Rex Stout: Target Practice

Then, struck by a sudden thought, I ran back along the parapet to my gun room and slid down the ladder. I ran to the corner where I had dropped the pad of paper. It was gone.

I swore at myself then. If I had only taken it with me when I went to report to the captain! But had Théodore really escaped? I could not think it possible that he had leaped that trench, and there was no other way.

But, then, where was he?

I was half crazy, monsieur. I told myself that I had betrayed my country.

I see now that I exaggerated everything. After all, he had nothing but a scrap of paper with a few figures on it, and of this fort, too, which could never be attacked except from the sea. But you know what the war fever is; and besides, I was enraged that he had outwitted me.

I started to climb the ladder to the parapet, thinking to look through the other gun rooms again.

As I did so I heard the door open behind me. It was some privates bringing the loading carriages with ammunition for target practise.

“Hello, Bonnot!” they called. “Come and give us a hand!”

I slid back to the floor.

“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed one of them — Biron — looking over at me. “What’s the matter, man? Your face is white as a German’s liver!”

I mumbled something — I don’t know what — and began to help them wheel in the carriages. It took us quite a while to get them forward and in position.

Captain Janvour came in to ask if everything was ready. I said we hadn’t loaded yet.

“Why the devil don’t you hurry up, then?” he said. “We’re waiting for you. Signal when you’re ready. The blue pennant is yours. Ten rounds at five-minute intervals, using only one gun. Get a move on.”

For the next ten minutes I forgot everything but my work, and I kept the men at it so that by the end of that time everything was in place.

I hadn’t oiled up my mechanism that day, and so I hadn’t decided which gun to use. I think I told you there were three in the room. I climbed up to No. 1, opened her up, and looked down the bore. It looked rough, so I went on to No. 2, but she was even worse.

When I climbed up to No. 3, I saw that the breechblock was swung half open.

That doesn’t mean anything to you, monsieur, but you’re not a gunner. I knew I hadn’t left it that way, for I take better care of my guns than any other man in the fort.

I opened her wide and looked down the bore.

It was black as night! Completely choked up. I couldn’t understand it.

One of the men handed up a candle, and I poked it in. It took me a few seconds to get it set right on account of the reflection; and then, monsieur, I saw what made me start so that I nearly fell off the platform.

It was the top of a man’s head, covered with curly brown hair. It was my brother Théodore. There he was, like a rat in a hole!

I felt the blood leave my face, and my hand shook so that the candle knocked against the steel and went out. For ten seconds I stood there without breathing.

My first thought was to close the breech and use one of the other guns. Then suddenly my head grew hot, as though my brain were on fire; and then, quite as suddenly, I felt cool and calm as ice.

I thrust my arm farther into the bore to see if there were room for loading, and my fingers brushed against Theodore’s hair. Then I drew my hand out and turned to the men below.

“We’ll use No. 3,” I called out in a steady voice. “Here, quick! Up with the lever, Biron.” It would ruin the gun, I knew—

Biron leaped up beside me, and together we raised the projectile from the loading-carriage and inserted it. Then the charge and primer.

He jumped down. I swung the breechblock to and turned the translating-screw, then twisted the locking screw till she was closed tight.

The cold steel felt warm to my hands, and I felt drops of sweat coming out on my forehead, but I worked steadily and calmly.

Calling to Biron to press the signal button, I mounted the sighting platform and began turning the side crank. Off across the water I could see the mud-colored target, tossing up and down on the waves; and to the right, at the end of the embankment, a group of officers and privates were gathered around the foot of the pennant staff.

I worked the lever slowly and firmly, with my eye glued to the glass.

“Take your time, mon vieux ,” came Biron’s voice from below.

Suddenly a blue pennant went fluttering up to the top of the staff. I gave the lever one little turn to the right, locked it, dropped my hand to the guard — then closed my eyes tight and pressed the trigger.

I heard nothing and saw nothing after that, monsieur. My brain seemed to be on fire again, and they say I fell from the platform to the floor and was picked up senseless.

Anyway, that is my story. You understand now what I meant when I said I was not French. It was not I who killed my brother, monsieur , it was France. I am of no nation; I am Joseph Bonnot.

You will see my mother — you will tell her what I say — I love her, monsieur, and I love my brother Theodore, but I hate war and I hate all nations — all.

As he uttered the last word Joseph Bonnot’s head sank back on the pillow and his arm, raised in a menacing gesture, fell across his breast. I sat for some time pondering on what he had said.

Finally I was aroused by the arrival of Dr. Dumain. As he saw the still and inert form on the cot a look of comprehension entered his eyes. He stepped to the side of the cot and placed his ear against the gunner’s breast.

After a minute he looked up with solemn eyes, shaking his head sorrowfully.

“The end,” he said in a low voice. “I wonder,” he added reflectively, “what possible reason a fine, strong man like Bonnot could have to commit suicide?”

Paymaster Garway Ross, attached to and serving on board the United States steamship Helena, possessed in an eminent degree all of the qualifications mentioned as appertaining to his position.

He also possessed one or two of the flexible virtues and a bitter knowledge of the sourness of the fruit of life. This last it was that drove him to seek the salty masculinity of the wardroom.

On a certain day of the year Paymaster Garway Ross, moved by the inherent laziness of man and a careless irresponsibility peculiar to himself, did a very foolish thing. He gave the combination of the office safe to his yeoman.

The pay yeoman, generally speaking, is the man who does the work of the paymaster. Particularly was this true in the case of Yeoman James Martin and Paymaster Garway Ross.

To the latter a monthly statement was a fearsome labyrinth and a quarterly return a snare of the devil. Also, he hated to count money, always having had so much of his own that he had never been under the necessity of counting it.

Finally, after a year of growing confidence in his yeoman, he entrusted him with the daily balance of the cash and sighed with immense relief.

For two years all was harmony. Paymaster Garway Ross read novels, wore out the lounge in the wardroom, invented mysterious and tantalizing cocktails, while Yeoman Martin wrote and ruled in the pay office two decks below.

Then, on a day in August (the Helena was at dry dock in New York), Martin announced his intention of applying for a furlough. The paymaster heartily approved, though he realized it meant a temporary burden on his own shoulders.

By a tactful word to the captain he got Martin’s week of liberty extended to two; and in his effort to show his appreciation of his yeoman’s services, even went so far as to present him with a treasury note of poetic denomination.