A VIGIL
The black vault of heaven with its twinkling stars could be seen in
narrow strips through the entangled tops of closely growing trees. Hal
looked up at it longingly from time to time and wondered if a searching
party did come flying overhead, whether or not they would be able to
penetrate the dense screen and see them.
Their campfire, though piled so high, seemed pitifully inadequate for
such a purpose, and he experienced a sinking sensation in his stomach
when he thought how much less it could be seen in the daylight. Too,
Carmichael might not be any better off than they. Parachutes very often
failed one. Perhaps it would have been better if they had all stuck and
taken their chances together. Rodriguez was in such a bad way.... Hal
had long ago given up trying to stop the bleeding. But he felt so
hopeless about it, so helpless. There seemed nothing for him to do but
sit and wait.
He leaned over to the woodpile from time to time, replenishing the
blaze. Sometimes Rodriguez would sigh, then sink into a deeper sleep
than before. Hal was always hoping that the sleep was doing him good,
but it occurred to him after a time that the pilot’s strength was slowly
ebbing and that it wasn’t slumber, but a torpor which held him in its
grip.
His heart went out to the young man and he completely forgave him his
cowardice. Certainly Rodriguez was getting the worst of it. Perhaps it
was true that he had feared the consequences of his sins more than his
actual departure from life. Hal shrugged his shoulders at the
thought—the Latin temperament was indeed strange.
For a little while after that, Hal began to think of food and water. He
had had neither since luncheon and, for a healthy young man with his
appetite, that was a fearful length of time to go without nourishment.
But that too seemed an after consideration in the face of the present
pall that hung over that strange little jungle camp.
Hal reached out and taking Rodriguez’ hand felt of his pulse. He knew
little about such things, yet enough to realize that the pilot’s pulse
beats were anything but normal. At times he could barely distinguish any
pulsation at all. Moreover, the fellow’s hand felt cold and clammy in
his own.
When he went to relinquish his hold, Rodriguez showed some resistance.
He held feebly to Hal’s warm, strong hand and smiled.
“I feel not so cold, Señor,” he explained hesitantly. “It’s....” he
seemed too weak to say more.
“You mean it makes you feel better and warmer for me to hold on to your
hands?” Hal asked him solicitously.
Rodriguez nodded.
“All right, fellow. Here, give me the other one—I’ll rub them, huh?
We’ll have a little holding hands party.” Hal chuckled, trying not to
see the questioning, poignant look in the pilot’s eyes.
He went to sleep again this way, but Hal kept hold of both his hands,
pressing them with his own at intervals. It gave him a peculiar
sensation, this maternal gesture on his part, and if he had not felt so
utterly sad about Rodriguez’ condition he would have been abashed at his
display of tenderness.
The long hours crept by—a glimpse of full moon showed in a single silver
moonbeam through the trees. From the depths beyond the clearing came the
mournful sound of living things unseen. The weird plaint of the sloth
came drifting down the breeze, tree frogs and crickets clacked and
hummed with a monotony that was utterly depressing, and once the air
shook with a thunderous concussion from some falling tree.
Hal started but it did not seem to bother the airman. He merely moved in
his torpor and muttered unintelligibly. After five minutes of this he
spoke aloud, feebly yet clearly.
“It was for the _Cause_, Señor ... the _Cause_. Señor Goncalves he too
did it for the _Cause_. But ah, how it troubles me, Señor....”
“What troubles you, Rodriguez?” Hal asked, pressing gently down on his
hand. “What are you talking about, fellow?”
The airman seemed not to hear, however, but went on muttering, sometimes
aloud, sometimes not. Hal came to the conclusion that he was in a sort
of delirium and realized that he ought to have water for the suffering
fellow. Suddenly he began talking again:
“Señor Goncalves he came to me and asked would I take the Señors, uncle
and nephew, up for the _Cause_ ... for the _Cause_. I was to wear the
chute—I was to escape, Señor ... escape, eh?” He laughed feebly,
bitterly. “Ah, but I am punished ... punished. It is I who don’t escape,
eh? I who would see two innocent Señors die for the _Cause_ ... now....”
There sounded then through that dark, breathless atmosphere a call
steeped in wretchedness and black despair—the wail of that lonely owl,
known to bushmen as “the mother of the moon.” Hal had heard many times
when lost in the jungle of Panama what portent was in that cry, and he
was thinking of it then when Rodriguez raised his head with effort.
“Ah, Señor Hal!” he cried in a terrified whisper. “’Tis ‘the mother of
the moon’ and evil to me, for I have heard it. Ah, Señor....”
“Lie back, old fellow,” Hal soothed him. “Now there, calm down! I’ve
heard about Old Wise Eyes too, but you don’t think I believe it, do you?
Back in the good old U. S. we’d call that hokum pure and simple. Nothing
to it. It’s just an old owl hooting his blooming head off because he
hasn’t the brains to do anything else. In other words he’s yelling
_whoopee_ in Portuguese or Brazilian or whatever you spiggotty down
here. I bet you haven’t understood a word of what I said? No? Well, I
don’t blame you exactly.”
“I have not much time, Señor. I am weak ... the owl she....”
“Now for the love of Pete, Rodriguez, forget it!” Hal said, scolding him
gently. “It tires you too much to talk about such hokum. Lie still and
if you can only hold out perhaps Señor Carmichael will get help to us
soon. He may have got a break and landed near some settlement.”
“Señor ... _Carmichael_?” asked the airman faintly.
“Sure,” Hal answered smiling, “that’s the fellow who went out in the
chute—the fellow who came up with us. His name’s Carmichael. Oh say, I
almost forgot, Rodriguez—of course you wouldn’t understand—Carmichael
and I were only fooling you about him being my uncle. My real uncle
couldn’t come—he backed out at the last minute. I met Carmichael at the
field just before you came along. Understand?”
Rodriguez did understand—only too well. His ghastly face looked more
ghastly than ever. He pressed desperately on Hal’s warm hand and sighed.
Suddenly he released his own right hand and from forehead to breast
devoutly made the sign of the cross.
“Señor Hal,” he gasped, “I am dying ... there is something I must
tell....”