Marcus: the Young Centurion Part 22

"Yes, my lad; that'll be the sensiblest thing to do."

"Yes," said Marcus, "you've talked about it, and it has made me feel very hungry now."

"Well, look here," said Serge, "we are about even, aren't we?"

"Even!" said Marcus, staring at the man. "Do you mean about both being hungry?"

"Nay-y-y-ay! About being wicked uns. You've done wrong, you know, and disobeyed orders."

"Yes," said Marcus, with a sigh.

"So have I. Well, we are both in disgrace, and that makes us even; so, of course, I can't bully you any more and you can't say ugly things to me. Fair play's the thing, isn't it?"

"Of course," cried Marcus.

"Well, then, as you've behaved uncommon fine in tackling those rough ones, and saved my life--"

"Oh no," said Marcus, modestly.

"But I say, oh yes. Don't you talk to me. They'd have killed me dead, stripped off everything that was worth taking, and then left my body to the wolves."

Marcus recalled the words of the speaker of his wandering away up the mountains to lie down and die, and he felt ready to say: "Well, that would have suited you;" but he thought it better not, and held his tongue.

"As I said before, you have behaved uncommonly well over that, so I'll forgive you for running away, and shake hands, if you'll agree to say nothing more about it to me."

"Oh, very well," cried Marcus. "I don't feel that I can say any more to you."

"Then I won't to you, my lad, and there's my hand on it. Only mind this," cried Serge, as they stood with their hands clasped, "this is only me, you know. I lose my place of looking after you, according to the master's orders, by forsaking my post and going after him, so I aren't no longer holding your rein, as you may say. What I mean is this--I forgive you, but I am not going to answer for what your father will say."

"Oh, of course not," cried Marcus. "We have both got to face that."

"Yes, my lad," said the old soldier, sourly, "and a nice hard time it's going to be. I daren't think about it, but keep on putting it off till it comes. That'll be time enough. So now then, you and me's going to be friends, and try to help one another out of the mud. That is, unless you think we'd better go back home together."

"Oh, no, no," cried Marcus. "Impossible! We must go on now."

"Yes," said Serge, bluntly. "Then it's vittles."

"Vittles?" said Marcus, staring.

"Yes. Don't you know what vittles are? Didn't you say you was hungry?"

"Oh!" cried Marcus.

"Have you got anything?"

"Scarcely anything," replied Marcus.

"Yah! And after all the pains I took with you! Didn't I always say that an army on the march must always look well after its foraging? No commander can expect his men to behave better than a bottle."

"Look here, Serge," cried Marcus, laughing, "why don't you speak out plainly what you mean? What have men got to do with bottles?"

"Oh, a good deal sometimes," said the man, chuckling. "But that's only my way. You can't hold a bottle up, no matter whether it's a goat-skin or one of them big jars made of clay, and expect to pour something out of it if you haven't first put something in?"

"No, of course not," said Marcus, who was busy polishing the point of his spear with a tuft of dried gra.s.s.

"Well, men's the same as bottles; if you don't give them plenty to eat and drink you can't get plenty of fighting out of them. Always see to your foraging when you are on the march. I always do, and I have got something ready for us both now. But look here, my lad, this isn't at home, and I'm not going to drive out the swine, and you are not going to your wax table. We are soldiering now, and whether it's two thousand or only two, things are just the same. We have got to keep a sharp look-out for the enemy."

"You didn't," said Marcus, quickly, "or you would have seen me following you."

"That's right," said Serge, "and it was because I could think of nothing else but about being such a bad un as I was and forsaking my post. I dursen't look back either, for fear that I should see someone following me. But that's all over now; you and me's joined forces, and we must go on straight. I don't think it's necessary, but we will just take a look round for danger before we sit down to enjoy our breakfast."

"Enjoy?" said Marcus, dubiously.

"Yes, that's right. We shall both have company over it. It's been precious dull to me, being all alone. So now then; take the lead, captain, and give the orders to advance for a scout all round before we sit down to our meal."

"Very well, then," cried Marcus. "Forward! This way first."

"Yes, but that's too much of it," said the old soldier. "A commanding officer don't make speeches to his men 'cept when he's going into action, and not always then. What you ought to have said was just 'forward!' and then advanced with your troops to follow you."

Marcus nodded and smiled, and, side by side and spear in hand, they climbed to the highest ground, carefully surveying their surroundings of wood and rock--every place, in fact, likely to give harbour to an enemy, till all at once Marcus threw out his left arm across his companion's breast, and, stopping short, stood pointing with his spear to something half hidden behind a patch of bushes upon the other side of the stream.

Serge sheltered his eyes on the instant, and gave a satisfied nod.

"Right, captain," he whispered; "but your force isn't strong enough to surround the enemy. You must advance in line. It's an ambuscade."

The half-concealed figure was nearly a hundred yards away, and, by the time they had covered half the distance, Marcus' keen young eyes sent a message to his brain, and he whispered to his companion in an awe-stricken voice:

"It's that wounded man. He has lain down to die."

The old soldier uttered a low grunt, and sheltered his eyes again.

"Looks like it," he said, "but we had best make sure. Tell your men to level their spears and advance at a run. Dead men are dangerous sometimes."

Recalling the lesson he had just received, Marcus lowered his spear and uttered the one word:

"Advance!"

They broke into a sharp trot, straight for the horrible-looking, stiffened figure which lay crouched together in an unnatural att.i.tude just behind a bush; but, before they were half way, there was a quick movement, a sharp rustling of leaves, and the dead man had sprung up and was running as swiftly as a deer.

Marcus stared in astonishment, looking so surprised that Serge lowered the b.u.t.t of his spear and rested upon its shaft in his familiar home att.i.tude when the staff he carried was terminated by a crook instead of a keenly-pointed blade.

"There, you see, my lad. That's the sort of dead man you have got to beware of after a fight. They are a very dangerous sort; like that fellow, they are crippled a bit, but they won't stop to be buried. They don't like the idea. What they do is to play sham till their enemy has marched by 'em, thinking they are real, and then when some poor fellow is looking forward, one of them dead barbarians lets him have it in the back. There, we will go and sit up on the top there, and I'll lean up against your back, and you shall lean up against mine while we eat our breakfast and are busy with our teeth, and leave our four eyes to play watchful sentry till we've done."

Marcus felt quite willing now that the excitement caused by the flying foe was at an end, and, soon after, Serge's little store was drawn upon, and, quite happy and contented, the two old companions made what Marcus thought was the most appetising breakfast he had ever had in his life.

"Hah!" cried Serge, as they rose at last. "Now let's go down to the stream for a drink. Always camp, my lad, beside a river or a lake; and if you can't--" He stopped short.

"Well, if you can't?" said Marcus.