The Red Horizon Part 2

Suddenly I was brought back to realities by the recollection that the battalion was to have a bath that afternoon and towels and soap must be ready to take out on the next parade.

The next morning was beautifully clear; the sun rising over the firing line lit up wood and field, river and pond. The hens were noisy in the farmyard, the horse lines to the rear were full of movement, horses strained at their tethers eager to break away and get free from the captivity of the rope; the grooms were busy brushing the animals' legs and flanks, and a slight dust arose into the air as the work was carried on.

Over the red-brick houses of the village the church stood high, its spire clearly defined against the blue of the sky. The door of the _cafe_ across the road opened, and the proprietress, a merry-faced, elderly woman, came across to the farmhouse. She purchased some newly laid eggs for breakfast, and entered into conversation with our men, some of whom knew a little of her language. They asked about her son in the trenches; she had heard from him the day before and he was (p. 039) quite well and hoped to have a holiday very soon. He would come home then and spend a fortnight with the family. She looked forward to his coming, he had been away from her ever since the war started; she had not seen him for eight whole months. What happiness would be hers when he returned! She waved her hand to us as she went off, tripping lightly across the roadway and disappearing into the _cafe_. She was going to church presently; it was Holy Week when the Virgin listened to special intercessors, and the good matron of the _cafe_ prayed hourly for the safety of her soldier boy.

At ten o'clock we went to chapel, our pipers playing _The Wearing of the Green_ as we marched along the crooked village streets, our rifles on our shoulders and our bandoliers heavy with the ball cartridge which we carried. The rifle is with us always now, on parade, on march, in _cafe_, billet, and church; our "best friend" is our eternal companion. We carried it into the church and fastened the sling to the chair as we knelt in prayer before the altar. We occupied the larger part of the building, only three able-bodied men in civilian clothing were in attendance.

The youth of the country were out in the trenches, and even here (p. 040) in the quiet little chapel with its crucifixes, images, and pictures, there was the suggestion of war in the collection boxes for wounded soldiers, in the crepe worn by so many women; one in every ten was in mourning, and above all in the general air of resignation which showed on all the faces of the native worshippers.

The whole place breathed war, not in the splendid whirlwind rush of men mad in the wild enthusiasm of battle, but in silent yearning, heartfelt sorrow, and great bravery, the bravery of women who remain at home. Opposite us sat the lady of the _cafe_, her head low down on her breast, and the rosary slipping bead by bead through her fingers.

Now and again she would stir slightly, raise her eyes to the Virgin on the right of the high altar, and move her lips in prayer, then she would lower her head again and continue her rosary.

As far as I could ascertain singing in church was the sole privilege of the choir, none of the congregation joined in the hymns. But to-day the church had a new congregation--the soldiers from England, the men who sing in the trenches, in the billet, and on the march; the men who glory in song on the last lap of a long, killing journey in full (p. 041) marching order. To-day they sang a hymn well-known and loved, the clarion call of their faith was started by the choir. As one man the soldiers joined in the singing, and their voices filled the building.

The other members of the congregation looked on for a moment in surprise, then one after another they started to sing, and in a moment nearly all in the place were aiding the choir. One was silent, however, the lady of the _cafe_; still deep in prayer she scarcely glanced at the singers, her mind was full of another matter. Only a mother thinking about a loved son can so wholly lose herself from the world. And as I looked at her I thought I detected tears in her eyes.

The priest, a pleasant faced young man, who spoke very quickly (I have never heard anybody speak like him), thanked the soldiers, and through them their nation for all that was being done to help in the war; prayers were said for the men at the front, those who were still alive, as well as those who had given up their lives for their country's sake, and before leaving we sang the national anthem, our's, _G.o.d Save the King_.

With the pipers playing at our front, and an admiring crowd of (p. 042) boys following, we took our way back to our billets. On the march a mate was speaking, one who had been late coming on parade in the morning.

"Saw the woman of the _cafe_ in church?" he asked me. "Saw her crying?"

"I thought she looked unhappy."

"Just after you got off parade the news came," my mate told me. "Her son had been killed. She is awfully upset about it and no wonder. She was always talking about her _pet.i.t garcon_, and he was to be home on holidays shortly."

Somewhere "out there" where the guns are incessantly booming, a nameless grave holds the "_pet.i.t garcon_," the _cafe_ lady's son; next Sunday another mourner will join with the many in the village church and pray to the Virgin Mother for the soul of her beloved boy.

CHAPTER IV (p. 043)

THE NIGHT BEFORE THE TRENCHES

Four by four in column of route, By roads that the poplars sentinel, Clank of rifle and crunch of boot-- All are marching and all is well.

White, so white is the distant moon, Salmon-pink is the furnace glare, And we hum, as we march, a ragtime tune, Khaki boys in the long platoon, Going and going--anywhere.

"The battalion will move to-morrow," said the Jersey youth, repeating the orders read out in the early part of the day, and removing a clot of farmyard muck from the foresight guard of his rifle as he spoke. It was seven o'clock in the evening, the hour when candles were stuck in their cheese sconces and lighted. Cakes of soap and lumps of cheese are easily scooped out with clasp-knives and make excellent sconces; we often use them for that purpose in our barn billet. We had been quite a long time in the place and had grown to like it. But to-morrow we were leaving.

"Oh, dash the rifle!" said the Jersey boy, getting to his feet and kicking a bundle of straw across the floor of the barn. "To-morrow (p. 044) night we'll be in the trenches up in the firing line."

"The slaughter line," somebody remarked in the corner where the darkness hung heavy. A match was lighted disclosing the speaker's face and the pipe which he held between his teeth.

"No smoking," yelled a corporal, who had just entered. "You'll burn the d.a.m.ned place down and get yourself as well as all of us into trouble."

"Oh blast the barn!" muttered Bill Sykes, a narrow chested c.o.c.kney with a good-humoured face that belied his nickname. "It's only fit for rats and there's 'nuff of 'em 'ere. I'm goin' to 'ave a f.a.g anyway.

Got me?"

The corporal asked Bill for a cigarette and lit it. "We're all mates now and we'll make a night of it," he cried. "d.a.m.n the barn, there'll be barns when we're all washed out with Jack Johnsons. What are you doin', Feelan?"

Feelan, an Irishman with a brogue that could be cut with a knife, laid down the sword which he was burnishing and glanced at the non-com.

"The Germans don't fire at men with stripes, I hear," he remarked, "They only shoot rale good soldiers. A livin' corp'ral's hardly as (p. 045) good as a dead rifleman."

Six foot three of c.u.mberland bone and muscle detached itself from the straw and looked round the barn. We call it Goliath on account of its size.

"Who's to sing the first song," asked Goliath. "A good hearty song!"

"One with whiskers on it!" said the corporal.

"I'll slash the game up and give a rale ould song, whiskers to the toes of it," said Feelan, shoving his sword in its scabbard and throwin' himself flat back on the straw. "Its a song about the time Irelan' was fightin' for freedom and it's called _The Rising of the Moon_! A great song entirely it is, and I cannot do it justice."

Feelan stood up, his legs wide apart and both his thumbs stuck in the upper pockets of his tunic. Behind him the barn stretched out into the gloom that our solitary candle could not pierce. On either side rifles hung from the wall, and packs and haversacks stood high from the straw in which most of the men had buried themselves, leaving nothing but their faces, fringed with the rims of Balaclava helmets, exposed to view. The night was bitterly cold, outside where the sky stood high splashed with countless stars and where the earth gripped tight on (p. 046) itself, the frost fiend was busy; in the barn, with its medley of men, roosting hens and prowling rats all was cosy and warm. Feelan cleared his throat and commenced the song, his voice strong and clear filled the barn:--

"Arrah! tell me Shan O'Farrel; tell me why you hurry so?"

"Hush, my bouchal, hush and listen," and his cheeks were all aglow-- "I've got orders from the Captain to get ready quick and soon For the pikes must be together at the risin' of the moon, At the risin' of the moon!

At the risin' of the moon!

And the pikes must be together at the risin' of the moon!"

"That's some song," said the corporal. "It has got guts in it. I'm sick of these ragtime rotters!"

"The old songs are always the best ones," said Feelan, clearing his throat preparatory to commencing a second verse.

"What about _Uncle Joe_?" asked Goliath, and was off with a regimental favourite.

When Uncle Joe plays a rag upon his old banjo-- ("Oh!" the occupants of the barn yelled.) Ev'rybody starts a swayin' to and fro-- ("Ha!" exclaimed the barn.) Mummy waddles all around the cabin floor!-- ("What!" we chorused.) Crying, "Uncle Joe, give us more, give us more!"

"Give us no more of that muck!" exclaimed Feelan, burrowing into (p. 047) the straw, no doubt a little annoyed at being interrupted in his song.

"d.a.m.n ragtime!"

"There's ginger in it!" said Goliath. "Your old song is as flat as French beer!"

"Some decent music is what you want," said Bill Sykes, and forthwith began strumming an invisible banjo and humming _Way down upon the Swanee Ribber_.

The candle, the only one in our possession, burned closer to the cheese sconce, a daring rat slipped into the light, stopped still for a moment on top of a sheaf of straw, then scampered off again, shadows danced on the roof, over the joists where the hens were roosting, an unsheathed sword glittered brightly as the light caught it, and Feelan lifted the weapon and glanced at it.

"Burnished like a lady's nail," he muttered.

"Thumb nail?" interrogated Goliath.

"Ragnail, p'raps," said the c.o.c.kney.

"I wonder whether we'll have much bayonet-fightin' or not?" remarked the Jersey boy, looking at each of us in turn and addressing no one in particular.

"We'll get some now and again to keep us warm!" said the corporal. (p. 048) "It'll be 'ot when it comes along."

"'Ot's not the word," said Bill; "I never was much drawn to soldierin'