We intimated when we first began this tale that Father Felix was a man
to be admired, not only for his strong religious zeal, but for his great
virility and patriotic fervor.
Never had he shown these qualities more fully than during the naval
battle of Santiago which engagement took place shortly after the events
narrated in the last chapter; there was work to do on land as well as on
the water at that crucial time; more than 18,000 helpless persons ...
men, women and children ... marched out of the beleagued city seeking
safety in the open country surrounding it; among these were many wealthy
women of the higher class whose delicate silken garments were bedraggled
and torn by the hardships of the journey which it was necessary to make
on foot over muddy roads and through barbed wires which had been
stretched irregularly all around Santiago and its vicinity by the
Spanish soldiery for the purpose of turning back the invading Americans
who were advancing upon them.
Among these women there was one who reached the hospital over which Ruth
Wakefield presided; she was bespattered and weary and sick at heart,
but there was a light in her dark eyes and a steadiness in her firm hand
that appealed to Ruth at once and made her single this one woman from
among all who came to her that day for help; as soon as she had changed
her apparel and washed the grime of travel from her person, she asked to
be allowed to assist the others who were at work among the little cots
that were now filled with suffering humanity; she took her place so
quietly that it seemed to those among whom she moved that she had almost
always been right there and would always continue to be there; Estrella
liked her from the first of their acquaintance and the older woman found
the girl so pleasing that whenever she could do so, she gave her hand a
little squeeze or patted her upon her shoulder to make her know that
they two were congenial and going on, together, toward the same loved
goal; this silent association became at once a bond between these two
who, in their nurse's uniforms, looked enough alike to be twin
sisters ... they had the same dark eyes and sensitive and drooping
lips ... they had the same fair skins, although Estrella had been tanned
by more outside exposure than the other had ... they moved in the same
way and both were tall and straight and lithe and quick; Ruth noticed
them together and at once began to wonder why they looked so much
alike ... then she thought of what Estrella'd told her as to what she
knew of her own family, and, immediately, Ruth began to speculate and
piece together little circumstances and then she soon began to hope that
poor Estrella, maybe, might, in this way, find her own people; so she
asked some kindly questions of the woman who had come to them that day,
and she found that she had had a little sister, long ago ... a little
sister who had disappeared and whom they'd mourned as dead for many
years; Ruth told her all she knew about the girl ... all except her
intimate association with the man whom, she, herself, had married; she
did not feel that she could speak of him to this dark stranger ...
anyway, it would not matter, now, and if Estrella wished to speak about
it later on, then she could do so; they called the girl, then, and found
she had a little dainty cross of gold that she had always worn about her
neck.... Manuello's mother had preserved it for her while she was an
infant thinking it might prove the child's identity, so that the ones
who'd cared for her might be profited thereby, and, since she knew about
it, she, herself, had held it sacred as the only link that bound her to
her unknown family ... and so it proved, indeed, the link that proved
her as the sister of the lady who had come to them that day from the
beleaguered city of Santiago.
Estrella's blood, it seemed, was Spanish ... she had descended from the
ones who knew the roses of Castile ... she'd always seemed far
different from the peasants among whom she'd lived until she met Ruth
Wakefield who recognized in her a higher strain ... a higher nature ...
than she found in any of the peasants whom she met in San Domingo; old
Mage, even, looked upon Estrella differently than on the other servants
whom she always treated with great condescension, for she felt herself
above the most of them as she was always nearer to her dear young lady
than any of them were; Ruth trusted her with Tid-i-wats, for one thing,
which separated her from all the rest, for Tid-i-wats, was most abrupt
in very many ways, and, sometimes, even went so far as to just sink her
long, sharp claws right through whatever garments anybody wore, so that
they found and often even penetrated the skin beneath the garments; she
would do this deed in such a loving way that many who were sadly
scratched by her would try to smile and take this punishment as if it
were but joy and gladness ... old Mage squirmed sometimes, 'tis true,
beneath this discipline that Tid-i-wats gave very freely, but she never
put her down or turned against her,--only saying:
"Tid-i-wats! Good land! Your blessed little claws are very sharp
indeed," and, then, she'd often turn to Ruth and add, "I tell you
Tid-i-wats is just as young and spry as she ever was ... no one would
ever think how old she is if he could feel her claws."
When Estrella found that she was not alone, but had a family, and a
loving, wealthy sister, old Mage was very glad indeed ... she'd found
the girl a little in her way for many reasons; Ruth deferred to her a
little, pitying her so much, and old Mage knew that if Ruth pitied
anybody very much she might, in time, begin to love the person whom she
put her tender pity on, and, then, to the old nurse, Estrella always
brought up the memory of the man who had deceived her ... made her think
him to be far better than he'd ever been ... and, so, altogether,
Estrella's good fortune pleased old Mage in very many pleasant ways.
To say that Ruth was glad to have Estrella find her people was to put
the case too lightly altogether; she was far too unselfish not to
rejoice in her good fortune even though her going might mean great human
loneliness for her: she had in her own inner consciousness a kind of
spiritual and lasting strength on which she always leaned when outside
companionship failed her in any way ... she never was alone although she
often seemed to be so ... in fact, Ruth Wakefield often found herself to
be alone among a crowd of human beings ... it seemed to her their many
diverse thoughts disturbed the peace of mind she always longed to
have ... her pity was so great ... her sympathy so broad ... and sorrows
and sore trials are so common to the entire race of men and women ...
that she seldom found much joy among the people whom she met; she gave
most liberally to all she came in contact with ... she gave
encouragement and comfort and sympathy and help ... but seldom did she
find a human being who could give her anything at all for any length of
time, at least:
"They come and they go," she often sadly said. "It seems to me that
there is nothing steadfast in this world except the God on whom I always
lean when all else fails me.... I wish I _could_ find something strong
enough to tie my faith to ... I _wish_ I could ... it would be wonderful
to know that I could always find good, solid ground beneath my human
feet ... it would be wonderful to feel that nothing mattered between
another human being and myself ... to feel that nothing, good or bad,
could ever really change our feelings toward each other ... but I'd have
to know for sure that it was so ..." she'd add, "I'd have to know for
sure, I'd have to try it out somehow ... so many things have slipped
away from me ... so very many things ... I'd have to know for sure,
somehow, before I'd dare to trust too much."
While these personal matters were taking the attention of some of those
within the shadowy hospital, Father Felix was undergoing an altogether
different experience.
The good Priest had, more than once, covered the entire eight miles of
entrenchments around Santiago on foot and with a heavy pack containing
supplies on his broad back; during the time that elapsed between the
naval battle of Santiago and the surrender of the city on Sunday, July
17, 1898, he had marched with his little flock of soldiers over many
stony trails and through many miry passes, and, while the engagement
itself was in progress, he had performed many heroic deeds and, more
than once, he had fervently thanked God for his sturdy strength of arm
and limb because he was thereby enabled to give material as well as
spiritual aid to those who came within the reach of his hands; had
anyone been watching a certain shady spot near Santiago on July 3, 1898,
he might have witnessed a peculiar scene.
A rather short thick-set man, dressed as an army Chaplain and wearing a
crucifix attached to a strong chain around his neck, was bending over
one who lay there in the shade; he seemed to be examining the man to see
if life remained in his body, and, yet, he always held the crucifix
before the face of him who lay there as if he wished him to behold it,
in case his earthly eyes should evermore see anything; he tried in every
way he could to gain some recognition of his holy office from the man
over whose earthly tenement he was then bending, but, as he did not
succeed in this, he gently laid the crucifix upon the apparently
pulseless breast, and went his way to find, perhaps, another one to whom
he might administer the final consolation of the church whose dogmas he
believed in.
The man he'd left behind him stirred uneasily, and, as he writhed and
twisted there, the crucifix slid off his breast and fell upon the
ground; it lay where it had fallen until Father Felix came again and
brought with him another sufferer; he looked upon the breast of his
first charge and did not see his crucifix ... it lay beneath the body of
the one he'd left it with; he gently said:
"I left my crucifix with you, my Friend ... I thought it might be a
consolation to you if you came to life again at all. I do not see the
crucifix ... could anyone have taken it during my absence, I wonder?"
"I'm sure I don't know anything about your crucifix, good Sir," the man
replied in a weak voice. "I have other things to fix my mind on than
anything like that. For one thing, I am wounded and I need a surgeon
more than I do Priests or crosses."
"I'll supply that need as far as I am able," Father Felix said. "I know
I am an amateur and yet I have set broken limbs and tied up arteries and
sewed up wounds full many times because there was no one better near
enough to do it. Where are you hurt, my Friend?"
"I am not hurt at all, you blundering old fool, you ..." the man began.
"I'm dead and buried ... killed completely ... that is all ... and I
don't want any old woman's work. Go get a surgeon for me ... quick! I'm
losing lots of blood ... I need a surgeon, I tell you ... go get me
one!"
Father Felix did not say a word in answer to this tirade for he had
heard full many such remarks since he had been at work among the
soldiers, and, so, he bound the wounds of the second sufferer he'd
brought before he stopped the flow of blood from his first charge, for,
well he knew the loss of some good red blood might make it easier for
him to help the man ... he was too full of life and anger ... too full
of unrepented viciousness ... for the good Priest to help him very much,
and, so, he let him lay there in the shade and curse and fume and rage
until he worked his evil temper off a little; then he gently said to
him:
"Now, if you think that I can help you any, I will do all I can for you,
Friend, but if you'd rather lie there on the ground and take the name of
God in vain, why, I must let you do so. There is no one within hail
except myself, who knows a thing about surgery, unless this man, here,
does; I do not know about that part but he is wounded, too, so that I
guess I am your only hope here on the earth at present. May I see your
hurt and maybe bind it up and make your suffering less than it is, now?"
Sheepishly, the man looked up at him, and moved a little so the crucifix
became exposed; Father Felix quickly picked it up and put the chain
around his neck again, and then he added to the things that he had said
before:
"I'm sure I'm very glad I found my crucifix ... it is of value to me for
it has been the means of consolation to a great many sufferers from this
sad war; it seems to help so many to behold the sufferings of One Who
gave His precious life to save the lost and suffering souls who wander
on the earth. He loved you, Sir, and, in His Name, I love you, too, and
wish to help you, though you flout my work in your behalf. I am an
amateur, but I can bind the only wound I see about you, Sir. Shall I do
it, Sir, or not? I'd like to do the work the very best I could, but, if
you say me nay, I'll leave it as it is."
The man grinned like a bashful boy, but he bowed his head in assent and
Father Felix went to work and bound his wound and left him lying there
beside the other sufferer and went to find another man to help; his
stocky legs and muscular arms came in quite handily, that time, for,
when he came back to the shady spot, he bore one on his shoulder who
looked and seemed as if already dead and gone beyond the things of earth
but Father Felix laid him gently down and knelt beside him while he
gently laid his recovered crucifix upon his almost pulseless breast; the
first man watched the operation silently, and, then, he moved a little
farther from the deepest of the shade and said:
"Better bring him over here. It's better in the shade. I'll make a
little more room here beside me and maybe I can help some in the
dressing of his wounds."
"I thank you, Sir," the Priest replied. "I surely thank you kindly, but
this man has gone, I fear, beyond our earthly aid; and, yet, I could not
bear to leave him lying out there in the sun; the heat is terrible out
there and flies and insects gather round and many lying out there suffer
from their stings. I'll leave my crucifix, here, on his breast, and, if
he moves or speaks, will you please tell him I will be right back?"
And then good Father Felix made another solemn trip to that sad
battle-field and brought another man into the shade; and he whom he had
brought there, just before, lay silently ... the silent crucifix upon
his breast. The priest leaned down to listen for his breathing, then,
and raised his head with joy depicted on his countenance.
"He lives!" he cried aloud. "This poor fellow is alive! Perhaps it may
be possible for us to bring him into consciousness again. Now, Sir," he
addressed the man he had first brought into the friendly shade, "maybe
you can help me. Take one of his hands between your own and rub it just
as hard as you can rub it, Sir; that's right ... now, take the other one
and do the same with it. Your strong vitality will maybe help his
weakness, Sir. We two together may be instruments in God's Hands to
bring him back to earthly life again."
He put some drops of cordial on his tongue and chafed his limbs and
turned him over many times until he saw some signs of returning
consciousness and then he raised him up and rested his head upon his
helper's breast and held the crucifix before his face so he would see it
if his eyes would open; and his helper held the hands of him who seemed
about to die and gazed with eagerness into his countenance.
The good Priest saw this look upon his helper's face and joyed to see it
there instead of the malevolent expression that had rested on his rather
handsome features only a short time before.
At length, the sufferer resting on the other's breast opened his wide
eyes and gazed upon the crucifix and motioned that it be brought nearer
to his dying lips; he kissed it, then, devoutly, and his deathless
spirit passed to Him Who gave it life at first.
Father Felix gently laid his body down upon the ground and placed the
crucifix upon his cold, still breast, and, then, he said to him who
watched it all in silence:
"You see, Sir, some are happier to have the crucifix to kiss before they
go to meet their Maker; I did not know that you felt as you said you did
about it. I beg your pardon, Sir ... I humbly beg your pardon."