Part 3 In The Shadow Chapter 1

Hark! a bullet hurtles through the air!

　　Sylvestre stops short to listen!

　　He is upon an infinite meadow, green with the soft velvet carpet ofspring. The sky is gray, lowering, as if to weigh upon one's veryshoulders.

　　They are six sailors reconnoitring among the fresh rice-fields, in amuddy pathway.

　　Hist! again the whizz, breaking the silence of the air--a shrill,continuous sound, a kind of prolonged /zing/, giving one a strongimpression that the pellets buzzing by might have stung fatally.

　　For the first time in his life Sylvestre hears that music. The bulletscoming towards a man have a different sound from those fired byhimself: the far-off report is attenuated, or not heard at all, so itis easier to distinguish the sharp rush of metal as it swiftly passesby, almost grazing one's ears.

　　Crack! whizz! ping! again and yet again! The balls fall in regularshowers now. Close by the sailors they stop short, and are buried inthe flooded soil of the rice-fields, accompanied by a faint splash,like hail falling sharp and swift in a puddle of water.

　　The marines looked at one another as if it was all a piece of odd fun,and said:

　　"Only John Chinaman! pish!"To the sailors, Annamites, Tonquinese, or "Black Flags" are all of thesame Chinese family. It is difficult to show their contempt andmocking rancour, as well as eagerness for "bowling over the beggars,"when they speak of "the Chinese."Two or three bullets are still flying about, more closely grazing;they can be seen bouncing like grasshoppers in the green. The slightshower of lead did not last long.

　　Perfect silence returns to the broad verdant plain, and nowhere cananything be seen moving. The same six are still there, standing on thewatch, scenting the breeze, and trying to discover whence the volleycame. Surely from over yonder, by that clump of bamboos, which lookslike an island of feathers in the plain; behind it several pointedroofs appear half hidden. So they all made for it, their feet slippingor sinking into the soaked soil. Sylvestre runs foremost, on hislonger, more nimble legs.

　　No more buzz of bullets; they might have thought they were dreaming.

　　As in all the countries of the world, some features are the same; thecloudy gray skies and the fresh tints of fields in spring-time, forexample; one could imagine this upon French meadows, and these youngfellows, running merrily over them, playing a very different sportfrom this game of death.

　　But as they approach, the bamboos show the exotic delicacy of theirfoliage, and the village roofs grow sharper in the singularity oftheir curves, and yellow men hidden behind advance to reconnoitre;their flat faces are contracted by fear and spitefulness. Thensuddenly they rush out screaming, and deploy into a long line,trembling, but decided and dangerous.

　　"The Chinese!" shout the sailors again, with their same brave smile.

　　But this time they find that there are a good many--too many; and oneof them turning round perceives other Chinese coming from behind,springing up from the long tall grass.

　　At this moment, young Sylvestre came out grand; his old granny wouldhave been proud to see him such a warrior. Since the last few days hehad altered. His face was bronzed, and his voice strengthened. He wasin his own element here.

　　In a moment of supreme indecision the sailors hit by the bulletsalmost yielded to an impulse of retreat, which would certainly havebeen death to them all; but Sylvestre continued to advance, clubbinghis rifle, and fighting a whole band, knocking them down right andleft with smashing blows from the butt-end. Thanks to him thesituation was reversed; that panic or madness that blindly deceivesall in these leaderless skirmishes had now passed over to the Chineseside, and it was they who began to retreat.

　　It was soon all over; they were fairly taking to their heels. The sixsailors, reloading their repeating rifles, shot them down easily; uponthe grass lay dead bodies by red pools, and skulls were emptying theirbrains into the river.

　　They fled, cowering like leopards. Sylvestre ran after them, althoughhe had two wounds--a lance-thrust in the thigh and a deep gash in hisarm; but feeling nothing save the intoxication of battle, thatunreasoning fever that comes of vigorous blood, gives lofty courage tosimple souls, and made the heroes of antiquity.

　　One whom he was pursuing turned round, and with a spasm of desperateterror took a deliberate aim at him. Sylvestre stopped short, smilingscornfully, sublime, to let him fire, and seeing the direction of theaim, only shifted a little to the left. But with the pressure upon thetrigger the barrel of the Chinese jingal deviated slightly in the samedirection. He suddenly felt a smart rap upon his breast, and in aflash of thought understood what it was, even before feeling any pain;he turned towards the others following, and tried to cry out to themthe traditional phrase of the old soldier, "I think it's all up withme!" In the great breath that he inhaled after having run, to refillhis lungs with air, he felt the air rush in also by a hole in hisright breast, with a horrible gurgling, like the blast in a brokenbellows. In that same time his mouth filled with blood, and a sharppain shot through his side, which rapidly grew worse, until it becameatrocious and unspeakable. He whirled round two or three times, hisbrain swimming too; and gasping for breath through the rising red tidethat choked him, fell heavily in the mud.