get well.”
A pleasant-faced, middle-aged man, who stood near, turned his head and cast a professionally appraising glance at the young fellow on crutches.
His name was Vail; he was a physician. It did not seem to him that there was much chance for the lame man’s very rapid recovery.
Three muleteers came on deck from below — all young men, all talking in loud, careless voices. They wore uniforms of khaki resembling the regular service uniform. They had no right to these uniforms.
One of these young men had invented the costume. His name was Jack Burley. His two comrades were, respectively, “Sticky” Smith and “Kid” Glenn. Both had figured in the squared circle. All three were fed up. They desired to wallop something, even if it were only a leather-rumped mule.
Four other men completed the supercargo — three French youths who were returning for military duty and one Belgian. They had been waiters in New York. They also were fed up with the administration. They kept by themselves during the voyage. Nobody ever learned their names. They left the transport at Calais, reported, and were lost to sight in the flood of young men flowing toward the trenches.
They completed the odd dozen of fed-up ones who sailed that day on the suffocating mule transport in quest of something they needed but could not find in America — something that lay somewhere amid flaming obscurity in that hell of murder beyond the Somme — their souls’ salvation perhaps.
Twelve fed-up men went. And what happened to all except the four French youths is known. Fate laid a guiding hand on the shoulder of Carfax and gave him a gentle shove toward the Vosges. Destiny linked arms with Stent and Brown and led them toward Italy. Wayland’s rendezvous with Old Man Death was in Finistère. Neeland sailed with an army corps, but Chance met him at Lorient and led him into the strangest paths a young man ever travelled.
As for Sticky Smith, Kid Glenn and Jack Burley, they were muleteers. Or thought they were. A muleteer has to do with mules. Nothing else is supposed to concern him.
But into the lives of these three muleteers came things never dreamed of in their philosophy — never imagined by them even in their cups.
As for the others, Carfax, Brown, Stent, Wayland, Neeland, this is what happened to each one of them. But the episode of Carfax comes first. It happened somewhere north of the neutral Alpine region where the Vosges shoulder their way between France and Germany.
After he had exchanged a dozen words with a staff officer, he began to realize, vaguely, that he was done in.
CHAPTER II
MAROONED
“WILL THEY DO anything for us?” repeated Carfax.
The staff officer thought it very doubtful. He stood in the snow switching his wet puttees and looking out across a world of tumbled mountains. Over on his right lay Germany; on his left, France; Switzerland towered in ice behind him against an arctic blue sky.
It grew warm on the Falcon Peak, almost hot in the sun. Snow was melting on black heaps of rocks; a black salamander, swollen, horrible, stirred from its stiff lethargy and crawled away blindly across the snow.
“Our case is this,” continued Carfax; “somebody’s made a mistake. We’ve been forgotten. And if they don’t relieve us rather soon some of us will go off our bally nuts. Do you get me, Major?”
“I beg your pardon — —”
“Do you understand what I’ve been saying?”
“Oh, yes; quite so.”
“Then ask yourself, Major, how long can four men stand it, cooped up here on this peak? A month, two months, three, five? But it’s going on ten months — ten months of solitude — silence — not a sound, except when the snowslides go bellowing off into Alsace down there below our feet.” His bronzed lip quivered. “I’ll get aboard one if this keeps on.”
He kicked a lump of ice off into space; the staff officer glanced at him and looked away hurriedly.
“Listen,” said Carfax with an effort; “we’re not regulars — not like the others. The Canadian division is different. Its discipline is different — in spite of Salisbury Plain and K. of K. In my regiment there are half-breeds, pelt-hunters, Nome miners, Yankees of all degrees, British, Canadians, gentlemen adventurers from Cosmopolis. They’re good soldiers, but do you think they’d stay here? It is so in the Athabasca Battalion; it is the same in every battalion. They wouldn’t stay here ten months. They couldn’t. We are free people; we can’t stand indefinite caging; we’ve got to have walking room once every few months.”
The staff officer murmured something.
“I know; but good God, man! Four of us have been on this peak for nearly ten months. We’ve never seen a Boche, never heard a shot. Seasons come and go, rain falls, snow falls, the winds blow from the Alps, but nothing else comes to us except a half-frozen bird or two.”
The staff officer looked about him with an involuntary shiver. There was nothing to see except the sun on the wet, black rocks and the whitewashed observation station of solid stone from which wires sagged into the valley on the French side.
“Well — good luck,” he said hastily, looking as embarrassed as he felt. “I’ll be toddling along.”
“Will you say a word to the General, like a good chap? Tell him how it is with us — four of us all alone up here since the beginning. There’s Gary, Captain in the Athabasca Battalion, a Yankee if the truth were known; there’s Flint, a cockney lieutenant in a Calgary battery; there’s young Gray, a lieutenant and a Prince Edward Islander; and here’s me, a major in the Yukon Battalion — four of us on the top of a cursed French mountain — ten months of each other, of solitude, silence — and the whole world rocking with battles — and not a sound up here — not a whisper! I tell you we’re four sick men! We’ve got a grip on ourselves yet, but it’s slipping. We’re still fairly civil to each other, but the strain is killing. Sullen silences smother irritability, but—” he added in a peculiarly pleasant voice, “I expect we are likely to start killing each other if somebody doesn’t get us out of here very damn quick.”
The staff captain’s lips formed the words, “Awfully sorry! Good luck!” but his articulation was indistinct, and he went off hurriedly, still murmuring.
Carfax stood in the snow, watching him clamber down among the rocks, where an alpinist orderly joined them.
Gary presently appeared at the door of the observation station. “Has he gone?” he inquired, without interest.
“Yes,” said Carfax.
“Is he going to do anything for us?”
“I don’t know.... No!”
Gary lingered, kicked at a salamander, then turned and went indoors. Carfax sat down on a rock and sucked at his empty pipe.
Later the three officers in the observation station came out to the door again and looked at him, but turned back into the doorway without saying anything. And after a while Carfax, feeling slightly feverish, went indoors, too.
In the square, whitewashed room Gray and Flint were playing cut-throat poker; Gary was at the telephone, but the messages received or transmitted appeared to be of no importance. There had never been any message of importance from the Falcon Peak or to it. There was likely to be none.
Ennui, inertia, dry rot — and four men, sometimes silently, sometimes violently cursing their isolation, but always cursing it — afraid in their souls lest they fall to cursing one another aloud as they had begun to curse in their hearts.
Months ago rain had fallen; now snow fell, and vast winds roared around them from the Alps. But nothing else ever came to the Falcon Peak, except a fierce, red-eyed Lämmergeyer sheering above the peak on enormous pinions, or a few little migrating birds fluttering down, half frozen, from the high air lanes. Now and then, also, came to them a staff officer from below, British sometimes, sometimes French, who lingered no longer than necessary and then went back again, down into friendly deeps where were trees and fields and familiar things and human companionship, leaving them to their hell of silence, of solitude, and of each other.
The tide of war had never washed the base of their granite cliffs; the highest battle wave had thundered against the Vosges beyond earshot; not even a deadened echo of war penetrated those silent heights; not a Taube floated in the zenith.
In the squatty, whitewashed ruin which once had been the eyrie of some petty predatory despot, and which now served as an observatory for two idle divisions below in the valley, stood three telescopes. Otherwise the furniture consisted of valises, trunks, a table and chairs, a few books, several newspapers, and some tennis balls lying on the floor.
Carfax seated himself at one of the telescopes, not looking through it, his heavy eyes partly closed, his burnt-out pipe between his teeth.
Gary rose from the telephone and joined the card players. They shuffled and dealt listlessly, seldom speaking save in monosyllables.
After a while Carfax went over to the card table and the young lieutenant cashed in and took his place at the telescope.
Below in the Alsatian valley spring had already started the fruit buds, and a delicate green edged the lower snow line.
The lieutenant spoke of it wistfully; nobody paid any attention; he rose presently and went outdoors to the edge of the precipice — not too near, for fear he might be tempted to jump out through the sunshine, down into that inviting world of promise below.
Far underneath him — very far down in the valley — a cuckoo called. Out of the depths floated the elfin halloo, the gaily malicious challenge of spring herself, shouted up melodiously from the plains of Alsace — Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo! — You poor, sullen, frozen foreigner up there on the snowy rocks! — Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!
The lieutenant of Yukon infantry, whose name was Gray, came back into the room.
“There’s a bird of sorts yelling like hell below,” he said to the card players.
Carfax ran over his cards, rejected three, and nodded. “Well, let him yell,” he said.
“What is it, a Boche dicky-bird insulting you?” asked Gary, in his Yankee drawl.
Flint, declining to draw cards, got up and went out into the sunshine. When he returned to the table, he said: “It’s a cuckoo.... I wish to God I were out of this,” he added.
They continued to play for a while without apparent interest. Each man had won his comrades’ money too many times to care when Carfax added up debit and credit and wrote down each man’s score. In nine months, alternately beggaring one another, they had now, it appeared, broken about even.
Gary, an American in British uniform, twitched a newspaper toward himself, slouched in his chair, and continued to read for a while. The paper was French and two weeks old; he jerked it about irritably.
Gray, resting his elbows on his knees, sat gazing vacantly out of the narrow window. For a smart officer he had grown slovenly.
“If there was any trout fishing to be had,” he began; but Flint laughed scornfully.
“What are you laughing at? There must be trout in the valley down there where that bird is,” insisted Gray, reddening.
“Yes, and there are cows and chickens and houses and women. What of it?”
Gary, in his faded service uniform of a captain, scowled over his newspaper. “It’s bad enough to be here,” he said heavily; “so don’t let’s talk about it. Quit disputing.”
Flint ignored the order.
“If there was anything sportin’ to do — —”
“Oh, shut up,” muttered Carfax. “Do you expect sport on a hog-back?”
Gray picked up a tennis ball and began to play it against the whitewashed stone wall, using the palm of his hand. Flint joined him presently; Gary went over to the telephone, set the receiver to his ear and spoke to some officer in the distant valley on the French side, continuing a spiritless conversation while watching the handball play. After a while he rose, shambled out and down among the rocks to the spring where snow lay, trodden and filthy, and the big, black salamanders crawled half stupefied in the sun. All his loathing and fear of them kindled again as it always did at sight of them. “Dirty beasts,” he muttered, stumping and stumbling among the stunted fir trees; “some day they’ll bite some of these damn fools who say they can’t bite. And that’ll end ‘em.”
Flint and Gray continued to play handball in a perfunctory way while Carfax looked on from the telephone without interest. Gary came back, his shoes and puttees all over wet snow.
“Unless,” he said in a monotonous voice, “something happens within the next few days I’ll begin to feel queer in my head; and if I feel it coming on, I’ll blow my bally nut off. Or somebody’s.” And he touched his service automatic in its holster and yawned.
After a dead silence:
“Buck up,” remarked Carfax; “think how our men must feel in Belfort, never letting off their guns. Ross rifles, too — not a shot at a Boche since the damn war began!”
“God!” said Flint, smiting the ball with the palm of his hand, “to think of those Ross rifles rusting down there and to think of the pink-skinned pigs they could paunch so cleanly. Did you ever paunch a deer? What a mess of intestines all over the shop!”
Gary, still standing, began to kick the snow from his shoes. Gray said to him: “For a dollar of your Yankee money I’d give you a shot at me with your automatic — you’re that slack at practice.”
