PART III
IN THE SHADOW
CHAPTER I
THE SKIRMISH
Hark! a bullet hurtles through the air!
Sylvestre stops short to listen!
He is upon an infinite meadow, green with the soft velvet carpet of
spring. The sky is gray, lowering, as if to weigh upon one's very
shoulders.
They are six sailors reconnoitring among the fresh rice-fields, in a
muddy pathway.
Hist! again the whizz, breaking the silence of the air--a shrill,
continuous sound, a kind of prolonged /zing/, giving one a strong
impression that the pellets buzzing by might have stung fatally.
For the first time in his life Sylvestre hears that music. The bullets
coming towards a man have a different sound from those fired by
himself: the far-off report is attenuated, or not heard at all, so it
is easier to distinguish the sharp rush of metal as it swiftly passes
by, almost grazing one's ears.
Crack! whizz! ping! again and yet again! The balls fall in regular
showers now. Close by the sailors they stop short, and are buried in
the flooded soil of the rice-fields, accompanied by a faint splash,
like hail falling sharp and swift in a puddle of water.
The marines looked at one another as if it was all a piece of odd fun,
and said:
"Only John Chinaman! pish!"
To the sailors, Annamites, Tonquinese, or "Black Flags" are all of the
same Chinese family. It is difficult to show their contempt and
mocking rancour, as well as eagerness for "bowling over the beggars,"
when they speak of "the Chinese."
Two or three bullets are still flying about, more closely grazing;
they can be seen bouncing like grasshoppers in the green. The slight
shower of lead did not last long.
Perfect silence returns to the broad verdant plain, and nowhere can
anything be seen moving. The same six are still there, standing on the
watch, scenting the breeze, and trying to discover whence the volley
came. Surely from over yonder, by that clump of bamboos, which looks
like an island of feathers in the plain; behind it several pointed
roofs appear half hidden. So they all made for it, their feet slipping
or sinking into the soaked soil. Sylvestre runs foremost, on his
longer, more nimble legs.
No more buzz of bullets; they might have thought they were dreaming.
As in all the countries of the world, some features are the same; the
cloudy gray skies and the fresh tints of fields in spring-time, for
example; one could imagine this upon French meadows, and these young
fellows, running merrily over them, playing a very different sport
from this game of death.
But as they approach, the bamboos show the exotic delicacy of their
foliage, and the village roofs grow sharper in the singularity of
their curves, and yellow men hidden behind advance to reconnoitre;
their flat faces are contracted by fear and spitefulness. Then
suddenly they rush out screaming, and deploy into a long line,
trembling, but decided and dangerous.
"The Chinese!" shout the sailors again, with their same brave smile.
But this time they find that there are a good many--too many; and one
of them turning round perceives other Chinese coming from behind,
springing up from the long tall grass.
At this moment, young Sylvestre came out grand; his old granny would
have been proud to see him such a warrior. Since the last few days he
had altered. His face was bronzed, and his voice strengthened. He was
in his own element here.
In a moment of supreme indecision the sailors hit by the bullets
almost yielded to an impulse of retreat, which would certainly have
been death to them all; but Sylvestre continued to advance, clubbing
his rifle, and fighting a whole band, knocking them down right and
left with smashing blows from the butt-end. Thanks to him the
situation was reversed; that panic or madness that blindly deceives
all in these leaderless skirmishes had now passed over to the Chinese
side, and it was they who began to retreat.
It was soon all over; they were fairly taking to their heels. The six
sailors, reloading their repeating rifles, shot them down easily; upon
the grass lay dead bodies by red pools, and skulls were emptying their
brains into the river.
They fled, cowering like leopards. Sylvestre ran after them, although
he had two wounds--a lance-thrust in the thigh and a deep gash in his
arm; but feeling nothing save the intoxication of battle, that
unreasoning fever that comes of vigorous blood, gives lofty courage to
simple souls, and made the heroes of antiquity.
One whom he was pursuing turned round, and with a spasm of desperate
terror took a deliberate aim at him. Sylvestre stopped short, smiling
scornfully, sublime, to let him fire, and seeing the direction of the
aim, only shifted a little to the left. But with the pressure upon the
trigger the barrel of the Chinese jingal deviated slightly in the same
direction. He suddenly felt a smart rap upon his breast, and in a
flash of thought understood what it was, even before feeling any pain;
he turned towards the others following, and tried to cry out to them
the traditional phrase of the old soldier, "I think it's all up with
me!" In the great breath that he inhaled after having run, to refill
his lungs with air, he felt the air rush in also by a hole in his
right breast, with a horrible gurgling, like the blast in a broken
bellows. In that same time his mouth filled with blood, and a sharp
pain shot through his side, which rapidly grew worse, until it became
atrocious and unspeakable. He whirled round two or three times, his
brain swimming too; and gasping for breath through the rising red tide
that choked him, fell heavily in the mud.
