As through a mist he saw that Senior-lieutenant Reimers was smiling a little, probably at his over-heated appearance. Then suddenly he heard the sharp high voice of Brettschneider.
"Please stand in a more respectful att.i.tude, Bombardier Vogt, when you have something to say to me," the voice snapped out.
Vogt pulled himself up and repeated his announcement.
But now the senior-lieutenant began to correct him and find fault with him: he was to put his right shoulder higher, his cap was not straight, he must place the tip of his little finger on his trouser-seam, and put his feet wider apart.
"Straighten your knees!" commanded he at last.
Vogt felt how his legs were trembling. He might have been able to obey; but he was at the end of his patience.
Brettschneider again and in a louder tone commanded: "Bombardier Vogt, straighten your knees!"
But Vogt did not care; a mad resentment surged up in him. He would not obey this idiot at any price. He raised his head, and looked the officer straight in the face with eyes full of open mutiny.
Brettschneider shouted again: "Bombardier Vogt, I order you to straighten your knees. Do you know that you are being guilty of disobedience to orders, and that that is a military crime?"
But Bombardier Vogt remained unmoved, with his mutinous eyes fixed on the senior-lieutenant.
Brettschneider waited a few seconds, then he called quietly to one of the corporals: "Put Bombardier Vogt under arrest!"
The corporal looked blankly, first at Brettschneider, then at Vogt.
The senior-lieutenant repeated his order, whereupon the corporal took the bombardier by his right arm and marched away with him through the gate into the courtyard of the barrack.
When they were out of hearing, Reimers turned to his companion: "Were you not a little hard on him, Brettschneider?"
The clean-shaven face turned towards him languidly, and Brettschneider asked coolly: "How do you mean, my dear fellow?"
"Well, you must know yourself!" pursued Reimers. "The man had just done a good piece of work, he came running to you and expected a word of recognition,--he deserved it, Brettschneider,--and you let him be taken off like that! I don"t think that"s the way to make men love their work."
"One must preserve discipline, and prevent these rascals from getting thoroughly demoralised."
Reimers shrugged his shoulders. "Vogt was the best soldier in the whole battery," he declared.
"Then the battery is in a bad way!" retorted Brettschneider impatiently. "The man commits an undeniable piece of disobedience before your eyes and you defend him? I am much obliged!" Brettschneider put on his haughtiest expression, smiled with the utmost politeness, and said amiably: "You must confess, my dear Reimers, that I am ent.i.tled to my own opinion about the matter."
In Room IX. that evening the conversation was of a heated description.
Truchsess swore that he would not put up with that low fellow, that Brettschneider. All of them were furious with the stuck-up young man; and though they had hitherto gone through their duty without much fuss or grumbling, they were now filled with a thorough repugnance for the soldier"s uniform and a perfect hatred for military life in which one had to knuckle under to idiots like that. You half killed yourself and what did you get by it? More kicks than halfpence, or perhaps you even get clapped into prison!
"Keep your hair on, brewer!" said Count Plettau to Truchsess; and putting on a superior tone: "We don"t understand all this, you see!
this is the higher kind of patriotism! Lieutenant Brettschneider ought to have a medal, instead of being blamed by such as you!"
He also was beside himself with rage over the exasperating piece of folly he had witnessed. Hang it all! if he had not been so seriously concerned to get to the end of his long years of service he would certainly have put a spoke in the wheel of this young gentleman, the senior-lieutenant. But no; that would be too foolish. Only a few days more and he would be free at last; he could not play tricks with his chances.
Suddenly he laughed aloud.
"You keep your mouths shut, boys!" he said, "otherwise you may get into trouble yourselves. But don"t worry! When I have got over the next few days I"ll give the senior-lieutenant the lesson he wants!"
The turnpike-keeper, Friedrich August Vogt, was gazing in surprise on a letter which the postman had just pushed in at the little window. The superscription was in the hand-writing of his son, but the post-mark bore the name of the capital.
What was the boy doing there? He had written nothing as to any prospective change. Well, the letter itself must explain.
At first the old man could not understand the written words. He read them through a second and a third time. At last he comprehended what had happened. He sat on his chair as if paralysed, and read the last page of the letter over and over again without attaching any meaning to it.
His son wrote from the prison where he was now detained as a prisoner awaiting trial. He related all that had pa.s.sed straightforwardly and without excusing himself.
"To-day I have been shown the charge against me," he concluded. "It is a case of wilful disobedience before all the other men. I believe it is an offence that is rather severely punished, and I know, too, that I am not without blame. But perhaps, dear father, you will not condemn me altogether; perhaps you will be able to imagine what my feelings must have been. For your sake alone I ought to have been able to control myself, and I beg you to forgive me for not having done so."
The turnpike-keeper jumped up suddenly from his chair. He flung the letter violently down on the table and struck it with his fist. He felt full of uncontrollable anger against this boy, who had brought shame upon him in his old age at the end of an honourable and blameless life.
And why? because my gentleman did not choose to obey orders! because he had chosen to feel injured! A soldier to feel himself "injured" by the blame of his superior! So these were the new-fangled times of no discipline and no respect for one"s betters!
And this was the reward of his trouble in bringing up the boy to be loyal and true: that he had now got a son in prison! When the neighbours asked: "Your son is in the artillery, isn"t he?" he must reply: "Oh, no; he was once! Now he is carting sand." "What! carting sand?" "Oh, yes; he is carting sand, dressed in a grey shirt, and with a lot of other gentlemen in a long row A Oh, very honourable gentlemen, all of them! A thief on one side of him, and on the other a person who did not quite know the difference between mine and thine." "Your son!"
"My son, neighbour."
The turnpike-keeper seized the letter again to see how the thing went exactly.
Nice sort of business this! There it was right enough: "Wilful disobedience before all the other men!" Nothing else was to be made of it.
But this Senior-lieutenant Brettschneider--by G.o.d!--he was not one of the right sort, if the boy was telling the truth. With all due respect for an officer, he seemed to be a perfect popinjay. There were people like that here and there who were ready to burst with pride and conceit, and who looked upon an inferior as scarcely a human being.
And again he s.n.a.t.c.hed up the letter.
What the boy wrote was all very clear and straightforward honestly and truthfully put. One could not help believing what was there on the paper; and, of course, it was easy to understand how the thing had come about. After all, every man has his feelings, whether he be a gunner or a senior-lieutenant. The devil! he himself would have done exactly as Franz did; though, of course, in his case life in a charity-school had made him used to giving in to people. But the boy had always been so independent, no one could help feeling for him.
And after all, when one looked at it rightly, it was a clumsy thing for Lieutenant Brettschneider to have done, and his son"s fault had been the outcome of an unfortunate set of circ.u.mstances,--not a very serious fault either, though the poor lad would have to pay for it dearly enough!
Wilful disobedience--what sort of punishment would there be for that?
It had such an imposing, ceremonious sound! He racked his brains to think whom he could ask about it. But there was no one in the village who would be of any use.
After a sleepless night he rose from his bed with his decision made. He milked the cow, and asked a neighbour to see to the animals during the day. Then he put on his old-fashioned black Sunday coat and the top hat which he only wore on great occasions, such as the king"s birthday. On his breast he fastened his medal and cross. Over all he wore his old cloak, and he put some pieces of bread and sausage in his pocket. He was ready for travelling.
On the way to the station he pa.s.sed a field of barley. It was ripe for cutting, and he had meant to begin reaping that morning. But what did it matter about the barley? He had got to see after his boy and pet.i.tion for him. He would go straight to the right person: he would go to the garrison and seek out the head of his son"s battery, Captain von Wegstetten.
Throughout the whole journey he was alone in the railway carriage; other people did not travel so early. He looked stupidly out of the window. It was all one to him to-day what the fields looked like and how the harvest was getting on. He could only think of what he should say for his boy. Perhaps it was still possible to make them give up the charge against him.
In the capital he sat for an hour and a half in the waiting-room, waiting for his train. He got a cup of coffee, and ate his breakfast from the provisions in his pocket.
It was close and hot in the big room. He felt uncomfortable in such an atmosphere, as every one must do who is accustomed to work in the open air, and at last he threw back his cloak to relieve his oppression.
People stared at his medals, nudged one another, and would not take their eyes off him, looking curious but respectful.
The turnpike-keeper sighed and b.u.t.toned his cloak again. Oh, if people only knew in what trouble he was!
It was just eight o"clock when he reached the garrison town. Of course that was somewhat early to be making such a visit as his; but he had no time to lose, and he knew that an officer must always begin the day early.