CHAPTER II.THE ANTECEDENTS OF CAPTAIN SERVADAC AND HIS ORDERLY, BEN ZOOF.
At the time of which I am writing, there might be seen
in the registers of the Minister of War the following
entry—
Servadac (Hector), born at St. Trélody in the district of Lesparre, department of the Gironde, July 19th, 18—.
Property: 1200 francs in rentes.
Length of service: Fourteen years, three months, and five days.
Service: Two years at school at St. Cyr; two years at L'Ecole d'Application; two years in the 8th Regiment of the Line; two years in the 3rd Light Cavalry; seven years in Algeria.
Campaigns: Soudan and Japan.
Rank: Captain on the staff at Mostaganem.
Decorations: Chevalier of the Legion of Honour, March 13th, 18—.
Hector Servadac was thirty years of age, an orphan
without lineage and almost without means. Thirsting for
glory rather than for gold, slightly scatter-brained, but
warm-hearted, generous, and brave, he was eminently
formed to be the protege of the god of battles.
For the first year and a half of his existence he had
been the foster-child of the sturdy wife of a vine-dresser of
Médoc—a lineal descendant of the heroes of ancient
prowess; in a word, he was one of those individuals whom
nature seems to have predestined for remarkable things,
and around whose cradle have hovered the fairy god-mothers
of adventure and good luck.
In appearance Hector Servadac was quite the type of
an officer; he was rather more than five feet six inches
high, slim and graceful, with dark curling hair and moustaches,
well-formed hands and feet, and a clear blue eye.
He seemed born to please without being conscious of the
power he possessed. It must be owned, and no one was
more ready to confess it than himself, that his literary
attainments were by no means of a high order. “We don't
spin tops” is a favourite saying amongst artillery officers,
indicating that they do not shirk their duty by frivolous
pursuits; but it must be confessed that Servadac, being
naturally idle, was very much given to “spinning tops.”
His good abilities, however, and his ready intelligence had
carried him successfully through the curriculum of his
early career. He was a good draughtsman, an excellent
rider—having thoroughly mastered the successor to the
famous “Uncle Tom” at the riding-school of St. Cyr—and
the records of his military service related that his name
had several times been deservedly included in the order of
the day.
The following episode may suffice, in a certain degree,
to illustrate his character. Once, in action, he was leading
a detachment of infantry through an intrenchment. They
came to a place where the side-work of the trench had
been so riddled by shell that a portion of it had actually
fallen in, leaving an aperture quite unsheltered from the
grape-shot that was pouring in thick and fast. The men
hesitated. In an instant Servadac mounted the side-work,
laid himself down in the gap, and thus filling up the
breach by his own body, shouted—
“March on!”
And through a storm of shot, not one of which
touched the prostrate officer, the whole troop passed on in
safety.
Since leaving the military college, Servadac, with the
exception of his two campaigns in the Soudan and Japan,
had been always stationed in Algeria. He had now a
staff appointment at Mostaganem, and had lately been
entrusted with some topographical work on the coast
between Tenes and the Shelif. It was a matter of little
consequence to him that the gourbi, in which of necessity
he was quartered, was uncomfortable and ill-contrived; he
loved the open air, and the independence of his life suited
him well. Sometimes he would wander on foot upon the
sandy shore, and sometimes he would enjoy a ride along
the summit of the cliff; altogether being in no hurry at all
to bring his task to an end. His occupation, moreover,
was not so engrossing but that he could find leisure for
taking a short railway journey once or twice a week; so
that he was ever and again putting in an appearance at
the general's receptions at Oran, and at the fêtes given
by the governor at Algiers.
It was on one of these occasions that he had first met
Madame de L—, the lady to whom he was desirous of
dedicating the rondo, the first four lines of which had just
seen the light. She was a colonel's widow, young and handsome,
very reserved, not to say haughty in her manner,
and either indifferent or impervious to the admiration
which she inspired. Captain Servadac had not yet ventured
to declare his attachment; of rivals he was well
aware he had not a few, and amongst these not the least
formidable was the Russian Count Timascheff. And
although the young widow was all unconscious of the
share she had in the matter, it was she, and she alone, who
was the cause of the challenge just given and accepted by
her two ardent admirers.
During his residence in the gourbi. Hector Servadac's
sole companion was his orderly, Ben Zoof. Ben Zoof was
devoted, body and soul, to his superior officer. His own
personal ambition was so entirely absorbed in his master's
welfare, that it is certain no offer of promotion—even had
it been that of aide-de-camp to the Governor-General of
Algiers—would have induced him to quit that master's
service. His name might seem to imply that he was a
native of Algeria; but such was by no means the case.
His true name was Laurent; he was a native of Montmartre
in Paris, and how or why he had obtained his
patronymic was one of those anomalies which the most
sagacious of etymologists would find it hard to explain.
Born on the hill of Montmartre, between the Solferino
tower and the mill of La Galette, Ben Zoof had ever possessed
the most unreserved admiration for his birthplace;
and to his eyes the heights and district of Montmartre
represented an epitome of all the wonders of the world. In
all his travels, and these had been not a few, he had never
beheld scenery which could compete with that of his native
home. No cathedral—not even Burgos itself—could vie
with the church at Montmartre. Its race-course could well
hold its own against that at Pentélique; its reservoir
would throw the Mediterranean into the shade; its Solferino
tower was far more upright than the tower of Pisa;
its forests had flourished long before the invasion of the
Celts; and its very mill produced no ordinary flour, but
provided material for cakes of world-wide renown. To
crown all, Montmartre boasted a mountain—a veritable
mountain; envious tongues indeed might pronounce it
little more than a hill; but Ben Zoof would have allowed
himself to be hewn in pieces rather than admit that it was
anything less than fifteen thousand feet in height.
Ben Zoofs most ambitious desire was to induce the
captain to go with him and end his days in his much-loved
home; and so incessantly were Servadac's ears besieged
with descriptions of the unparalleled beauties and advantages
of this eighteenth arrondissement of Paris, that he
could scarcely hear the name of Montmartre without a
conscious thrill of aversion. Ben Zoof, however, did not
despair of ultimately converting the captain, and meanwhile
had resolved never to leave him. When a private in the
8th Cavalry, he had been on the point of quitting the army
at twenty-eight years of age, but unexpectedly he had been
appointed orderly to Captain Servadac. Side by side they
fought in two campaigns. Servadac had saved Ben Zoof's
life in Japan; Ben Zoof had rendered his master a like
service in the Soudan. The bond of union thus effected
could never be severed; and although Ben Zoof s achievements
had fairly earned him the right of retirement, he
firmly declined all honours or any pension that might part
him from his superior officer. Two stout arms, an iron
constitution, a powerful frame, and an indomitable courage
were all loyally devoted to his master's service, and fairly
entitled him to his soi-disant designation of “The Rampart
of Montmartre.” Unlike his master, he made no pretension
to any gift of poetic power, but his inexhaustible
memory made him a living encyclopædia; and for his
stock of anecdotes and trooper's tales he was matchless.
Thoroughly appreciating his servant's good qualities,
Captain Servadac endured with imperturbable good humour
those idiosyncrasies, which in a less faithful follower would
have been intolerable, and from time to time he would
drop a word of sympathy that served to deepen his subordinate's
devotion.
On one occasion, when Ben Zoof had mounted his
hobby-horse, and was indulging in high-flown praises about
his beloved eighteenth arrondissement, the captain had
remarked gravely—
“Do you know, Ben Zoof, that Montmartre only
requires a matter of some thirteen thousand feet to make
it as high as Mont Blanc?”
Ben Zoof's eyes glistened with delight; and from that
moment Hector Servadac and Montmartre held equal
places in his affection.
