the sport of kings
john scott, who was suffering from his second immersion in a french river, came up with mouth, eyes and nose full of water. the stream around him was crowded with men swimming or with those who had reached water shallow enough to permit of wading. as well as he could see, the shell had done no damage besides giving them a huge bath, of which every one stood in much need.
but he had a keen and active mind and it never worked quicker than it did now. he had thought his chance for escape might come in the confusion of a hurried crossing, and here it was. he dived and swam down the stream toward the willows that lined the bank. when he could hold his breath no longer he came up in one of the thickest clumps. the water reached to his waist there, and standing on the bottom in all the density of willows and bushes he was hidden thoroughly from all except watchful searchers. and who would miss him at such a time, and who, if missing, would take the trouble to look for him while the french cannon were thundering upon them and a perilous crossing was to be made?
it was all so ridiculously easy. he knew that he had nothing to do but stand close while the men pulled themselves out of the river and the remaining boats made their passage. for further protection he moved into water deep enough to reach to his neck, while he still retained the cover of the willows and bushes. here he watched the german troops pass over, and listened to the heavy cannonade. he soon noted that the germans, after crossing, were taking up strong positions on the other side. he could tell it from the tremendous artillery fire that came from their side of the marne.
john now found that his position, while safe from observation, was far from comfortable. the chill of the water began to creep into his bones and more shells struck unpleasantly near. another fell into the river and he was blinded for a moment by the violent showers of foam and spray. he began to feel uneasy. if the german and french armies were going to fight each other from the opposing sides of the marne he would be held there indefinitely, either to be killed by a shell or bullet or to drown from cramp.
but time passed and he saw no chance of leaving his watery lair. the chill went further into his bones. he was lonesome too. he longed for the companionship of fleury, and he wondered what had become of him. he sincerely hoped that he too had reached a covert and that they should meet again.
no rumbling came from the bridge below, and, glancing down the stream, john saw that it was empty. there must be many other bridges over the marne, but he believed that the german armies had now crossed it, and would devote their energy to a new attack. he was squarely between the lines and he did not see any chance to escape until darkness.
he looked up and saw a bright sun and blue skies. night was distant, and so far as he was concerned it might be a year away. if two armies were firing shells directly at a man they must hit him in an hour or two, and if not, a polar stream such as the marne had now become would certainly freeze him to death. he had no idea french rivers could be so cold. the marne must be fed by a whole flock of glaciers.
his teeth began to chatter violently, and then he took stern hold of himself. he felt that he was allowing his imagination to run away with him, and he rebuked john scott sternly and often for such foolishness. he tried to get some warmth into his veins by jumping up and down in the water, but it was of little avail. yet he stood it another hour. then he made one more long and critical examination of the ground.
shells were now screaming high overhead, but nobody was in sight. he judged that it was now an artillery battle, with the foes perhaps three or four miles apart, and, leaving the willows, he crept out upon the bank. it was the side held by the germans, but he knew that if he attempted to swim the river to the other bank he would be taken with cramps and would drown.
there was a little patch of long grass about ten yards from the river, and, crawling to it, he lay down. the grass rose a foot high on either side of him, but the sun, bright and hot, shone directly down upon his face and body. it felt wonderfully good after that long submersion in the marne. removing all his heavy wet clothing, he wrung the water out of it as much as he could, and lay back in a state of nature, for both himself and his clothing to dry. meanwhile, in order to avoid cold, he stretched and tensed his muscles for a quarter of an hour before he lay still again.
a wonderful warmth and restfulness flowed back into his veins. he had feared chills and a serious illness, but he knew now that they would not come. youth, wiry and seasoned by hard campaigning, would quickly recover, but knowing that, for the present, he could neither go forward nor backward, he luxuriated in the grass, while the sun sucked the damp out of his clothing.
meanwhile the battle was raging over his head and he scarcely noticed it. the shells whistled and shrieked incessantly, but, midway between the contending lines, he felt that they were no longer likely to drop near. so he relaxed, and a dreamy feeling crept over him. he could hear the murmur of insects in the grass, and he reflected that the smaller one was, the safer one was. a shell was not likely to take any notice of a gnat.
he felt of his clothing. it was not dry yet and he would wait a little longer. anyhow, what was the use of hurrying? he turned over on his side and continued to luxuriate in the long grass.
the warmth and dryness had sent the blood pulsing in a strong flood through his veins once more, and the mental rebound came too. although he lay immediately between two gigantic armies which were sending showers of metal at each other along a line of many miles, he considered his escape sure and the thought of personal danger disappeared. if one only had something to eat! it is curious how the normal instincts and wants of man assert themselves even under the most dangerous conditions. he began to think of the good german brown bread and the hot sausage that he had devoured, and the hot coffee that he had drunk. one could eat the food of an enemy without compunction.
but it was folly to move, even to seek dinner or supper, while the shells were flying in such quantities over his head. as he turned once more and lay on his back he caught glimpses as of swift shadows passing high above, and the whistling and screaming of shells and shrapnel was continuous. it was true that a missile might fall short and find him in the grass, but he considered the possibility remote and it did not give him a tremor. as he was sure now that he would suffer no bodily ill from his long bath in the marne he might remain in the grass until night and then creep away. blessed night! it was the kindly veil for all fugitives, and no one ever awaited it with more eagerness than john scott.
the sun was now well beyond the zenith, and its golden darts came indirectly. his clothing was thoroughly dry at last, and he put it on again. clad anew he was tempted to seek escape at once, but the sound of a footstep caused him to lie down in the shelter of the grass again.
his ear was now against the earth and the footsteps were much more distinct. he was sure that they were made by a horse, and he believed that a uhlan was riding near. he remembered how long and sharp their lances were, and he was grateful that the grass was so thick and tall. he longed for the automatic revolver that had been such a trusty friend, but the germans had taken it long since, and he was wholly unarmed.
he was afraid to raise his head high enough to see the horseman, lest he be seen, but the footsteps, as if fate had a grudge against him, were coming nearer. his blood grew hot in a kind of rebellion against chance, or the power that directed the universe. it was really a grim joke that, after having escaped so much, a mere wandering scout of a uhlan should pick him up, so to speak, on the point of his lance.
he pressed hard against the earth. he would have pressed himself into it if he could, and imagination, the deceiver, made him think that he was doing so. the temptation to raise his head above the grass and look became more violent, but will held him firm and he still lay flat.
then he noticed that the hoofbeats wandered about in an irregular, aimless fashion. not even a scout hunting a good position for observation would ride in such a way, and becoming more daring he raised his head slowly, until he could peep over the grass stems. he saw a horse, fifteen or twenty feet from him, but without rider, bridle or saddle. it was a black horse of gigantic build like a percheron, with feet as large as a half-bushel measure, and a huge rough mane.
the horse saw john and gazed at him out of great, mild, limpid eyes. the young american thought he beheld fright there and the desire for companionship. the animal, probably belonging to some farmer who had fled before the armies, had wandered into the battle area, seeking the human friends to whom he was so used, and nothing living was more harmless than he. he reminded john in some ways of those stalwart and honest peasants who were so ruthlessly made into cannon food by the gigantic and infinitely more dangerous tammany that rules the seventy million germans.
the horse walked nearer and the look in his eyes became so full of terror and the need of man's support that for the time he stood as a human being in john's imagination.
"poor old horse!" he called, "i'm sorry for you, but your case is no worse than mine. here we both are, wishing harm to nobody, but with a million men shooting over our backs."
the horse, emboldened by the friendly voice, came nearer and nuzzled at the human friend whom he had found so opportunely, and who, although so much smaller than himself, was, as he knew, so much more powerful. this human comrade would show him what to do and protect him from all harm. but john took alarm. he too found pleasure in having a comrade, even if it were only a horse, but the animal would probably attract the attention of scouts or skirmishers. he tried to shoo him away, but for a long time the horse would not move. at last he pulled a heavy bunch of grass, wadded it together and threw it in his face.
the horse, staring at him reproachfully, turned and walked away. john's lively fancy saw a tear in the huge, luminous eye, and his conscience smote him hard.
"i had to do it, marne, old fellow," he called. "you're so big and you stick up so high that you arouse attention, and that's just what i don't want."
he had decided to call the horse marne, after the river near by, and he noticed that he did not go far. the animal, reassured by john's friendly after-word, began to crop the grass about twenty feet away. he had a human friend after all, one on whom he could rely. man did not want to be bothered by him just then, but that was the way of man, and he did not mind, since the grass was so plentiful and good. he would be there, close at hand, when he was needed.
john was really moved by the interlude. the loneliness, and then the friendliness of the horse appealed to him. he too needed a comrade, and here he was. he forgot, for a time, the moaning of the shells over his head, and began to think again about his escape. so thinking, the horse came once more into his mind. he showed every sign of grazing there until dark came. then why not ride away on him? it was true that a horse was larger and made more noise than a fugitive man slipping through the grass, but there were times when strength and speed, especially speed, counted for a lot.
the last hours of the afternoon waned, trailing their slow length, minute by minute, and throughout that time the roar of the battle was as steady as the fall of niagara. it even came to the point that john paid little attention to it, but the sport of kings, in which thousands of men were ground up, they knew not why, went merrily on. none of the shells struck near john, and with infinite joy he saw the coming of the long shadows betokening the twilight. the horse, still grazing near by, raised his head more than once and looked at him, as if it were time to go. as the sun sank and the dusk grew john stood up. he saw that the night was going to be dark and he was thankful. the marne was merely a silver streak in the shadow, and in the wood near by the trees were fusing into a single clump of darkness.
he stood erect, stretching his muscles and feeling that it was glorious to be a man with his head in the air, instead of a creature that grovelled on the ground. then he walked over to the horse and patted him on the shoulder.
"marne, old boy," he said, "i think it's about time for you and me to go."
the horse rubbed his great head against john's arm, signifying that he was ready to obey any command his new master might give him. john knew from his build that he was a draught horse, but there were times in which one could not choose a particular horse for a particular need.
"marne, old fellow," he said, stroking the animal's mane, "you're not to be a menial cart horse tonight. i am an arabian genie and i hereby turn you into a light, smooth, beautifully built automobile for one passenger only, and i'm that passenger."
holding fast to the thick mane he sprang upon the horse's back, and urged him down the stream, keeping close to the water where there was shelter among the willows and bushes. he had no definite idea in his head, but he felt that if he kept on going he must arrive somewhere. he was afraid to make the horse swim the river in an effort to reach the french army. appearing on the surface of the water he felt that he would almost certainly be seen and some good rifleman or other would be sure to pick him off.
he concluded at last that if no german troops came in sight he would let the horse take him where he would. marne must have a home and a master somewhere and habit would send him to them. so he ceased to push at his neck and try to direct him, and the horse continued a slow and peaceful progress down the stream in the shadow of small trees. the night was darker than those just before it, and the dampness of the air indicated possible flurries of rain. cannon still rumbled on the horizon like the thunder of a summer night.
while trusting to the horse to lead him to some destination, john kept a wary watch, with eyes now growing used to the darkness. if german troops appeared and speed to escape were lacking, he would jump from marne's back and hunt a new covert. but he saw nobody. the evidences of man's work were present continually in the cannonade, but man himself was absent.
the horse went on with ponderous and sure tread. evidently he had wandered far under the influence of the firing, but it was equally evident that his certain instinct was guiding him back again. he crossed a brook flowing down into the marne, passed through a wheat field, and entered a little valley, where grew a number of oaks, clear of undergrowth.
when he saw what was lying under the oaks he pulled hard at the rough mane, until the horse stopped. he had distinctly made out the figures of men, stretched upon the ground, apparently asleep, and sure to be germans. he stared hard at them, but the horse snorted and tried to pull away. the action of the animal rather than his own eyesight made him reckon aright.
a horse would not be afraid of living men, and, slipping from the back of marne, john approached cautiously. a few rays of wan moonlight filtered through the trees, and when he had come close he shuddered over and over again. about a dozen men lay on the ground and all were stone dead. the torn earth and their own torn figures showed that a shell had burst among them. doubtless it had been an infantry patrol, and the survivors had hurried away.
john, still shuddering, was about to turn back to his horse, when he remembered that he needed much and that in war one must not be too scrupulous. force of will made him return to the group and he sought for what he wanted. evidently the firing had been hot there and the rest of the patrol had not lingered in their flight.
he took from one man a pair of blankets. he could have had his choice of two or three good rifles, but he passed them by in favor of a large automatic pistol which would not be in the way. this had been carried by a young man whom he took to be an officer, and he also found on him many cartridges for the pistol. then he searched their knapsacks for food, finding plenty of bread and sausage and filling with it one knapsack which he put over his shoulder.
he returned hastily to his horse, guided him around the fatal spot, and when he was some distance on the other side dismounted and ate as only a half-starved man can eat. water was obtained from a convenient brook and carefully storing the remainder of the food in the knapsack he remounted the horse.
"now go on, my good and gallant beast," he said, "and i feel sure that your journey is nearly at an end. a draught horse like you, bulky and slow, would not wander any great distance."
the horse himself immediately justified his prediction by raising his head, neighing and advancing at a swifter pace. john saw, standing among some trees, a low and small house, built of stone and evidently very old, its humble nature indicating that it belonged to a peasant. behind it was a tiny vineyard, and there was a stable and another outhouse.
"well, marne, my lad, here's your home, beyond a doubt," said john. but no answer came to the neigh. the house remained silent and dark. it confirmed john's first belief that the horse belonged to some peasant who had fled with his family from the armies. he stroked the animal's neck, and felt real pity for him, as if he had been a child abandoned.
"i know that while i'm a friend i'm almost a stranger to you, but come, we'll examine things," he said.
he sprang off the horse, and drew his automatic. the possession of the pistol gave him an immense amount of courage and confidence, but he did not anticipate any trouble at the house as he was sure that it was abandoned.
he pushed open the door and saw a dark inside. staring a little he made out a plainly furnished room, from which all the lighter articles had been taken. there was a hearth, but with no fire on it, and john decided that he would sleep in the house. it was in a lonely place, but he would take the risk.
the horse had already gone to the stable and was pushing the door with his nose. john let him in, and found some oat straw which he gave him. then he left him munching in content, and as he departed he struck him a resounding blow of friendliness on the flank.
"good old marne," he said, "you're certainly one of the best friends i've found in europe. in fact, you're about the only living being i've associated with that doesn't want to kill somebody."
he entered the house and closed the door. in addition to the sitting-room there was a bedroom and a kitchen, all bearing the signs of recent occupancy. he found a small petroleum lamp, but he concluded not to light it. instead he sat on a wooden bench in the main room beside a small window, ate a little more from the knapsack, and watched a while lest friend or enemy should come.
it had grown somewhat darker and the clouds were driving across the sky. the wind was rising and the threatened flurries of rain came, beating against the cottage. john was devoutly glad that he had found the little house. having spent many hours immersed to his neck in a river he felt that he had had enough water for one day. moreover, his escape, his snug shelter and the abundance of food at hand, gave him an extraordinary sense of ease and rest. he noticed that in the darkness and rain one might pass within fifty feet of the cottage without seeing it.
the wind increased and moaned among the oaks that grew around the house, but above the moaning the sounds of battle, the distant thunder of the artillery yet came. the sport of kings was going merrily on. neither night nor storm stopped it and men were still being ground by thousands into cannon food. but john had now a feeling of detachment. three days of continuous battle had dulled his senses. they might fight on as they pleased. it did not concern him, for tonight at least. he was going to look out for himself.
he fastened the door securely, but, as he left the window open, currents of fresh cool air poured into the room. he was now fully revived in both mind and body, and he took present ease and comfort, thinking but little of the future. the flurries of rain melted into a steady pour. the cold deepened, and as he wrapped the two blankets around him his sense of comfort increased. lightning flared at infrequent intervals and now and then real thunder mingled with that of the artillery.
he felt that he might have been back at home. it was like some snug little place in the high hills of pennsylvania or new york. like many other americans, he often felt surprise that europe should be so much like america. the trees and the grass and the rivers were just the same. nothing was different but the ancient buildings. he knew now that history and a long literature merely created the illusion of difference.
he wondered why the artillery fire did not die, with the wind sweeping such gusts of rain before it. then he remembered that the sound of so many great cannon could travel a long distance, and there might be no rain at the points from which the firing came. the cottage might stand in a long narrow valley up which the clouds would travel.
not feeling sleepy yet he decided to have another look about the house. a search revealed a small box of matches near the lamp on the shelf. then he closed the window in order to shut in the flame, and, lighting the lamp, pursued his investigation.
he found in the kitchen a jar of honey that he had overlooked, and he resolved to use a part of it for breakfast. europeans did not seem able to live without jam or honey in the mornings, and he would follow the custom. not much was left in the other rooms, besides some old articles of clothing, including two or three blue blouses of the kind worn by french peasants or workmen, but on one of the walls he saw an excellent engraving of the young napoleon, conqueror of italy.
it showed him, horseback, on a high road looking down upon troops in battle, castiglione or rivoli, perhaps, his face thin and gaunt, his hair long and cut squarely across his forehead, the eyes deep, burning and unfathomable. it was so thoroughly alive that he believed it must be a reproduction of some great painting. he stood a long time, fascinated by this picture of the young republican general who rose like a meteor over europe and who changed the world.
john, like nearly all young men, viewed the napoleonic cycle with a certain awe and wonder. a student, he had considered napoleon the great democratic champion and mainly in the right as far as austerlitz. then swollen ambition had ruined everything and, in his opinion, another swollen ambition, though for far less cause, was now bringing equal disaster upon europe. a belief in one's infallibility might come from achievement or birth, but only the former could win any respect from thinking men.
it seemed to john presently that the deep, inscrutable eyes were gazing at him, and he felt a quivering at the roots of his hair. it was young bonaparte, the republican general, and not napoleon, the emperor, who was looking into his heart.
"well," said john, in a sort of defiance, "if you had stuck to your early principles we wouldn't have all this now. first consul you might have been, but you shouldn't have gone any further."
he turned away with a sigh of regret that so great a warrior and statesman, in the end, should have misused his energies.
he returned to the room below, blew out the lamp and opened the window again. the cool fresh air once more poured into the room, and he took long deep breaths of it. it was still raining, though lightly, and the pattering of the drops on the leaves made a pleasant sound. the thunder and the lightning had ceased, though not the far rumble of artillery. john knew that the sport of kings was still going on under the searchlights, and all his intense horror of the murderous monarchies returned. he was not sleepy yet, and he listened a long time. the sound seemed to come from both sides of him, and he felt that the abandoned cottage among the trees was merely a little oasis in the sea of war.
the rain ceased and he concluded to scout about the house to see if any one was near, or if any farm animals besides the horse had been left. but marne was alone. there was not even a fowl of any kind. he concluded that the horse had probably wandered away before the peasant left, as so valuable an animal would not have been abandoned otherwise.
his scouting—he was learning to be very cautious—took him some distance from the house and he came to a narrow road, but smooth and hard, a road which troops were almost sure to use, while such great movements were going on. he waited behind a hedge a little while, and then he heard the hum of motors.
he had grown familiar with the throbbing, grinding sound made by many military automobiles on the march, but he waited calmly, merely loosening his automatic for the sake of precaution. he felt sure that while he stood behind a hedge he would never be seen on a dark night by men traveling in haste. the automobiles came quickly into view and in those in front he saw elderly men in uniforms of high rank. nearly all the german generals seemed to him to be old men who for forty or fifty years had studied nothing but how to conquer, men too old and hardened to think much of the rights of others or ever to give way to generous emotions.
he also saw sitting erect in one of the motors the man for whom he had felt at first sight an invincible repulsion. prince karl of auersperg. young von arnheim had represented the good prince to him, but here was the medieval type, the believer in divine right, and in his own superiority, decreed even before birth. john noted in the moonlight his air of ownership, his insolent eyes and his heavy, arrogant face. he hoped that the present war would sweep away all such as auersperg.
he watched nearly an hour while the automobiles, cyclists, a column of infantry, and then several batteries of heavy guns drawn by motors, passed. he judged that the germans were executing a change of front somewhere, and that the franco-british forces were still pressing hard. the far thunder of the guns had not ceased for an instant, although it must be nearly midnight. he wished he knew what this movement on the part of the germans meant, but, even if he had known, he had no way of reaching his own army, and he turned back to the cottage.
having fastened the door securely again he spread the blankets on the bench by the window and lay down to sleep. the tension was gone from his nerves now, and he felt that he could fall asleep at once, but he did not. a shift in the wind brought the sound of the artillery more plainly. his imagination again came into vivid play. he believed that the bench beneath him, the whole cottage, in fact, was quivering before the waves of the air, set in such violent motion by so many great guns.
it annoyed him intensely. he felt a sort of personal anger against everybody. it was past midnight of the third day and it was time for the killing to stop. at least they might rest until morning, and give his nerves a chance. he moved restlessly on the bench a half hour or more, but at last he sank gradually to sleep. as his eyes closed the thunder of the cannonade was as loud and steady as ever. he slept, but the murderous sport of kings went on.
