Reimers asked him: "But what do you take to be the object of the manuvres?"

"Object? Oh, there is plenty of object!"

"Surely the object of the manuvres is to get the nearest possible approach to the conditions of actual warfare?"

"All rot!" declared the hussar. "You're still just the same old bookworm as ever; an incorrigible old wool-gatherer! The object of the manuvres is the most deadly punctuality in the meeting of the two opposing parties, and not the training of young cavalry lieutenants in scouting. The object is attained by careful consultations beforehand.

Oh, yes! I was once just such another innocent youth as you, dear boy.

Shall I ever forget it, my first scouting expedition, with no rendezvous? On and on I rode till it was perfectly dark. Couldn't see a single wicked enemy. Didn't I just get a rowing! A whole winter practice thrown away! Two infantry regiments with a mile of transport, and behind them four batteries and four squadrons of horse. All had marched gaily past each other at about half an hour's interval! Not a shot fired! No, thanks--never again!"

At a cross-road Ottensen took leave of them. From afar he waved once more his immaculately-gloved right hand.

Reimers rode on in silence.

On the horizon appeared the white walls of the barracks and stables, and the water-tower of the practice-camp.

It was an unwelcome thought this that his old companion of the Military Academy had suggested to him. Here was another proof of how everything in the army was worked up simply to present a smooth outward appearance. How he would laugh now if any one spoke to him of a similarity between the conditions of real warfare and those of the manuvres! It was a thoroughly planned-out game, in which no ill-timed mischance was allowed to disturb the preordained harmony of the arrangements.

But what a crying shame that such splendid material should be spoilt by this dangerous system! Ottensen was not a highly-gifted soldier; he was no model military instructor; but he was a fine horseman, had a cool head, plenty of dash, and some keen mother-wit to boot: a born leader of scouts. And yet these brilliant qualities were sacrificed to outward show, and were let go to waste for want of use! One good cavalry officer the less; that was bad enough. But had not Ottensen spoken as though these were quite usual practices? It looked as though this purely external unwarlike training of the army were being erected into a principle.

The first day at the practice-camp was entirely taken up by settling into quarters. The tables were laid at six o'clock in the evening. Most of the officers were perfectly exhausted with standing about and running hither and thither; and directly the meal was over they retired to their rooms to get half an hour's nap before their evening duty.

Reimers left the camp by the back gate and went slowly along the edge of the forest towards the b.u.t.ts.

The sun was setting, and the rim of the red disk seemed to be just resting on the dark line of the tree-tops. The heath glowed with colour in the evening radiance.

Some men with pickaxes and spades over their shoulders met him; behind them a waggon laden with planks toiled heavily through the sand. Even the drill coats of the soldiers were tinted red by the sunset light.

Reimers strolled on further. A sandy pathway cut across the pink blossoms of the heather; without thinking he turned into it. This was the road which had formerly led from the forest towards the ruined village; there was now no use for it, and it was being allowed to fall into disrepair.

The solitary wanderer approached the dilapidated dwellings. In the village itself the perilously inclined walls of the ruins threatened to fall into the roadway. Reimers stepped through a doorway into the courtyard of one of the largest houses. A rose-tree spread its branches over the wall. Everything was bathed in the red light of the setting sun. Through the empty cas.e.m.e.nts Reimers seemed to be looking at the fierce glow of some incendiary fire. The white roses gleamed pink, and a pool of water that had run down from a gutter shone like newly-shed blood. The deserted garden, the empty cas.e.m.e.nts, the smoke-blackened walls, the glowing colour in the sky, and the red pool on the ground: this was a picture of war, in which men were laid low beneath blossoming rose trees, whose roots were drenched in their hearts'

blood.

Reimers stumbled down the dim mud-stained pa.s.sage and over the broken threshold into the village street, and wandered back again to the camp, gazing with thoughtful eyes into the gathering dusk.

The picture of the ruined cottages had recalled his South African experiences to his memory.

He saw the cosy farm-houses burst into flames behind the fleeing riders. The men shook their clenched fists as they looked back, and sent up grim but child-like pet.i.tions to a patriarchal G.o.d on whose help they had too confidently relied. But they made no stand, possessed by the irresistible panic which had seized upon them after the unfortunate episode of Cronje's capture.

It was but now and then that a handful of brave men, together with a few from the foreign legion, had made a short resistance at some pa.s.s or ford; and these were the only experiences, during the time of that gradual break-up, to which he could look back with any satisfaction.

Like the others he had lain in the high gra.s.s or behind a jutting rock, and had picked out his man; while beside him a twig would occasionally be snapped by a bullet, or splinters of stone strewn over him. This had been sharp, honest skirmishing, and he had had no scruple about doing as much injury to the English as possible. He never knew whether he had killed his man or merely wounded him. Either was possible; and did not war necessarily involve this?

At last, however, he had an experience that weighed more heavily on his mind.

It was near the Portuguese frontier on an open gra.s.sy expanse, somewhat resembling the heath by the practice-camp. They were hurrying onwards, hoping to reach neutral territory and escape capture by the English.

Between them and the pursuing lancers lay only the deep channel of a river, whose waters lapped idly and languidly on the sh.o.r.e in the peaceful summer stillness.

An English officer came riding carelessly up to it, a fresh young lad.

He had slung his carbine on his saddle, and was gaily flourishing a switch in the air and flicking at his brown leather gaiters. He was within speaking distance, his men were trotting far behind him.

Then one of the foreigners, a lean Irishman, reined in his flying steed. With a wild expression of hatred he raised his loaded weapon, took aim, and fired. The Englishman fell heavily backwards on his horse and plump into the shallow water.

The Irishman galloped up to Reimers' side. His ragged coat and brown weather-beaten face proclaimed the seasoned fighter.

"A good shot, mate!" he said. Reimers looked sideways at him and answered nothing.

The other waxed indignant, and began fiercely:

"d.a.m.n it, sir! Thirty years ago my father rented a farm in county Waterford that one of yon fellow's breed coveted. My father died in Philadelphia, with nothing but a torn shirt to his back and his bones coming through his skin. It's an old debt that I have just paid off!"

Reimers nodded in a.s.sent; he could do nothing else. The man was one of the many Fenians who had entered the ranks of the Boer army, instigated by the age-long hereditary hatred of Irishman for Englishman; from his point of view he was justified. This was warfare, and why had the young officer ridden ahead in that boyish, foolhardy way?

Nevertheless, the deed had filled the German with inexpressible disgust.

And suddenly, in this evening hour among the blossoming heather, within view of the ruined village now fast becoming indistinguishable in the twilight, the recollection of that nearly dry river-bed on the frontier of the Transvaal Republic drove in upon his mind clearly and definitely all the terrors of war: men falling upon each other like ravening beasts, blood and fire, death and destruction.

Innumerable thoughts conflicted in his brain. Whose was the guilt that these immemorial horrors still existed, that they were even protected by law? Who was it that desired war? Was it the nations, incensed against each other by race-hatred? Was it their rulers seeking renown?

Was it greedy self-interested diplomatists? Secret, but so much the more effectual, under-currents of Jesuitical intrigue? Fire-eating generals, pining to justify their existence? Who was it that dared a.s.sume responsibility for such a colossal crime against humanity?

Reimers was loth to press such considerations further, By so doing he might be led to conclusions before which he shrank, because from his youth up they had been pictured to him as detestable and criminal; he turned from them in alarm.

One thing he saw clearly and distinctly: war, which seemed to be a necessity in the life of a nation, demanded strong-minded men, hard as steel. Men like himself, broken in spirit, were useless and unfit for the profession of an officer. A soldier without fresh living enthusiasm for his calling was nothing but a figure of straw.

It was borne in upon him that he was a mere caricature of an officer, such as he had hitherto despised; perhaps but a more thoughtful, melancholy variation from the whole brainless type.

But what had he to look for in the world beside?

Next morning Senior-lieutenant Frommelt, the temporary commander of the second battery, came to Reimers in a hurry.

"My dear Reimers," he said, "I must ask you to do me a kindness. After the exercises to-day will you drive back at once to the garrison?

Somewhere in Gropphusen's house the punishment-book of the battery must be lying about, and a few important orders with it. The sergeant-major sent it over to him the evening before our departure, and now we want it. Will you go?"

And Reimers answered, "Of course I will, Frommelt."

The commander of the battery continued, quivering with the anxiety appertaining to his new dignity: "You know, I would have sent Weissenhagen, as he is the youngest officer; but he is a little flighty, and I don't quite like to trust him with such a delicate matter as conversing with a lady about the failings of her absent husband."

"But is that necessary?" asked Reimers.

"I think so. You see we have not been able to find the things anywhere.

You must describe the books--you know the usual binding--and then they must be sought for very thoroughly."

"Very good. I will go."

Reimers went through the shooting-practice (in which, by-the-by, the "flighty" Lieutenant Weissenhagen seemed to give a very good account of himself), buried in a deep reverie. At every shot he started in his saddle, and when the battery took up a change of position he entirely forgot to ride into his place. But the good brown mare moved correctly of herself. Her rider patted her neck in praise, and drew himself up erect. The joy which had at first stupefied him made him now feel glad and proud. Happiness smiled upon him once more, before the consummation of his evil fortune--he would see Hannah Gropphusen again.

It was noon when he arrived in the garrison town. All the good citizens were at their midday meal. The streets were deserted, and the little colony of villas that formed the officers' quarters showed no sign of living inhabitants.