Part 53 (2/2)

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 s.h.i.+rt, 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-fas.h.i.+oned 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.

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