THE RIVER'S BRINK.
"Then he could see that the bright colours were faded from his uniform;
but whether they had been washed off during his journey, or from the
effects of his sorrow, no one could say."--_The Brave Tin Soldier_.
Darkness had fallen, and a thick mist rising from the river made the
still, night air damp and penetrating; but the weary men, stretched out
upon the sand, slept soundly in spite of the cold, and of the scanty
protection from it afforded by their clothing. The dark figures of the
sentries surrounding the bivouac, moving slowly to and fro, or pausing
to rest on their arms, seemed the only signs of wakefulness, except
where the occasional gleam of a lantern shone out as the surgeons went
their rounds among the wounded.
Jack, however, was not asleep. He seemed instead to be just waking up
from a troubled dream, in which all that had happened since he had seen
Valentine placed upon the stretcher had passed before his mind in a
confused jumble of sights and sounds, leaving only a vague recollection
of what had really taken place:--The oncoming mass of Arabs; the crash
of the volleys, changing into the continuous roar of independent
firing; the pungent reek of the powder as the rolling clouds of smoke
enveloped the square; and the sight of the enemy falling in scores,
wavering, slackening the pace of their advance, and finally retreating
over the distant hills, not one having reached the line of bayonets.
Then, in the growing dusk, as the square advanced, the sight of the
silver stream showing every now and again amidst the green, cultivated
strip of land upon its banks; the wild joy of men suffering the
tortures of a burning thirst, which swelled their tongues and blackened
their lips; and the pitiful sight of the wounded being held up that
they might catch a glimpse of the distant river; the wait on the brink
of the broad stretch of cool, priceless water, as each face of the
square moved up in turn to take its fill; and then, no sucking the
dregs of a warm water-bottle, but a long, cold, satisfying drink.
[Illustration: "The oncoming mass of Arabs."]
All this, though so recently enacted, seemed to have left but a faint
impression of its reality on Jack's mind; his one absorbing thought
being that Valentine was hit, badly wounded, perhaps dying, or even
dead.
A man approached, and in the darkness stumbled over one of the
slumberers.
"Now, then, where are you coming to?"
"Dunno--wish I did. D'you men belong to the Blankshire? Where's your
officer?"
"Can't say. Wait a minute; that's he lying by that bit of
bush--Captain Hamling."
Our hero raised himself into a sitting posture. He had recognized the
new-comer as a hospital orderly, and in the surrounding stillness heard
him deliver his message:--
"Surgeon Gaylard sends his compliments, and would you allow one of your
men named Fenleigh to come and see an officer who's badly wounded?
He's some relative I think, sir."
"Very good," answered the captain drowsily; "you can find him yourself."
The orderly had no difficulty in doing that, for in a moment Jack was
at his side.
"Is he dying?"
"Dunno; he's badly hurt--shot through the lungs, and he's asked for you
several times."
It was a cruel night for the wounded, with nothing to shelter them from
the bitter cold. Valentine lay upon the ground, with his head propped
up against a saddle. The surgeon was stooping over him as the two men
approached, and the light of his lamp tell on the pale, pinched
features of the sufferer. Within the last three days Jack had seen
scores of men hurried into eternity, and his senses had become hardened
by constant association with bloodshed and violent death, yet the sight
of those unmistakable lines on that one familiar face turned his heart
to stone.
"You're some relative, I believe. He seemed very anxious to see you,
so I sent the orderly. What?-- Yes, you may stay with him if you
like; but keep quiet, and don't let him talk more than you can help."
"Is--is he dying, sir?"
"He may live till morning, but I doubt if he will."
Jack went down on his knees. There was no "sir" this time--sword, and
sash, and shoulder-strap were all forgotten.
"Val!" The great, grey eyes, already heavy with the sleep of death,
opened wide.
"Jack! my dear Jack!"
"Yes; I've come to look after you. Are you in much pain?"
"No--only when I cough--and--it's dreadfully cold."
The listener stifled down a groan. Ah, dear thoughts of long ago!
Such things had never happened on the mimic battlefields at Brenlands.
This, then, was the reality.
"Jack, I want you to promise me something--your word of honour to a
dying man."
A fit of coughing, ending in a groan of agony, interrupted the request.
"Don't talk too much," answered the other in a broken voice. "What is
it you want? I'll do anything for you, God knows!"
"I want you to promise that you'll take this ring to Queen Mab--and
give it to her with your own hands. Say that I remembered her
always--and carried my love for her with me down into the grave.
Promise me that you will give it her--_yourself_!"
Valentine ceased speaking, exhausted with the effort.
"I will, I will!" returned the other, taking the ring. "But don't talk
about dying, Val; you'll pull through right enough."
The sufferer answered with a feeble shake of his head, and another
terrible fit of coughing left him faint and gasping for breath.
"Stay with me," he whispered.
Jack propped him up to ease his breathing, and wiped the blood from his
pallid lips. For a long, long time he sat silently holding the hand of
his dying friend; then, fight against it as he would, exhausted nature
began to assert herself in an overpowering desire to sleep. Numbed
with cold, and wellnigh heart-broken, wretched in body and mind,
jealous of the moments as they flew past and of the lessening
opportunity of proving his love by any trifling service it might be in
his power to render--in spite of all this, an irresistible drowsiness
crept over him, and his head fell forward on his knees.
The feeble voice was speaking again.
"What did you say, Val? God forgive me, I cannot keep awake."
Bending close down to catch the words, he could distinguish, even in
the darkness, some faint traces of the old familiar smile.
"You used to say--that I had all the luck--but, you remember--at
Brenlands--it was the lead captain that got killed."
Jack murmured some reply, he was too worn out and miserable to weep.
Once more that terrible struggle to keep his heavy eyes from closing; a
dozen times he straightened his back, and groaned in bitterness of
spirit at the thought that he could wish to sleep at such a time as
this; then once again his head sank under the heavy weight of fatigue
and want of rest, and everything became a blank.
* * * * *
Awakening with a start, Jack scrambled to his feet. How long he had
slept he could not tell, nor did he realize where he was till the light
of a lantern flashing in his eyes brought him to his senses.
"How is--" the question died on his lips.
The surgeon took one keen glance, held the lamp closer, and then raised
it again.
"Is he going, sir?"
"Going? he's gone!"
The words were followed by an awful silence; then, for an instant, the
yellow gleam of the lamp tell upon the soldier's face.
"Come, come, my lad!" said the medical officer kindly, "we did what we
could for him, but it was hopeless from the first. Be thankful that
you've got a whole skin yourself. You'd better rejoin your company."
The sky was paling with the first indications of the coming dawn. The
men were standing to their arms, and Jack hurried away to take his
place in the ranks, hiding his grief as best he could from the eyes of
his comrades. Then as he turned to look once more towards the spot
whence he had come, he saw, away across the river, the flush of rosy
light brighten in the east, and all unbidden there came back to his
memory the words of Queen Mab's hymn. The sun rose with a red glare,
scattering the mist and sending a glow of warmth across the desert; and
once more the old, sweet melody was sounding in his heart, while all
around seemed telling of hopes fulfilled and sorrows vanquished when
"Morning's joy shall end the night of weeping."