A Modern Legionary

by John Patrick Le Poer

While we were thus getting a foretaste of purgatory, into the camp one sultry afternoon rode the colonel of the regiment. That evening he spent in talking to the officers and examining some sergeants and corporals, who were believed to have most knowledge of the quarrel and of those engaged in it, especially the corporals who commanded the squads in which the Russian, Le Grand, and I were. Le Grand, I have already said, did not belong to our squad, not even to our section. Next morning at six a company of Turcos relieved No. 4 Company, which had been on guard and outlying picket all the night, and at seven, immediately after the morning coffee, the two companies of legionaries were formed up in line first and inspected, and then in column of sections, No. 1 section of mine being the front, and No. 2 of No. 4 Company the rear, of the half-battalion. While in this formation we were addressed by the colonel of the regiment. I cannot give a detailed account here of what he said; all I remember is that he abused, threatened and cursed us for nearly half-an-hour. We did not mind that, however, as we were case-hardened enough already; but what we did mind was the Parthian shaft he let fly as he turned to leave the ground: "Remember, remember well, that all the punishment has not been endured; when the commandant is satisfied I shall wish to be satisfied too." To say truth, then, he frightened us.

When we were dismissed from parade, we indulged in many gloomy speculations as to the extra punishment awaiting us. We knew, or rather guessed, two things at once—first, that the extra fatigues and guards would soon be discontinued, for our officers were not likely to make us disgusted with our duties, because we should then become careless, and who could foretell what danger might arise from the inattention of a sentry or the unwilling response to orders on the part of an advance-guard? Secondly, we quite understood that very soon we should turn our backs on Three Fountains, where everything kept us from forgetting the dispute and the fight, especially the little mound at the eastern side of the camp, that marked the last resting-place of the Greek and the Portuguese and our other comrades who had fallen—an ugly reminder of an ugly fray. As soon, therefore, as other white troops could be sent to our camp we should pack and march—the question was, whither? Now, there are many bad stations in the south of Algeria. There are places where one may often not wash his face and hands for a week, so scarce is water there. To do the French Government justice, these places are usually held by native troops who do not mind thirst and dirt so much as Europeans, but it was well known that white men had on more than one occasion been sent to such stations and kept there until they almost despaired of ever becoming civilised again. Moreover, in these spots there is a great lack of other things besides water; there is no wine save that which comes to the officers; there is only the tobacco sold to one by the Government. Worst of all, a woman must be very much in love or very ugly before she will consent to follow a man thither. These are the suicide stations, if I may call them so—the stations where a shot rings out in the night and all rush to arms, fearing an attack of Touareks or Kabyles, but when dawn comes there is only a dead sentry making black the yellow sand at a post. When one man shoots himself an epidemic seems to set in; men hear every day in hut or tent or guard room the ill-omened report; soon they go about looking fearfully at one another, for no one knows but that he is looking into the eyes of a comrade who has made up his mind to die. The corporal counts his squad, "fourteen, fifteen—ah! there were sixteen yesterday," so he says; he thinks: How long until I have only fourteen, and who will be the next man to quit la gamelle?

We thought of all these things during the day, and we noted, more with anxiety than relief, that for us there were no drills or fatigues. My company was, indeed, warned to be ready to relieve the Turcos on guard at eight o'clock in the evening, but we were allowed to lounge about our quarters and talk with one another all the day. The different squads kept to themselves; a grave crisis either dispels all squad distinctions or accentuates them, and it was the latter that took place on this occasion. We ate our meals in gloomy silence, but in the intervals between them we speculated incessantly on what the colonel meant by saying that when the commandant had punished us he would take care to punish us too. Though we thought of everything that might occur, yet we were not satisfied; the indefiniteness of the threat was its chief terror. If one knows with certainty the worst, why, one can prepare to meet it, but when some fate, terrible but not tangible, certain but not understood, hangs over a man or a number of men courage is apt to ooze out at the finger ends. Talk of the sword of Damocles, that was nothing;—it simply meant death at some uncertain time—why, we all have such swords over our heads, and yet we eat and drink and sleep, we pray and curse, we laugh and weep, we hurt or help our neighbour, we gain or spend, as if life were the one thing safe and sure, safe and sure for ever. No one thinks much of his future beyond the grave; it is the future on this side of the Styx that we most earnestly dwell on. Why, even the man condemned to death thinks far less of what may happen to his soul, if he believes that he has a soul, when it leaves the body, than of the years of gladness and fellowship with men that the law is about to take from him. The uncertainty and the suspense united made us discontented and gloomy; we spoke to one another, it is true, but not in the old and pleasant way. There was not much cursing or swearing—we had gone beyond such solace or relief—but there was plenty of morose ill-humour, and as for bonne camaraderie, there was less of it in a company than there had been the day before in a single squad.

After the evening soup Nicholas nodded to me to come over to him. I was not sorry to go across the little space between us; he was the first who had even been commonly polite to me that day. When we were together he spoke in a low tone and in English—I may remark here that Nicholas was very well educated and spoke at least half-a-dozen languages with purity and ease—asking me what I intended to do.

"Nothing," I replied. "I see nothing that I can do."

"Nothing?" he queried.

"Nothing. And you?"

"Oh! I," said he, "do not intend to stay in Algeria any longer; my physician orders me to a warmer climate somewhere in the East."

"Yes," he went on; "I fancy that Tonquin will suit my present ailment; anyway, better see life along with the others who are now campaigning there than stagnate in a desert hole."