CHAPTER XVIII.

GREGORY BOKSA.

The night after the battle A-dAśn and Richard passed in a neighbouring village, and both were engaged until morning in restoring such order as they could among the defeated troops.

"If we could only offer them something to eat," said Richard. "The smell of a good roast would rally the men quickly enough."

Yes, but a good roast was not to be had. The enemy had passed through that village twice, and had left very poor pickings for those that came after them. Bread was at hand, as the provision train had been saved, but meat was wanting.

"How glad we should be now to see Gregory Boksa, our ox-herd, with his fifty head of cattle!" exclaimed A-dAśn; and a patrol was sent out to search for the man, who, it was thought, might have found a place of safety for himself and his charge. But the search, which was continued until late in the evening, proved fruitless. At length, however, Boksa made his appearance, but without his oxen, and leading his horse behind him. Evidently he had dismounted to show how grievously lame he was. He groaned and sighed piteously as he came limping into camp, using his pole-axe for a crutch, and appearing utterly exhausted.

"Boksa, what has happened to you?" asked A-dAśn.

"Ah, sir," moaned the ox-driver, "you may well ask what has happened to me. A good deal has happened to me. I am all done up. I shall never again be the man I was. Oh, oh! my backbone is broken. That cursed cannon-ball! A big forty-pounder hit me."

Mausmann and his comrades burst into a loud laugh at this.

"But where is our herd of oxen?" was the question from every side.

"Ah, if I only knew! Just as the fight was beginning, I took my knife out of my boot-leg and opened my knapsack to get my bread and bacon, and have a quiet little lunch, when all at once the Germans began to blaze away at me, so that I dropped knife, bread, and bacon, and thought for sure my last hour had come. Whiz! a ball grazed by me, and it was a twenty-eight pounder, as sure as I'm alive. It was a chain-shot, too, a couple of twenty-eight pounders joined together."

"You ran away," said A-dAśn, interrupting the narrative, "we understand that. But where are the oxen?"

"How should I know, with cannon-balls singing about my ears so that I couldn't look around without losing my head?"

"Look here, brother," interposed Richard, addressing A-dAśn, "that isn't the way to handle this case. Let me try my hand. Now, you cowardly rascal, the long and short of it is, you ran away at the first shot, and left your herd in the enemy's hands. Here, corporal, fetch out the flogging-bench and give him fifty with the strap."

At these words Gregory Boksa changed his limping, broken-backed attitude and suddenly straightened up. Holding his head high and smiting his chest with his clenched fist, he burst out haughtily:

"That is more than I will submit to. My name is Gregory Boksa, nobleman; and, besides, I beg to remind the captain that the Hungarian diet has done away with flogging, even for the common people."

"All right," returned Richard; "when you have received your fifty strokes you may go and appeal to the diet. We are not legislating now."

The order was faithfully executed, poor Gregory bellowing lustily the while, after which he was obliged to return and thank the hussar officer for his lesson.

"Now, then," said Richard, "did the Germans shoot forty-pounders?"

"If you please, sir," replied Boksa humbly, "they didn't even fire a pistol at me."

"Disarm him," was the other's order, "and set him on his horse. Then let him go whither he will. A soldier who is not ashamed to run away deserves to feel the rod on that part of his body which he shows to the enemy."

Stripped of his sword and pistols and pole-axe, and with his whip hung around his neck, poor Boksa was mounted on his piebald nag and ignominiously driven out of camp.

Drawing out his pipe, he looked into the bowl, took off his cap and examined it, and then inspected his tobacco-pouch; after which he replaced his cap, pocketed his pipe, closed his tobacco-pouch, and rode on. Was he hatching some deep scheme of revenge?

He rode back over the very road by which he had that day taken his flight,--straight toward the enemy's camp. Suddenly he was challenged in the darkness:

"Halt! Who goes there?"

"Oh, how you frightened me," exclaimed the ox-herd. "I am a deserter."

The sentinel ordered Boksa to wait there until the patrol came to lead him away. Soon a file-leader appeared with a common soldier and received Gregory's statement that he was a runaway from the Hungarian camp and wished to speak with the commander. He had chanced upon the encampment of a cavalry regiment, whose colonel was at the moment playing cards in his tent with some of his officers. Being told that a deserter was outside, waiting to speak with him, he ordered the man to be admitted.

The officers became interested at once in the newcomer, who appeared at the same time cowardly and haughty, angry and humble; who wore the look of a suppliant and gnashed his teeth with rage, kissed every one's hand, and swore by all the saints while he was doing it.

"Why did you desert?" asked the colonel.

"Because they had me flogged; me, whose family has been noble for seventy-seven generations. And then they took away my arms, which cannot lawfully be taken from a nobleman even for debt, and drove me out of the camp like a dog. All right! There are other people over the mountains, and Gregory Boksa can find a market for his services elsewhere."

"And in what capacity did you serve?" demanded the colonel.

"As ox-herd."

"As a non-combatant, then. Now I understand why you are so fierce."

"Oh, I can handle my man in an honest fight," answered Gregory, "but I'm a bit put out where loud shooting is going on."

The officers laughed at this naA-ve confession.

"Very well," said the colonel; "it so happens that we need a man now who can manage oxen. We have captured a herd from the enemy, and you shall have the care of it."

At these words Gregory Boksa seized the colonel's hand and kissed it. "Ah, sir," he cried, "may the saints bless you! You shall find me a faithful servant, who will go through fire and water to serve you. I'll soon show you what an artist I am in my calling."

Being introduced to the corporal in charge, Boksa offered, with the zeal of one newly entering upon a responsible position, to take up his quarters for the night among his oxen, with his good horse at his side. Surely, when one is hired to discharge certain duties he must discharge them to the best of his ability. He had a good thick cloak to wrap himself in, and, besides, he could smoke if he chose, out there in the open air,--a solace that would be denied him if he passed the night in the stable.

Accordingly the zealous ox-herd was given permission to lie down with his oxen if he wished. Gregory Boksa first ascertained the direction of the wind, that he might choose his position with the herd to leeward; and after rehearsing his grievances once more to the adjutant and the corporal and as many others as would listen to him, he wrapped himself in his mantle and bade them all good night. They laughed heartily at the poor man, even while they gave him their assurances of sympathy; but they did not forget to keep a watchful eye on his movements through it all.

His actions, however, were not of the sort to arouse suspicion. First he drew out his pipe and opened his tobacco-pouch; then he removed his hat. Perhaps he was wont to pray before going to sleep; and very likely, too, he found it easier to go to sleep with his pipe in his mouth. After filling and lighting that trusty companion of his meditations, he lay down on his stomach--he had good and sufficient reasons for not lying on his back--and puffed away in apparent content. Then, to pass away the time, he took his knife and began to scrape off the accumulated dirt and grease from the edge of his felt hat, gathering the scrapings together in the palm of his hand. The hat was old and dilapidated; it had weathered many a storm, was full of holes, and was so stained with sweat and dust and rain that its original colour had become a matter of pure conjecture. Unquestionably it stood in sad need of the cleaning which its owner now undertook to perform.

When the ox-herd had collected a little heap of scrapings in the hollow of his hand, he raised the lid of his pipe and emptied them on the burning tobacco, whereupon such a penetrating and offensive odour arose as had never before saluted the nose of man or beast. What the connection may be between the nervous system of an ox and an odour of this sort, neither Oken nor Cuvier has explained; but all cattle-raisers and ox-herds know that, after inhaling these pungent fumes, an ox ceases to be an ox and becomes a wild animal. It is as if he were reduced to his original untamed condition: he falls into a rage, breaks away, tries to toss on his horns every one who opposes him, runs down and tramples upon all in his path, and, in short, becomes utterly unmanageable.

As soon as the leader of the herd scented the powerful stench which Boksa had raised, he sprang up from his bed on the ground, tossed his head, and sniffed the breeze. A fresh puff of smoke from Gregory's pipe made the now excited animal shake his head till the bell he wore around his neck rang aloud. Then he lashed his sides with his tail and gave a short, hoarse bellow like that of a wild bull. Next he began to leap and plunge and throw his head this way and that, whereupon all the rest of the herd sprang up in great excitement. In a state of evident alarm and panic, the oxen all backed away from the quarter whence came the offensive odour, their horns lowered as if in expectation of attack from some unseen enemy. The consequence of this retreat in a body was that the hedge was broken down--it could not have withstood the strain even had it been of iron--and the whole herd went dashing away over the meadow beyond in the wildest confusion.

At the sound of this outbreak, officers, orderlies, and corporals came running to the scene and called upon Gregory to know what it all meant. It needed no lengthy explanation on his part, however, to show that the herd was running away. It did no good to ply the whip or belabour the animals with the flat of one's sword: they crowded the sentinels to one side, ran over the watch-fires, and broke completely through the lines, with loud bellowing and a deafening thunder of hoofs on the hollow ground. Why they behaved so was a mystery to all. Surely Gregory Boksa had done nothing whatever to them; he could not have aroused them to such a mad stampede. He had been lying there on his stomach, quietly smoking, all the while.

"What is going on here? What does this mean?" cried the colonel, approaching the newly appointed ox-herd.

The latter removed his pipe and put it away in his pocket, as is becoming when a man is addressed by his superiors, and then, with an air of profound wisdom, proceeded to explain matters. "The oxen have seen a vision, sir," said he.

"A vision?" repeated the colonel, puzzled.

"Yes, sir; that is no uncommon occurrence. Cattle-dealers and butchers know very well what that means, but the ox-herd understands it best of all. You see, the ox dreams just like a human being, and when he has a vision in his sleep he goes mad and runs till he is so tired he can't run another step. Then comes the gathering of the frightened animals together again and driving them back. But you leave that to me: I understand the business. Once let me get after them on my white-faced horse with my long whip, and I'll have every one of them back again in no time."

"Make haste about it then," said the colonel; "for they might stray away out of your reach. And there is one of the sentinels yonder; he shall mount and go with you."

Painfully and with many groans Gregory Boksa climbed into his saddle; but once seated and with his feet in the stirrups, he seemed to have grown there. "Now, Colonel," he cried, "just watch and see how soon I'll be back again."

The officer failed to note the cunning and ironical tone in which these words were uttered, and which was very different from the ox-herd's earlier manner of speech.

With a loud crack of his whip and a goat-like spring of his piebald steed, Boksa was over the hedge and after the vanishing herd, the dragoon galloping after him. Gregory knew that his long-lashed whip was of more use just then than fifty swords. Three cavalrymen could not, to save their lives, catch an ox that had once gone wild. The task before the ox-herd was like a Spanish bull-fight of gigantic proportions; but as often as he cracked his whip, marvellous results were sure to follow. With incredible skill he soon had the fifty runaway cattle together. Turning his horse now in this direction, now in that, he gathered the animals, one by one, about their leader. The dragoon meanwhile followed close at his heels, shouting and swearing at the herd as he rode.

When at length the cattle were gathered into one compact body, Boksa suddenly spurred his horse into their very midst and delivered two stinging blows with his wire-tipped whip-lash on the leader's back, which of course made the animal run all the faster. At this the dragoon began to suspect that Gregory was up to mischief, and he called out to know why he did not turn the herd back toward the camp. But he appealed to deaf ears. All at once Boksa refused to understand a word of German, and the dragoon's command of Hungarian did not extend beyond a few oaths.

"_Teremtette!_[2] Don't chase the oxen like that!" But Gregory was determined not to hear him. "Hold on, _betyAir_,[3] or it'll be the worse for you." The ox-herd, however, only lashed his animals the more furiously. "If you can't hear me when I call," shouted the dragoon, "perhaps you'll listen to this." And drawing one of his pistols, he discharged it at the unruly ox-driver.

[Footnote 2: _Teremtette_, zooks!]

[Footnote 3: _BetyAir_, stupid bumpkin.]

Gregory looked around as the ball whistled by his head. "Just see the booby!" he shouted tauntingly; "couldn't hit the side of a barn! Now let's have the other."

The soldier fired his second pistol, with no better success.

"Now then, try your sword!" challenged Gregory Boksa, half turning in his saddle, and bidding the other defiance. And yet he himself was entirely defenceless except for his ox-whip.

The dragoon was in deadly earnest. Drawing his sword, he charged upon the ox-driver at full tilt. The latter swung his whip and aimed a cut as if at his pursuer's left cheek. The dragoon parried on the left with his sword and received a stinging blow on his right cheek. Then Gregory Boksa aimed his whip as if at the soldier's right ear, and when the dragoon parried on that side he got another sharp cut, this time on his left cheek. A cursed weapon to deal with, that aimed in one direction and hit in another! The dragoon swore in German and Hungarian together.

A third time the ox-herd made his whip-lash whistle through the air, and this time the sharp wire on the end flew straight at the nostrils of the soldier's horse. The animal, stung on this very tender spot, reared and pirouetted, and finally, with a leap to one side, threw its rider.

Gregory Boksa, paying no further heed to the dragoon, galloped after his runaway herd, and guided it in the right direction. It was dark, and a thick mist lay over the fields. He was free to go whithersoever he chose.

The two Baradlay brothers, meanwhile, were busy restoring order in their camp, and it was toward morning when A-dAśn sought his couch. Richard laid his head on the table before him; he could sleep very well so. Suddenly, as the day was beginning to dawn, a trampling of many hoofs and the cracking of a whip awoke the sleepers. Richard ran to the window and beheld Gregory just dismounting from his horse, and surrounded by his herd of oxen. The sweat ran from the animals' panting sides, and their quivering nostrils breathed forth clouds of steam. They saw no more visions; they were tame, submissive, obedient subjects.

Richard and A-dAśn hastened out. Gregory Boksa drew himself up and gave the military salute.

"Gregory Boksa, you are a man of the right sort!" exclaimed Richard, clapping him on the shoulder. "So the herd is all here, is it?"

"The whole fifty head, sir."

"Aha! Now all respect to you. Paul, hand him the flask and let him drink to his very good health."

"Pardon me," said Gregory, waving aside the offered flask with a serious air; "first, I have certain matters to attend to." Then, turning to Richard, "Yesterday I swore that the fifty lashes should be paid for, and now I have come to settle the score. There is the payment,--fifty for fifty. Now, Captain, have the goodness to give me a receipt, stating that the fifty strokes with the strap are 'null and void.'"

"What do you want of such a receipt, Boksa?" asked Richard.

"I want it as a proof that the fifty I received yesterday don't count; so that when any one brings them up against me I can contradict him, and show him my evidence in black and white."

"All right, Boksa, you shall have it." And Richard went back to his room, took pen, ink, and paper, and drew up a certificate, stating that the fifty lashes administered to Gregory Boksa were thereby declared to be null, void, and of no validity. The words "null, void, and of no validity" gave Gregory no little comfort, as well as the fact that the document was countersigned by A-dAśn Baradlay. The ox-herd stuck the certificate into the pocket of his dolman with much satisfaction, and received back his sword, pistols, and pole-axe.

"Now then, where is the flask?" said he.

Old Paul handed him the bottle, and he did not put it down till he had drained the last drop.

"And now tell me," said Richard, "how you managed to get the oxen back."

Gregory Boksa shrugged his shoulders, tightened his belt, drew down one corner of his mouth, wrinkled his nose, raised his eyebrows, and finally thus delivered himself over one shoulder: "Well, you see, I went to the German colonel and asked him kindly to let me have my cattle back again. The German is a good fellow, and, without wasting words over the matter, he gave me the animals all back, and one or two extra, with his compliments and best wishes to Captain Baradlay."

More than this was not to be got from Gregory Boksa. The loud-mouthed braggart, who was never tired of rehearsing deeds which he had not performed, took a fancy, now that he had actually carried through a genuine bit of daring, to keep as still as a mouse about it; and no one ever heard from him the smallest account of how he passed that night.