Chapter 2

I have just returned from the River Gate, where I was, I believe, the first to applaud one of the Patres Conscripti (commanding the Axe-and-Crowbar Volunteers), who set a fine example by actually starting on the demolition of the bridge himself. Already you could see the Tuscan hordes in the swarthy dust that shrouded the Western horizon. I was myself in a position to pick out ASTUR, who was girt with the brand which (I am informed by a high authority) none but he can wield. There is no need to describe to you the firmament-rending yell that rose when the presence of the false and shameful SEXTUS was officially notified. One saw women who hissed and even expectorated in his direction, and more than one child, I noticed, shook its small fist at him with splendid spirit....

I am told that HORATIUS spoke out pretty plainly to the Senate, expressing the opinion that three men could easily hold the bridge-head. The gallant officer, interviewed while he was in the act of tightening his harness, declined to say much, merely expressing the opinion that everyone has got to die some time and that there was, after all, some satisfaction in being killed in a fight against odds. I confess I was favourably impressed by the very nonchalance of his attitude.

* * * * *

_Stop Press News._

LARTIUS BEAT AUNUS. HERMINIUS BEAT SEIUS. HORATIUS BEAT PICUS.

* * * * *

_From "Hesperus" (Fourth Edition)._

BRIDGE-HEAD STILL HELD.

DEATH OF ASTUR.

UNFORTUNATE MISHAP TO A LICTOR.

* * * * *

_The Secretary to the Senate announces_:

"Latest advices show that HORATIUS has despatched ASTUR, and, though slightly wounded in this encounter, has been able to keep his place in the line. The bridge head is still being held and there is now a pause in the fighting. The total enemy casualties up to the present are estimated at: _Killed_, 7; _Wounded_, 0; _Missing_, 0. Our own casualties are: _Killed_, 0; _Wounded_, 1; _Missing_, 0. A regrettable incident took place during the demolition of the bridge, a Lictor having sliced himself with one of his own axes and being compelled to relinquish his valuable labours."

* * * * *

(_Stop-Press News_.)

HORATIUS CUT OFF.

The bridge has been successfully destroyed shortly after the skilful withdrawal of LARTIUS and HERMINIUS in the face of the enemy. We greatly regret to add that HORATIUS is missing, I having failed to make good his retreat with his comrades, and must be regarded as lost.--(_Official_.)

* * * * *

_From "Hesperus" (Special Home Edition)._

HORATIUS SAFE.

HOW HE SWAM THE RIVER.

(_By our Special Correspondent._)

HORATIUS, the only one of the "dauntless three" (as they have been already named) about whose safety doubts were entertained, has swum the river and is safe. I saw him, when the bridge fell, standing alone, but obviously with all his wits about him, despite the ninety thousand foes before and the broad flood behind. When he turned round he might have seen, I believe, from where he was standing (just where, on other occasions, I have stood myself) the white porch of his home. His lips parted as if in prayer. The next moment, pausing only to sheathe his ensanguined sword, he took a graceful dive into the river.

Some moments of terrible tension ensued. When at last his head appeared above the surges, a cry of indescribable rapture went up, and I am happy to place on record the fact that I distinctly detected a note of generous cheering from the Tuscan ranks.

But all was not yet over. The current ran fiercely, swollen high by months of rain. Often I thought him sinking--and indeed nearly sent in a message to that effect--but still again he rose. Never, I think, did any swimmer in like circumstances perform such a remarkable feat of natation. But at length he felt the bottom, was helped ashore by myself and the Senate, and was carried shoulder-high through the River Gate. I understand that some special recognition is to be made of his splendid feat.

* * * * *

_From "Rome Chat."_

Our frontispiece this week is a family group of brave Captain HORATIUS, together with the tender mother who (formerly) dandled him to rest, and his wife, who, it will be noticed, is nursing his youngest baby. We are glad to hear that, in conformity with the principle of settling our gallant soldiers on the land, a goodly tract is to be given to this popular hero. The story of how he held the bridge-head will certainly afford a stirring tale for the home-circle for a long time to come.

* * * * *

* * * * *

'EAD-WORK.

Bob Winter is our local carrier. His old grey mare Molly--or a predecessor very like her, driven by Bob's father before him--has jogged into town on market days as long as anyone in the village can remember. The weather-beaten, oft-patched tilt of Bob's cart must have heard in its day generations of village gossip, and a mere inspection of the cargo on the flap which lets down at the back will provide quite an amount of interesting information, such as "whose new housemaid's tin trunk be a-goin' to station already, lookee, and who be a-getten a new tyre to ees bicycle--see."

Now, however, there is a likelihood that Bob may be called up; and the fate of the carrying business hangs in the balance.

"Never mind, Bob," I said (I had overtaken him and old Molly sauntering up the steep hill above the village); "if it comes to that, you know, the women-folk will have to take turns at the carrying while you are away. I believe I should make rather a good carrier."

Bob shook his head and looked evasive.

"No, Miss," he said, "'twuddn' do, 'twuddn' do at all."

"Come," I said, "you don't mean to say Molly would be too much for me?"

"No, Miss, 'tain't Molly, but--well, 'tain't no job for a lady, ain't the carryin'; leastways, not to my way o' thinkin'."

"Oh, but I should get the people at the shops to help me with the heavy things."

Bob cleared his throat loudly and looked more uncomfortable still. Then at last he decided to take the plunge.

"'Tain't the liftin' that do be troublin' I, Miss," he said confidentially, "'tis the 'ead-work. I don't believe there be a wumman livin' could do it. There be a tur'ble lot of 'ead-work in the carryin' business. Why, I do think--think--think mornen till night, till what wi' one thing an' what wi' another thing I'm sure there's times when I don't know if I be on my 'ead or my 'eels. Why, I've seen the time when I've a-comed in and I've a-set down and I've a-said to Missis, 'No, Missis, I don't want no tea; I don't want nothen only to set quiet, for I be just about tired out with that there thinkin'.'

"There be such a sight o' things you do have to remember, lookee. What wi' the grocer, an' what wi' the draper, an' folks's parcels to leave an' folks's parcels to call for, an' picken up here an' setten down there--well, a woman's brain ain't strong enough for it, leastways not to my way o' thinkin'....

"Well, now, if I ain't a-gone an' forgot to call at old Mrs. Pettigrew's for her subscription for to get made up at the chemist's! There, now, Miss, don't that just show how you do 'ave to kip on thinkin' all the time, else you be just about sure to forget somethin' or another? Oh yes, there be a smartish lot of 'ead-work in the carryin' business, an' no mistake!"

* * * * *

An Enviable Post.

From a list of the new Government:--

"Chancellor of the Ducky of Lancaster: Sir Frederick Cawley."--_Star_ (_Johannesburg_).

* * * * *

"Man, to drive horse and make himself generally useful in nursery."-- _Provincial Press_.

No doubt a rocking-horse.

* * * * *

From a New Zealand diocesan magazine:--

"Owing to the continued illness of the Vicar, which we trust is reaching its last stage, the services of the Church have been conducted by the following," etc.

The Vicar, we understand, thinks this might have been more tactfully worded.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE PURIFIED PRUSSIAN.

[Writing in _Die Woche_ a well-known Baroness, a leader of Berlin society, discusses the transformation and purification of Berlin conviviality by the War. Social functions accompanied by eating have altogether ceased and given way to more refined gatherings--æsthetic afternoon teas and elegant evening parties--at which the conversation reaches heights of brilliancy unheard of in the old carnivorous days. Unhappily snobbery still prevails, "every class pretending to be richer and better than they are--small officials, officers, landowners, all pretending to be millionaires, and doing their pretension shabbily."]

One of the leading Prussian social stars Opines that War, although it makes for leanness, Not only banishes discordant jars And purifies Berlin of all uncleanness, But places her, beatified by Mars, Upon a pinnacle of mental keenness, Changing the cult of trencher and of bowl To feasts of reason and o'erflows of soul.

The gross carnivorous orgies of the past Have gone, and in their place is something finer; Emotions of a transcendental cast Preoccupy the luncher and the diner; The Hun, in short, by being forced to fast, Has grown ethereal, more alert, diviner; And, purged of all incentive to frivolity, His speech has almost lost its guttural quality.

His talk, of old to stodginess inclined, Now sparkles with consistent coruscation, Attaining heights of mirth and wit combined Unknown to any previous generation, But always exquisitely pure, refined And spiritual, as befits the nation In which the nicer touch was never missing Down from great FREDERICK to blameless BISSING.

'Tis easy, though the writer does not tell, To guess the themes which prompt the brightest sallies; Louvain; the _Lusitania_; Nurse CAVELL-- With these Hun wit most delicately dallies; The wreck of Reims; the Prussic acid shell; The desolation of Armenia's valleys; The toll of Belgian infants slain ere birth-- All these excite Berlin's ecstatic mirth.

And yet a slight _amari aliquid_ Is mingled with this lady's honeyed phrases; Berlin society is not yet rid Of one of its less admirable phases; There is, in other words, one fly amid The precious ointment of the writer's praises; In every class are those who ape the airs Of the superior nobs and millionaires.

But still, when all reserves are duly made For negligible faults in tact or breeding, The picture by this noble scribe displayed Of high-browed Hundom makes impressive reading; For homage to convivial needs is paid Without the faintest risk of over-feeding, And, braced by frugal fare, the Prussian brain Soars to a perfectly celestial plane.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

A FLEETING DETACHMENT.

Private Albert Snape, A.S.C. (M.T.), stepped off the footboard of X.33, a mediæval Vanguard, and splashed his way round to the driver. "I'm fair sick o' this 'ere Flanders, I am," he complained, expectorating dolorously into the sea of mud; "'spose it 'ull be up to the blinkin' axles before February?" He stirred the mixture with a cautious foot.

"Not 'arf, ole sport," replied the driver, carefully unsticking a cigarette from his underlip. "But yer ought to 'ave bin out larst winter, then yer did 'ave to sit above yerself to keep yer tootsies dry."

"Wot--wuss than this?" exclaimed the disconsolate one.

"Wuss!" was the withering retort. "Wy, when I tells yer that some o' them Naval 'Umming-birds, t'other side o' Popinjay, fitted out an ole Blue 'Ammersmith with a pair o' propellers ... Wuss!" He exhaled scornfully and gave a turn to the lubricator.

"Any chance o' getting down Vermelly way? They say it ain't 'arf bad there." Albert brightened up at the thought.

"'Tain't likely," was the sharp and unsympathetic reply. "'Oo do yer think's goin' ter do this little job if they takes our lot away? Wy, this 'ere road is just like 'Igh 'Olborn to me; I knows all the 'umps and 'ollows blindfold."

Albert returned to the stern sheets and considered the most feasible method of desertion.

Half-an-hour later, when the daylight had gone, X.33, generously over-flowing with a detachment of the 20th Mudlarkers, was, in company with many other vehicles, making her inharmonious way along the "Wipers" road. Judging from the plunginess of her progress and the fluent language of the man of oil, it was evident that some of the "'umps and 'ollows" had passed from the driver's memory. Not that such a slight matter could damp the spirits of the passengers. Rather it served to entertain them.

"We '_ave_ gone an' fallen out of the dress-circle this time," a voice exclaimed after an extra steep dive into a badly-filled shell crater.

Albert, wet and unsociable, hung gloomily on to the back rail.

"Carn't see wot they got to be so blinkin' 'appy abart," he muttered savagely; "I don't believe it's 'arf bad in them trenches." He ruminated bitterly on the thought that his job was probably the worst one on the whole front, and made a resolve to put the matter right.

When the final stopping-place had been reached and the 20th Mudlarkers, after the usual indescribable mêlée, had been put upon the path that would ultimately lead them (if they were fortunate enough to avoid all guides, philosophers and friends) to their trench, the man of oil was profanely grieved to discover that Albert Snape had abandoned X33 for the unknown.

As a matter of fact Albert had slipped away and followed the Mudlarkers, with a hazy idea that a rifle would fortuitously present itself. That an extra unit could possibly be noticed never occurred to him. He had a vague intention of joining a cavalry regiment. Very soon he lost the Mudlarkers, and then, by an easy sequence of events, himself.

"Wha goes there?" whispered a hoarse voice almost in his ear. It gave him quite an unpleasant start, but, suppressing his first inspiration, which was to say the Life Guards, he answered, "I'm a Mudlarker!"

"This iss the Seaforths in supporrt," remarked the sentry; "ye'll be in the firrst line, na doot. Ye'll hae to go back, an' it's the firrst turnin' tae the left, an' keep as strecht as ye can." The Highlander stepped back into the deeper shadows and the self-recruited Mudlarker continued his career.

He traversed what seemed to him an interminable number of trenches without encountering anyone. There was a reason for this lack of companionship, but it did not at first appeal to his imagination. Suddenly he was startled by the vicious "phut, phut, phut" of unpleasantly close shooting, and bullets began to splash and grease along the bottom of the trench, accompanied by the stutter of a machine gun.

Miraculously untouched, he slid over the parados and lay, sweating with fright, in the watery furrow of a turnip field.

The trench was one that was seldom used, being thoroughly exposed to enfilading fire. At stated periods through the night a machine gun was turned on, a proceeding which, beyond gratifying the Huns, had no sort of effect. Albert, in blissful ignorance of all such customs, floundered about amongst the turnips until he came across a Jack Johnson crater. From this he emerged even wetter than before. A little later he became mixed up with some barbed wire. The more be tried to get away the more inextricably he became involved with it. A star shell burst overhead, and a German sniper, seizing the chance of a lifetime, put in four rounds rapid fire.

Albert lost the lobe of an ear and had his breeches shot through, but he managed to escape from the wire and find another furrow. Mere dampness no longer inconvenienced him, there were so many other things to think about. He crawled stealthily on his hands and knees and found the barbed wire again. At length he heard the welcome sound of voices. He crawled faster until he became aware that the voices were not speaking English, This discovery turned him to stone. For an hour--perhaps two hours--he remained as still as a hare in its form.

Suddenly, blurred and crouching figures appeared out of the night. They moved quickly and silently. One of them nearly trod upon his hand, but he was too dazed to think of committing himself to either speech or action.

"Give it 'em!" cried a voice a few seconds later, and the roar of the exploding bombs signified that it had been given.

Instantly pandemonium broke loose. Machine gun and rapid rifle fire burst forth from the German front trenches, and streams of bullets swept over the intervening ground like a gigantic hail-storm; then some field batteries began to burst H.E. shrapnel above the disturbed area, while star shells and magnesium flares threw an uneven light over the whole scene.

A breathless body cast itself down beside the now completely mesmerised Albert: "We ain't 'arf upset the blinkin' beehive. Lumme! it's--"

The prone figure suddenly became silent, gave a convulsive kick or two and rolled over towards the man who still lived.

It was sufficient. Something seemed to draw very tense in Albert's brain and his body reeled into action.

Blindly and without coherent thought he ran shouting across the field, stumbling and falling over the slippery and uneven surface, but always picking himself up and flinging his body onward into the unknown.

A subaltern, who was examining a luminous watch, received him at the charge as he fell into an English first-line trench. They struggled wildly together in the mud to the accompaniment of startling language on the part of the subaltern.

Then Albert, having reached his limit of endurance, had the supreme tact to faint.

A little later, in a well-found dug-out, the patient was refreshing himself with copious draughts of brandy.

"Who are you, and what the devil are you doing here?" asked the still indignant officer.

Albert did not hesitate longer than it takes to swallow.

"Lorst me way, I 'ave, Sir. I'm with X 33, attached to Mechanical Transport, an' if I ain't back pretty quick my mate 'ull fair 'ave a bloomin' fit."

* * * * *

As was predicted by the sagacious man of oil, the mud upon the ---- road is slowly climbing towards the axles, but in spite of this and sundry other drawbacks it would be hard to find a more contented spirit than that of Private Albert Snape, A.S.C. (M.T.).

* * * * *

LIONS AT PLAY.

BY A SUBALTERN.

The Colonel rustles his newspaper, smites it into shape with a mighty fist, rips it across in a futile endeavour to fold it accurately, and, casting it furiously aside in a crumpled mass, says, after the manner of all true War Lords, "Umph." Whereupon the Ante-Room as one man takes cover.

The Colonel then turns cumbrously in his chair, permitting his eye to rove round the room in search of the unwary prey. He smiles cynically at the intense concentration of the Auction parties; winces at the renewed and unnatural efforts of those who make music; glares unamiably at the feverish book-worms, and suddenly breaks into little chuckles of satisfaction. The Ante-Room peers cautiously round to discover the identity of the unfortunate victim, and chuckles in its turn. The Adjutant, checked in his stealthy retreat, hastens back, arranges the table and chess-board, pokes the fire with unnecessary energy, and sits down. At once the Ante-Room abandons its cover.

The Colonel begins by grasping the box, turning it upside down, and spilling the contents over the sides of the table. The Adjutant immediately apologises for his clumsiness. The Colonel then liberally spreads out the pieces, selects two pawns, and offers the Adjutant the choice of two fists. The Adjutant chooses. Each fist opens to disclose a white pawn. The Colonel's expansive smile over his little joke quickly turns to a frown at the Adjutant's exaggerated laughter. He suspects the Adjutant. He seizes two more pieces, offers his opponent another choice, but, to the latter's huge delight and his own discomfiture, eventually discovers that both are black. He accordingly makes use of his casting vote and selects white.

The Colonel plays a smashing game. When it is his turn to move he never pauses to make up his mind. His mind is already made up. All he has to do, immediately the Adjutant has finished touching up his position, is to move the piece his eye has been piercing throughout the long period of his opponent's cautious deliberation. When the Colonel moves a piece he may be said to get there. All obstructions are ruthlessly swept aside with a callous indifference to Hague Conventions. Should a knight haply descend from the clouds and settle on the correct square it arrives more by luck than judgment. Tradition alleges that whenever the Colonel is called upon to move his king in the earlier stages of the game all lights are turned off from the neighbouring town in accordance with the Defence of the Realm Regulations. However true this may be--the responsibility rests on the Padre's capable shoulders--when his king is moved in the later stages the Colonel pushes it along by half-squares in a haphazard and preoccupied manner. He invariably fills his pipe when the end is in sight, but leaves it unlighted so that he may cover his ultimate defeat by a general demolition of matches.

On this occasion the Adjutant skilfully snipes the Colonel's queen in the sixth move. The Colonel immediately retrieves the piece from the box, asks where it was before, examines it with the essence of loathing and revolt, removes it out of his sight, and refuses to take it back, although he had mistaken it for another piece. In retaliation he proceeds to concentrate all his effectives on his opponent's queen, and, after sacrificing the flower of his forces, drives the attack home and gains his objective with the greatest enthusiasm. He remarks that the capture was costly, but that honour is satisfied, and would the waiter kindly approach within ear-shot?

While the Adjutant is working up his offensive on the Colonel's right flank, the Colonel himself is making independent sallies on the left, unless, of course, he is compelled to march his king out of a congested district into more open country. On the rare occasions when he is at a loss for a moment what to do he makes it a practice to move a pawn one square in order to gain time. By this method, unexpectedly but none the less jubilantly, he recovers his queen--only to see it laid low again by enfilading fire from a perfectly obvious redoubt.