That very night, shortly after the _caserne_ had fallen silent and still, its inmates wrapped in the heavy sleep of the thoroughly weary, an alarm-bugle sounded in the barrack-square, and, a minute later, non-commissioned officers hurried from room to room, bawling, "_Aux armes! Aux armes! Aux armes!_" at the top of their voices.

Rupert sat up in his bed, as Corporal Achille Martel began to shout, "_Levez-vous donc. Levez-vous! Faites le sac! Faites le sac! En tenue de Campagne d'Afrique_."

"'Ooray!" shrilled 'Erb. "Oo-bloomin'-ray."

"Buck up, Rupert," said John Bull. "We've got to be on the barrack-square in full 'African field equipment' in ten minutes."

The _chambree_ became the scene of feverish activity, as well as of delirious excitement and joy. In spite of it being the small hours of the morning, every man howled or whistled his own favourite song, without a sign of that liverish grumpiness which generally accompanies early-morning effort. The great Luigi's slaves worked at double pressure since they had to equip their lord and master as well as themselves. Feodor Kyrilovitch appeared to pack his own knapsack with one hand and that of Mikhail with the other, while he whispered words of cheer and encouragement. The Dutch boy, Hans Djoolte, having finished his work, knelt down beside his bed and engaged in prayer. Speculation was rife as to whether France had declared war on Morocco, or whether the Arabs were in rebellion, for the hundredth time, and lighting the torch of destruction all along the Algerian border.

In ten minutes from the blowing of the alarm-bugle, the Battalion was on parade in the barrack-square, every man fully equipped and laden like a beast of burden. One thought filled every mind as the ammunition boxes were brought from the magazine and prised open. _What would the cardboard packets contain_? A few seconds after the first packet had been torn open by the first man to whom one was tossed, the news had spread throughout the Battalion.

_Ball-Cartridge!_

The Deity in that moment received the heartfelt fervid thanks of almost every man in the barrack-square, for ball-cartridge meant active service--in any case, a blessed thing, whatever might result--the blessing of death, of promotion, of decorations, of wounds and discharge from the Legion. The blessing of change, to begin with.

There was one exception however. When Caporal Achille Martel "told off"

Legionnaire Mikhail Kyrilovitch for orderly-duty to the _Adjudant Vaguemestre_,[#] duty which would keep him behind in barracks, that Legionary certainly contrived to conceal any disappointment that he may have felt.

[#] The postmaster.

A few minutes later the Legion's magnificent band struck up the Legion's march of "_Tiens, voila du boudin_," and the Battalion swung out of the gate, past the barracks of the Spahis, through the quiet sleeping streets into the main road, and so out of the town to which many of them never returned.

In the third row of fours of the Seventh Company marched the Bucking Bronco, John Bull, Reginald Rupert, and Herbert Higgins. In the row in front of them, Luigi Rivoli, Edouard Malvin, the Gra.s.s hopper, and Feodor Kyrilovitch. In the front row old Tant-de-Soif, Franz Josef Meyer, Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat, and Hans Djoolte. In front of them marched the four drummers. At the head of the Company rode Captain d'Armentieres, beside whom walked Lieutenant Roberte.

Marching "at ease," the men discussed the probabilities and possibilities of the expedition. All the signs and tokens to be read by experienced soldier-eyes, were those of a long march and active service.

"It'll be a case of 'best foot foremost' a few hours hence, Rupert, I fancy," remarked John Bull. "I shouldn't be surprised if we put up thirty miles on end, with no halt but the 'cigarette s.p.a.ces.'"

"Sure thing," agreed the Bucking Bronco. "I got a hunch we're gwine ter throw our feet some, to-day. We wouldn't hev' hiked off like this with sharp ammunition and made out get-away in quarter of an hour ef little Johnnie hadn't wanted the doctor. Well, I'm sorry fer the b'ys as ain't good mushers... Guess we shan't pound our ears[#] before we wants tew, this trip."

[#] Sleep.

Marching along the excellent sandy road through the cool of the night, under a glorious moon, with the blood of youth, and health, and strength coursing like fire through his veins, it was difficult for Rupert to realise that, within a few hours, he would be wearily dragging one foot after the other, his rifle weighing a hundredweight, his pack weighing a ton, his mouth a lime-kiln, his body one awful ache. He had had some pretty gruelling marches before, but this was the first time that the Battalion had gone out on a night alarm with ball-cartridge, and every indication of it being the "real thing."

On tramped the Legion.

Anon there was a whistle, a cry of _Halt!_ and there was a few minutes'

rest. Men lit cigarettes; some sat down; several fumbled at straps and endeavoured to ease packs by shifting them. Malvin made his master lie down after removing his pack altogether. It is a pack well worth removing--that of the Legion--save when seconds are too precious to be thus spent, and you consider it the wiser plan to fall flat and lie from the word "_Halt!_" to the word "_Fall in!_" The knapsack of black canvas is heavy with two full uniforms, underclothing, cleaning materials and sundries. Weighty tent-canvas and blankets are rolled round it, tent-supports are fastened at the side, firewood, a cooking-pot, drinking-mug and spare boots go on top.

Attached to his belt the Legionary carries a sword-bayonet with a steel scabbard, four hundred rounds of ammunition in his cartridge-pouches, an entrenching tool, and his "sac." Add his rifle and water-bottle, and you have the most heavily laden soldier in the world. He does not carry his overcoat--he wears it, and is perhaps unique in considering a heavy overcoat to be correct desert wear. Under his overcoat he has only a canvas shirt and white linen trousers (when _en tenue de campagne d'Afrique_), tucked into leather gaiters. Round his waist, his blue sash--four yards of woollen cloth--acts as an excellent cholera-belt and body-support. The linen neckcloth, or couvre-nuque, b.u.t.toned on to the white cover of his kepi, protects his neck and ears, and, to some extent, his face, and prevents sunstroke....

The Battalion marched on through the glorious dawn, gaily singing "_Le sac, ma foi, toujours au dos_," and the old favourite marching songs "_Brigadier_," "_L'Empereur de Danmark_," "_Pere Bugeaud_," and "_Tiens, voila du boudin_." Occasionally a German would lift up his splendid voice and soon more than half the battalion would be singing--

"Trinken wir noch ein Tropfchen Aus dem kleinen Henkeltopfchen."

or _Die Wacht am Rhein_ or the pathetic _Morgenlied_.

At the second halt, when some eight miles had been covered, there were few signs of fatigue, and more men remained standing than sat down. As the long column waited by the side of the road, a small cavalcade from the direction of Sidi-bel-Abbes overtook it. At the head rode a white-haired, white-moustached officer on whose breast sparkled and shone that rare and glorious decoration, the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honour.

"That's the Commander-in-Chief in Algeria," said John Bull to Rupert.

"That settles it: we're out for business this time, and I fancy you'll see some Arab-fighting before you are much older.... Feet going to be all right, do you think?"

"Fine," replied Rupert. "My boots are half full of tallow, and I've got a small bottle of bapedi in my sack...."

On tramped the Legion.

The day grew hot and packs grew heavy. The Battalion undeniably and unashamedly slouched. Many men leant heavily forward against their straps, while some bent almost double, like coal-heavers carrying sacks of coal. Rifles changed frequently from right hand to left. There was no singing now. The only sound that came from dry-lipped, sticky mouths was an occasional bitter curse. Rupert began to wonder if his shoulder straps had not turned to wires. His arms felt numb, and the heavy weights, hung about his shoulders and waist, caused a feeling of constriction about the heart and lungs. He realised that he quite understood how people felt when they fainted....

By the seventh halt, some forty kilometres, or twenty-seven miles lay behind the Battalion. At the word _Halt!_ every man had thrown himself at full length on the sand, and very few wasted precious moments of the inexorably exact five minutes of the rest-period in removing knapsacks.

Hardly a man spoke; none smoked.

On tramped the Legion.

Gone was all pretence of smartness and devil-may-care humour--that queer _macabre_ and bitter humour of the Legion. Men slouched and staggered, and dragged their feet in utter hopeless weariness. Backs rounded more and more, heads sank lower, and those who limped almost outnumbered those who did not. A light push would have sent any man stumbling to the ground.

As the whistle blew for the next halt, the Legion sank to the ground with a groan, as though it would never rise again. As the whistle blew for the advance the Legion staggered to its feet as one man.... Oh, the Legion marches! Is not its motto, "_March or Die_"? The latter it may do, the former it must. The Legion has its orders and its destination, and it marches. If it did not reach its destination at the appointed time, it would be because it had died in getting there.

On tramped the Legion.

With horrible pains in its blistered shoulders, its raw-rubbed backs, its protesting, aching legs and blistered heels and toes, the Legion staggered on, a silent pitiable ma.s.s of suffering. Up and down the entire length of the Battalion rode its Colonel, "the Marching Pig."

Every few yards he bawled with brazen throat and leathern lungs: "March or die, my children! March or die!" And the Legion clearly understood that it must march or it must die. To stagger from the ranks and fall was to die of thirst and starvation, or beneath the _flissa_ of the Arab.

Legionary Rupert blessed those "Breakfasts of the Legion" and the hard training which achieved and maintained the hard condition of the Legionary. Sick, giddy, and worn-out as he felt, he knew he could keep going at least as long as the average, and by the time the average man had reached the uttermost end of his tether, the end of their march must be reached. After all, though they were Legionaries whose motto was "March or Die," they were only human beings--and to all human effort and endeavour there is a limit. He glanced at his comrades. The Bucking Bronco swung along erect, his rifle held across his shoulder by the muzzle, and his belt, with all its impedimenta, swinging from his right hand. He stared straight ahead and, with vacant mind and tireless iron body, "threw his feet."

Beside him, John Bull looked very white and worn and old. He leant heavily against the pull of his straps and marched with his chest bare.

On Rupert's left, 'Erb, having unb.u.t.toned and unbuckled everything unb.u.t.tonable and unbuckleable, slouched along, a picture of slack unsoldierliness and of dauntless dogged endurance. Suddenly throwing up his head he screamed from parched lips, "Aw we dahn'earted?" and, having painfully swallowed, answered his own strident question with a long-drawn, contemptuous "Ne--a--ow." Captain d'Armentieres, who knew England and the English, looked round with a smile.... "Bon garcon," he nodded.

On the right of the second row of fours marched Luigi Rivoli, in better case than most, as the bulk of his kit was now impartially distributed among Malvin, Meyer, Tou-tou and Tant-de-Soif. (The power of money in the Legion is utterly incredible.) Feodor Kyrilovitch was carrying the Gra.s.shopper's rifle--and that made a mighty difference toward the end of a thirty-mile march.

At the end of the next halt, the Gra.s.shopper declared that he could not get up.... At the command, "Fall in!" the unfortunate man did not stir.

"Kind G.o.d! What _shall_ I do?" he groaned. It was his first failure as a soldier.

"Come on, my lad," said John Bull sharply. "Here, pull off his kit," he added and unfastened the Belgian's belt. Between them they pulled him to his feet and dragged him to his place in the ranks. John Bull took his pack, the Bucking Bronco his belt and its appurtenances, and Feodor his rifle. His eyes were closed and he sank to the ground.

"Here," said Rupert to 'Erb. "Get in his place and let him march in yours beside me. We'll hold him up."

"Give us yer rifle, matey," replied 'Erb, and left Rupert with hands free to a.s.sist the Gra.s.shopper.

With his right arm round the Belgian's waist, he helped him along, while John Bull insisted on having the poor fellow's right hand on his left shoulder.

On tramped the Legion.

Before long, almost the whole weight of the Gra.s.shopper's body was on Rupert's right arm and John Bull's left shoulder.