And as they shouted "Vive le Canada" we echoed with a will, "Vive la France." We sang, too, "God Save the King," and "La Marseillaise." A few who knew English joined in the first, but "La Marseillaise" starting by courtesy with us, swelled in a moment into a mighty anthem which swept the city like a storm. Later, when we followed with "The Maple Leaf," a respectful silence fell upon the throng. With quick intuition they knew it was a song of home, with which they sympathised, but which they could not understand. And as the melody concluded we could hear them whispering one to another: "Quelle est cette chanson?" And we answered in our broken French, "It is a song of our native land, far, far from here."
It was my good fortune during this strange march to ride upon the side close to the curb, while Reggy, in comparative obscurity, rode opposite. Frequently, too, it was my privilege to return the greetings of the dainty French girls who lined the walk and waved their handkerchiefs high above the heads of the crowd in the road.
At last Reggy, trotting along in the shadow, could contain himself no longer. He burst out:
"Hang it all, major! Just my bally luck again; you're always closer to the girls than I."
"But not closer to their hearts, Reggy dear," I interjected soothingly.
"Small consolation, that, in the present situation," Reggy was grumbling, when he was suddenly interrupted by a pretty black-eyed girl who, running alongside his horse, caught him by the hand and forthwith begged a kiss. I believe – or, rather, I hope – Reggy blushed. I should always like to think that at that precise moment Reggy's sense of modesty came to his rescue. If it did, however, it vanished again with alarming rapidity.
"Here's an embarrassing situation," he cried dolefully.
"Very trying, indeed, to have a pretty girl demand a kiss," I laughed.
"Confound it!" he returned. "That's not the trouble; but I'm not horseman enough to lean over and get it."
There, you see, Reggy in one fell moment had destroyed all my illusions about him. Here was I worrying over his distress and presumed embarrassment, while he, hopeless young scamp that he was, showed actual regret because he couldn't fall from grace.
"I would suggest that you dismount," I answered, in a spirit of sarcasm.
For a moment I believe this insane thought obsessed him, and then his latent sense of military discipline and dignity saved him. He turned regretfully to the young lady, and pressing her hand warmly – very warmly, I thought – broke forth in schoolboy French:
"Merci, cherie! Mille fois, mille fois. Another time will have to do."
"Est-ce-que vous parlez Français, monsieur?" she demanded sweetly.
"Rather rough on your French, Reggy," I teased, "asking you, after that brilliant sortie, if you really speak the language."
Reggy appeared hurt.
"Look at you," he cried, "riding along like a bloated monarch, scooping in the obeisance of the whole kingdom, and because I command the attention – and, I trust, respect – of only one of your subjects, you're jealous. Out upon you – for shame!"
All good things come to an end at last. For half an hour we had been princes or kings, drinking in the nectar of adulation in mighty gulps. It turned our heads and made us dizzy, and this feeling of elation lasted long after we had left the crowd behind, and the faint cry of Vive les Canadiens followed us into the darker streets. We toiled slowly over the cobble stones, up the steep hill, and finally into camp.
The camp commandant came to meet us a few minutes after we arrived. He was a fine-looking specimen of British officer – tall, athletic, with iron-grey hair and keen blue eyes. He smiled as he greeted us.
"Good evening, gentlemen," he said, as the senior major approached and saluted. "Where have you all come from?"
"Originally from Canada, sir," the major replied, "but recently from Salisbury Plains."
"How interesting," he cried in a tone of delighted surprise. "I had no idea the Canadians were coming to France so soon."
"Weren't you expecting us, sir?" the major ventured.
The commandant laughed good-humouredly. We seemed to amuse him.
"Well, not exactly," he replied; "but you are quite welcome. Take those three rows of tents, draw your rations and make yourselves at home. One of these days orders will come along for you."
One of these days! Well, well! Was he actually addressing us in that careless and flippant manner, we who had just taken France by storm? Alas! we were not so important after all. For a full hour we had looked upon ourselves as the whole war, and the rest of the British army as a mere background to our glory. And now we were told that "one of these days!" It was really too bad. But still, he was kindly and courteous, and behind those smiling eyes lurked a great sympathy, I am sure, for our little band.
We looked about us and then we understood. There were miles of tents. Regiments of soldiers were marching in and regiments were marching out – the Highland "kilties" with their sporrans swaying to and fro in stirring unison. We heaved a sigh. It was all too true. We were only one small cog in the great machine!
But the senior major was elated with a strange and inexplicable emotion. After the commandant had bidden us good-night, he paced back and forth, with his hands behind his back and his head in the air. He raised his feet high as he walked, and clicked his spurs with the firmness of his tread. Something was effervescing in his mind, and soon would blow his mental cork out. What was it? He twirled his moustaches from time to time and smiled a crafty smile. At last it popped:
"Gentlemen," he said, "that's one thing which no one can ever take from me!"
"What?" we cried breathlessly.
"That I was the first officer who ever led a Canadian unit into France!"
Oh, the supreme egotism and self-love of old bachelorhood! We turned away without a word, in time to hear little Huxford's piping voice in ungrammatical query.
"Did ye had a good time to-night, Bill?"
And Bill's reply echoed the sentiments of all our hearts.
"Did I?" he cried exultantly. "Some class!"
CHAPTER V
How it stormed that night! Thunder, lightning, rain and wind combined in one uproarious elemental war. It seemed as if no tent on earth could stand the strain. Once I peeped outside, and in the flashes saw vistas of tents rolling like great white-crested waves on an operatic sea. From time to time the cracking of poles and the dull swish of canvas, blending with the smothered oaths of men beneath, told us that some tent had fallen.
Reggy slept as peacefully as a new-born babe. Tucked into his canvas sleeping-bag and with a woollen toque pulled well down over his ears, he was oblivious to the storm, and in the faint glimmer of our candle-lantern looked like an Eskimo at rest.
Peg after peg jerked out of the ground, and our tent commenced to rock to and fro in a drunken frenzy. Would the guard never come to tighten the guys? They seemed to have forgotten us. Warmly ensconced in my blankets and half asleep in spite of the noise, I lay and from time to time idly wondered how much longer the tent would stand.
Sometimes I dozed and dreamed of getting up to fix it, and saw myself crawling about in wet pyjamas in the wind and rain. The thought awoke me; the tent was flapping still. Reggy, as the junior, was in duty bound to right it; but if the storm couldn't wake him, what could mere man do? I dozed again and awoke just in time to see the canvas give one last wild gyration. Then it crashed down upon us.
"Hi! What the d – l are you doing now?"
It was the sleep-saturated voice of Reggy in angry, smothered tones beneath the wreck. For answer to his question, a gust of wind lifted the canvas from his