towards midday we set off again, but to our surprise, went slowly backwards, accompanied by the shrill blasts of whistles. the line beyond rheims must obviously be cut, or just about to be cut. where were they taking us to?
there was a new halt, near a branch line, which lasted for an interminable time. then we laboriously got under way again. the evening was already falling.
how long did that journey last? two nights and two days? or three? it was enough to make one lose all idea of time.
i doubt whether, after leaving chalons our speed could have exceeded eight miles an hour. every five minutes we pulled up, sometimes only for a few seconds, sometimes for two or three hours. to begin with the men in command of each truck had instructions to see that no one got out. but as the comedy continued to repeat itself, the orders were soon relaxed. it was better outside than in.
at chalons and at troyes we found cold meals prepared for us. in between times the men spread over the neighbouring fields in search of carrots, beans, and potatoes, and generally reaped a fruitful harvest. they hollowed out ovens along the line, but the[pg 395] train often started off just as the camp-kettles had been put on to the fire. the first time or two, panic ensued, the men seized the material, burning their fingers, and crammed their mouths with half-cooked vegetables.
but they gradually got to take things more calmly. if the train wanted to do a bolt, let it, by all means! they'd catch it up all right. or if not they would jump on to the next one that came along, that was all! there was a procession of convoys on our down line.
the most hilarious merriment spread from one end of the chain to the other. it was occasionally chilled by meeting an ambulance train carrying its terrible load of suffering. we were shunted and the other passed us. it was heart-rending, and unpleasant too, to have to stay in the wake of it, where there floated an unsavory smell. but the rest of the time—high jinks! the poilus had taken a fancy to this fantastic excursion. peasants did a trade in eatables along the line. we bought eggs, cheese, jam, and black puddings and sausages from them—good cheer, in fact. and wine most of all. there was a great run on some frothy wine of an inferior quality sold at two francs a bottle. the men clubbed together and there were great drinking bouts which ended in some of them being distinctly "binged."
it was no use trying to interfere. the n.c. o's were giving way everywhere. some of them even joined in. among our lot i at least succeeded in putting into force this rule: that whoever felt squeamish, should not get back into the truck, where he would make everyone uncomfortable. it was strictly observed: some of these excellent fellows[pg 396] meekly dragged their wish to vomit along the ballast for a livelong day.
i was far from partaking in this atmosphere of gaiety, and was, on the contrary, bored and depressed. i did not get out half-a-dozen times, but stayed in our truck in almost complete isolation. chance had separated me from guillaumin on this journey, and thrown me with langlois, who was not a very inspiring companion.
de valpic was feeling the effects of his recent fatigue, and lay down the whole time. humel twice came to pay me a short visit, unknown to the rest of the "set." henriot was nowhere to be seen.
i have said that we stopped for a moment at troyes where we turned off on to the main line, belfort-paris. we soon saw the effect of it in the change of speed. two of our gay spirits again took advantage of a halt, to rag in the fields. the train started off at full speed without whistling. we did not see them again until two days later.
we arrived at pantin at night. the men's persistent gaiety made me singularly cross, and i was much relieved when the captain lost his temper and exacted silence. we detrained in pitch darkness. all the lamps in the station had been put out for fear of taubes and zeppelins.
i longed and feared to learn what turn things had taken. i questioned a foreman who confided in me:
"you're lucky, you're the last to arrive! to-morrow the system won't be working. it's already cut at meaux."
they hurried us along the platform, weighed down like human live-stock. on leaving the station[pg 397] we turned into an unlighted avenue, and marched for half an hour or fifty minutes.
the men demanded a halt.
everyone was so firmly convinced that we were being brought back to rest here. we would have given anything to lie down, if only on bad straw. our backs were sore all over from those seventy-six hours in the train.
the streets were deserted. at long intervals there was a sentry, or patrol-party. we went on, half dozing. with my head nodding, i urged myself on to certain arguments, which were comparatively reassuring. don't throw the helve after the hatchet. a besieged town is not a captured town. paris, in 1870, had held out for more than four months. the defensive works in those days did not approach those of to-day.
henriot was walking beside me. i unbared my thoughts to him. he retorted:
"oh rot! they'll get in as easy as look at it!"
"do you really know anything definite about it?" i asked, a little nonplussed.
"i know as much as everyone else! nothing's ready. the forts in the west are not worth a pin. they won't hold out any more than those at namur!"
he added:
"and then you know, when we no longer think of anything but defending ourselves...!"
there were two lanterns in the middle of the road, and forms coming and going. it was an intrenching party—some zouaves digging a piece of trench, and a machine-gun was pointed there.
judsi turned round.
"a bit beforehand, ain't they?"
[pg 398]
their zeal was rather overdone! that was the general impression. i, on the contrary, felt that it might come in useful no later than to-morrow.
i repeated to myself henriot's half-finished remark, "when we no longer think of anything but defending ourselves...!" and i followed the thought to its conclusion. i remembered the teaching of my military education, a certain crude phrase in the regulations, "a passive defensive is doomed to certain defeat!"
pray what were we doing but running to shut ourselves up in a camp? how many sad precedents there were for that? metz, port arthur, adrianople ... i recalled the changed attitude of those of my companions who were capable of reasoning. de valpic, prostrate. was it due only to weariness? guillaumin was taciturn and reserved, and the officers silent. the captain? we had seen very little of him—once or twice gloomily gnawing his moustache. what baleful influence was in the air? i was suddenly suffocated by it.
where were they taking us now? it was prunelle who put us on the track. he recognised the country, it was in the neighbourhood of neuilly-plaisance. there was a tiny village there where he went every saturday evening, and quite near by, a topping place for fishing. may i be hung if he did not begin to prate of perch and roach?
there was a halt at last. i took a turn. a shadow was silhouetted in front of me:
"sergeant!"
"who goes there?"
oh, i recognised him....
"that you, donnadieu?"
[pg 399]
it was my corporal, the voluntary casualty of mangiennes!
"i've come back, sergeant," he said. "sergeant...."
he stopped, choking....
"did you tell the others?"
"tell them what?"
"how i ... was wounded?"
"no." i replied coldly. "i told no one."
my glance mechanically sought his hand. he explained:
"two fingers gone, that's all! i've asked them not to discharge me, as i can hold my rifle! i've been waiting for you here for two days...."
he began again:
"sergeant, i was watching for you ... i wanted to see you before the others ... because ... because...."
he swallowed:
"if the thing had got about ... i should have put a bullet through my head!"
his tone was abrupt, and sincere. a man who would recover himself. why could i not find a hearty word for him?
"where were you looked after?"
"at the field hospital.... a dozen or so out of the company were there."
"do you know what became of...?"
he read my thoughts....
"sergeant frémont?"
"frémont, yes?"
"he died ... in two days. they couldn't move him."
i left him. little frémont dead! it seemed[pg 400] impossible, and yet i had foreseen it. the tragic destiny weighed on us all! again i saw him, this comrade of my youth, seated on the bench in the garden, beside his love, with the clear eyes....
i went back to my companions. guillaumin and de valpic were together, and humel not far away. i called him, and told them the sad news, in an under-tone.
"it's quite certain then?"
humel fixed his eyes, in which i read anxiety and terror, on me. poor boy! he, especially, needed a comforting word. i could not furnish it. we were all four silent.
then de valpic tried to dispel the gloom, by referring to some incident or other on the journey. he adopted a joking tone. but his strength failed him, his cough put an end to his story. and the order came to start again.
we met again during the next halt. no one had the heart to say a word. each one of us felt capable of mastering his own distress, but if they all came to be fused and strengthened by each other, there would be nothing for it but to sob....
