“France, sunny France!” The tone carried concentrated bitterness and disgust. “One cursed fraud after another in this war.”
“Cheer up!” said Barry. “There's worse to come—perhaps better. This rain is beastly, but the clouds will pass, and the sun will shine again, for in spite of the rain this IS 'sunny France.' There's a little homily for you,” said Barry, “and for myself as well, for I assure you this combination of mal de mer and sleet makes one feel rotten.”
“Everything is rotten,” grumbled Duff, gazing gloomily through the drizzling rain at the rugged outline of wharves that marked the Boulogne docks.
“Look at this,” cried Duff, sweeping his hand toward the deck. “You would think this stuff was shot out of the blower of a threshing machine—soldier's baggage, kits, quartermaster's stores—and this is a military organisation. Good Lord!”
“Lieutenant Duff! Is Lieutenant Duff here?” It was the O. C.'s voice.
“Yes, sir,” said Duff, going forward and saluting.
“Mr. Duff, I wish you to take charge of the Transport for the present. Lieutenant Bonner is quite useless—helpless, I mean. You will find Sergeant Mackay a reliable man. Sorry I couldn't give you longer notice. I think, however, you are the man for the job.”
“I'll do my best, sir,” said Duff, saluting, as the O. C. turned away.
“What did I tell you, Duff?” said Barry. “You certainly are in for it, and you have my sympathy.”
“Sympathy! Don't you worry about me,” said Duff. “This is just the kind of thing I like. I haven't run a gang of navvies in the Crow's Nest Pass for nothing. You watch my smoke. But, one word, Pilot! When you see me bearing down, full steam ahead, give me room! I'll make this go or bust something.” Then in a burst of confidence, he took Barry by the arm, and added in a low voice: “And if I live, Pilot, I'll be running something in this war bigger than the Transport of a battalion before I'm done.”
Barry let his eyes run over the powerful figure, the rugged, passionate face, lit up now with gleaming eyes, and said:
“I believe you, Duff. Meantime, I'll watch your smoke.”
“Do!” replied Duff with superb self-confidence. And it was worth while during the next hour to watch Duff evolve order out of chaos. First of all he put into his men and into his sergeant the fear of death. But he did more than that. He breathed into them something of his own spirit of invincible determination. He had them springing at his snappy orders with an eagerness that was in itself the larger half of obedience, and as they obeyed they became conscious that they were working under the direction of a brain that had a perfected plan of action, and that held its details firmly in its grasp.
Not only did Duff show himself a master of organisation and control, but in a critical moment he himself leaped into the breach, and did the thing that balked his men. Did a heavy transport wagon jamb at the gangway, holding up the traffic, with a spring, Duff was at the wheel. A heave of his mighty shoulders, and the wagon went roaring down the gangway. Did a horse, stupid with terror, from its unusual surroundings, balk, Duff had a “twitch” on its upper lip, and before it knew what awful thing had gripped it, the horse was lifted clear out of its tracks, and was on its way to the dock.
Before he had cleared the ship, Duff had a circle of admirers about him, gazing as if at a circus.
“An energetic officer you have there,” said the brass hat standing beside the colonel.
“A new man. This is his first time on the transport,” replied the colonel.
“Quite remarkable! Quite remarkable!” exclaimed the brass hat. “That unloading must have been done in record time, and in spite of quite unusual conditions.”
The boat being clear and the loads made up, Duff approached the Commanding Officer.
“All ready, sir,” he announced. “Shall we move off? I should like to get a start. The roads will be almost impassable, I'm afraid.”
“Do you know the route?” asked the Commanding Officer.
“Yes, sir, I have it here.”
“All right, go ahead, Duff. A mighty good piece of work you have done there.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Duff, saluting and turning away.
“Move off, there,” he shouted to the leading team.
The driver started the team but they slipped, plunged and fell heavily. Duff was at their heads before any other man could move.
“Get hold here, men,” he yelled. “Take hold of that horse. What are you afraid of?” he cried to a groom who was gingerly approaching the struggling animal. “Now then, all together!”
When he had the team on their feet again, he said to the grooms standing at their heads, “Jump up on the horses' backs; that will help the them to hold their footing.”
There was some slight hesitation on the part of the grooms.
“Come on!” he roared, and striding to the horse nearest him, he flung himself upon its back.
A groom mounted the other, and once more a start was made, but they had not gone more than a few steps, when the groom's horse fell heavily, and rolled over on its side, pinning the unfortunate man beneath him.
There was a shriek of agony. In an instant Duff was off his horse and at the head of the fallen animal.
“Medical officer here!” he shouted. “Now then, two of you men. One of you pull out that man while we lift.”
The horse's head and shoulders were lifted clear, and the injured man was pulled out of danger.
“Take him out of the way, please, doctor,” said Duff, to the M. O., who was examining the groom.
“Sergeant!”
His sergeant literally sprang to his side.
“Get me a dozen bags,” he said.
“Bags, sir? I don't know where—”
“Bags,” repeated Duff savagely. “Canvas, anything to wrap around these horses' feet.”
The sergeant without further words plunged into the darkness, returning almost immediately with half a dozen bags.
“Thanks, sergeant; that's the way to move. Now get some more!”
Under Duff's directions the bags were tied about the feet of the horses, thus enabling them to hold their footing, and the transport moved off in the darkness.
Returning from the disposing of the injured man, the M. O. found Barry shivering with the cold, and weak from his recent attack of seasickness.
“There will be no end of a sick parade to-morrow morning, and you'll be one of them,” grumbled the M. O. “If they don't move them out of here soon they'll take them away in ambulances. There are a hundred men at this moment fit to go to hospital, but the O. C. won't hear of it.”
“Doc, they ought to have something hot. The kitchens are left behind, I understand. Let me have a couple of your men, and let me see what I can do.”
“It's no use, I've tried all the hotels about here. They're full up.”
“No harm trying, doc,” said Barry, and off he went.
But he found the hotels full up, as the doctor had said. After much inquiry, he found his way to the Y. M. C. A. A cheerful but sleepy secretary, half dead with the fatigue of a heavy day ministering to soldiers “going up the line,” could offer him no help at all.
“Do you mean to say that there is no place in this town,” said Barry desperately, “where a sick man can get a dish of coffee?”
“Sick man!” cried the secretary. “Why, certainly! Why not try the R. A. M. C.? They've a hospital half a mile up the street. They will certainly help you out. I'll come with you.”
“No, you don't,” said Barry. “You go back to bed. I'll find the place.”
Half a mile up the street, as the secretary had said, Barry came upon the flaring lantern of the R. A. M. C., at the entrance to a huge warehouse, the gate of which stood wide open.
Entering the courtyard, Barry found a group of men about a blazing fire.
“May I see the officer in charge?” he asked, approaching the group.
The men glanced at his rank badges.
“Yes, sir,” said a sergeant, clicking his heels smartly. “Can I do anything for you, sir?”
“Thank you,” said Barry, and told him his wants.
“We have plenty of biscuits,” said the sergeant, “and coffee, too. You are welcome to all you can carry, but I don't see how we can do any more for you. But would you like to see the officer in charge, sir?”
“Thank you,” said Barry, and together they passed into another room.
But the officer was engaged elsewhere. While they were discussing the matter, a door opened, and a young girl dressed in the uniform of a V. A. D. (Voluntary Aid Detachment) appeared.
“What is it, sergeant?” she inquired, in a soft but rather tired voice.
The sergeant explained, while she listened with mild interest. Then Barry took up the tale, and proceeded to dilate upon the wretched condition of his comrades, out in the icy rain. But his story moved the V. A. D. not at all. She had seen too much of the real misery and horrors of war. Barry began to feel discouraged, and indeed a little ashamed of himself.
“You see, we have just come over,” he said in an apologetic tone, “and we don't know much about war yet.”
“You are Canadians?” cried the girl, a new interest dawning in her eyes. As she came into the light, Barry noticed that they were brown, and that they were very lustrous.
“I love the Canadians,” she exclaimed. “My brother was a liaison artillery officer at Ypres; with them, at the time of the gas, you know. He liked them immensely.” Her voice was soft and sad.
Unconsciously Barry let his eyes fall to the black band on her arm.
“He was with the Canadians, too, when he was killed at Armentieres, three months ago.”
“Killed!” exclaimed Barry. “Oh, I am so sorry for you.”
“I had two brothers,” she went on, in her gentle even tone. “One was killed at Landrecies, on the retreat from Mons, you know.”
“No,” said Barry, “I'm afraid I don't know about it. Tell me!”
“It was a great fight,” said the girl. “Oh, a splendid fight!” A ring came into her voice and a little colour into her cheek. “They tried to rush our men, but they couldn't. My oldest brother was there in charge of a machine gun section. The machine guns did wonderful work. The colonel came to tell us about it. He said it was very fine.” There was no sign of tears in her eyes, nor tremor in her voice, only tenderness and pride.
“And your mother is alone now?” inquired Barry.
“Oh, we gave up our house to the government for a hospital. You see, father was in munitions. He's too old for active service, and mother is matron in the hospital. She was very unwilling that I should come over here. She said I was far too young, but of course that's quite nonsense. So you see, we are all in it.”
“It is perfectly amazing,” said Barry. “You British women are wonderful!”
The brown eyes opened a little wider.
“Wonderful? Why, what else could we do? But the Canadians! I think they're wonderful, coming all this way to fight.”
“I can't see that,” said Barry. “That's what that old naval boy at Devonport said, but I can't see that it's anything wonderful that we should fight for our Empire.”
“Devonport! A naval officer!” The girl lost her calm. She became excited. “What was his name?”
“I have his card here,” said Barry, taking out his pocket book and handing her the card.
“My uncle!” she cried. “Why, how perfectly splendid!” offering Barry her hand. “Why, we're really introduced. Then you're the man that Uncle Howard—” She stopped abruptly, a flush on her cheek. Then she turned to the N. C. O. “Yes, sergeant, that will do,” as the man brought half a dozen large biscuit cans and as many large bottles of prepared coffee.
As Barry's eyes fell upon the biscuit cans an idea came to him.
“Will these cans hold water?” he inquired.
“Yes, sir,” replied the sergeant.
“Then, we're fixed,” cried Barry, in high delight. “This is perfectly fine.”
“What do you mean?” asked the girl.
“We'll dump the biscuits, and boil the coffee in the cans. I haven't camped on the Athabasca for nothing. Now we're all right and I suppose we must go.”
The V. A. D. hesitated a moment, then she took the sergeant to one side, and entered into earnest and persuasive talk with him.
“It's against regulations, miss,” Barry heard him say, “and besides, you know, we're expecting a hospital train any minute, and every car will be needed.”
“Then I'll take my own car,” she said. “It's all ready and has the chains on, sergeant, I think.”
“Yes, it's quite ready, but you will get me into trouble, miss.”
“Then, I'll get you out again. Load those things in, while I run and change—I'm going to drive you out to your camp,” she said to Barry as she hurried away.
The sergeant shook his head as he looked after her.
“She's a thoroughbred, sir,” he said. “We jump when she asks us for anything. She's a real blooded one; not like some, sir—like some of them fullrigged ones. They keep 'er 'oppin'.”
“Fullrigged ones?” inquired Barry.
“Them nurses, I mean, sir. They loves to 'awe them—them young 'Vaddies,' as we call them—V. A. D., you know, sir. They keeps 'em a 'oppin' proper—scrubbin' floors, runnin' messages, but Miss Vincent, she mostly drives a car.”
While the sergeant was dilating upon the virtues and excellences of the young V. A. D., his men ran out her car, and packed into it the biscuit tins and coffee. By the time the sergeant was ready she was back, dressed in a chauffeur's uniform.
Barry had thought her charming in her V. A. D. dress, but in her uniform she was bewitching. He noticed that her hair clustered in tiny ringlets about her natty little cap, in quite a maddening way. One vagrant curl over her ear had a particular fascination for his eyes. He felt it ought to be tucked in just a shade. He was conscious of an almost irresistible desire to do the tucking in. What would happen if—
“Well, are you ready?” inquired the girl in a quick, businesslike tone.
“What? Oh, yes,” said Barry, recalled to the business of the moment.
During the drive the girl gave her whole attention to her wheel, as indeed was necessary, for the road was dangerously slippery, and she drove without lights through the black night. Barry kept up an endless stream of talk, set going by her command, as she took her place at the wheel. “Now tell me about Canada. I can listen, but I can't talk.”
In the full tide of his most eloquent passages, Barry found himself growing incoherent at times, for his mind was in a state of oscillation between the wonderful and lustrous qualities of the brown eyes that he remembered flashing upon him in the light of the fire, and that maddening little curl over the girl's ear.
In an unbelievably short time, so it seemed to him, they came upon the rear of a marching column.
“These are your men, I fancy,” she said, “and this will be your camp on the left; I know it well. I've often been here.”
She swung the car off the road into an open field, set out with tents, and brought the car to a stop beside an old ruined factory.
“This, I believe, will be the best place for your purpose,” she said, and sprang from her seat, and ran to the ruin, flashing her torchlight before her. “Here you are,” she said. “This will be just the thing.”
Barry followed her a few steps down into the long, stone-flagged cellar.
“Splendid! This is the very thing,” he cried enthusiastically. “You are really the most wonderful person.”
“Now get your stuff in here,” she ordered. “But what will you do for wood? There is always water,” she added, “in some tanks further on. Come, I'll show you.”
Barry followed her in growing amazement and admiration at her prompt efficiency.
“Now then, there are your tanks,” she said. “As for wood, I don't know what you will do, but there is a garden paling a little further on, and, of course—”
“Don't worry about that,” said Barry.
“I won't,” with a gay laugh; “I know you Canadians, you see.”
Together they returned to the car.
Before she mounted to her seat she turned to Barry, and offered him her hand and said: “I think it is perfectly ripping that we were introduced in this way. Though I don't know your name yet,” she added shyly.
“Awfully stupid of me,” said Barry, and he gave her his name, adding that of the regiment, and his rank.
“Good-bye, then,” she said, climbing into her car, and starting her engine.
“But,” said Barry, “I must see you safely back.”
She laughed a scornful but, as Barry thought, a most delicious little laugh.
“Nonsense! We don't do that sort of thing here, you know. We're on our own.”
A little silence fell between them.
“When does your battalion march?” she asked abruptly.
“Perhaps to-morrow. I don't know.”
“If you do go then,” she said, with again that little touch of shyness, “I suppose I won't see you again.”
“See you again,” exclaimed Barry, his tone indicating that the possibility of such a calamity was unthinkable, “why, of course I shall see you again. I must see you again—I—I—I just must see you again.”
“Good night, then,” she said in a soft, hurried voice, throwing in her clutch.
Barry stood listening in the dark to the hum of her engine, growing more faint every moment.
“Some girl, eh?” said a voice. At his side he saw Harry Hobbs. Barry turned sharply upon him.
“Now then, Hobbs, some wood and we will get a fire going and look lively! And, Hobbs, I believe there's a fence about fifty yards down there, which you might find useful. Now move. Quick!” Unconsciously he tried to reproduce, in uttering the last word, Duff's tone and manner. The effect was evident immediately.
Hobbs without further words departed in the darkness. Again Barry stood listening to the hum of the engine, until he could no longer hear it in the noise and confusion of the camp, but in his heart Harry's words made music.
“Some girl, eh?”
As he stood there in the darkness, hearing that music in his heart, a voice broke in, swearing hard and deep oaths. It was the M. O.
“Hello, doc, my boy; come here,” cried Barry.
The M. O. approached. He was in a state of rage that rendered coherent speech impossible.
“Oh, quit it, doc. Let me show you something.”
He led him into the ruin, where his spoils were cached.
“Biscuits, my boy, and coffee. Hold on! Listen! I'm going to get a fire going here and in twenty minutes there'll be six cans of fragrant delicious coffee, boiling hot.”
“Why, how the—”
“Doc, don't talk! Listen to me! You round up your sick men, and bring them quietly over here. I don't know how many I can supply, but at least, I think, a hundred.”
“Why, how the devil—?”
“Go on; I haven't time to talk to you. Get busy!”
Working by flashlight, the men cut open the tins, dumped the biscuits on a blanket spread in a corner of the cellar, while Barry made preparations for a fire.
“Here, Hobbs, you punch two holes in these cans, just an inch from the top.”
Soon the fire was blazing cheerily. In its light Barry was searching through the ruin.
“By Jove,” he shouted, “the very thing. Just made for us.”
He pulled out a long steel rod from a heap of rubbish and ran with it to the fire.
“Here, boys, punch a hole in this wall. Now then, for the cans. String them on this rod.”
In twenty minutes the coffee was ready.
“How is it?” he inquired anxiously, handing a mess tin full to one of his men.
The boy tasted it.
“Like mother made,” he said, with a grin. “Gee, but it's good.”
At that moment the doctor appeared at the cellar door.
“I say, old chap,” he said, “there will be a riot here in fifteen minutes. That coffee smells the whole camp.”
“Bring 'em along, doc. The sick chaps first. By Jove, here's the sergeant major himself.”
“What's all this?” inquired the sergeant major in his gruffest voice. “Who's responsible for this fire?”
“Coffee, sergeant major?” answered Barry, handing him a tin full.
“But what—?”
“Drink it first, sergeant major.”
The sergeant major took the mess tin and tasted the coffee.
“Well, this IS fine,” he declared, “and it's what the boys want. But this fire is against orders, sir. I ought to have it put out.”
“You will have it put out over my dead body, sergeant major,” cried the M. O.
“And mine,” added Barry.
“By gad, we'll chance the zeps, sir,” said the sergeant major. “This freezin' rain will kill more men than a bomb. Bring in your men, sir,” he added to the M. O. “But I must see the O. C.”
The sergeant major's devotion to military discipline was struggling hard with his humanity, which, under his rugged exterior, beat warm in his heart.
“Why bother with the O. C.?” said the M. D.
“But I must see him,” insisted the sergeant major.
He had not far to go to attain his purpose.
“Hello! What the devil is this?” exclaimed a loud voice at the door.
“By gad, it's the old man himself,” muttered the M. O. to Barry. “Now look out for ructions.”
In came the O. C., followed by a brass hat. Barry went forward with a steaming tin of coffee.
“Sorry our china hasn't arrived yet, sir,” he said cheerfully, “but the coffee isn't bad, the boys say.”
“Why, it's you, Dunbar,” said the colonel, peering into his face, and shaking the rain drops from his coat. “I might have guessed that you'd be in it. Where there's any trouble,” he continued, turning to the brass hat at his side, “you may be quite sure that the Pilot or the M. O. here will be in it. By Jove, this coffee goes to the right spot. Have a cup, major?” he said as Barry brought a second tin.
“It's against regulations, you know,” said the major, taking the mess tin gingerly. “Fires are quite forbidden. Air raids, and that sort of thing, don't you know.”
“Oh, hang it all, major,” cried the O. C. “The coffee is fine, and my men will be a lot better for it. This camp of yours, anyway, is no place for human beings, and especially for men straight off the boat. As for me, I'm devilish glad to get this coffee. Give me another tin, Pilot.”
“It's quite irregular,” murmured the major, still drinking his coffee. “It's quite irregular! But I see the door is fairly well guarded against light, and perhaps—”
“I think we'll just carry on,” said the colonel. “If there is any trouble, I'll assume the responsibility for it. Thank you, Pilot. Just keep guard on the light here, sergeant major.”
“All right, sir. Very good, sir, we will hang up a blanket.”
Meanwhile the news had spread throughout the camp, and before many minutes had passed the cellar was jammed with a crowd of men that reached through the door and out into the night. The crowd was becoming noisy and there was danger of confusion. Then the pilot climbed up on a heap of rubbish and made a little speech.
“Men,” he called out, “this coffee is intended first of all for the sick men in this battalion. Those sick men must first be cared for. After that we shall distribute the coffee as far as it will go. There is plenty of water outside, and I think I have plenty of coffee. Sergeant major, I suggest that you round up these men in some sort of order.”
A few sharp words of command from the sergeant major brought order out of confusion, and for two hours there filed through the cellar a continuous stream of men, each bringing an empty mess tin, and carrying it away full of hot and fragrant coffee.
By the time the men had been supplied the officers were finished with their duties, and having got word of the Pilot's coffee stall, came crowding in. One and all they were vociferous in their praise of the chaplain, voting him a “good fellow” and a “life-saver” of the highest order. But it was felt by all that Corporal Thom expressed the general consensus of opinion to his friend Timms. “That Pilot of ours,” he declared, “runs a little to the narrow gauge, but in that last round up he was telling us about last Sunday there won't be the goat run for him. It's him for the baa baas, sure enough.”
And though in the vernacular the corporal's words did not sound quite reverent, it was agreed that they expressed in an entirely satisfactory manner the general opinion of the battalion.
An hour later, wearied as he was, Barry crawled into his icy blankets, but with a warmer feeling in his heart than he had known since he joined the battalion. But before he had gone to sleep, there came into his mind a thought that brought him up wide awake. He had quite forgotten all about his duty as chaplain. “What a chance you had there,” insisted his chaplain's conscience, “for a word that would really hearten your men. This is their first night in France. To-morrow they march up to danger and death. What a chance! And you missed it.”
Barry was too weary to discuss the matter further, but as he fell asleep he said to himself, “At any rate, the boys are feeling a lot better,” and in spite of his sense of failure, that thought brought him no small comfort.
“I think,” said Barry, to the M. O., “I really ought to ride down to the R. A. M. C. hospital, and tell them how the boys enjoyed the coffee last night.” His face was slightly flushed, but the flush might have been due to the fact that he had been busily engaged in tying up the thongs of his bed-roll, an awkward job at times.
“Sure thing,” agreed the M. O. heartily. “Indeed it's absolutely essential, and say, old chap, you might tell her how I enjoyed my coffee. She will be glad to hear about me.”
Barry heaved his bed-roll at the doctor and departed.
At the R. A. M. C. Hospital the Officer Commanding, to whom he had sent in his card, gave him a cordial greeting.
“I am glad to know you, sir. We have quite a lot of your chaps here now and then, and fine fellows they seem to be. We expect a hospital train this morning, and I understand there are some Canadians among them. Rather a bad go a few days ago at St. Eloi. Heavy casualty list. Clearing stations all crowded, and so they are sending a lot down the line.”
“Canadians?” asked Barry, thinking of his father. “You have not heard what unit, sir?”
“No, we only get the numbers and the character of the casualties and that sort of thing. Well, I must be off. Would you care to look around?”
“Thank you, no. We are also on the march. I simply came to tell you how very greatly our men appreciated your help last night.”
“Oh, that's perfectly all right. Glad the sergeant had sense enough to do the right thing.”
Barry hesitated.
“May I see—ah—the sergeant?”
“The sergeant? Why, certainly, but it's not necessary at all.”
The sergeant was called and duly thanked. The R. A. M. C. officer was obviously anxious to be rid of his visitor and to get off to his duty.
Still Barry lingered.
“There was also a young lady, sir, last night,” he said at length.
“A young lady?”
“Sister Vincent, sir,” interjected the sergeant. “She ran them up to the camp in her car, sir. The ambulances and cars were all under orders.”
“Ah! Ran you up to the camp, eh?”
“Yes, she ran us up with the biscuits and coffee. It was awfully kind of her.”
“Ah!—Um!—Very good! Very good! Sergeant, call her,” said the O. C. abruptly.
“I'm afraid she'd be asleep now, sir. She was on night duty, sir.”
“Oh, then,” said Barry, “please don't disturb her. I wouldn't think of it. If you will be kind enough, sir, to convey the thanks of the men and of myself to her.”
“Surely, surely! Well, I really must be going. Goodbye! Good luck!”
He turned to his motor car. “I won't forget, sir,” he said to Barry. “Oh, I'll be sure to tell her,” he added with a significant smile.
As Barry was mounting his horse, the strains of the battalion band were heard floating down the street. He drew up his horse beside the entrance and waited. Down the winding hill they came, tall, lean, hard-looking men, striding with the free, easy swing of the men of the foothills. Barry felt his heart fill with pride in his comrades.
“By Jove,” he said to himself, “the boys are all right.”
“Fine body of men, sir,” said the sergeant, who with his comrades had gathered about the gateway.
“Not too bad, eh, sergeant?” said Barry, with modest pride.
“Sir,” said the sergeant in a low voice, “the young lady is up at the window to your left.”
“Sergeant, you're a brick! Thank you,” said Barry. He turned in his saddle, and saw above him a window filled with smiling nurses looking down at the marching column, and among them his friend of the night before. Her face was turned away from him, and her eyes were upon the column, eagerly searching the ranks of the marching men.
“Sergeant,” said Barry, “your Commanding Officer is a very busy man, and has a great many things to occupy his attention. Don't you think it is quite possible that that message of mine might escape his memory, and don't you think it would be really more satisfactory if I could deliver that message in person?”
The sergeant tilted his hat over one eye, and scratched his head.
“Well, sir, the Commanding Officer does 'ave a lot of things to think about, and though he doesn't often forget, he might. Besides, I really think the young lady would like to know just how the coffee went.”
“Sergeant, you are a man of discernment. I'll just wait here until the battalion passes.”
He moved his horse a few steps out from the gateway, and swung him around so that he stood facing the window. The movement caught the attention of the V. A. D. in the window. She glanced down, saw him, and, leaning far out, waved her hand in eager greeting and with a smile of warm friendliness.
He had only time to wave his hand in reply, when the head of the column drew opposite the gateway, forcing him to turn his back to the window and stand at salute.
The Commanding Officer acknowledged the salute, glanced up at the window, waved his hand to the group of nurses there gathered, then glanced back at Barry, with a smile full of meaning, and rode on.
After the band had passed the entrance, it ceased playing, and the men, catching sight of Barry and the smiling group at the window above him, broke softly into a rather suggestive music hall ditty, at that time popular with the soldiers:
“Hello! Hello! Who's your lady friend;Who's the little blossom by your side;I saw you, with a girl or two,Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! I'm surprised at you.”
Down the length of the column the refrain passed, gradually gaining in strength and volume, until by the time the rear came opposite the entrance, the men were shouting with wide open throats:
“Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! I'm surprised at you.”
with a growing emphasis and meaning upon every successive “Oh!”
Barry's face was aflame and his heart hot with furious indignation. She was not that kind of a girl. She would be humiliated before her associates. He glanced up at the window but she was gone. The battalion marched on but Barry still remained, his eyes following the swinging column, his face still flaming, and his heart hot with indignation.
“Good morning, Captain Dunbar!”
He swung off his horse, and there smiling at him with warm friendliness was the little V. A. D.
“I'm awfully sorry,” began Barry, thinking of the impudent song of his comrades. “I mean I'm very glad to see you. I just ran in to tell you how splendidly the coffee went last night. There are a hundred fellows marching along there that are fine and fit just because of your kindness, and I'm here to give you their thanks.”
Barry felt that he was cutting a rather poor figure. His words came haltingly and stumblingly. The suggestive music hall ditty was still in his mind.
“What a splendid band you have,” she said, “and how splendidly the men sing.”
“Sing!” cried Barry indignantly. “Oh, yes, they do sing rather well, don't they?” he added, greatly relieved. “I have only a minute,” he added hurriedly, “but I wanted to see you again, and I wonder if I may drop you a little note now and then, just to—well, hang it all—just to keep in touch with you. I don't want you to quite forget me.”
“Oh, I won't forget you,” she said. The brown eyes looked straight at him. “You see, after all, my uncle knows you so well. Indeed, he told me about you. You see, we really are friends, in a way, aren't we?”
“We are indeed, and you are awfully good. Goodbye!”
“Goodbye,” she said, “and if I leave here soon, I promise to let you know.”
And Barry rode away, his heart in such a turmoil as he had never known. In his ears lingered the music of that soft voice, and his eyes saw a bewildering complexity of dancing ringlets and lustrous glances, until he drew up at the rear of the column and found himself riding once more beside his friend, the M. O.
“Congratulations, old man,” said the doctor. “She's a blossom, all right. Cheer up; you may find her bending over your white face some day, holding your hand, or smoothing your brow, in the approved V. A. D. manner.”
“Oh, shut up, doc,” said Barry with quite unusual curtness. “She's not that kind of a girl.”
“Ah, who knows!” said the doctor. “Who knows!”
At the railway station, the battalion was halted, awaiting the making up of their train, the departure of which was delayed by the incoming hospital train from up the line. They had not long to wait.
“Here she is, boys!” called out a soldier. And into the station slowly rolled that hospital train, with its freight of wounded men, mutilated, maimed, broken. Its windows were crowded with faces, white as their swathings, worn, spent, deep-lined, from which looked forth eyes, indifferent, staring, but undaunted and indomitable.
Gradually, with stately movement, as befitted its noble burden, the train came to rest immediately opposite the battalion. With grave, fascinated, horror-stricken faces the men of the battalion stood rigid and voiceless gazing at that deeply moving spectacle. Before their eyes were being paraded the tragic, pathetic remnants of a gallant regiment, which but a few weeks before had stood where they now stood, vital with life, tingling with courage. At their country's bidding they had ascended that Holy Mount of Sacrifice, to offer upon the altar of the world's freedom their bodies as a living sacrifice unto God, holy and acceptable. Now, their offering being made, they were being borne back helpless, bruised, shattered but unconquered and eternally glorious.
Silently the two companies gazed at each other across the intervening space. Then from the window of the train a soldier thrust a bandaged head and bandaged arm.
“Hello there, Canada!” he cried, waving the arm. Instantly, as if he had touched a hidden spring, from the battalion's thousand throats there broke a roar of cheers that seemed to rock the rafters of the station building.
Again, again, and yet again! As if they could never exhaust the burden of their swelling emotions, they roared forth their cheers, waving caps and rifles high in the air, while down their cheeks poured, unheeded and unhindered, a rain of tears.
“Canada! Canada! Canada!” they cried. “Oh, you Canadians! Alberta! Alberta!”
Feebly came the answering cheers, awkwardly waved the bandaged hands and arms.
Then the battalion broke ranks and flinging rifles and kitbags to the ground, they rushed across the tracks, eager to bring their tribute of pride and love to their brothers from their own country, far across the sea.
“Malcolm! Hello, Malcolm!” cried a voice from a window of the train, as the noise had somewhat subsided. “Hey, Malcolm, here you are!” cried a wounded man, raising himself from his cot to the window.
Malcolm Innes turned, scanned the train, then rushed across the tracks to the window and clung fast to it.
It was his brother, Ewen.
“Is it yourself, Ewen, and are you hurted bad?” cried the boy, all unconscious of his breaking voice and falling tears. They clung together for some little time in silence.
“Are you much hurted, Ewen? Tell me the God's truth,” again said Malcolm.
“Not much,” said Ewen. “True as death, I'm tellin' you. My arm is broke, that's all. We had a bad time of it, but, man, we gave them hell, you bet. Oh, it was great!”
Then again the silence fell between them. There seemed to be nothing to say.
“Here, stand back there! You must get back, you know, men!”
An N. C. O. of the R. A. M. C. tried to push Malcolm back from the window.
“Here, you go to hell,” cried Malcolm fiercely. “It's my brother I've got.”
The N. C. O., widely experienced in these tragic scenes, hesitated a moment. An officer, coming up behind him, with a single glance took in the situation.
“My boy,” he said kindly, placing his hand on Malcolm's arm, “we want to get these poor chaps as soon as possible where they will be comfortable.”
Malcolm sprang back at once, saluting.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “Certainly, sir.” And backing across the tracks, stood looking across at the window from which his brother, wearied with his effort, had disappeared.
Meantime the R. A. M. C. were busy with their work. With marvellous rapidity and speed the train was unloaded of its pathetic freight, the carrying cases into ambulances and the walking cases into cars and wagons.
“Good-bye, Mac,” called a voice as a car was driving off. It was Ewen again. The wounded man spoke to the driver, who immediately pulled up and swung over to the platform where Malcolm was standing.
“Oh, are you sure, Ewen, you are goin' to be all right? Man, you look awful white.”
“All right, Mac. You bet I will. It's only my arm,” said Ewen, his brave, bright words in pathetic contrast to his white face.
At this point Barry came rushing along.
“Why, Ewen! My poor fellow!” he cried, throwing his arm about the wounded man's shoulder. “What is it?”
“My arm, sir,” said the boy, adding some words in a low tone. “But I'm all right,” he said brightly. “You'll write my mother, sir, and tell her? You'll know what to say.”
“Surely I will. You'll be all right, old boy, God bless you! Good luck, Ewen!”
Then leaning over the boy, he added in a low voice, “Remember you are not all alone. God is with you. You won't forget that!”
“I won't, sir. I know it well,” said Ewen earnestly.
Most of the stretcher cases had been hurried away. Only a few of the more seriously wounded remained. As Barry turned away from the car, he saw the medical officer and sergeant major approaching him.
“A terrible business,” said Barry, in a horror-stricken voice. “Splendid chaps. How plucky they are!”
The M. O. made no reply, but coming close to Barry, he put his arm through his, the sergeant major taking him by the other arm.
“I say, Barry, old chap,” said the M. O. in a grave voice, calling him for the first time by his first name. “There is some one here that you know well.”
“Some one I know,” said Barry, standing still and looking from one to the other.
“Ay, sir. Some one we all know and greatly respect,” replied the sergeant major.
“Not—not—oh, not my father!”
The M. O. nodded.
“Bad, doctor? Not dying, doctor?” His face was white even in spite of his tan. His hands closed about the doctor's arm in a grip that reached to the bone.
“No, not dying, Barry, but in a bad way, I fear.”
“Take me,” muttered Barry, in a dazed way, and they moved together rapidly across the platform.
“Wait a moment, doctor,” said Barry, breathing hard.
They stood still, a silent and sympathetic group of soldiers about them. Barry turned from them, walked a few steps, his clasped hands writhing before him, then stood with his face uplifted to the sky for a few moments.
“All right, doctor, I'll follow,” he said, coming quietly back. “Will he know me?”
“Sure thing, sir,” said the sergeant major cheerily. “He was asking for you.”
On a stretcher, waiting to be lifted into the ambulance, he found his father, lying white and still.
“Dad!” cried Barry, dropping to his knees beside him. He put his arms around him on the stretcher, and kissed him on both cheeks and on the lips. They all drew back from the stretcher and turned their backs upon the two.
“Barry, my boy. Thank the good God! I feared I would not see you. It's all right now. Everything is all right now. I can't put my arms around you, boy. I haven't any left.”
Barry's shudder shook the stretcher.
“Dad, dad, oh, dad!” he whispered, over and over again.
“It's all right,” whispered his father. “We must not forget we're soldiers. Help me to keep up, boy. I'm not very strong.”
That pitiful word did for Barry what nothing else could do. He lifted his head, stood up and drew a deep breath.
“Sure thing, dad,” he said, in a clear, steady voice. “I mustn't keep you.”
He motioned to the bearers. Then suddenly recollecting that his duty would call him away from his father, he turned to the M. O., an agony of supplication in his voice.
“Oh, doctor, must I leave him here?” he asked in a low tone.
Just then an orderly came running up to him, and, saluting, said:
“Sir, the Commanding Officer says you are to remain behind with your father—till—till—”
“Until you are sent for,” said the M. O. “I will see to that.”
“Where's the Commanding Officer?” cried Barry, starting forward.
“He has gone off somewheres, sir. He was sorry he couldn't come himself, but he was called away. He sent that message to you.”
“Doctor, will you remember to thank the Commanding Officer for me?” he said briefly, and turned to follow his father into the ambulance, which he discovered to be in charge of his friend, the sergeant of the R. A. M. C.
At the hospital he was received with every mark of solicitous care. He was made to feel that he was among friends.
“How long, doctor?” he asked, after the doctor had finished his examination.
“Not long, I'm afraid. A few hours, perhaps a day. He will not suffer though,” said the doctor. “But,” he added, taking Barry by the arm, “he is very weak, remember, and must not be excited.”
“I know, doctor,” said Barry, quietly. “I won't worry him.”
Through the morning Barry sat by his father's cot, giving him, under the directions of the nurse, such stimulants as he needed, now and then speaking a quiet, cheery word.
Often his father opened his eyes and smiled at him.
“Good to see you there, my boy. That was my only grief. I feared I might not see you again. Thank the good God that he allowed me to see you.”
“He is good, dad, isn't He? Good to me; good to us both.”
“Yes, He is good,” said his father, and fell asleep. For almost two hours he slept, a sleep of exhaustion, due to the terrific strain of the past forty-eight hours, and woke refreshed, calm and strong.
“You are a lot better, dad,” said Barry. “I believe you are going to pull through, eh!”
“A lot better, Barry,” said his father, “but, my boy, we are soldiers, you and I. I shall not be long, but remember, we are soldiers.”
“All right, dad. I'll try to play the game.”
“That's the word, Barry. We must play the game, and by God's grace we will, you and I—our last game together.”
Through the afternoon they talked, between intervals of sleep, resolved each to help the other in playing to the end, in the manner of British soldiers, that last, great game.
They talked, of course, of home and their happy days together, going far back into the earlier years of struggle on the ranch.
“Hard days, Barry, they were, but your mother never failed me. Wonderful courage she had, and if we were all right, you and I, Barry, she was always happy. Do you remember her?”
“Yes, dad, quite well. I remember her smiling always.”
“Smiling, my God! Smiling through those days. Yes, that's the way she played the game, and that's the only way, boy.”
“Yes, dad,” said Barry, and his smile was brighter than ever, but his knuckles showed white where he gripped the chair.
The nurse came and went, wondering at their bright faces and their cheery voices. They kept their minds upon the old happy days. They recalled their canoe trips, their hunting experiences, dwelling mostly upon the humorous incidents, playing the game. Of the war they spoke little; not at all of what was to be after—the past, the golden, happy past, rich in love and in comradeship, that was their one theme.
As night fell, the father grew weary, and his periods of sleep grew longer, but ever as he woke he found his son's face smiling down upon him.
“Good boy, Barry,” he said once, with an understanding look and an answering smile. “Don't try too hard, my boy.”
“It's all right, dad. I assure you it's all right. You know it is.”
“I know, I know, my boy,” he said, and fell asleep again.
As the midnight hour drew on, Barry's head, from sheer weariness, sunk upon his breast. In his sleep he became aware of some one near him. He sat up, dazed and stupid from his exhaustion and his grief, and found a nurse at his side.
“Take this,” she said softly. “You will need it.” She set a tray at his side.
“Oh, thank you, no!” he said. “I can't eat. I can't touch anything.”
“You need it,” said the nurse. “You must take it, for his sake, you know. He will need you.”
Her voice aroused him. He glanced at her face.
“Oh, it's you!” he cried.
It was the little V. A. D.
“Don't rise,” she said, putting her hand on his shoulder, and pointing to his father. “Drink this first.” She handed him an eggnog. “Now take your tea.” There was a quiet authority about her that compelled obedience. He ate in silence while she stood beside him. He was too weary and too sick at heart to talk, but he gradually became aware that the overpowering sense of loneliness that had been with him all day was gone.
When he had finished his slight meal, he whispered to her:
“I wish I could thank you, but I can't. I did need it. You have helped me greatly.”
“You are better now,” she said softly. “It's very, very hard for you, so far from home, and from all your friends.”
“There is no one else,” said Barry simply. “We have no one but just ourselves.”
At this point his father opened his eyes bright and very wide-awake.
The V. A. D. began to gather up the tea things. Barry put out his hand and touched her arm.
“Dad, this is your night nurse. She was very kind to me last night, and again to-night. This is Miss Vincent.”
The brightness of the V. A. D.'s smile outshone his own.
“I'm not a real nurse,” she said. “I'm only a V. A. D., you know. They use me to wash the floors and dishes, and for all sorts of odd jobs. To-night they are shorthanded, and have put me on this duty.”
While she was speaking, she continued to smile, a smile of radiant cheer and courage.
The wounded man listened gravely to her, his eyes searching her face, her eyes, her very soul, it seemed to her. In spite of her experience and her self-control, she felt her face flushing under his searching gaze.
“My dear,” he said at length, “I am glad to meet you. You are a good and brave girl, I know.” His eyes fell upon the black band upon her arm. “I see you are wearing the badge of heroism. My dear, pardon me, you have the same look—Barry, she has your dear mother's look, not so beautiful—you will forgive me, my dear—but the same look. She thinks of others and she has courage to suffer. My dear, I cannot take your hands in mine,”—he glanced with a pathetic smile at his bandaged arms, but with a swift movement of indescribable grace the girl stooped and kissed him on the forehead.
“Barry,” he said, turning to his son, “that was a fine courtesy. I count it an honour to have known you, Miss Vincent.”
He paused a moment or two, his searching eyes still upon her face.
“You will befriend my boy, after—after—”
“I will try my best, sir,” said the girl, the colour deepening in her cheeks the while. “Good night, sir,” she said. “I shall be near at hand if I am wanted.”
“Barry,” said his father, after the girl had gone, “that is a very charming and a very superior young lady, one you will be glad to know.”
“Yes, dad, I am sure she is,” said Barry, and then he told his father of the events of the previous night.
For some moments after he had finished his father lay with his eyes shut, and quite still, and Barry, thinking he slept, sat watching, his eyes intent upon the face he loved best in all the world.
But his father was not asleep.
“Yes, Barry,” he said, “she is like your dear mother, and now,” he added hurriedly, “I hope you will not think I am taking a liberty—”
“Oh, dad, I implore you!” said Barry.
“Barry, I would like to speak to you about your work.”
Barry shook his head sadly.
“I'm not much good, dad,” he said, “but I'm not going to quit,” he added quickly, noting a shadow on his father's face.
“Barry, I'm going to say something to you which I do hope will not hurt you. I know the common soldier better than you do, boy. Our Canadian soldiers do not like to be rebuked, criticised or even watched too closely. Forgive me this, my boy.”
“Oh, dad, please tell me all that is in your heart!”
“Thank you, Barry. They don't like the chaplain to be a censor over their words.”
“I loathe it,” said Barry passionately.
“Believe me, they are good chaps in their hearts. They swear and all that, but that is merely a habit or a mere expression of high emotion. You ought to hear them as they 'go over.' Barry, let all that pass and remember that these boys are giving their lives—their lives, Barry, for right, for conscience, and ultimately, though it may be unconsciously, for God. Barry, a man that is giving his life for God may say what he likes. Don't be too hard on them, but recall to mind, Barry, that when they go up the line they feel terribly lonely and terribly afraid, and that is a truly awful experience.”
He paused a moment or two, and then lowered his voice and continued: “Barry, you won't be ashamed of me. I was terribly afraid, myself.”
Barry choked back a convulsive sob.
“You, dad, you!” He laughed scornfully.
“I didn't run, Barry, thank God! But the boys—my boys—they are only lads, many of them—lonely and afraid—and they must go on. They must go on. Oh, Barry, in that hour they need some one to go with them. They need God.”
His son was listening with his heart in his eyes. He was getting a new view of the soldier and of the soldier's needs.
“Unhappily,” continued his father, “God is at best a shadowy being, to many of them a stranger, to some a terror. Barry,” he said, “they need some one to tell them the truth about God. It's not fair to God, you know.” Here again his father paused and then said very humbly: “I think I may say, Barry, I know God now, as I did not before. And you helped me, boy, to know him.”
“Oh, dad,” cried Barry, passionately. “Not I! I don't know Him at all!”
“Let me tell you how you helped me, Barry. Before I went up the last time, I wanted—”
He paused abruptly, his face working and his lip quivering.
“Forgive me, my boy. I'm a little weak.”
A few moments of silence and then he continued quietly:
“I wanted you, Barry.”
The boy's hands were writhing under his knees, but his face and eyes were quite steady.
“I was terribly lonely. I thought of that strange, dear bond that held us together, and then like a flash out of the sky came those great words: 'Like as a father pitieth his children,' and oh, boy, boy! It came to me then that as I feel toward my boy God feels toward me. Barry, listen—” His voice fell to a whisper. “I am God's son, as you are mine. There was no more fear, and I was not nearly so lonely. Tell the boys—tell the boys the truth about God.”
He lay a long time silent, with his eyes closed, and as Barry watched he saw two tears fall down the white cheeks. It was to him a terrible sight. Never, not even at his mother's grave, had he seen his father's tears. It was more than he could endure. He put his face down beside his father's on the pillow.
“Dad, I understand,” he whispered. “I know now what God is like. He is like you, dad. He gave himself for us, as you, dad, have given yourself all these years for me.”
He was sobbing, but very quietly.
“Forgive me, dad; I'm not crying. I'm just thinking about God and you. Oh, dad, you are both wonderful! Wonderful!”
“Barry, my boy, tell them. Don't worry yourself about them. Just tell them about God. He is responsible for them, not you.”
“Oh, I will, dad; I promise you I will. I've been all wrong, but I'll tell them. I'll tell them.”
“Thank God, my boy,” said his father, with a deep sigh. “Now I'm tired. Say 'Our Father.'”
Together they whispered those greatest of words in human speech, those words that have bound heaven to earth in yearning and in hope for these two thousand years.
“Don't move, Barry,” whispered his father. “I like you there.”
With their faces thus together they fell asleep.
Barry was awakened by his father's voice, clear and strong.
“Are you there, Barry?” it said.
“Here, dad, right here!”
“Good boy. Good boy. You won't leave me, Barry. I mean you don't need to go?”
“No, dad, I'll never leave you.”
“Good boy,” again murmured his father softly. “Always a good boy, always, always—”
He was breathing heavily, long deep breaths.
“Lift me up, Barry,” he said.
Barry sat on the bed, put his arm around his father's shoulders, and lifted him up.
“That's better—hold me closer, Barry—You won't hurt me—Oh, it's good—to feel—your arms—strong arms—Barry.”
“You made them strong, dad,” said Barry, in a clear, steady voice.
The father nestled his head upon his son's shoulder.
“Barry,” he said in the low tone of one giving a confidence, “don't ever forget—to thank God—for these eighteen years—together—You saved me—from despair—eighteen years ago—when she went away—you know—and you have been—all the world to me—my son—”
“And you to me, dad,” said his son in the same steady tone.
“I've tried all my life—to make you know—how I love you—but somehow I couldn't—”
“But I knew, dad,” said Barry. “All my life I have known.”
“Really?” asked his father. “I—wonder—I don't think—you quite know—Ah—my boy—my boy—You don't—know—you—can't. Barry,” he said, “I think—I'm going out—I'm going—out—no, in—your word—my boy—in—eh—Barry?”
“Yes, dad,” said his son. “Going in. The inner circle, you know.”