A Modern Legionary

by John Patrick Le Poer

The new adjutant was a stout, thick-set man of about thirty-five years. He had seen a good deal of service both in Algeria and Tonquin, and was undoubtedly a very smart soldier and a most capable man for performing the duties of his rank. That is all one can say in his favour. He was harsh, even tyrannical; he never spared a man's feelings, and his tongue could cut like a whip-lash. All the legionaries, from sergeant-major down to simple soldier, feared and hated him; before he had been in the battalion a fortnight we, who had been the most joyous and careless fellows on earth, every man pleased with himself and with his comrades, became the most sullen and dogged lot in the world. There was just as much drinking as ever, but the singing, the camaraderie, the easy give-and-take feeling that used to prevail, were all gone. Moreover, the men drank more brandy and less wine, and, as I pointed this out to Giulia, I said:

"Carissima, there will be bad work soon; somebody's blood will flow, and then there will be an execution."

She shuddered as she replied: "How I wish that that bad man were sent away! Before he came we were all happy, now I, even I, am gloomy and troubled; I am oppressed by some foreboding that I cannot understand."

I could enter into her feelings, for I too had anxious thoughts, not for Giulia or myself, indeed, but for the other legionaries. I felt that an outbreak of some kind would occur, but the chief trouble was to persuade myself that it would be merely a rash act on the part of one man, who would free all from tyranny and take the punishment by himself, but as the days wore on I, who knew the Legion by heart, could see that there was a far greater chance of a number of men being concerned in the émeute. One thing delayed action, the newcomers and the rest had not sufficiently fraternised—four hundred strangers are too many for any battalion to assimilate quickly.

One morning half-a-dozen men were having a nip of brandy each at a little window at the back of the canteen; I was standing a little apart, and Giulia was passing out the glasses. Suddenly the new adjutant came round the corner and sternly asked the meaning of giving out drink at such an hour. Nobody could reply. We all knew that the commandant winked at the business, we all knew too that the canteen should not be open at that time, but then no harm had ever come of it, no man ever got more that one petite verre, and surely that would rather help a man than hurt him if he wanted it. But how could I, the one chiefly addressed, say all that? Oh no; I had to be silent and take my abuse as best I could, and truly the adjutant was abusive. He was still speaking like a brute when Giulia, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, broke in, and said:

"The sergeant-major has nothing to do with it, it is I alone who am to blame."

The adjutant saluted her politely and replied that he understood that I was in military charge of the canteen, but, even had I nothing to do with it, I was acting in a most disgraceful fashion when I allowed these pigs to get drunk so early in the morning.

"The soldiers are not pigs," answered Giulia, "and they are not drunk; no man ever gets more than a petite verre at this hour."

"Then it is usual to supply drink so soon," the scoundrel said; "ah! the commandant must hear of this."

Then he took my belt and bayonet and sent me to my own room, to remain there under arrest; as for the others, he merely wrote down their names and ordered them away. When they had gone—it was long afterwards that I learnt this—he tried to begin a conversation with Giulia, but he had scarcely uttered an endearing word when she put down the window and walked away. She was right, and the scoundrel was wrong, but he made her and me suffer for it.