Gladiator

by Wylie, Philip;

  The dripping sailor clasped his savior’s hand. “God Almighty, man, you saved my life. Jesus!”

  “That’s four,” Hugo Danner said abstractedly, and then he smiled. “It’s all right. Forget it. I’ve had a lot of experience with sharks.” He had never seen one before in his life. He walked aft, where the men grouped around him.

  “How’d you do it?”

  “It’s a trick I can’t explain very well,” Hugo said. “You use their rush to break their jaws. It takes a good deal of muscle.”

  “Anyway—guy—thanks.”

  “Sure.”

  A whistle blew. The ship’s were lining up in order of their arrival for admission to the Panama Canal. Gatun loomed in the feeble sun of dawn. The anchor chain rumbled. The Katrina edged forward at half speed.

  The sea. Blue, green, restless, ghost-ridden, driven in empty quarters by devils riding the wind, secretive, mysterious, making a last gigantic, primeval stand against the conquest of man, hemming and isolating the world, beautiful, horrible, dead god of ten thousand voices, universal incubator, universal grave.

  At one of the smaller South Pacific islands an accident to the engine forced the Katrina to linger for two weeks. It was during those two weeks, in a rather extraordinary manner, that Hugo Danner laid the first foundation of the fortune that he accumulated in his later life. One day, idling away a leave on shore in the shade of a mighty tree, he saw the out-riggers of the natives file away for the oyster beds, and, out of pure curiosity, he followed them. For a whole day he watched the men plunge under the surface in search of pearls. The next day he came back and dove with one of them.

  Hugo’s blood, designed to take more oxygen from the air, and his greater density fitted him naturally for the work. The pressure did not make him suffer and the few moments granted to the divers beneath the forbidden element stretched to a longer time for him.

  On the second day of diving he went alone. His amateur attempt had been surprisingly fruitful. Standing erect in the immense solitude, he searched the hills and valleys. At length, finding a promising cluster of shellfish, he began to examine them one by one, pulling them loose, feeling in their pulpy interior for the precious jewels. He occupied himself determinedly while the Katrina was waiting in Apia, and at the end of the stay he had collected more than sixty pearls of great value and two hundred of moderate worth.

  When the Katrina turned her prow westward again, Hugo worked with his shipmates in a mood that had undergone considerable change. There was no more despair in him, little of the taciturnity that had marked his earliest days at sea, none of the hatred of mankind. He had buried that slowly and carefully in a dull year of work ashore and a month of toil on the heaving deck of the ship. For six months he had kept himself alive in a manner that he could scarcely remember. Driving a truck. Working on a farm. Digging in a road. His mind a bitter blank, his valiant dreams all dead.

  One day he had saved a man’s life. The reaction to that was small, but it was definite. The strength that could slay was also a strength that could succor. He had repeated the act some time later. He felt it was a kind of atonement. After that, he sought deliberately to go where he might be of assistance. In the city, again, in September, when a fire engine clanged and whooped through the streets, he followed and carried a woman from a blazing roof as if by miracle. Then the seaman. He had counted four rescues by that time. Perhaps his self-condemnation for the boy who had fallen on the field at Webster could be stifled eventually. Human life seemed very precious to Hugo then.

  He sold his pearls when the ship touched at large cities—a handful here and a dozen there, bargaining carefully and forwarding the profit to a bank in New York. He might have continued that voyage, which was a voyage commenced half in new recognition of his old wish to see and know the world and half in the quest of forgetfulness; but a slip and shifts in the history of the world put an abrupt end to it. When the Katrina rounded the Bec d’Aiglon and steamed into the blue and cocoa harbor of Marseilles, Hugo heard that war had been declared by Germany, Austria, France, Russia, England… .

  Chapter XI

  THE first announcement of the word sent Hugo’s blood racing. War! What war? With whom? Why? Was America in it, or interested in it? He stepped ashore and hurried into the city. The populace was in feverish excitement. Soldiers were everywhere, as if they had sprung up magically like the seed of the dragon. Hugo walked through street after street in the furious heat. He bought a paper and read the French accounts of mobilizations, of battle impending. He looked everywhere for some one who could tell him. Twice he approached the American Consulate, but it was jammed with frantic and frightened people who were trying only to get away. Hugo’s ambition, growing in him like a fire, was in the opposite direction. War! And he was Hugo Danner! He sat in a cafe toward the middle of the afternoon. He was so excited by the contagion in his veins that he scarcely thrilled at the first use of his new and half-mastered tongue. The gar�on hurried to his table.

  “De la biere,” Hugo said.

  The waiter asked a question which Hugo could not understand, so he repeated his order in the universal language of measurement of a large glass by his hands. The waiter nodded. Hugo took his beer and stared out at the people. They hurried along the sidewalk, brushing the table at which he sat. They called to each other, laughed, cried sometimes, and shook hands over and over. “La guerre” was on every tongue. Old men gestured the directions of battles. Young men, a little more serious perhaps, and often very drunk, were rushing into uniform as order followed order for mobilization. And there were girls, thousands of them, walking with the young men. Hugo wanted to be in it. He was startled by the impact of that desire. All the ferocity of him, all the unleashed wish to rend and kill, was blazing in his soul. But it was a subtle conflagration, which urged him in terms of duty, in words that spoke of the war as his one perfect opportunity to put himself to a use worthy of his gift. A war. In a war what would hold him, what would be superior to him, who could resist him? He swallowed glass after glass of the brackish beer, quenching a mighty thirst and firing a mightier ambition. He saw himself charging into battle, fighting till his ammunition was gone, till his bayonet broke; and then turning like a Titan and doing monster deeds with bare hands. And teeth.

  The chaos did not diminish at night, but, rather, it increased. He went with milling crowds to a bulletin board. The Germans had commenced to move. They had entered Belgium in violation of treaties long held sacred. Belgium was resisting and Liege was shaking at the devastation of the great howitzers. A terrible crime. Hugo shook with the rage of the crowd. The first outrages and violations, highly magnified, were reported. The blond beast would have to be broken.

  “God damn,” a voice drawled at Hugo’s side. He turned. A tall, lean man stood there, a man who was unquestionably American. Hugo spoke in instant excitement.

  “There sure is hell to pay.”

  The man turned his head and saw Hugo. He stared at him rather superciliously, at his slightly seedy clothes and his strong, unusual face. “American?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let’s have a drink.”

  They separated themselves from the mob and went to a crowded cafe. The man sat down and Hugo took a chair at his side. “As you put it,” the man said, “there is hell to pay. Let’s drink on the payment.”

  Hugo felt in him a certain aloofness, a detachment that checked his desire to throw himself into flamboyant conversation. “My name’s Danner,” he said.

  “Mine’s Shayne, Thomas Mathew Shayne. I’m from New York.”

  “So am I, in a way. I was on a ship that was stranded here by the war. At loose ends now.”

  Shayne nodded. He was not particularly friendly for a person who had met a countryman in a strange city. Hugo did not realize that Shayne had been besieged all day by distant acquaintances and total strangers for assistance in leaving France, or that he expected a request for money from Hugo momentarily. And Shayne did not seem particularly wro
ught up by the condition of war. They lifted their glasses and drank. Hugo lost a little of his ardor.

  “Nice mess.”

  “Time, though. Time the Germans got their answer.”

  Shayne’s haughty eyebrows lifted. His wide, thin mouth smiled.

  “Perhaps, I just came from Germany. Seemed like a nice, peaceful country three weeks ago.”

  “Oh.” Hugo wondered if there were many pro-German Americans. His companion answered the thought.

  “Not that I don’t believe the Germans are wrong. But war is such—such a damn fool thing.”

  “Well, it can’t be helped.”

  “No, it can’t. We’re all going to go out and get killed, though.”

  “We?”

  “Sure. America will get in it. That’s part of the game. America is more dangerous to Germany than France—or England, for that matter.”

  “That’s a rather cold-blooded viewpoint,”

  Shayne nodded. “I’ve been raised on it. Gar�on, l’addition, s’il vous plait.” He reached for his pocketbook simultaneously with Hugo. “I’m sorry you’re stranded,” he said, “and if a hundred francs will help, I’ll be glad to let you have it. I can’t do more.”

  Hugo’s jaw dropped. He laughed a little. “Good lord, man, I said my ship was stuck. Not me. And these drink are mine.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a huge roll of American bills and a packet of French notes.

  Shayne hesitated. His calmness was not severely shaken, however. “I’m sorry, old man. You see, all day I’ve been fighting off starving and startled Americans and I thought you were one. I apologize for my mistake.” He looked at Hugo with more interest. “As a matter of fact, I’m a little skittish about patriotism. And about war. Of course, I’m going to be in it. The first entertaining thing that has happened in a dog’s age. But I’m a conscientious objector on principles. I rather thought I’d enlist in the Foreign Legion to-morrow.” Shayne extended his hand. “They have something to fight for, at least. Something besides money and glory. A grudge. I wonder what it is that makes me want to get in? I do.”

  “So do I.”

  Shayne shook his head. “I wouldn’t if I were you. Still, you will probably be compelled to in a while.” He looked at his watch. “Do you care to take dinner with me? I had an engagement with an aunt who is on the verge of apoplexy because two of the Boston Shaynes are in Munich. It scarcely seems appropriate at the moment. I detest her, anyway. What do you say?”

  “I’d like to have dinner with you.”

  They walked down the Cannebiere. At a restaurant on the east side near the foot of the thoroughfare they found a table in the corner. A pair of waiters hastened to take their order. The place was riotous with voices and the musical sounds of dining.

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask your name again,” Shayne said.

  “Banner. Hugo Banner.”

  “Danner God! Not the football player?”

  “I did play football—some time ago.”

  “I saw you against Cornell—when was it?—two years ago. You were magnificent. How does it happen that—”

  “That I’m here?” Hugo looked directly into Shayne’s eyes.

  “Well—I have no intention of prying into your affairs.”

  “Then I’ll tell you. Why not?” Hugo drank his wine. “I killed a man—in the game—and quit. Beat it.”

  Shayne accepted the statement calmly. “That’s tough. I can understand your desire to get out from under. Things like that are bad when you’re young.”

  “What else could I have done?”

  “Nothing. What are you going to do? Rather, what were you going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” Hugo answered slowly. “What do you do? What do people generally do?” He felt the question was drunken, but Shayne accepted it at its face value.

  “I’m one of those people who have too much money to be able to do anything I really care about, most of the time. The family keeps me in sight and control. But I’m going to cut away to-morrow.”

  “In the Foreign Legion? I’ll go with you.”

  “Splendid!” They shook hands across the table.

  Three hours later found them at another cafe. They had been walking part of the time in the throngs on the street.

  For a while they had stood outside a newspaper office watching the bulletins. They were quite drunk. Two girls accosted them.

  “That gives me an idea,” Shayne said. “Let’s find a phone. Maybe we can get Marcelle and Claudine.”

  Marcelle and Claudine met them at the door of the old house. Their arms were laden with champagne bottles. The interior of the dwelling belied its cold, gray, ancient stones. Hugo did not remember much of what followed that evening. Short, unrelated fragments stuck in his mind—Shayne chasing the white form of Marcelle up and down the stairs; himself in a huge bath-tub washing a back in front of him, his surprise when he saw daylight through the wooden shutters of the house.

  Some one was shaking him. “Come on, soldier. The leave’s up.”

  He opened his eyes and collected his thoughts. He grinned at Shayne. “All right. But if I had to defend myself right now—I’d fail against a good strong mouse.”

  “We’ll fix that. Hey! Marcelle! Got any Fernet—Branca?”

  The girl came with two large glasses of the pick-me-up. Hugo swallowed the bitter brown fluid and shuddered. Claudine awoke. “Cheri!” she sighed, and kissed him.

  They sat on the edge of the bed. “Boy!” Hugo said. “What a binge!”

  “You like eet?” Claudine murmured.

  He took her hand. “Loved it, darling. And now we’re going to war.”

  “Ah!” she said, and, at the door: “Bonne chance!” Shayne left Hugo, after agreeing on a time and place for their meeting in the afternoon. The hours passed slowly. Hugo took another drink, and then, exerting his judgment and will, he refrained from taking more. At noon he partook of a light meal. He thought, or imagined, that the ecstasy of the day before was showing some signs of decline. It occurred to him that the people might be very sober and quiet before the war was a thing to be written into the history of France.

  The sun was shining. He found a place in the shade where he could avoid it. He ordered a glass of beer, tasted it, and forgot to finish it. The elation of his first hours had passed. But the thing within him that had caused it was by no means dead. As he sat there, his muscles tensed with the picturization of what was soon to be. He saw the grim shadows of the enemy. He felt the hot splash of blood. For one suspended second he was ashamed of himself, and then he stamped out that shame as being something very much akin to cowardice.

  Until that chaotic and gorgeous hour he had lived for nothing, proved nothing, accomplished nothing. Society was no better in any way because he had lived. He excepted the lives he had saved, the few favors he had done. That was nothing in proportion to his powers. He was his own measure, and by his own efforts would he satisfy himself. War! He flexed his arms. War. His black eyes burned with a formidable light.

  Then Shayne came. Walking with long strides. A ghostly smile on his lips. A darkness in his usually pale-blue eyes. Hugo liked him. They said a few words and walked toward the recruiting-tent. A poilu in steely blue looked at them and saw that they were good. He proffered papers. They signed. That night they marched for the first time. A week later they were sweating and swearing over the French manual of arms. Hugo had offered his services to the commanding officer at the camp and been summarily denied an audience or a chance to exhibit his abilities. When they reached the lines—that would be time enough. Well, he could wait until those lines were reached.

  Chapter XII

  JUST as the eastern horizon became light with something more steady than the flare of the gun, the command came. Hugo bit his lip till it bled darkly. He would show them—now. They might command him to wait—he could restrain himself no longer. The men had been standing there tense and calm, their needle-like bayonets pointing straight up. �
�En avant!”

  His heart gave a tremendous surge. It made his hands falter as he reached for the ladder rung. “Here we go, Hugo.”

  “Luck, Tom.”

  He saw Shayne go over. He followed slowly. He looked at no man’s land. They had come up in the night and he had never seen it. The scene of holocaust resembled nothing more than the municipal ash dump at Indian Creek. It startled him. The gray earth in irregular heaps, the litter of metal and equipment. He realized that he was walking forward with the other men. The ground under his feet was mushy, like ashes. Then he saw part of a human body. It changed his thoughts.

  The man on Hugo’s right emitted a noise like a squeak and jumped up in the air. He had been hit. Out of the corner of his eye Hugo saw him fall, get up quickly, and fall again very slowly. His foot kicked after he lay down. The rumbling in the sky grew louder and blotted out all other sound.