by Paul Busson
“Here goes!”
“Prove it!” cried Fink, who was in fear of losing his sword.
He opened his mouth wide, and let the wine run down his throat with a clear ripple.
“Hell, pest!” swore Fink. “He’ll do it, by the devil’s ear, he’ll do it!”
Soon only a little remained in the glass, hardly enough to measure. But it was just too much. Before it was swallowed, Montanus opened his eyes as if in sudden terror. We saw that his veins were swelling, and his face grew purple.
The glass boot fell from his fingers and broke to pieces. His hands snatched at the air. A rattling sound broke from his open mouth, and he fell to the ground like a sack. His chair, which upset beneath him, splintered under the weight of his body.
Haymon had been studying medicine for years, and he knew something about this sudden catastrophe, for he knelt over the fat Montanus, and rested his hand a moment on the man’s heart. Then he rose to his feet and groaned:
“Dead! Apoplexy! He is on his way to hell, our fat goose-eater! Fiducit!”
Sweat stood out on his forehead. I felt faint and sick.
Hercules stooped down quickly as soon as he made sure that Montanus was dead, and thrust his hands into the ill-fated man’s pockets. He pulled forth a purse, and shook out on to the table a few silver pieces and a gold ducat.
“This is yours, Nebuchadnezzar, you’ve won it,” said Haymon, pushing the silver watch with the chain and stone towards Fink.
Then he threw the silver coins across to me, from whom the dead man had so recently won them.
“Pocket them!” he said. “He’ll never want them again.”
He weighed the ducat in his hand and addressed the silent figure.
“Brother of my heart!” he exclaimed. “This yellow-boy will be drunk to your memory!”
The dead man gave no answer. Haymon shook him. Montanus’s belly swayed, and we could hear the wine slopping.
“He does not disagree!” he added, “so call Venus, somebody. It would be a pity to leave the money to the Manicheans. Don’t stand in the way like a slaughtered calf, Mahomet, but tell Venus to bring us wine, and have Montanus carried to a quiet room and laid down on straw.”
So I went into the dark passage and called Venus in a trembling voice.
Chapter Fourteen
One evening Stotzer informed me that my father had stopped my allowance and was leaving me to my own resources. Whereupon I got roaring drunk.
While I was in this state the Portuguee came in with the news that Phöbus Merentheim had arrived in the town some days ago, and was lodging with Count Heilsbronner in the Gerbersteig.
At once I went forth, the whole riotous company following me. We decorated with a broken bedpan, the head of the stone Roland statue that stood in front of the Town Hall and also the wall of the beautiful and virtuous Fraulein Pfister, who had always turned her back on us when we passed her with languishing glances.
On the wall under her window Hercules drew a delicate arse with red chalk, and printed beneath it, in large black letters,
Sweet and charming lass,
Must I really kiss your ass?
With loud huzzaing and cheering we proceeded to the town fountain and drove wooden wedges into the jaws of its four dragons, so that the water began spouting from under St. Florian’s feet.
We then went to the burgomaster’s, and crapped on his front stairs. In each pile we stuck a cock’s feather, since the rumour went that his wife in puncto puncti was not satisfied with him. But it was Phöbus who was foremost in my thoughts, Phöbus Merentheim, with his high-nosed, rice-soup face; and I hastened towards the Gerbersteig.
“By God, Mahomethe won’t escape you!” my companions shouted.
Haymon held me back, however.
“You’ll drink his blood tonight,” he said.
They had something planned for the pillory in the Gansemarkt. When we arrived there, the Portuguee took out a roll of paper, a hammer and nails, and while we kept watch he nailed the paper to the pillory, so that when morning came, everyone could read the names of our enemies:
Hannes Stotzer, bloodsucker
Wolfgang Thierkind, ditto
Liborius Schmalebank, stinking hypocrite
Gotthelf Titzke, church-going thief
Simche of Speyer, takes one hundred percent interest
On we went through the dark streets, crying as loud as we could:
“Murdero! Fire-o! Helpo!”
Soon every window was lit up, and the sleepy town-soldiers came tramping along. But by that time we were well on our way to the Gerbersteig.
“It is exactly as I told you,” said the Portuguee. “Merentheim is staying at Count Heilsbronner’s, and he belongs to the Ansbach Union.”
“Wasn’t it Heilsbronner that stole Julie away from you, Portuguee?” asked Galenus mockingly.
“Shut your mouth, or I’ll piss on you and drown you,” growled the Portuguee. “I wipe people like you from my sword by the dozen.”
“Quiet,” said Fink. “Or you’ll be hauled before the council. Why don’t you think of poor Phöbus, shitting his pants with fright.”
I went boldly forward beneath the window which the Portuguee had pointed out, pulled out my sword, and scraped it as loudly as I could on the pavement, shouting at the top of my voice as I did so:
“Merentheim, dog-turd! Merentheim, come out and meet me! Per-eat!”
The window opened, and a man looked out. He was stark naked.
“Pereat!”
Again I yelled. “Pereat Merentheim!”
“Lout!” came a voice. “What the devil have I to do with your Merentheim? He went home early this afternoon.”
“Go choke on your stinking lie!” I retorted. The man laughed. “You’ll have all you want soon enough, little brother,” he said: “just wait a minute, Jack What’s-your-name, while I get into my shirt and find my sword.”
He slammed the window so violently that the broken glass came down in a noisy shower. We saw a light moving about the room for a moment; then it vanished. We heard steps in the hall, a key turned in the lock, and Count Heilsbronner appeared at the doorway, half-dressed, with a long rapier under his arm, and the scarlet and white badge of the Ansbachers in his hat. The moon came out from behind the clouds and it was light enough to see the pockmarks and duelling scars on his face.
At once we leapt towards each other, ready to cross blades. But Bavarian Haymon interposed.
“No, no, it must be all in proper form, sir brother! Portuguee, you’d better be second to the gentleman of Ansbach, and I to Mahomet!… Draw! Begin!”
I lunged rapidly at the Count but missed him. Expert that he was in all kinds of feints, he parried like lightning. Then I lunged a reversed carte but he slipped past my rapier and slashed me in the forearm. I lunged a third time. My rapier struck something hard, slid off and entered his breast, swift and deep. The sword fell clattering from his hand.
“Stop there!” the Portuguee ordered, and he held out his blade.
“It’s gone home,” gasped Heilsbronner. “A lunger.”
His face was green in the moonlight. “Carry me to bed, sir brother, to”
Then he fell back into Haymon’s arms. Blood and foam came from his mouth and his eyes contracted. A dark spot on his shirt spread like ink on soft paper...
“By all the sacraments help me hold the man,” panted Bavarian Haymon, staggering under his burden. “He is as heavy as”
We sprang forward to his support.
“It happened just as I was going to sleep,” murmured the Ansbacher, and again blood came from his mouth. “The rosary above my bed moved by itself... If only I had been drunker, you might have gone on scraping your swords and crying Pereat for ever!”
He stiffened convulsively. Suddenly he raised his voice:
“It presses me… my… heart...!”
We lowered him to the ground. I was half-blinded by perspiration.
“He’s done,”
said the Portuguee. “We’d better run for it. They’re opening the windows.”
Somebody cried from a window:
“You damned idiots, you street scum! Stop your damned noise!”
“You’ll get your backsides peppered with rabbit shot!” came another voice.
We heard many feet approaching. It was the watch.
“Here’s one will never move again,” cried a startled woman as we moved away. “Police! Police! Murder!”
We ran for all we were worth. A pole came flying between my feet, and I was brought to the ground. Haymon remained with me, until I got up again, while the others ran on. Then we heard the Portuguee give a yell. He had jumped over a fence and had fallen into a cesspool. He was as good as caught.
“Brother,” panted Bavarian Haymon, as he leaned against an old wall, “you’d better get right out of it. You can’t stay here. I know the Portuguee. He’s caught, and the police will force him to sing; and they’ll come and take you out of bed in the night.
“Take my advice, brother. You were always a true comrade, and it’s a pity we forced you into our boozing and brawling group. Now listen to me: the King of Prussia’s recruiting officers are at Distelbruck. They’ve got trumpets and fiddles, and wine, and gold for those who join.”
“You want me to enlist?” I asked, painfully astonished.
“Do you want to be caught to-morrow and thrown into the tower, and kept a prisoner lying on dirty straw? There’d be no chance of help from the Rector or the Senate, because there’s a dead man biting the grass. If you had your inheritance… but as it is! There’s nothing else for you to do, comrade, except follow the drum. You’ll be as safe if you do that as though you were in Abraham’s bosom.”
Haymon’s words made me feel very anxious and uneasy. I was assailed by bitter repentance for having wasted myself so shamefully.
“Don’t be long about it,” Haymon urged me. “I mean it honourably. There is only one way out, an ultima ratio, and you’ve got to take it. Twisting and turning and scheming won’t help you. Even if it hadn’t happened with the Ansbacher, how long do you think you could have kept up this rapiers and feathers business? You can be in Distelbruck before dawn. You can hear the noise of the drums near the bridge, when you get to ‘The Merry Bombardier.’ And now, old Swede, God protect you, and may we meet again some day.”
He kissed me hurriedly on both cheeks and turned away.
“Take my sword,” I begged, “and cut the four last of the silver buttons off my greatcoat.”
But Haymon only shook his head and disappeared into the dark.
Slowly I walked down the Distelbruck road. From my hat I tore the feather of the Order, crimson and yellow and blue, and flung it into the nearest brook.
And I walked on.
Chapter Fifteen
Boomboomboom… bingbang a… boom!…
By the end of my first three days in the army I was dead sick of Hungarian wine, tobacco smoke and the noise. Every time the drummer beat the gong it was as if the fiery torments of lightning flashed through my emptied brain.
“O my Barbele!” howled one of my fellow-recruits, a conscript who sat next to me at the table.
“Yes, and what will your daddy say?” teased the hussar who was on guard among us to see that we did not get away, for we had received our advance pay and drunk heartily to the health of Frederick. The home-sick youth blubbered still louder. To quieten him the soldiers held a glass of wine to his mouth and tipped it up, so that he was obliged to swallow it or choke. After that he seemed to be quieter. A moustachioed non-com turned to me.
“And you?” he asked. “What is it you ate, that brought you into the recruiter’s net? You don’t look one of the sillies.”
The sergeant-major came up at that moment. He was covered with gilded ornaments and decorated with galloons and buttons, to attract the poor peasant fools...
“This one is the best of all,” he said to the trooper, pointing to me. “The only men who make good soldiers are those who come of their own accord. You’ll get a new coat from His Majesty, man, in place of that blood-stained thing on you.”
By the pale red light of the rising day I saw, to my horror, that my right sleeve showed many dark spots - it was Count Heilsbronner’s blood! I looked wildly round, as one who is nigh to drowning in lonely waters looks for help.
But there was no help. Gallous-looking soldiers lounged all about me in the miserable room that smelt mustily of spilt wine, and the poor fools who had leaped and danced with the whores yesterday and the day before yesterday, and cast away their thalers, now were sighing and groaning. A hussar with a loaded carbine stood in the doorway, and another at the window, and if any one of the captives went out of the room there was a fellow in a red coat, armed with sabre and pistols, to accompany him.
“Enough of this!” suddenly exclaimed the sergeant-major. The music ceased, and the tired musicians recovered their breath and proceeded to divide between themselves the money that lay in large heaps on the table before them. The sergeant-major carefully buttoned the gold balls and ornaments of his dolman, wrapped them neatly up in paper and called out:
“Up, boys, up! Let’s be moving!”
“Where to?” asked an inquisitive soldier with a pale cheese-coloured face.
“Where to?” echoed the sergeant-major. “Where they will dig a hole in the sand for you, of course, and make three shots over it, snot nose!”
“Anybody with wine left in his glass,” he went on, “tumble it down quick. The wagon is waiting for you, my pretty ones!”
He hustled us out of doors. Eight of us rode in the wagon. A hussar sat on the box, and two hussars behind us. The other soldiers trotted alongside. People came out of their houses to watch our departure, and talked in low voices. An old woman cried bitterly, as if she saw the devil carting us away.
“Oh, my Lord God!” sobbed one of the men. “Oh, mother, mother! Let me go!”
The sergeant-major rode up and shouted:
“Shut up, you damned fool!”
But the poor wretch sobbed on.
“Mercy, sir,” he cried, “let me out this time, for the sake of Christ’s blood! Let me go!”
“Have you wet your pants, you clownish fool?” laughed the man on horseback.
“Just look at the soldier next to you; he’s a student, he is, and he don’t whimper like a wench. So have done with your snivelling and blubbering!”
The man only raised his hands and whined:
“I won’t be able to stand that hard soldier’s life! …
” The non-commissioned officer rode up to the wagon, so close that the white foam from the horse’s bit splashed over our coats.
“You dirty peasant pig!” he thundered. “Shall I thrash you on the spot, or would you have me wait till we come to where we are going to? I’ll thrash you so you won’t be able to tear your trousers from your flesh, you shotsack, you arsehole of a recruit!”
The lad hung his head and was silent.
We passed through the village, and the children followed us for a while. But they did not shout, as children do at every sight. They stopped under the lime trees, by the roadside shrine, and stared with big eyes as we passed on.
A man was sitting under the lime trees. He gazed after me, and his eyes were full of compassion and kindness.
He wore a red-brown gown and a rope of yellow pearls was round his neck and chest, and a black turban on his head. Unspeakably gentle was his face, and beautiful.
It was the man who had walked towards me in the church when they were singing the lament for Jerusalem.
It was Evli, the man from the East.
I sprang up from my seat in the cart and stretched my hands towards him. But the next moment he had vanished. I saw only the grey weather-worn stone of the wayside statue and the old limes.
“What is the matter with you, man? Are you trying to get away?” called out the sergeant-major harshly.
I sank down on the shaky and jerky
plank again. And despite all my misery, I felt a sudden joy and a lightness of heart, as if nothing evil could ever happen to me any more.
Chapter Sixteen
My life in the army was a thousand times worse than I had ever expected. I now knew how the common soldier was treated. It must be admitted, however, that some of my companions were bad eggs.
I was Musketeer Melchior Dronte, having concealed my nobility to avoid being mocked. From the very beginning my shoulders ached with the blows of the corporal’s stick, which danced on us at every drill. My left eye was swollen, moreover, for the lieutenant had struck me with his crop; and my hands were cracked and sore from the gun-lock, and pus oozed out from under my right thumb nail when I grasped anything. I was covered with vermin all over, and I itched all over. My body was weary to death.
One morning I could hardly get up when the drum sounded. Twice I made an effort to raise myself, and twice I fell back. The senior soldier of the barrack-room poured a pailful of ice-cold slops over me and pulled me out of bed by the legs.
The old soldiers were a thousand times rougher than the officers and non-commissioned officers. If one of the men did not get out of bed at reveille, they would put a daub of pitch on his big toe and set fire to it. The poor victim, half mad with fright and still half asleep, would spring up howling and run screaming round the room, to an outburst of delighted laughter.
This particular morning we washed at the fountain by the dawn-light, cracked lice, and then ate breakfast that consisted of black bread with a half-pint of spirits, poured out by the canteen-woman. After that, pigtails were stretched, so that the crowns of our heads ached; and our gaiters were buttoned.
When at last we stood in rank in the court, hazel-sticks were distributed from man to man. They had lain in the fountain all night and whistled ominously as we tested them by beating the air.
The battalion stood in two lines:
“First line two steps forward! March! Halt! About face!”
Two long, endless lines stood facing each other. And in came the jailer, leading a deserter. He was my barrack-room mate. The luckless culprit was very young, only a boy, with a lanky figure and pale, sunken cheeks. He wore only his trousers, gaiters and shoes, and above his waist he had a thin shirt. He shivered with cold and fright. His name was Kregel.