Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 100, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 28 April 1915 — A Corsican Calls [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A Corsican Calls

By FRANK M. O’BRIEN

(Copyright, The Frank A. Munsey Co.) The sun, after a long struggle with the smoky fog, slunk down in his course. The light changed to a dull gray, kindly shutting out the sight of red blotches on greenish-yellow grass, a hideous contrast. There were no sounds except those muffled clicks and snaps that tell when an army is going to rest for the night. The war master sat in a field tent, gazing down the trampled hill to the meadows where his hopes-—for the day—had been realized* Tomorrow? No human being was near, unless one could count as human the rigid figures of the imperial guard. These statues, formed in squares and lanes, were as still as the night. One lane was a long, narrowing patch of haze, for the moon had not yet risen to its vain task of trying to shine through the murk. And in this lane, as the war master watched with eyes that were focused on nothing at all, something appeared. At first it seemed like a gray veil, floating in the outline of a human form. And now, still without salute or challenge, the silent thing, less like a gray veil and more like the film of a man, came to the tent slowly and entered. Entered confidently, with the air of an equal, and bowed, but only from the neck and not from the hips. There was no mistaking the cut of the cloak and the cock of the hat. The war master's eyes were cold, too, returning the bow, but not so calm. A sneer, whether in word or look, is the easiest fashion of covering surprise—or alarm. The- war master did not rise. “One of the allies, I believe,’’ he said. “N 6 said the visitor in a dull voice, “say, rather, a neutral.” “Indeed!” said thje war master. “Is not Corsica loyal to France?” “After a man’s death,” said the visitor, “his politics and fealties do not change; they merely disappear.” “I am pleased to hear that, Hers

“M. Bonaparte, if you will, or even Mister. I hecame accustomed to hearing the latter title aboard the Bellerophon.” The war master did not seem to be listening. He was watching his visitor narrowly. “I wonder—” he began, and then ceased to speak. “You wonder,” said the visitor, smiling, “whether I am not real. I beg to assure your majesty that I am not real. I understand, of course, the trend of your thoughts. It has occurred to you, as it would'occur to most trained men under Bimilar circumstances, that I might be some new output of the wizardry of war —an impalpable man, free to come and go among the tents of the enemy. I saw the brief flash of annoyance when it came into your mind that if there was any such deviltry possible your gentlemen of the laboratories should have discovered it first.” “Such,” said the war master arrogantly, “is our custom.” “The speed of thought is one of the few human things at which I still may marvel,” pursued the Corsican. “You revolved in your mind not only that possibility, but a dozen ways in which the magic might be used. There is nothing contra in the rules of war, I bqlieve.” Thetwar master raised his brows in mock modesty. 2A dozen ways!” he repeated. “You flatter!” “No,” said the Corsican, “at least a dozen, perhaps a score. I know. I should have thought of fifty.” “With such talent,” began the war master, “your total of successes —” “Let me save your voice,” interposed the Corsican blandly. “You would remind me that where I ended in failure al that very spot you began with success. But l would remind you that any town is Waterloo where Waterloo is found.” “A ghostly warning,” said the war master, laughing. He had risen as if to end the interview. It was a habit, and he did not realize his error until he saw the Corsican smiling at it. “No, not a warning,” said the visitor. “It was idle chatter, mere words. But you see I have the whole evening for my errand. Perhaps I expected a more cordial meeting. I thought to be formal, as people were long ago.” “You were net famed for formality,” suggested the war master. . “I had no time for it,” returned the Corsican a bit sadly. “But I have plenty now.” “Then you have the advantage of me,” said the war master. “What is your errand? To ask questions?” A patient smile crossed the face of the Corsican. .• ~ The war master turned upon his visitor with almost savageness. , “Who —who sent you?” he cried. “Jan, Bedanow,” replied the Corsican. The war master’s shoulders, raised in suspense, fell to their normal angle. “I do not remember him,” he said. “You never knew him,” Bald the Cor-

Steen. “His name Is not in any book that you have seen.” “You knew him?" asked the war master, “in —in life?” “I killed him,” said the Corsican. “I hanged his son at Lonceville because he would not guide us through an ambushed valley. He was a peasant His father was an old man, and bedridden. The shock, administered by me, killed him.” “And now?” said the war master. “Now,” said the Corsican, “Jan Bedanow sends 'me on the errand to you.” 'The war master took a step for ward. “You! You are at the beck and call of peasants’ fathers?” “Where I come from,” said the Cor* sican’s even voice, “there are no peasants, no war wasters, no first consuls.” v “But this errand for Jan Bedanow, said the war master. “It will help me,” replied the Corsican, “to repair the wrong. In another hundred years, or a thousand, or a million —as men count time —I may do something more, if occasion fortunately should arise, to. make amends.” “I see,” conceded the war master. “And what of other —of other things which are in the histories?” “Each in its-turn,” said the Corsican, “but Jan Bedanow’s matter first.” The war master leaned across the map-strewn pine table, his eyes aflame. “You mean,” he choked, “that that is all—all there is—beyond—for one lite you—or —” “Or you,” said the Corsican in his even tone. “It is all the Same for all. The South American who kills with his blowgun is on even footing with the chancellor who kills with his pen. All the trappings and the titles remain here —for inheritance.” The war master stood up. “I shall not change my plans,” he said stiffly. “I do not ask you to,” said the Corsican. “My business is not yours, but Jan Bedanow’s.” “And that,” said the war master, “is what?” “On the road near Effneau,” answered the Co'rsican, “you will find at the crossroads beside the corner of the Gray Forest, a little triangle in which there is a grave. It is the grave of Jan Bedanow’s wife. When

your majesty’s troops pass that way they would naturally, owing to the width of the column, ride across thia triangle of grass. They would, per* haps without meaning to, break down the wooden emblem —an emblem familiar to us both —which lies almost hidden in the weeds.” “Yes,” said the war master. “What I ask, on behalf of Jan Beda* now, is that this be avoided.” ‘‘On the road, near Effneau,” repeat* ed the war master. “Yes,” said the Corsican, “you must pass it on your way to —” “How do you know,” he cried, “that I am going there?” The Corsican smiled wearily. "I would have known,” he said, “even if I did not come from where everything is known. I would have because I knew, in the years ago, the minds of men who. plan on paper. I would have known that you were go* ing there. And I, at the other end, would have been waiting for you.” “Will they be ready for me tomorrow?” whispered the war master. The Corsican shrugged his shoul* ders. “Have they my, mind?” he coun* tered; “or even Wellington’s?” “But tell me!” cried the war master. “It were better for the whole world*—” “The whole world!” mocked the Corsican. “A tiny, 'whirling thing qn which there is nothing so important to me now as the grave of Jan Bed* anow’s wife. Good-night, your majesty!” The tent flaps fluttered as he went. Now it was darker and the eye of the war, master could not follow. He seized the telephone. “Von Zohn,” he said to the marshal at the other end of the line, *T have decided to ride at the head of the column in the morning—at least as far as the corner of the Gray Forest.” Then he leaned back and let his gaze, once more unfocused, fall upon the lane of the guard. The moonlight, seeping through the disappearing haze, glowed feebly on the brass eagles of the helmeted giants. f “And that Is all?” he mutterUL “Nothing more than that? 1 woudsflr

"I Shall Not Change My Plans."