TRANSIT
§1
Then Monty approached me, as I tossed stones down the slope on to
the beach.
"I've seen him," he said. "He's in No. 17 Stationary Hospital, the
'White City.' Are you coming?"
"Of course," replied I uncivilly. Did he think _he_ would visit Doe
and _I_ wouldn't--I who had known him ten years? The man was
presuming on his six-months' acquaintance with my friend.
"Well, come down to the dump, and we'll find you a horse."
"How is he?" asked I, not choosing to be told what to do.
"Bad. Come along. There's no time to lose."
"All right--I'm coming, aren't I? I don't need to be ordered to go."
In silence we went down Gurkha Mule Trench into Gully Ravine, where
the horse lines were.
"Saddle up Charlie," said Monty to his groom, "and get the Major's
chestnut for Captain Ray."
The groom brought the horses, and, as he tightened up the girth on
Monty's dark bay Arab, asked me:
"Are you going to see Mr. Doe, sir?"
I turned away without answering. I hadn't spoken to him, and there
was no occasion for him to speak to me.
"Yes, we are," said Monty promptly.
"Sad about such a nice young gentleman. He's packing up, they say."
"The damned alarmist!" thought I. "He relishes the grim news."
But I knew in my heart that I was only grudging him his right to be
sorry for Doe. Who was _he_ to grieve? Three months before he had
not heard of us. On all the Peninsula there was only one just claim
to the right of grieving: and that was mine.
Monty mounted. Seizing the reins carelessly, I put my foot in the
chestnut's stirrup. As I rose, the bit pulled on the mare's mouth
and she wheeled and reared, shaking me awkwardly to the ground.
"Damn the bloody horse," I said aloud.
Monty stroked his bay's silk neck, as though he had heard nothing.
"You've got his rein too tight, sir," the groom told me.
"All right! I know how to mount a horse."
I swung into the saddle, and, ignoring Monty, set the mare, which
was very fresh, at a canter towards Artillery Road. Artillery Road
was a winding gun-track that climbed out of Gully Ravine up to the
tableland beneath Achi Baba. Much too fast I ran the chestnut up the
steep incline, and emerged from the ravine on to the high level
ground. Straightway I looked across two miles of scrub to the
seaward point of the plateau, where stood a large camp of square
tents. It was No. 17 Stationary Hospital, the "White City." ... I
wondered which of those tents he was in.
The chestnut, anxious for a gallop through the scrub, and excited by
the noise of Monty cantering behind, pulled hard. My heart was in
sympathy with her, and I let her open into a stretch-gallop. For I
was absurdly thinking that, if once I allowed Monty to draw abreast
of me, I should yield to him a share of my position as chief
mourner. I wanted to be lonely in my grief.
At a point in front of me on the beaten road shells were dropping
with regularity. Savagely grieving, I let the mare race the shells
to the danger zone. What cared I if shell and mare and rider
converged together upon their destruction?
I rode through a rush of confused impressions. At one moment I was
passing Pink Farm Cemetery, which had two of its crosses nearly
broken by a shell-splinter. I was wondering if they would bury him
there, alongside of White, under the solitary tree. At another, I
was galloping through the lines of the Lowland Division, where a
band of pipers was playing "Annie Laurie," and an officer cried out
to me: "Stop that galloping, you young fool." In answer I put heels
to the mare's flanks and urged her on. And all the while the "White
City" was growing nearer and larger, and my heart beginning to beat
with anticipation and fear. I shouldn't know what to do or to say.
Never shy of Doe living, I was shy of Doe dying.
Having pulled the excited mare into control and dismounted, I looked
round, sneakily sideways, for Monty. I wanted his company now, for I
feared what was coming. Too proud to appear to wait for him, I
shammed difficulty with the animal's head-rope, and delayed long
over the task of tethering her securely. And the time, during which
Monty arrived and dismounted, I killed by unloosening girth and
surcingle.
"Come along, Rupert, old chap."
Monty led the way to Doe's tent. And the chief mourner followed
humbly behind. As we dipped our heads to pass under the porch, we
went out of the glare of the open air into the subdued and gentle
light of the tent. At once a coolness like that of evening displaced
the warmth of the afternoon. And a strange quiet fell about our
ears. It seemed to me that the eight cots were empty.
The orderly on duty greeted Monty with a soft whisper: "He's quite
conscious, sir, but won't last long."
Following the glance of the orderly, I saw Doe's wide eyes fixed
upon me.
"Hallo, Rupert."
I hurried to his bedside, feeling, even in that moment, a triumphant
joy that his affectionate welcome had been for me and not for Monty.
"Hallo, Doe."
He looked very beautiful, lying there. His complexion, always as
flawless as a little child's, had assumed a new waxen loveliness,
no touch of colour varying its pale and delicate brown. And his eyes
were brilliant.
"Well--we did in the old gun, Rupert, that killed--Jimmy Doon--and
Major Hardy.... The _Rangoon_ proved too strong for it, after all!"
How characteristic of our dear, dramatic Doe his words were!
"Yes," I said, and could think of nothing more to say.
He moved his body slightly, and I, cudgelling my mind for some
remark, asked:
"Were you hurt much?"
"I was wounded--in the shoulder--and then hit four times, after
I--the doctor seems to think it's pretty bad--but oh, it's nothing."
As he spoke I could see that he was rather pleased with the
picturesqueness of being "Dangerously Wounded," and that, while he
wished to inform us how interesting he had become, he wished also to
appear to be stoically making light of his pain. And I loved him for
being the same self-conscious heroic character up to the last.
The brilliant eyes sought out Monty, who was standing just behind
me. Doe gazed at him, and, after a thoughtful pause, laughed
nervously.
"I wonder if I shall be--here--to-morrow, when you come. I dare say
I shan't."
Again I saw the thought behind his words. Probably my love for him
was blazing up, in these farewell moments, brighter than it had ever
been, and illuminating all things. I saw that he wanted to live, but
feared he was going to die. I saw that he had gambled everything
upon his last remark, and was waiting to see if he would draw life
or death.
Had he said it to me I should have answered hurriedly: "Of course
you will," but Monty was cast in more courageous metal. Boldly he
seized this moment to convey the truth. He offered no denial to
Doe's daring suggestion that the end was near: instead, he laid his
hand very gently on the boy's wrist, as if to tell him that he
wished to help him through with a difficult thought.
Throughout my life, till someone shall tell me that my time has
come, I shall remember Doe's look when he saw that Monty was not
going to dispute his statement. His wide eyes stared inquiringly.
Then they filmed over with a slight moisture, for they belonged to a
boy who was not yet twenty. He dropped his eyelids to conceal the
welling moisture, but raised them a few seconds later, revealing
that the tears had gathered still more abundantly, and his lashes
were wet with them. Nevertheless he smiled, and said:
"Well, it can't be helped. If I'd known when I started that it
would end like this--I'd have gone through with it just the same. I
haven't got cold feet."
§2
"It's an end to all the ambitions and poems," said Doe later, when
the windowless tent seemed to be getting dark, though the afternoon
was yet early. "P'raps you'll be left to fulfil yours, Rupert. Do
you remember you said in Radley's room--all those hundreds of years
ago--that you wanted to be a country squire?"
"Yes," answered I, with a quivering lip.
"And Penny wanted--to be a Tory.... And I wanted to lead the people.
Oh, well. I'd like just to have known--whether we won the war in the
end. P'raps you'll know--"
"We're winning," said I feebly.
"O Lord, yes," agreed Doe, dreamily echoing an old memory.
It grew darker, though not yet three o'clock; and my brain seemed to
be receding from me with the light. I felt tired and frightened.
There was a long pause, till at last I said:
"Well, I s'pose I must be going now."
God! The futility of the words! And they were the last I could utter
to Doe!... I grasped his wrist. If I couldn't speak, I could pass
all my abounding love and misery through the pressure of my hand.
"Good-bye," he said. "Thanks for coming to see me."
The boyish words broke me up. My brows contracted in pain. My eyes
burned, and misery filled my throat. I even felt a smile at the
tragedy of it all pass over my face. Then with an audible moan I
rushed away.
I went out to my horse without waiting for Monty. I could have
waited for nobody. I wanted motion, action, something to occupy my
hands and feet and mind. As I mounted the mare she began to walk
away. But walking was not action enough. Impatiently I urged her to
a canter and a gallop. And, while she galloped, increasing her
distance from the "White City," I asked myself if I realised that I
was riding away from Doe for ever.
The spirited mare, knowing that she was going home to her lines,
opened out like a winner racing up the straight. The extravagance of
her speed exactly fitted my extravagant mood. I promised myself
that, just as I was letting my animal have its head, so I would
slacken all moral reins, and let my life run uncontrolled. There was
_not_ more beauty in things than ugliness, nor more happiness in
life than pain. Have done with this straining after ideals!... The
horse gathered pace.
Then, as I rode savagely and thought savagely, a strange thing
happened. I was gripping the mare with my knees, and, now that she
was attaining her highest speed, I leaned forward like a jockey,
throwing my weight on her withers. The wind rushed past me; the
exhilaration of speed filled me; that invigorating sensation of
strong life pulling upon my reins and springing between the grip of
my knees ran through my veins; my lungs tightened; a pleasing
weariness set in below the heart; and for a moment I almost felt the
unconquerable joy of youth in life!
Instantly I pulled the wild animal in, and dropped into a melancholy
walk. I felt as if I had been trapped. Not yet would I be disloyal
to Doe by admitting beauty in creation or joy in living. I walked
the lathering mare to the lines, like a tired jockey who has run his
race. Then I wandered home to Fusilier Bluff--home to a dug-out for
two! I couldn't enter the dug-out yet. I lay down on the Bluff,
watching the late sun nearing the hills of Imbros.
The misery possessing me was of that passionate kind which embraces
self-torture. I wilfully excavated the ten past years for memories
of Doe, though, in so doing, I was pressing upon my wound to make it
hurt. I watched him as a boy, getting into the next bed in the
Bramhall dormitory, or rowing in the evening light up the river at
Falmouth. I saw two young khaki figures, his and mine, setting out
at midnight to sin and sully ourselves together. I heard him quoting
on the hilltops of Mudros his haunting couplet:
"As long days close,
And weary English suns go west'ring home."
The memories made my breath come fast and jerkily. With madly
exalted words I addressed that slight fair-haired figure, which
must now for ever be only a memory. "_My_ friend," I said to it;
"_mine, mine!_" In the freshness of my loss, I thought no lover had
ever loved as I did. "I loved you--I loved you--I loved you," I
repeated. And I even worked myself up into a weary longing to die.
Pennybet had led the way, and Doe now was following him. And why
should not I complete the story? Why not? Why not?
My brain was pulsing thus tempestuously when Monty drew near me. I
affected not to notice his coming, but when he sat down beside me I
decided to speak first. I felt it would be a supreme relief to hurt
him with the news that I had abandoned his ideal, and let my
spiritual life collapse. So, without looking at him, I said angrily:
"There's no beauty in it."
"Rupert, you're wrong," he answered, "and you'll see it when you are
less unhappy." He paused. "Doe--Edgar used to worry himself because
he thought that any really good thing that he did was spoiled by a
desire for glory. He often said that he wanted to do a really
perfect thing. And, Rupert, this afternoon he told me that, when he
went forward to put out that gun, he felt quite alone. He seemed
surrounded with smoke and flying dust. And he thought he would do
one big deed unseen.... He did his perfect thing at the last."
"There's no beauty," I repeated dully.
"Rupert, Edgar is dead.... And there's only one unbeautiful thing
about his death, and that is the way his friend is taking it."
Monty stopped, and both of us watched the sun go down behind Imbros.
It was throwing out golden rays like the spokes of a wheel. These
rays caught the flaky clouds above Samothrace, and just pencilled
their outline with a tiny rim of gold and fire. And the hills of
Imbros, as always in the Ægean Sea, turned purple.
"There's no beauty in death and burial and corruption," I said.
"Yes, there is, even in them. There's beauty in thinking that the
same material which goes to make these earthly hills and that still
water should have been shaped into a graceful body, and lit with the
divine spark which was Edgar Doe. There's beauty in thinking that,
when the unconquerable spark has escaped away, the material is
returned to the earth, where it urges its life, also an
unconquerable thing, into grass and flowers. It's harmonious--it's
beautiful."
This time I forbore to repeat my obstinate denial.
"And your friendship is a more beautiful whole, as things are. Had
there been no war, you'd have left school and gone your different
roads, till each lost trace of the other. It's always the same. But,
as it is, the war has held you in a deepening intimacy till--till
the end. It's--it's perfect."
"It'll be more perfect," I answered, in a low, hollow voice, "if the
war ends us both. Perhaps it will. There is time yet."
At so bitter a sentence Monty gave me a look, and broke through all
barriers with a single generous remark.
"Rupert, old chap, the loss of Edgar leaves _me_ numb with pain, but
I know I'm not suffering like you."
A dry sob tore up my frame.
"Oh, I don't know what I feel," I gulped, "or what I've said. I
think I've been a self-centred cad. I'm--I'm sorry."
Monty muttered something gentle, and left me reclining on the Bluff
and looking out to sea. I didn't turn my head to watch him go. But I
was thinking now less stormily.
Yes, I had been behaving like a fool: but I had been mad, as though
everything had snapped. To-morrow I would recover my mental balance
and resume moral effort. My last loyalty to Doe should be this: that
I would not let his death destroy his friend's ideals. That, as
Monty said, would spoil the beauty of it all. And I, least of any,
should spoil it! But to-night--just for to-night--my fretful,
contrary mood must play itself out. To-morrow I would begin again.
So I lay watching the changing lights. Darkness came close behind
the sunset, and there, yonder, Orion hung low in the sky. I tossed a
few stones down the Bluff, but soon it was too dark to see them
after they had travelled a little distance. Overhead the sky
deepened to the last blue of night, but along the western horizon it
remained a luminous sea-green. Against this bright afterglow the
hills of Imbros stood almost black. I stared at them. Then the
luminous green turned to the blue of the zenith, and the hills were
lost. And the cold of the Gallipoli night chilled me, as I lay
there, too indolent and despairing to seek warmth.