"Be assured of my eternal gratitude,
"Brulard,
"Of the 1st Division, 3d Squadron."
The excellent woman shudders on contemplating the prisoner's privations,and sends him the tobacco and brandy.
Moreover, if a trooper be sick or wounded, though not sufficiently tobe sent to the hospital, she nurses him, dresses his wound, and preparesthe _tisane_, for which she will never accept any pay.
If the cantiniere is ugly, no one thinks of criticising her.
It is her right, and no one even perceives it; but if she is pretty, itis a very different matter. She makes havoc in the regiment, and all theyoung conscripts are speedily subjugated by her conquering charms.
It is an old trooper's axiom, that the goodness of the wine is in aninverse ratio to the beauty of the cantiniere.
She has a little wagon drawn by one or two horses. It is in thisequipage that she follows the troops, and appears upon the paradeground, where she dispenses tobacco and liquors to the officers and menin the intervals of rest during the drill.
During a campaign she devotes herself to her regiment. More than once inthe thickest of the fight she has been seen going from rank to rankto carry a drop to the soldiers, and braving the canister and grape inorder to give a little water to the wounded. She keeps no accounts atsuch times; she does not sell, she gives.
Several cantinieres have been decorated, and the exploits of one oftheir number have been related throughout Europe. They have formedthe plot of a drama which delineates all the characteristics of "thesoldier's mother," under the title of "The Vivandiere of the GrandArmy."
THE BARBER OF THE SQUADRON.
As a general thing, it is upon the cheeks of his brother soldiers thathe serves his apprenticeship--a severe apprenticeship for the cheeks!Heaven preserve you from ever falling into his clutches and testinghis dexterity. In former years, before entering the service, he was acarpenter, a mechanic, or a stone-cutter;--his good conduct elevated himto the important position of barber, and since that time he has plied inturn the scissors and razor with more zeal than discretion.
This office of barber is one of the most popular in the regiment; andthe person who holds it is not a little proud of the honor. First ofall, he has a right to exact a small monthly payment from each soldier;he also enjoys perfect freedom after ten o'clock; in short, he isexcused from all drudgery, and most of the exercises. And yet hisposition is no sinecure.
The barber is responsible for the heads of the entire company. If thebeards are too long, or the hair transgresses the limits prescribed byordinance, he is the one upon whom the blame will fall. Theregulation is there; he must follow it to the letter, and shave hiscompanions-in-arms as closely as possible, and not unfrequently againsttheir will; for there are troopers who cling to their hair--the natural ornament of man. The military gallant would love to wearlong hair, probably so a loving hand could caress his curls; but theregulations are pitiless.
"As soon as the hair can be seized with the hand, it must positively becut," says the corporal.
All sorts of means are vainly employed by the foppish trooper topreserve his hair. He wets it every day, or pastes it down with the aidof _cosmetique_, then hides it carefully under his cap.
'Wasted efforts! the officers are acquainted with all these tricks; theypull off the caps, rumple up the hair, and then the delinquent and thebarber, who is held responsible, are almost sure of two, or even fourdays in the guard house.
Those sly foxes--the old troopers--do not resort to such hackneyedexpedients; they feign some affection of the eyes or ears, and thusobtain from the sergeant-major permission to wear their hair long.
The days of grand reviews are trying ordeals for the barber. In lessthan two hours he must shave one hundred and fifty or two hundredbeards, to say nothing of the hair-cutting.
You should see him then, his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, andarmed with a terrible razor which he has not even time to sharpen. Thesoldiers--I should say, the patients--perhaps martyrs would be stillbetter--lather themselves in advance, and come one after another totake their place in the seat of torture. The work is accomplished in thetwinkling of an eye; the most obstinate beards do not resist; hairs thatrefuse to be cut are torn out; the cheek bleeds a little, but that isnothing. What is a scratch to a French soldier? Moreover, the barber isa conscientious man, and if he occasionally happens to slice off anear, he always takes the greatest possible pains to restore it to itsrightful owner.
The troopers dread the razor, but they jeer at the barber; they call himthe butcher, in whispers be it understood--for if he overhears them, itis in his power to avenge himself summarily.
Barbers are the heroes of a host of army legends; there is, first, thestory of Barber Plumepate, who belonged to a cavalry regiment.
This barber, who was very skillful in his profession, had an exceedinglyvindictive disposition. Very severely punished one day by his captain,he swore vengeance, and openly declared he would kill the man who had sowronged him.
The barber's threats coming to the ears of the captain, he immediatelysummoned Plumepate.
"You have sworn that you would kill me," he said to him; "that is mereboasting on your part; you would never dare to do it. Wait a moment; Iwill try you. Prepare your implements and shave me."
The terrible Plumepate was completely disconcerted. He set to work, buthe dared not carry out his threats. Never, on the contrary, did he do aneater job.
On another occasion, during a campaign, a barber in one of the regimentsof the line was summoned to shave the commander-in-chief. He was badlyfrightened, and he could but think of the possible consequences shouldhis hand tremble. It did tremble so much that the general's face wascovered with blood when the operation was concluded. The unfortunatebarber, terrified by what he had done, shook in every limb, andstammered a thousand excuses.
"Hold," said the general; "here is a louis! If your hand had not trembledin shaving your general, you would not be a true trooper."
During a campaign, a barber becomes a soldier like the others, for thenboth hair and beard are neglected.
"When one finds water in Africa one drinks it; one does not amuse one'sself in making soap-suds."
It sometimes happens that the barber of a regiment is a genuine barber,who knows his trade, and who practiced it with honor before he became asoldier. Then there is joy in the squadron; and the troopers flock tobe shaved by this artist, who does not mutilate them, and whosewell-sharpened razor is scarcely felt. The more foppish, inconsideration of a small fee, have their hair dressed and oiled.
The lower officers, not only of the squadron, but of the entireregiment, give him their patronage; he becomes their favorite, theirfactotum, they treat him affably, almost courteously, and even permit acertain degree of familiarity.
Louis XI. made a prime minister of his barber.
THE VAGUEMESTRE.
He is always busy, very busy, exceedingly busy; that is his specialty.Do not attempt to speak to him, he can not answer you; do not try tostop him, he will march you straight to the guard-house. He does notwalk, he runs; he has not an hour to spare, not a moment, not a second.
This morning before the odious reveille had driven the soldiers fromtheir narrow couches he was up and dressed, ready to start.
Should you succeed in questioning him, this will be his response:
"What a life! what a profession! Look, sir, it is not yet nine o'clock,and I have already made thirty trips. I had scarcely time to take mydram this morning, and in my haste I almost choked myself. How do I knowI shall have time to swallow my absinthe? Shall I even get my breakfast?That is doubtful. As you see, I invariably reach the cantine an hourafter the others. Everything is eaten, there is nothing left, orif there is, it is something no one would eat, and consequentlyintolerable. Then they bring me an egg. An egg!" (with a bitter laugh),"an egg! for a man who has been running about all the morning. Neveradopt my profession, sir; my existence is insupportable--a dog's li
fe!To-morrow, you may rest assured, I shall tender my resignation and takemy place in the ranks, like the others. But what am I doing? Here I havelost ten minutes in talking; clear oat, d--n you! I should have had timeto drink my absinthe."
It must be admitted that the life of the vaguemestre is not a path ofroses.
He is the Mercury of that company of deities known as the staff of aregiment, and like that mythological courier, he must have wings on hisfeet. He is also the superintendent of the regimental post-office; allletters that come and go pass through his hands; he must know the hoursfor the arrival and departure of the mails, carry the letters, and goafter them. If soldiers receive money through the post, they can notdraw it themselves; they carry their order to him, and he draws itand pays it over to them; so I assure you this officer's time is fullyoccupied. And yet something more than agility is needed, for he mustthink of everything. The slightest oversight or the least delay mightproduce serious consequences, for forgetfulness and want of punctualityare severely punished.
In the morning he hastens to the post-office, then to the colonel'shouse to obtain the order of the day; then he rushes back to thebarracks in company with the messenger.
He then hastily sorts the letters, making a separate pile for eachsquadron; these he gives to the sergeants, who give them to thecorporals on duty for the week, who distribute them among the soldiers.
But the hour for the report arrives; he hastens after it; then he startsoff again. The report must be submitted to the superior officers. Thelieutenant-colonel is waiting for it; the major is waiting for it,so the vaguemestre hurries away. On returning, he must stop to see acaptain who has sent for him; besides, the colonel has intrusted himwith a letter to be delivered to a lieutenant who lives at the very endof the town. What a nuisance! He rushes to the place, but does not findthe lieutenant. The letter is important; the lieutenant must be at the_cafe_--lieutenants are always at the _cafe_--at least, when they arenot at breakfast. The vaguemestre visits the _cafe_, no lieutenant; atlast, he finds him at his boarding-house and delivers the letter.
He heaves a mighty sigh of relief. Now he can breakfast; he hurrieson with all the fleetness of which his tired limbs are capable; hungerlends him wings. He reaches the barracks. Alas! the adjutant-majorwho has just left the table, stops him in the passage; he has a fewsuggestions to make--adjutant-majors always have suggestions to make.
At last he breakfasts in turn; he is the last of all. But it is uselessto describe the experience of the entire day.
The vaguemestre is gifted with an extraordinary memory. Every week, whenhe distributes the money received by the soldiers, he knows the exactcondition of each man's account; he must know if those who are entitledto money are in disgrace or ill. Every week the sergeant on duty in eachsquadron must furnish him with a report embodying this information; butit would take too much time to consult these documents. He prefers toremember.
So, Sunday morning the trumpeter sounds the vaguemestre's call, that isto say, executes a sort of flourish that signifies:
"All who have received money-orders through the post must come and findthe vaguemestre if they desire what is due them."
This call is so well understood that the soldiers respond promptly, andwithout hesitation, whereupon colloquies of this kind ensue:
THE VAGUEMESTRE. Private Demanet, you have received twelve francs.
PRIVATE DEMANET. Yes, lieutenant Vaguemestre. Private Demanet, youroutfit is not yet paid for; you are credited with only eleven francs,which is a deplorable state of things. You must devote your twelvefrancs to this purpose.
PRIVATE DEMARET. I entreat you, lieutenant--Vaguemestre. Well, then,here are a hundred sous. I will keep back only seven francs. Make out areceipt.
EXAMPLE SECOND.
VAGUEMESTRE. Private Castagnol, you have received fifty francs.
PRIVATE CASTAGNOL. Yes, lieutenant Vaguemestre. Your parents seem tohave more money than they know what to do with.
PRIVATE CASTAGNOL. Lieutenant, my family--
VAGUEMESTRE. Ah! I remember, you are a volunteer. Very well, you may go.
PRIVATE CASTAGNOL. But my money?
VAGUEMESTRE. You have eight days in the guard-house to make. NextSunday, if you are not punished in the meantime, you shall have yourmoney.
PRIVATE CASTAGNOL. But--
VAGUEMESTRE. No remarks.
PRIVATE CASTAGNOL (_turning angrily away_). I shall tell my friends tosend bank-notes next time.
The vaguemestre being usually an adjutant, the soldiers address him aslieutenant.
THE ZOUAVE.
Many have talked of the zouave: few know him.
Everybody has seen him lazily squatting at the gates of the Tuileries,like a granite sphinx on the threshold of the Assyrian palaces. He ison guard. He performs his duty with a profoundly melancholy air, smokinghis pipe with feverish impatience, or, rather, watching with feverishimpatience all the while he is smoking his pipe, some ray of ourParisian sunlight, which seems like moonlight when compared with thatfierce African sunshine, which pours down upon the head like moltenlead.
A scrap of green or white calico, twisted around a red fez; a bluejacket, trimmed with red or yellow braid, and which leaves the throatentirely bare; full scarlet trousers, cut in the Oriental fashion; whitegaiters buttoning above the ankle; this is his costume.
How can one describe the man?
Short, spare, compactly built and muscular, with broad shoulders, squarefists, closely shaven head, keen eyes, a mocking smile, and a bold anddecided bearing--such is the zouave, the best soldier in the world forbold ventures, skirmishes with outposts, impossible ambuscades, andrapid marches.
Accustomed to the pursuit of the Arab, his constant enemy, the zouave isthoroughly conversant with all the stratagems of desert warfare. He haslearned to outwit his savage foes, so he will always surprise the armiesof Europe.
"The Arab is very cunning, but the zouave is more cunning still."
He knows how to conceal himself in a little clump of shrubbery, andsteal imperceptibly upon the sentinel whom he wishes to capture; hecan advance without a sound, remain motionless for hours together, hidebehind the slightest irregularity in the ground, crawl, leap, bound,disappear in the undergrowth that surrounds him, follow a track, andshun all the traps that are set for him.
As a sharp-shooter, he has no equal.
If a position is to be taken, he dashes forward, with head down,overturning everything in his passage. It is no longer a man; it is abullet. Once started on his course, he reaches the goal or dies.
The zouave cordially detests large cities, and regards garrisons withabhorrence.
In garrison life, the discipline becomes too irksome; he must polish hiscartridge-box, whiten his shoulder-belt, wash his clothes, mount guardat regular hours, appear at parade--all wearisome enough to the averagetrooper, but insupportable to the zouave.
The zouave needs the freedom of camp life, the free range of an enemy'scountry, a _ragout_ improvised under a tent. It matters not if hiscanteen is only three-quarters full, and if the supply of coffee isrunning short, so he has but a morsel of no matter what to appease hishunger, he sings, he is gay, he is happy, he is himself.
It is true that when he is not happy, he is equally gay, and sings evenmore loudly.
The zouave owes his fondness for adventure and his almost nomadic habitsto the African war. In constantly pursuing the Arabs through deserts andover mountains, he has formed habits of living very like those of thesewandering tribes.
Like the philosopher Bias, the zouave carries all his possessions aboutwith him, which proves, perhaps, that he is something of a philosopher.
But you should see a zouave's knapsack when he is starting on anexpedition. It is monstrous; one wonders if he will not sink beneath hisburden, and be compelled to cast it aside. He would rather die. Besides,it seems to be the universal belief that he does not feel the weight ofit.
Usually, on taking the field, the infantry lighten their lo
ad as much aspossible; the officers not only permit this, but require it.
It is not so with the zouave. This seems to be the very time that hisburden must be heaviest He reduces his effects to the smallest possiblecompass, rolls them, squeezes them, and then crowds them, and crowdsthem, until the straps become too short and the distended knapsackthreatens to burst.
There is a little of everything in the zouave's load. An enumerationof its contents would sound like the inventory of three distinctestablishments;--a drug, a haberdashery, and a grocery store.
He has thread, needles, buttons, soap, wax, tallow, a thimble, a fork,one or two spoons, and several knives, to say nothing of the condimentsindispensable in the concoction of a savory _ragout_.
For the zouave is a gourmand. It is to satisfy his fastidious tastesin this direction that, having no servant at his command, he has madehimself the best cook in Europe.
His _ragouts_ might not make his fortune in Paris; but in Africa, in thedesert, how many generals have smacked their lips over them!
Any one can make a savory dish of stewed rabbit _with_ a rabbit; but tomake it _without_ a rabbit, that is a difficult task, quite worthy of azouave.
His fertile imagination never shines as brilliantly as when thelarder is empty; then, he employs all his wits; he searches, he invents.On such days, he dines admirably; but how many strange animals are madeto turn from their usual path to take the road to the saucepan.
"I do not ask my zouaves for strawberries," said Marshal, then ColonelCanrobert, one frightfully hot day, in the middle of the desert; "but ifI really desired some, they are quite capable of discovering them in thesand."