I promised that I would do so. At the same time even to-day I fear the surgeon's knife more than an enemy's bayonet or sword or even lance, and the lance is what the infantry man most dreads—that is, of course, of weapons. However, I have not since the day I left the hospital at Oran ever been the occupant of a bed in one, and I sincerely hope that I may never see, as a patient at least, the whitewashed wall of a hospital again.
From Oran I was sent to the depot at Saida, where I remained for some time. I did ordinary duty there as sergeant-major of a company of recruits during the illness of the regular sub-officer, and so learned a good deal more of my new duties than I knew when leaving Tonquin. I was very glad of this, especially as the officers were very decent to me. I was a different man now—a sergeant-major without a moustache but with the military medal—from the young recruit who was sworn at and abused every day by the drill instructors. No swearing or abuse now, only compliments and flirtation and general friendliness. A happy time indeed, too happy to last, as I learned before I was many months older.
I must now tell about my love and my sorrows and how I came to leave the Legion for ever. Truly, I cannot say that I am sorry; truly, I cannot say that I am glad. If the service of the legionary was a hard service, yet it had its consolations; if you did wrong nobody minded—that is, so long as you broke only the ten commandments. Of course, military regulations and the rules of our society were very different things; the first had to be kept if one did not wish for punishment, you had to respect the second, or else lose the respect of your associates, and though boycotting is a comparatively new word yet it denotes an old and universal practice.
And now to tell of my grande passion, its course and its results, the story of which was at one time, and may be even still, a classic tale of the Legion.
CHAPTER XVII
I left the depot one morning with a large party of recruits for a battalion in the inland parts of Algeria. We were about a hundred and eighty strong, and as a lieutenant was the only officer I ranked as second in command. We had two sergeants and eight or nine corporals to help to maintain discipline, but the men acted in a very good way on the march. I can recall no incident worth relating, but I remember one circumstance that made the march very pleasant. As the lieutenant had no brother officer to speak to and was naturally talkative, he had to associate very much with me. It must not be supposed that this diminished the respect in which I was bound to hold his rank; on the contrary, since he made the time pass agreeably for me, I felt more and more disposed to render him all outward signs of honour; and if I did address him as "my lieutenant" as we marched 20 paces ahead of the party, when others were within earshot I fell back on the more respectful "sir." I am sure he noted this, but he said nothing about it. This officer was a most entertaining talker; he was naturally clever, had received a good education, and was full of stories of Paris which were well worth hearing. He saw that I enjoyed his tales of life there, and thus had the best of all incentives to story-telling—a good listener. On the other hand, I told him more than he, as an officer, could learn of the Legion and the men who were in it. I did not trouble about the Alsatians and Lorrainers, who had enlisted solely to gain the rights of French citizens, but I let him know the life-history of more than one of the Russians, Austrians, Germans and Spaniards who filled our ranks. I did more. I allowed him to see the trend of thought in the corps; I told him of our traditions, our jealousies, our loves and our hates; by the time that we arrived at our goal he understood better than most officers the character of the men whom he would have under his command. So the lieutenant and the sergeant-major were good comrades.
When we came to the battalion at the borders of the Great Desert the recruits were distributed amongst the companies, the sergeants and corporals were appointed to sections and squads, the lieutenant took the place of an officer who had died of fever, and so all were settled in the new battalion except myself. The commandant did not know what to do with me; he had enough sub-officers of my rank already, and yet he did not like to put me to any duties except those of the rank I held. This was on account of the military medal. If I had not had that, I should very soon have found myself acting as simple sergeant of a section. However, a way was found out of the difficulty—a way which led me into many sorrows—though these I have never regretted, counterbalanced as they were by so many joys.
There was a woman in the place who kept a canteen. She always remained with this battalion, and where others might starve she waxed wealthy—that is, wealthy for a cantinière. Her husband had been a sergeant of the third company. He had fallen fighting bravely in an obscure skirmish at some desert village, and when he fell he left a wife and baby daughter to the care of his comrades. The story of the pair was never fully known. They were Italians, and both of evidently gentle birth. When I heard about them first I thought of a Romeo and a Juliet giving up all for love, leaving behind family animosities with family riches, and seeking security from all search in the safest retreat in the world—the "legion of the lost ones." All the men saw and admired the heroic self-sacrifice of the gently-nurtured lady who left all to follow the chosen one in such a career, and I am proud to be able to say that during her husband's life and after his death no man ever said in her hearing anything that would bring a blush to her cheeks; in her presence even the most hardened rascal put on the semblance of a gentleman. People say that even the best man has some fault or imperfection of nature. It may be so. At any rate even the worst man has some good, some respect for virtue and honour, even though he possesses them not himself.