Jena or Sedan? Part 12

Vogt could not but smile at his comrade's good-nature. Truchsess, the most easy-going of them all, whose clothes after drill were as wet with perspiration as if they had been in water, Truchsess called it "a little bit of extra drill"!

But before he could speak, Klitzing began again: "Franz, you mustn't mix yourself up in this. If they mean to do it you can't prevent it.

The best thing will be for me to submit quietly."

And with a little bitterness he added: "The most they can do is to beat me to death."

But Vogt interrupted: "Don't talk such nonsense! I don't know what they are thinking of doing, but I can tell you it shall be prevented. I promise you that. Don't be afraid. I shall find a way out."

He began to ponder how he could protect his friend from the roughness of the "old gang."

Should he ask Sergeant Wiegandt to give up going to see his Frieda for one evening? If he told him, of course not officially, but in a sort of way privately, about the intentions of the elder soldiers, then Wiegandt would certainly stay in. But his feeling of solidarity with his comrades forbad this.

Only, were they any longer comrades when they could ill-treat a poor weakling? Surely not.

Still he rejected this plan, and in the end decided himself to defend Klitzing regardless of consequences. If he challenged the fellows fearlessly and cheekily they would be sure to turn on him, and he would be able to defend himself. At any rate he could better stand a good hard blow than the clerk could.

Evening came, and Sergeant Wiegandt went to his rendezvous as usual. An expectant silence lay over Room IX. The recruits cleaned their things and glanced now and then in an embarra.s.sed way at the corner where Vogt had seated himself close to Klitzing. The brewer had joined them also.

All was quiet until shortly before bed-time. Then heavy clanking steps approached from the large Room VII. on the other side of the corridor, and eight or nine old drivers pushed themselves in, armed with whips, belts, and snaffle-reins.

Vogt placed himself full in front of Klitzing.

"You be off!" they said.

"I shan't!" answered Vogt.

"We'll soon make you!"

"We shall see about that!"

In a moment a dozen hands had seized him; but the big, strong fellow defended himself bravely. He lashed out powerfully with fists and feet, making the attacking party more and more furious; but finally he was dashed to the ground, dragging several of his opponents with him. As if they had been waiting for this, the others now threw themselves upon him, and their blows fell thick as hail.

Klitzing, with his whole body trembling, stood by as if he had been paralysed. But the brewer bent his round head like a furious bull, and charged, using his skull as a battering ram, right into the middle of the scrimmage. Now there were two against ten. The odds were still far too great; and the brewer also was soon on the floor. The fighters made a tremendous noise, but whereas usually at the least sound a corporal would come running up to enjoin quiet, to-day n.o.body seemed to heed.

With a sudden effort Vogt succeeded in shaking two of his opponents off, and in half raising himself; he just caught Weise's eye, who, with his hands in his trousers pockets, was looking on at the row and laughing a little. He shouted to him goadingly: "Is this what you call liberty, equality, fraternity, you lousy fellow? Liberty, equality, fraternity!"

And he gave a shrill, scornful laugh.

But, as if summoned by the words, the haggard, sombre-visaged Wolf came to the door from the opposite room. He had at once understood why the row was going on. It was only to be expected, after the deputy sergeant-major's words! It was one of those injustices that he hated so intensely; worse and a thousandfold more cowardly even than a blow given to a soldier on the parade-ground by his superior officer.

He felt he had been summoned by those three words.

"Here I am!" he shouted, and his long thin arms brought substantial help.

But the "old gang" also received reinforcements. The struggle became wilder and wilder, and the combatants grappled with each other more and more furiously. The shouts had ceased, and one noticed now only the gasps of the fighters, the grinding of their teeth, the dull sound of blows, and now and then a grim oath.

Vogt was bleeding from a wound in his brow, in return for which he had bitten his opponent in the hand. But now the heavy buckle of a belt caught him full in the face. Sparks flew before his eyes, he reeled from the force of the blow, and, like an infuriated animal, his only desire was to revenge himself, to hit out and to kill his enemy. A newly polished sword lay near him, where it had fallen from the table.

He seized it and struck and thrust with it in blind fury.

The recruits shrieked as they saw this development, but no one had the courage to seize the arms of the furious man.

Then an inspiration came to one of them.

"The sergeant-major!" he yelled at the door.

The struggling _melee_ dispersed in a twinkling, the "old gang"

vanished from Room IX., and only a great cloud of dust betrayed what had taken place.

The sergeant-major of course did not appear. But it was just as well; blood poured down Vogt's face, and when Klitzing awakened from his torpor he was seized with a kind of convulsive attack. He threw himself down, weeping and shrieking before his brave comrade, embracing his knees, and no talking could soothe him.

The other recruits stood frightened and helpless around the two. The brewer sat down on his stool to get his breath, and wiped the perspiration off his face.

Listing, the quondam tramp, was the most sensible. On the roads there is occasionally a fight or an accident, therefore one must know how to render a.s.sistance. He ran to the water-tap, and returned with a bowl of fresh water. He washed the wounded man's face, and then put quite a respectable bandage round Vogt's head. It is true that the folds were a little thick, as two towels were applied, and they looked almost like a turban, but they stopped the bleeding and held together.

The tattoo sounded over the courtyard.

It was high time to get ready for bed. The corporal in charge came into the room and told them to be quick. Suddenly he noticed the wounded man.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

Listing lied fluently: "He fell down the dormitory stairs, sir, just a little while ago, when the wind had blown out the lamp."

"Indeed!" said the officer in charge. "Is he badly hurt?"

"No, sir," answered Vogt.

"Then off to bed!"

Vogt and Klitzing were the last to leave Room IX. Klitzing went silently along by his wounded comrade and looked at him timidly.

"Does it hurt, Franz?" he asked on the stairs.

Vogt began hesitatingly: "Well, you know----" but then when he saw his friend's sad eyes he continued: "Oh, no; it's not a bit bad."

Tears stood in the clerk's eyes.

"Franz, what a dear good fellow you are!" he said softly. "I don't know how I can thank you; but never doubt that I _shall_ thank you some time."

In the bedroom Listing whispered to him that the "old gang" would beware of beginning it again. Wolf had told them that he should at once report them if they did, and he was known to keep his word in such matters.

When the two friends were in bed, the tall man came round to their corner.

"How are you?" he asked Vogt.

"All right, thanks," he answered.

"Glad to hear it."

He stretched out his hand to the recruit, and the two men exchanged a hearty grip.