# Argosy All-Story Weekly/Volume 146/Number 6/Six Good Men

from Argosy All-Story, 1922 Oct 28.
Six Good Men By GEORGES SURDEZ
A thin layer of mud over the compact clay soil had rendered footing treacherous, and for the fifth time that morning Corporal Personne picked himself up, shifted his straps and resumed his place in the long file of men. Then he contemplated the Indo-Chinese landscape with disfavor.
It was February, 1884, and since December of the previous year, the tiny garrison at Tuyen Quan, a little over five hundred men, under the command of Major Domine, but six pieces of artillery and only six engineers had held out heroically against a Black Flag army of several thousand led by Luh Vinh Phuoc. Personne's battalion was the advance guard of the column moving to the relief.
Thin veils of fog drizzled a warm rain that diluted the pipe clay on the corporal's pith helmet, ran down his face, seeped inside his collar and hung in drops from his bristly beard. On either side of the narrow roadway—seldom wide enough for two men to march abreast—the rice fields, flooded with a foot of water, sent up a suffocating moisture. Out of nowhere, apparently, bullets sang and snapped like over-taut violin strings. A man, just hit, pitched forward, face into the water, his hardware clattering about him. From the rear came the cursing of the naval gunners, in charge of the two eighty millimeter guns, coaxing the recalcitrant mules forward.
The men were not in the best of humor. Since early morning they had contended with narrow roads, dampness and heat and the pot shooting of the Chinese pirates hidden in the clumps of high grass scattered over the dreary plain. The Legionaires were ripe for a fight. Let the Black Flags make a stand, and they would pay. That the French republic considered her rights to the Province of Tonkin greater than the claim of the King of Annam did not concern these hardened soldiers of the Legion. The right and wrong of the international quarrel seemed beside the mark with an enemy who took pleasure in torturing his captives.
But Corporal Personne remained comparatively cheerful. This was his life work, and he loved it. Small inconveniences would soon be forgotten in the thrill of conflict. He was an American, born and bred. Some incident, unknown to his comrades, perhaps forgotten by himself, had driven him first to France, then into the Foreign Legion, where no questions are asked.
A strange lot they were! There in front of him was an ex-priest; at his back the son of a grand duke; and by his side his best friend, Pat, an ex-street sweeper from Dublin. And he himself had enlisted under the name of "Personne," which is French for "Nobody." These Legionaires, from the corners of the earth, became part of a solid unit, welded together as they were by the "esprit de corps"—the soul of an army. From the confines of the Sahara, from the town of Sidi bel Abbes, the "home" of the Legion, France had called her adopted sons to Indo-China.
As the column reached the lower slopes of a range of hills the day suddenly brightened. The sun, breaking through the mists, picked out the metallic ornaments on the uniforms with vivid sparkles of color. The song-bird, the son of an Arab peanut dealer in Dakar, started a popular ballad, and the men picked up the chorus, not always harmonious, but encouraging to the jaded officers, who feared for the morale.
When the troops reached the crest of the hill and a halt was called, Major Epervier, in command, gathered his officers about him. Away from barracks, they were all men together, and rank, except in actual line of duty, was not impressed. Months of campaigning forcibly creates friendship—or hatred. At any rate, etiquette is relaxed. Through field glasses the major had discovered the red roof of a pagoda emerging from the tangle of bush in the valley below.
"No signs of life," put in the youngest captain, naturally the first to talk.
"One can't always tell," the major answered.
"Why not go down and find out?" the naval lieutenant impetuously suggested. He had been put in charge of the artillery possibly because the guns were drawn by mules. In the general army scheme, the square plug should always be placed in a round hole. A lawyer should rub down horses, a blacksmith keep books in regimental offices.
"A valley is not the best strategical position for an isolated body of infantry liable to attack by superior numbers," the major remarked dryly. "You know what the Flags are at close quarters, where we have no chance to use superior discipline and tactics."
"But the column must pass there either to-day or to-morrow. Why not let me have a few men and find out?" the ardent young lieutenant went on.
The major smiled at the thought of the inexperienced officer blundering down into the village. "I have formal instructions not to risk my officers. I think, though, I have the man for the job. He's been in my battalion five years, and whatever he's been given to do, he did—and came back—"
"The pitcher to the well—"
"Perhaps—" agreed the major and turned abruptly. "Personne!"
Corporal Personne, drying his clothes by the fire, pulled his seventy-five inches erect and came over to the major where he stood at attention in a not overclean undershirt. In the palm of his hand he held his pipe while he hurriedly swallowed the last of a bit of ammunition bread. The officers smiled, but he remained impassive. His eyes even did not flicker. Though often treated with consideration, he never relaxed his reserve. This had given rise to the belief that he was a plutocrat by birth. His heels together, little finger on the seam of his trousers, Corporal Personne, the perfect non-com, now awaited orders.
The major cleared his throat with an awkward cough. "These are not orders, Personne. You may refuse if you wish." He indicated the pagoda. "The village down there may be occupied. It may not. I want to find out."
"Yes, sir."
"Risky, but you and I have seen worse, eh?"
"Much worse, major," Personne assented gravely. "How many men shall I take?"
"Five."
Personne went back to the fire. A few minutes low conversation and the five men got up, resumed their clothing, picked up their rifles from the stacks, tightened the chin straps of their helmets. Personne led the way down the hill, where they were soon lost to view.
"There go six good men," the major declared. He knew some of his men personally, was familiar with their history, played father confessor, knew their real names that he might advise their relatives in case of death.
"They're gone, all right—if that village is occupied," the naval lieutenant put in, "unless we move down if we hear firing."
"I half suspect you of deliberately trying to get us into a mess," the major observed. "You'd ask nothing better than to play with your new pets. Whatever happens, we can't move until the whole column comes up and I get orders from the colonel—"
"Who'll probably take three days to make up his mind," disrespectfully added the sailor. "Whatever happens, let's hope the fellows aren't taken alive."

### II.

Personne had wisely picked his men: Mitri, the Russian; Pat; Bicco; Sanglier, the boar, so called because of his massive shoulders and hairy face; and Ganache, who jokingly pretended to be an English lord, though his accent was cockney and his name French. They advanced slowly through the high grass, the tops of which rustled several feet above their heads. At least half an hour's time elapsed before they came in sight of the village, a cluster of mud huts forming a street, with the pagoda standing fully two hundred yards away.
"My mother, the milordess, would be surprised to see me," Ganache whispered, for the silence weighed upon him. "She would never allow me out without the maid and the fifth footman—"
Personne signaled for silence, ordered his men to wait, and himself stepped out into the open. When no one appeared, he called the others to join him. They searched the huts. Ashes still warm in the fireplaces, the usual stench of the native village, a dog, a few pigs running about—nothing more. Ganache stopped in front of a placard, ran his fingers along the line of Chinese characters, pretending to spell out the words: "Mr. and Mrs. Mandarin, compelled to depart for health reasons, left the key under the mat—"
Sanglier slapped him on the back. The others joined in the laugh, more from nervousness than genuine mirth. As Bicco bent past Genache's shoulders, to add his comment, a shot rang out, and he sank, a bullet in his throat.
Sanglier, his face scarlet from excitement, swore volubly in five languages. Mitri turned and fired into the bush, nonchalantly as though he were paying a visit to a private game preserve. Pat and Personne were methodical. Ganache kept his eyes on his corporal, as though awaiting orders.
"Make for the pagoda," cried Personne, and set the example. The others followed. No sooner were they in the open than the Flags swarmed out of the grass and pressed down upon them.
"Back to back!" Personne's voice rose above the uproar. The Gras rifles rattled and the conflict became hand to hand.
Pat went down first, his head hacked off by a yataghan stroke. Mitri, beaten to his knees, managed a grin before he was finished. Sanglier, bleeding from several wounds, wept in his rage. Tears and perspiration streaked the dirt on his face. A pistol shot smashed through both cheeks; the blood ran from his mouth. He fell sprawled on the ground, and groaned as steel dug into his back. Only Personne and Ganache were left, back to back, the tall American towering above the diminutive cockney.
"Say, big one!" the little man shouted. "Don't worry about me. Run for the pagoda—you can make it—"
"Shut up—you d—— fool—"
"Well—if you won't listen to reason—" Ganache turned the muzzle of his piece upward, and pressed the trigger. He would not be taken alive.
Personne was alone now, his helmet fallen off, a deep cut in his scalp. He swung his rifle by the barrel, freed a circle around him. With desperate fury, he leaped into the midst of the assailants. He was an American, therefore handy with his fists. And the Legion cultivates "la savatte," the art of fighting with one's feet. He was soon in the open with a clear way. And where could he go except toward the pagoda?
The door was closed, fastened on the inside, and he found himself cornered. Oh, for the sight of the old battalion, charging through the filthy street, with their chin straps between their teeth! His back against the door, he pulled a revolver from an inside pocket. With the first shot he picked off the leader, who dropped his long barbed spear to clutch at his stomach, and rolled over on the ground. The others hesitated for a moment only, then, with a shout of angered determination, closed in.
With each shot Personne dropped a man. After the fifth he lifted the barrel to his temple. Before he could pull the trigger, in that fraction of a second that he hesitated, the door behind him opened and he was conscious of falling backward. The sudden drop, the deep darkness, dazed him. But he knew that the door had closed and that he was inside.
The corporal picked himself up, laughing. He recalled many other hair-breadth escapes. No; this wasn't his last adventure. Something was looking after him—the thing men call "luck." But—although luck seemed to have caused the door to swing open, whence came the positive force to swing it shut again? Luck must have had an assistant.
He fumbled for a match. The sulphur sputtered, then flamed—and lit up—first, a patch of silk fabric, multicolored; then a slim, tiny hand with shining finger nails; above that, a graceful brownish throat and the face of a girl. The complexion was rose on olive, delicately tinted as porcelain.
The match burned his fingers, and he dropped it to the floor, reached out and touched the girl's shoulder. The silk rustled, and her flesh seemed cool, like polished marble.
"Thank you, miss. You sure picked the right moment—" he whispered into the darkness.
She answered in native dialect. Personne was at a loss until the few words he had picked up around the barracks in Hanoi came back to him. She had been praying in the pagoda for a husband, a white husband. The corporal laughed loudly. Women are the same the world over, something new, a uniform never fails.
He patted her cheek. Outside the Chinese were pounding on the door.
"You poor little devil! If you've elected me you'll soon be a widow—unless I get out of here."
His doll-like companion chattered volubly. This time he could not understand. All was now quiet outside, an ominous silence. Perhaps they had sent for the "bonze," or whatever they called their priest, to come and open the door.
"How does one get out?" he urged.
She must have understood, for her soft, warm little hand nestled in his big palm, closing around his fingers. She moved away, gently tugging at him. After a few steps he heard her fumble with a latch of some sort. To help, he lit another match. She sneezed as the pungent smell of sulphur teased her nostrils and her brown eyes gleamed with amusement. He smiled. Why shouldn't he? Would he not be soon on his way back to the battalion?
Then a door opened. He faced about, dazzled by the sudden light, and reached for his revolver. His mind framed the thoughts with lightning rapidity. He had one cartridge left, and a fighting chance to reach the open. Should he use it on himself, or take the risk? Once before he had been about to shoot himself and something had saved him. "To the last ditch," he muttered, and fired into the thick of the Flags, flung the weapon in the face of the nearest, and plunged in with flying fists.
For a brief moment he hoped—then some one tripped him. Before he could recover he was seized around the legs, by the arms, and a rope was thrown about his neck, twisted to cut off his breath. It was only a matter of minutes before he found himself bound and carried into the open. The girl had screamed as though in terror. But in her eyes he read a deep pity—and something more. Admiration—love? He would never know.
The Flags dropped him, without undue gentleness, near a mud hut in the center of the village. A couple of blows from a rifle butt impressed upon him the uselessness of struggle. He remained quiet until the crowd moved away, then managed to gain a sitting position against the mud wall. But he had not been left unguarded. A dirty Flag, his felt shod feet folded beneath him, looking like a particularly ugly Buddha, noisily chewed a kaki, the blood-red fruit of the Orient. He caught Personne's eye, grinned, and pointed to the opposite side of the square.
The five heads of his companions had been planted on stakes. Distorted, caricatured, Mitri's face alone had conserved its look of insolent superiority, and the bloodless lips curved slightly as though in contemptuous amusement. Sanglier, one eye staring, the other half closed, appeared to wink leeringly at his corporal. Personne shuddered and turned away.
Weakened and nauseated by the loss of blood, his bruised body half numb, the hours dragged by endlessly. The sun began to decline. The heat grew less. Yet thirst made his tongue thick and raspy. The guard must have noticed that he frequently licked his lips, for he called out lustily, and a youth brought a pail of water. This was spilled slowly upon the ground. This was repeated many times before the coolness of the night made itself felt, and the Black Flags emerged from the bush, one by one.
Women and children materialized out of nowhere. The gurgling, shouting, squealing multitude milled around the square, in and out of the huts—cooked, quarreled, played games, paused in front of him and jeered. In vain he looked for his little friend of the pagoda. And yet why did he look? Surely she did not belong in this ill-smelling swarm.
He began to wonder what would be his lot, what refinements of suffering. They might drag him around the interior of a bamboo cage, feeding him on offals, loathsome beyond description, or be content to-night with a few minor operations, tearing out his finger nails or slicing off his nose. To-morrow they could spread-eagle him under the noonday sun, with his eyelids cut off and his fingers stretched open by little pegs; or they might skin him alive, or give him the water cure, or a simpler method: repeated blows on the soles of his feet until he went mad or died.
Personne sought to compose himself, to hide every trace of fear or agony, when another bucket of water splashed down in front of him and sank into the dusty soil. A fat, silk-clad mandarin spoke a few words, gravely as a quiet gentleman orders his dinner. The corporal was lifted, carried to the hut nearest the recently kindled fire and securely fastened by wrists and ankles, limbs outstretched, on a framework formed like the letter X. The Flags had a wholesome respect for the hard fists of the Legionaire, and were careful to free him by degrees, a hand, a foot, one at a time, attached securely before passing on to the next. When operations were at last completed, the frame was elevated and braced against a wall, Personne's full weight being borne by wrists and ankles.
The crowd then gathered, jostled and pushing. The smaller boys worked their way to the front rank as he remembered having done himself to watch circus parades. From the swarm of yellow faces came a cheerful, expectant buzz. The thongs cut into Personne's flesh until merciful numbness gave momentary ease. Then his tormentors pushed his head as far back as possible without snapping the vertebræ, and fastened it in that position with a leather strap around his neck. A round piece of wood was then inserted between the frame and the small of his back. The strain on the muscles was terrific. Perspiration beaded his forehead, and the blood from his gashed wrists trickled down his arms to the elbows.
A drop of moisture on his head. His heart leaped—rain. He remembered having cursed the rain that morning—and now—ah—another drop! He protruded his tongue with the thought that—perhaps— But when he understood, he smothered a groan. For hours he would feel that steady dripping, always the same quantity at exact intervals, at precisely the same spot on his skull, until the pain and the unceasing wait for the next drop would drive him mad.
With sudden desperation he strained at the ropes, which drove the straps but deeper. He could move his head a trifle, a fraction of an inch. He would be careful to do this quietly or they would see him and take away his last comfort. Then realization came to him that this was also planned to prolong the agony.
The leader came close and regarded him critically. Personne spat in the fat, yellow face, thinking to bring things to a close. But the Flag wiped his cheek and joined the others. The drops fell—and fell. At least an hour passed. The pain was excruciating, and he ceased to be able to move the half-paralyzed neck muscles. His swollen eye-balls seemed ready to burst—the yellow faces—the firelight danced and swung before him. And he was thirsty. He thought of water—waterfalls, foaming and crashing down deep chasms; lakes with clear, fresh water, transparent and showing golden sand and round pebbles at the bottom; the sea, roaring in his ears.
Now his head was a huge anvil, and gigantic hammers were pounding on it, five-ton hammers that beat regularly and would never stop. Thump—thump—his neck would stand a little more, he shifted a fraction. The drop fell on that spot, and soon it, too, was being pounded away by the great pile drivers, He laughed loudly.

### III.

The Chinaman is only stolid on occasion. He knows how to enjoy himself. The onlookers rocked with mirth. The mandarin chuckled softly. Yes, he could make white men crazy, more foolish than the fat babies who played with the swine in the dung. The victims usually held out longer, but this sea devil had been weakened by his wound and the hot sun.
When they unfastened Personne he fell to the ground and lay motionless. He was harmless, crazy. They would keep him from sharp weapons and watch him. They laughed again when he sat up and stared around vacantly. Unsteadily he got to his feet and wabbled about in search of water. After having been given a drink he threw the bowl high in the air and laughed. They. laughed with him and followed as he staggered toward the five stakes on the opposite side of the square.
He saluted the heads of his dead comrades with a broad wave. Then he harangued in a loud voice, pointing first to the east, then the west. He shook his fists, groaned, spat, sobbed. Then he relived the fight—lunged out with a bayonet, though his hand held no weapon, ducked yataghan strokes, wrestled with a phantom foe, ran to the spot where the white men had formed the hollow square, and reacted every blow, every killing. He went down in imitation of Pat, fell to his knees as Mitri, shrieked as Sanglier had done.
The Black Flags recognized the moves, and their amusement increased. Here was a madman with a memory. As he kicked and punched into space, more than one rubbed his bruises gingerly. Personne turned and approached the headless bodies of his men which had been laid out in line, awaiting a leisurely division of the spoils.
The single Chinese soldier on watch moved back as he approached. Personne tapped each body on the chest and loudly called out a name. Then he straightened up with a dazed, vacant stare. Fumbling in his pocket, he pulled out an imaginary revolver. The guard laughed loudly. This was superior comedy. "Bang! Bang!" the corporal shouted in imitation of the revolver's bark, and moved toward the pagoda, turning and shouting at intervals: "Bang! Bang!"
With a few quick words the chief ordered him brought back to the fire. The guard approached, the same who had watched over the Legionaire earlier in the day. The corporal shrank away and laughter again rose from the spectators. Suddenly, without warning, the sea devil seized the Chinaman around the waist with one arm, lifted him off the ground, placing his free hand under the chin and forcing the head back. A brief struggle, the native's legs kicking wildly in the air, his hand fumbling for the dirk at his belt. Then the Flag's neck snapped and he grew limp.
For a moment Personne faced the onrushing crowd, the body in his arms, his face demoniacal in the red fire glow. Then with a mighty effort, he hurled the dead man among his comrades, and with another crazy, inarticulate moan, made for the pagoda.

### IV.

The three officers of the advanced guard, depressed and worried, sat around the fire.
"I feel a murderer," the major declared at length.
"War is war—" the naval lieutenant tried to console him.
"I hope they didn't take him alive," put in the captain.
There was a long silence. The major's pipe went out, and he forgot to relight it.
"I hope Personne died fighting," he said shortly, when the oppression grew too heavy. "That's the way he would have liked—"
The others nodded. The unpleasant topic was not mentioned again.
A sharp challenge, indistinct shouting, and footsteps approaching rapidly. The sudden commotion brought them to their feet, startled. His torso bare, streaked with the dark stains of dried blood, a disheveled white man staggered into the firelight.
"Nom de Dieu!" the major exclaimed. "It's Personne!"
The corporal came to attention, brought his hand to a salute. His features relaxed into impassibility, his words were brief and to the point:
"Corporal Personne reports the village occupied."
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published in 1922, before the cutoff of January 1, 1930.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1949, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 75 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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