LOVE, THE CONQUEROR
Broussard meant to spend his three months' leave in the pursuit of
happiness at Fort Blizzard, where he could see Anita every day if he
wanted--and he always wanted to see Anita. She was now nearing her
nineteenth birthday and could hardly be considered the infant which
Colonel Fortescue continued to proclaim her to be.
The day after Broussard's arrival was Sunday and on Sunday afternoons.
Broussard knew he should find Anita at home. It was the pleasant custom
in the C. O.'s house for Mrs. Fortescue to receive the young officers,
for whom she always had a tender spot in her heart. Broussard was one of
the later arrivals. Already through the great windows the blue peaks of
ice were seen, touched with a moment's golden glory from the setting sun,
and the purple shadows were softly descending upon the snow-white world.
The first member of the Fortescue household who met Broussard gave him a
rapturous greeting. This was Kettle, who opened the massive doors to
visitors.
"Hi! Mr. Broussard, I cert'ny is glad to see you, and Miss 'Nita, she is
right heah in the drawin'-room, and I spect she jump fer joy when she see
you!" shouted Kettle, who was a child of nature and spoke the truth as he
saw it.
"And I'm glad enough to get back to snow and ice after snakes and
mosquitoes and Moros," replied Broussard.
Immediately a small financial transaction passed between Broussard and
Kettle, accompanied with the usual wink from Broussard and grin from
Kettle.
"She doan' take no notice of none of 'em," whispered Kettle
confidentially, "she jes' smile at 'em all and goes 'long thinkin' about
you!"
This was most encouraging and Broussard considered it well worth a
quarter.
As he entered the drawing-room, bright with a glowing wood fire, Anita,
who was entrenched behind a little tea table, rose to greet him. She
wore a little white gown and like another white gown of hers it had a
train--Anita was very anxious to appear as old as possible. As Broussard
spoke to Mrs. Fortescue, who received him with her usual graceful
cordiality, they could hear from the plaza the band playing the solemn
hymn which precedes the retreat on Sunday afternoons. Suddenly the
sunset gun roared out, showing that the flag was descending from the
flagstaff. At once, every one in the room rose and stood respectfully at
attention until the flag came down. Broussard, in the friendly shadow of
the tea table, held on a moment to Anita's hand. She looked straight
away from Broussard, her red lips smiling at an infatuated second
lieutenant on the other side of her, but her cheeks, already of a
delicate rose color, hung out the scarlet flag which means, in love, a
surrender. Broussard even felt a faint returning pressure of the
fingers, so well screened that only they themselves knew of the meeting
of the hands.
Then they all sat down again and the pleasant talk began once more, Anita
taking her part with a subdued current of gaiety unusual in her, for, as
Mrs. Fortescue was essentially L'Allegro, so Anita was by nature, Il
Penseroso.
Once more, when the color-sergeant brought the flag in, and placed it in
a corner of the fine drawing-room, all present stood up; then there was
much merry chatter and tea and chaff and that universal kindliness which
seems to develop around a friendly tea table. One thing surprised
Broussard--not only that Anita appeared quite grown up but that she could
talk of many things of which he had never before heard her speak. As for
the Philippines, she had all the lore about them at her finger tips.
Broussard, watching her out of the tail of his eye, saw that she was no
longer the adorable child, who lived with her birds and her violin, but
an adorable woman, who had learned to think and feel and speak as a
woman. How was it that she had read so many books on the Philippines?
"When did you begin your study of the Philippines?" asked the wily
Broussard.
"Only since January," answered Anita; and realizing that she had
unconsciously revealed a great secret she lowered her lashes and turned
her violet eyes away from Broussard.
That night, over his last cigar in his room at the officers' club,
Broussard began to plan a regular campaign for Anita against Colonel
Fortescue. But ever in the midst of it would come those sweet
inadvertent words of Anita's and Broussard would fall into a delicious
reverie with which Colonel Fortescue had no part. But then Broussard
would come back to the real business of the matter--outgeneralling
Colonel Fortescue--for everybody knew how devoted Anita was to her father
and Broussard considered the C. O. as a lion in his path. Of course, the
old curmudgeon, as Broussard in his own mind called the Colonel, would
rake up a lot of imaginary objections--he always was a martinet, and
would be a stiff proposition to master in the present emergency.
Broussard was tolerably certain of Mrs. Fortescue's assistance, who was
an open and confessed sentimentalist, and was generally understood to be
the guardian angel of all the love affairs at Fort Blizzard. Beverley
Fortescue might be reckoned as a neutral, being himself in the toils of
Sally Harlow, who was Anita's age. Then, Kettle and the After-Clap could
be reckoned upon as auxiliaries--Broussard swore at himself for not
remembering the After-Clap's existence that afternoon; Anita was
ridiculously fond of the little chap.
But Colonel Fortescue would be a hard nut to crack--Broussard threw the
stump of his cigar into the fire and thought all fathers of adorable
daughters highly undesirable persons. After long and hard thinking
Broussard concluded to begin at once an earnest and devoted courtship of
Colonel Fortescue as the best way to win Anita.
"Because I'll have to court the old fellow anyhow, cuss him!" was
Broussard's inner belief. "Anita will expect any man she marries to be
as much in love with the Colonel as she is--so here goes!"
The very next morning Broussard began his open attentions to the Colonel
and his secret wooing of Anita. He had plenty of opportunities for both.
It was easy enough to see Anita every day. Often they rode together in
the gay riding parties that were among the constant amusements of the
young things at the post. Then, there was the weekly dance in the great
ball-room and many little dances and dinners, and Broussard always
contrived to be with Anita the best part of the evening. He was always
willing to sing and Anita was always ready to play the violin obligatos
for him. Broussard developed wonderful knowledge of song birds and
entirely abandoned game chickens, and was astonishingly regular in his
attendance at the chapel, which induced Anita to think him a model of
Christian piety. If Broussard had been a conceited man he would have
seen that Anita's heart was his long before he asked for it; but being a
modest fellow and thinking Anita was but a little lower than the angels,
Broussard paid her the delicate and tender court which women love so well.
The regimen of love and leisure did wonders for Broussard. His thin face
filled up, his color returned, he was soon able to dance and ride and
shoot with the best of his comrades. He did not forget the man in the
military prison or the wife that watched and waited and prayed and hoped.
But there was reason to hope: Lawrence was, from the beginning, a model
prisoner, and the chaplain, who had lost, in the course of years, some of
his confidence in repentance, began once more to believe that it was
possible to regenerate a man's soul. Most prisoners are a trifle too
ready to accept the theory of the forgiveness of sins. Not so Lawrence.
Often, he had paroxysms of despair, accusing himself wildly and doubting
whether the good God could forgive so evil a sinner as he. Sometimes, he
would refuse to see his wife, declaring he was not fit for her to speak
to; again, he would weep and ask for a sight of his child, now far away
and in good hands. All these things, and more, the chaplain knew, from
long experience, meant that Lawrence's soul was struggling toward the
light. Regularly Broussard went to see him at the prison and the two
men, the high-minded officer and the disgraced private, were drawn
together by the secret bond between them. Often, they talked in whispers
of their dead mother and Broussard would say to Lawrence:
"Our mother's spirit and your wife's love ought to save you."
Another visitor Lawrence had was Sergeant McGillicuddy. The Sergeant's
merciful soul could not accept the chaplain's theory that the blow
provoked by McGillicuddy had been Lawrence's salvation.
"I never knew a man who was helped by being a deserter, sir," was the
Sergeant's answer to the chaplain's kindly sophism, "but Lawrence is a
penitent man--that I see with my own eyes. I don't need no chaplain to
tell me that, sir."
Meanwhile, Broussard kept up a steady courtship of Colonel Fortescue.
Whatever views the Colonel advanced, Broussard promptly endorsed. He
gave up cock fighting, motors, superfluous clothes and high-priced
horses, and, if his word could be taken for it, he had adopted Spartan
tastes and meant to stick to them. Colonel Fortescue rated Broussard's
newly-acquired taste for the simple life at its true value, and was
sometimes a trifle sardonic over it.
"I wish," said Colonel Fortescue savagely one night in his office, where
he always smoked his last cigar, Mrs. Fortescue sitting by, "I wish
Broussard would let up a little in his attention to me. I know exactly
what it means and it is getting to be an awful nuisance."
"Cheer up," answered Mrs. Fortescue encouragingly, "he'll let up on his
devotion to you as soon as he marries Anita--for I have seen ever since
the night of the music ride that Anita has a secret preference for him,
and it's very natural--Broussard is an attractive man."
"Can't see it," growled the Colonel.
"If you would just limber up a little and not be so stiff with him,"
urged Mrs. Fortescue, "let him see he can have Anita."
"How can I limber up and tell him he can have Anita?" roared the Colonel.
"The fellow hasn't asked me for Anita."
"He's asking you all the time," answered Mrs. Fortescue, smiling.
Colonel Fortescue looked up at her with sombre eyes. He had seen Anita
become the target for the flashing eyes of junior officers. He realized
that Mrs. Fortescue, woman-like, did not share and could not understand
the pangs of his soul at the thought of parting with Anita. He had often
observed that mothers willingly gave their daughters in marriage, but he
had never seen a father give up his daughter cheerfully to another man.
Mrs. Fortescue saw something of this in Colonel Fortescue's face and
leaned her cheek against his.
"Dear," she said, "I believe most fathers suffer as you do at the thought
of giving up a daughter and some day I shall suffer the same at giving up
my son to another woman. So, after all, since our children will take on
a new love, we must return to our honeymoon days and not let anything
matter so long as we are together. Then, the After-Clap--I always feel
so ridiculously young whenever I look at that baby."
At this the Colonel's heart was soothed and he did not hate Broussard
quite so much.
There was, however, no let-up in Broussard's ardent wooing of the
Colonel, who took it a trifle more graciously. One afternoon, late in
December, Broussard, passing the headquarters building, saw Colonel
Fortescue's orderly holding the bridle reins of Gamechick, who was
saddled. Broussard was in his riding clothes and was himself waiting for
the horse lent him for the afternoon by a brother officer. He stopped
and began to pat Gamechick's beautiful neck and the horse, who was, like
all intelligent horses, a sentimentalist, rubbed his nose against
Broussard's head, and said, as plainly as a horse can say:
"Dear master, I love you still."
Colonel Fortescue, coming out of the gate, saw Broussard, and his heart
softened as he recalled the last time he had seen Broussard riding
Gamechick. It was now nearly a year ago.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Broussard," said the Colonel, "I see you are dressed
for riding. Perhaps you would like to ride that old charger again; if
so, I will send for my own horse. Gamechick belongs to my daughter and I
only ride him to keep him in condition, because sometimes she is a little
lazy about exercising him."
"Ladies are seldom judicious with horses," answered Broussard, agreeing
as always with Colonel Fortescue. "I shall be glad to ride the old horse
once more, and thank you very much."
In a few minutes, the Colonel's own horse was brought and the two men,
mounting, rode off and away from the post for an hour's brisk ride in the
late winter afternoon.
Broussard, whose tongue was usually frozen to the roof of his mouth when
he was in the Colonel's presence, felt a sudden sense of freedom and
talked naturally and therefore intelligently. His description of
military affairs in the East was wonderfully illuminating, and the
Colonel plied him with questions. They were so interested in their talk
that they reached the spur of the mountain ranges before they knew it.
The crisp air had got into their blood and into that of their horses,
which took the mountain road sharply, and at an eager trot. They had
climbed a good mile along the steep winding road, the snow under their
feet frozen as hard as stone, the rocks ice-coated, and the fir trees
like great trees of crystal. Gamechick was so sure-footed that Broussard
gave him the reins but Colonel Fortescue watched his horse carefully.
Ahead of them was a sudden turn in the road under the great overhanging
cliff, and on it, a magnificent fir tree reared itself, glittering with
icicles, in the rose-red light of the sunset.
"Look," said Colonel Fortescue, pointing to the tree. "Was there ever
anything more beautiful?"
As the words left his lips he saw, and Broussard saw, a huge boulder
suddenly start down the mountain side and strike like a cannon ball the
splendid tree. There was a fearful breaking and splintering and all at
once it was as if the cliff crumbled and trees and boulders and ice and
snow came thundering and crashing down into the roadway. One moment the
crystal air had been so still that the click of the iron hoofs of their
horses seemed to be the only sound in the world. The next minute the
roar of breaking trees and falling rocks echoed like an earthquake and a
white cloud of misty snow and flying icicles hid the steel-blue heavens.
It was done in such a fragment and flash of time that Broussard hardly
knew what had happened. He found himself standing on his feet, entangled
in the frozen branches of a fir tree. A little way off he heard
Gamechick, whinnying with fear, while under a fallen boulder Colonel
Fortescue's horse lay, his neck broken. Close by Colonel Fortescue lay
stark upon the ground. Broussard ran to him; he was lying upon his back
and said as coolly as if on dress parade:
"I had a pretty close shave, but I don't think I'm hurt, except my ankle."
Broussard, having had experience with injured men, thumped and punched
the Colonel only to find that he was not injured in any way except the
broken ankle; but a man with a broken ankle, six miles away from the
fort, with night coming on, and the thermometer below zero, presents
problems.
"What a pity neither of us has a pistol," said Colonel Fortescue, when
Broussard had got him up from the frozen earth and arranged a rude seat
from the branches of the fir tree for him. "We could kill my poor horse
and end his sufferings."
"He's already dead, thank God," replied Broussard, going over and looking
at the horse, lying as still and helpless as the rock that lay upon his
neck. Gamechick, the broken rein hanging upon his neck, stood trembling
and snorting with terror.
"I think you had better ride back to the post and get help," said Colonel
Fortescue.
Broussard walked toward Gamechick, but the horse, stricken with panic,
backed away and before Broussard could catch him, he whirled about wildly
and galloped down the mountain road at breakneck speed. The sound of his
iron hoofs pounding the icy road as he fled, driven by fear and anguish,
cut the silence like a knife. The two men listened to the clear metallic
sound borne upon the clear atmosphere by the winter wind.
"He's a good messenger," said Broussard, "he is making straight for the
post."
"If he gets there before he breaks his neck," replied the Colonel coolly,
taking out his cigar case and striking a light.
Broussard listened attentively until the last echo had died away in the
distance.
"He has got down all right and is now on the open road, and will get to
the fort in thirty minutes," he said.
Then Broussard, gathering the broken branches of the fir tree, made a
fire which not only warmed them, but the blue smoke curling upward was a
signal for those who would come to search for them. He took the saddle
and blanket from the dead horse and arranged a comfortable seat for the
Colonel, who declared that a broken ankle was nothing; but his face was
growing pale as he spoke.
"You remember," he said to Broussard, "that story about General Moreau,
something more than a hundred years ago, who smoked a cigar while the
surgeons were cutting off his leg."
"Yes, sir," replied Broussard. "You are not as badly off as General
Moreau, and I think I can help you, sir." Broussard proceeded to take
off the Colonel's boot and stocking. He rubbed the broken ankle with
snow and then, with his handkerchief and a splinter of wood, made a
bandage and splints, as soldiers are taught to do.
Then Broussard accepted the cigar offered him by the Colonel, and smoked
vigorously. A lieutenant does not lead the conversation with a Colonel,
and so Broussard said nothing more and devoted himself to keeping the
fire going.
Colonel Fortescue bore the pain, which was extreme, in grim silence, but
Broussard noticed that he stopped smoking and threw away his cigar. It
could not soothe him as it did General Moreau. Broussard immediately
threw away his cigar, too, which annoyed the Colonel.
"Why don't you keep on smoking?" asked the Colonel tartly.
"Oh, I don't care about it particularly," shamelessly answered Broussard,
who was an inveterate smoker.
"When we got out of tobacco in the jungle I kept the men quiet by singing
the old song ''Twas Off the Blue Canaries I Smoked My Last Cigar.'"
"Music has always had a soothing influence over me," said Colonel
Fortescue, after a moment. "Suppose you sing that song. It may help
this infernal ankle of mine."
Broussard obeyed orders immediately, and the old song was sung with all
the feeling that Broussard could infuse into his fine, rich voice. When
it was over, the Colonel said sternly:
"Sing another song. Keep on singing until I tell you to quit."
Broussard, being a sly dog, did not sing any of the modern songs that he
was wont to troll out at the club, or on the march, but chose for his
second number a song that subalterns sang to pianos, to banjos and
guitars, and even without accompaniment, the favorite song of the
subaltern, "A Warrior Bold." Broussard's clear baritone, sweet and
ringing, echoed among the icy cliffs in the wintry dusk. At the end,
Colonel Fortescue nodded his head in approval.
"I used to sing that song," he said, "when I was a youngster, but I never
had a fine voice like yours. Tune up again."
Broussard tuned up again, and this time it was a sweet old sentimental
ballad. He went conscientiously through his repertory of old-fashioned
ballads, not smiling in the least, Colonel Fortescue listening gravely to
these songs of love. The purple twilight was coming on fast and the
ruddy glare of the fire threw a beautiful crimson light upon the
snow-draped cliffs and ice-clad trees. During the intervals between the
songs, the two men listened for the sound of coming help. With a good
fire, plenty of cigars, and Broussard's cheerful singing, their plight
was not so bad. But a disturbing thought came to both of them.
"The horse running back riderless, will alarm my wife and daughter," said
Colonel Fortescue after a while.
Broussard made no reply; he hoped that Anita would be a little frightened
about him.