When Bob awoke to consciousness again, the scene was altogether
unfamiliar to him; he was lying in a big barn-like building, while
around him were scores of beds, on each of which lay a wounded man.
He felt weak and languid; but this he would not have minded, it was the
awful pain just below his neck that troubled him--a gnawing, maddening
pain.
He lifted his hand to try and touch the spot; but this he could not
do--it seemed to him as though he caused a fire inside it as he moved.
"I'm not dead, anyhow," he reflected. "What is this, I wonder?"
There were cheerful voices all round him, and he saw forms moving
around the beds; but they were very dim--in fact, nothing seemed real
at all: "Still I'm not dead, anyhow," he repeated; "as soon as I can, I
must tell mother that; as for Nancy, she'll not want to know." That
was all; it was like a scene in a play, and it passed away suddenly.
When he awoke again, his mind was clearer. It was the same scene he
saw, just a number of beds on which men were lying.
What he took to be a soldier, wearing an officer's uniform, came and
stood by him. This man felt his pulse; then he did something to his
chest, which gave him a great deal of pain. He didn't trouble much
about it, it didn't matter, nothing mattered.
"You'll do all right," said the man; "you'll get better now."
"I'm very tired," said Bob; "I should like to sleep, if I can."
"Then sleep, my dear fellow."
Again he awoke to consciousness; the clouds had altogether gone, and
the scene was absolutely clear.
He was lying in an improvised hospital; those men lying on the beds all
round were wounded like himself; the man who had spoken to him was the
doctor; those figures moving around the beds were nurses--each wore a
red cross.
Although everything was clear, he was strangely indifferent to what was
taking place. What did it matter to him? He supposed that he would
never fight again; his arm was useless. He felt sure of that--his
right arm. Still, he had done his work, and at least he had done his
best. Then a thought flashed through his mind.
"Oh, but the war is not over yet, and they need me; I must get well."
He threw off the kind of lethargy that possessed him, and presently,
when a nurse came to bring him some food, he looked up into her kindly
face. She was a Frenchwoman, who was doing all that a woman could, to
help; she was not there to kill, but to save.
"Mademoiselle, you're very kind."
"I'm not mademoiselle," was the woman's reply in French; "I am madame."
Her voice trembled as she spoke: "I was married just before the war,
and my husband was called away to fight."
"Where is he now?"
"I don't know; I have not heard for weeks, but I live in hope. I pray
that he will come back; meanwhile, I am doing what I can."
"I wish I could fight again," said Bob.
"Ah, but you will; the doctor told me. Ah, here is the doctor!"
"I'm not done for, doctor?" asked Bob.
"Done for? My dear chap, no; you've had a bad time--collar-bone
broken, two ribs broken, nasty wound in your side--but in a few weeks
you'll be all right again. Is there any one to whom I could write, so
that their minds may be relieved about you?"
"Yes," said Bob, "write to my mother," and he told the doctor his
mother's name and address.
"Can friends come to see me?" asked Bob.
"To-morrow or the next day, yes, certainly; in a few days you'll be
convalescent."
Away in another part of the hospital a man sat smoking a cigarette; he
had, during the early part of the day been taking exercise, and,
although he felt no pain, he was tired after his exertions.
"In another week I shall be at it again," he reflected. "Heavens, life
is a curious whirligig of a business. Fancy, after all I said to him,
his coming to the front in this way! A kind of strange irony of fate
that he, of all men, should pull me out of the very jaws of death. Of
course, he didn't know who I was, or he wouldn't have done it. It was
a plucky thing, anyhow; and--and--by Jove, there she is!"
He rose quickly from his chair as he spoke, and went out into the
autumn sunshine, where a woman, wearing a nurse's uniform, was talking
with a doctor.
"Nancy," said the man, when presently she came towards him, "I haven't
seen you for days; this is a lucky chance."
"I haven't much time for anything," she replied; "fifty poor fellows
were brought here from the front this morning, and ever since every one
of us has been hard at it. Are you all right?"
"Yes, I shall soon be well. In another week, the doctor tells me, I
shall be at the front again. But for the thought of leaving you, I
shall be jolly glad. We little thought, Nancy, when we parted in
Cornwall, and when I told you you might have to nurse me, that it would
actually take place."
"No," replied the girl; "but, somehow, the world seems altogether
different now; I feel as though ten years had been added to my life.
When the war broke out, I was almost happy about it; it seemed so
splendid for those I knew to be able to go to the front and fight for
their country; war was something glorious. I shall never think about
it in that way again. Poor Lieutenant Russell died this morning. Oh,
yes, I know it was wonderful the way he bore up to the end; he thought
he was back on the battlefield, and he kept on crying, 'We're gaining
ground--we're gaining ground! That's it, lad, at 'em; we'll save
England from those beastly Germans.' And then he died; yes, it was a
glorious death. But all war is horrible, horrible! Do you know,
Captain Trevanion, I never cease wondering at the way you were rescued."
"Don't speak to me like that. Surely I am not 'Captain Trevanion' to
you; I'm 'Hector.' You've never called me by my name yet; why won't
you? I say, Nancy, can't you promise me anything definite before I go
back?"
The girl almost shuddered: "Don't talk about that now," she said.
"I--I--it's too horrible. You never described your escape to me. Tell
me all about it, will you?"
"I can't," replied Trevanion; "you see, I was unconscious."
"I got an English paper to-day," went on the girl; "I only read it a
few minutes ago."
"Read what?" There was an anxious tone in the Captain's voice.
"Here it is," she said. "Haven't you seen it?"
"No. What is it?"
"Oh, it says all sorts of fine things about you. Of course, you'll
soon be promoted as a consequence. But don't you see, the paper says
that a Lieutenant Nancarrow, learning of your danger, went right out
into the open, braving the German fire in order to get at you. It is
spoken of as one of the bravest deeds of the war. Didn't you know
about it? You tell me nothing."
"You see, I was unconscious," repeated Trevanion; "all I know is that
some fellow, unknown to me, did a splendid deed and brought me back to
the English lines."
"Then you never saw your rescuer?"
"No," replied the Captain quietly; "I was packed off here. Of course,
it was fine on the part of that fellow, whoever he was. Some day I
hope I shall have the chance of thanking him."
The girl looked away across the peaceful countryside, and, as she did
so, a tremulous sigh escaped her.
"What are you thinking about?" asked Trevanion.
"Oh--nothing--that is, it doesn't matter. It seems strange, though,
doesn't it, that the man who saved you from death should be called
Nancarrow; it is a Cornish name too."
"And--and you are thinking of that fellow?" said Captain Trevanion,
almost angrily.
"Have you heard anything about Bob?--that is, do you know where--what
he did when he left St. Ia?"
Trevanion did not look at Nancy's face; he couldn't. He knew what he
ought to do, he, who always prided himself upon being a sportsman--he
ought to tell her that the man who had saved him was the one of whom
she was thinking; but he could not--he was afraid. He, who had faced
death calmly day by day; he, who had been noted for his bravery on the
field, and who had been mentioned in despatches, was now a coward.
In a way he wondered at himself, and he realised that there was more
than one kind of courage. He, himself, had called Bob Nancarrow a
coward, because he refused to enlist. Now he realised that there was
more courage in Bob Nancarrow's cowardice than in his own bravery. Oh,
it was all an awful muddle! He ought to tell Nancy what Lieutenant
Proctor had related to him just before he was taken away to the
hospital; but he couldn't. If he did, he would forfeit his own chance,
and he might--yes, he was sure--he would lose Nancy altogether.
"Of course, it couldn't be he," and Nancy seemed to be speaking to
herself; "you see, according to the paper, you were rescued by a
Lieutenant Nancarrow who belonged to a London regiment. Even if Bob
had joined the Army, he couldn't have been promoted so quickly," and
the girl sighed again.
"Nancy," said the Captain, "I--I shouldn't be surprised if it were Bob
Nancarrow," and the heroism in those words was greater than that of
many deeds for which he had been praised. In that moment Trevanion had
won a greater battle than he realised. It had caused him little effort
to lead his men against the charges of the German infantry, but he felt
as though his heart were being pulled out as he uttered the words I
have recorded.
The girl's face became pale: "What do you mean?" she asked. "Have you
heard anything?"
Still Trevanion could not speak freely; even yet he wondered if there
were not some way whereby doubt could be kept in the girl's mind.
"You see," he said presently, "Nancarrow was in the O.T.C. at Clifton,
and, I suppose, did very well there. Captain Pringle spoke to me more
than once about him, and--and I heard after he left Cornwall that he
joined a London regiment; of course, it was only hearsay, and I paid
but very little attention to it--in fact, I didn't believe it! Still,
it might be he."
The girl's lips became tremulous: "Do you mean that, after all, Bob
joined?"
"He might have," admitted Trevanion, and his voice was almost husky as
he spoke, and his eyes became hard.
"No, no," she cried, "It couldn't have been he. If he had, he would
have told me--I am sure he would."
"Would he?" asked Trevanion.
She stood silent for a few seconds without speaking. She remembered
the circumstances under which she had parted from Bob; she called to
mind the time when she had given him a white feather in the Public Hall
at St. Ia, and her face crimsoned with shame at the thought of it. No
one could offer a more deadly insult than she had offered Bob. She had
branded him as a coward, regardless of who might be looking on. No,
no, even if he had joined, he would not have told her; his heart would
be too bitter against her. Why--why, he must hate her now!
"I say, Nancy," and Trevanion's voice was hoarse with pain, "you don't
mean to tell me that you care anything about him still? You know what
you said; you told me you despised him, and--and, why, you almost told
me to hope! Don't you remember?"
The girl's face was set and stern; she did not hear Trevanion's last
words; she was wondering with a great wonder.
"Do you know anything besides what you have told me?" she asked.
"I don't understand," he stammered.
"You said it might be he, as though there were a doubt about it; don't
you know for certain? You've seen Captain Pringle; did you see him
after you recovered consciousness, that is, after you were rescued?"
"Yes, but of course I scarcely knew what was said to me."
"And did Captain Pringle tell you it was--was--the Nancarrow we knew?"
"He said it was Nancarrow from Clifton, and--and that he had done the
bravest thing since the war began; but everything was vague to me.
I--I, of course, didn't believe it was Nancarrow; you know what he
said? But, I say, Nancy, all this makes no difference to us, does it?
You didn't raise my hopes only to dash them to the ground! I shall be
off to the front again in a few days, and--oh, if you could give me
just a word--just a word, Nancy, everything would be different! Hang
it all, even if it is he, and, of course, if it is, I shall not be slow
in acknowledging it, I haven't a bad record myself, and I shall go back
as major, you know."
But the girl did not answer. Slowly she walked across the yard outside
the improvised hospital, without even bidding him "good-day."
"I'm glad I told her, anyhow," reflected Trevanion; "it was beastly
hard--one of the hardest things I ever did. Good God, it seems the
very irony of fate that he should be the man to save me! I wonder if
he knew that it was I? Perhaps though he knows nothing of what passed
between us. I wonder where he is now. Anyhow, he shall never have
her; there's no other woman in the world for me, and--oh, yes, I'm all
right."
* * * * *
Meanwhile, Bob still lay in bed, weak as a child, but still on the
highway to recovery. He had no fever, and his wounds were beginning to
heal.
Hundreds of men lay around him in the huge building which had been
commandeered as a hospital; French and English soldiers were carefully
nursed without a thought as to their nationality. It seemed as though
all the old enmity between France and England had gone for ever, and
that this terrible war made the two nations as one.
Men lay side by side, without knowing each other's language; yet,
because they were fighting the same enemy, felt themselves as brothers.
"Ah, yes," said a young French officer, who had been wounded on the day
when Bob had been stricken down, "we're at the beginning of a new era.
Yes, we have had compulsory military service in France; we have been
obliged to have it. We knew all the time that the Germans were waiting
to pounce upon us and crush us; that was why we wanted to be ready.
But the day is dawning, _mon ami_; we French have been a fighting
nation, but we love war no longer. When the Germans are crushed, as
they will be crushed; when their army and their navy are destroyed and
they are forbidden ever to have others,--then the day of peace will
come; then our nation will no longer be bled to pay for millions of
soldiers. Yes, we Frenchmen realise it, and we will fight for it to
the very last. It is not so much that Germany is an enemy to France
and an enemy to England; it is that she is an enemy to peace, to
goodwill, to fraternity--that is why we must fight. I had almost given
up a belief in Providence, but, mon Dieu, I believe in it now; the good
God is on our side."
"I thought France had largely given up the belief in God?" said Bob.
"No, no, there was a superficial scepticism, and what wonder? Have you
read the story of France? Ah, yes, the faith is coming back. This
last twenty years, _mon ami_, a change has come about. There is a new
force working. People are beginning to believe again that there is
something behind everything--something which cannot be explained away
by a shallow philosophy. We have a mission, monsieur--the good God has
given us and you a mission; it is to fight for peace. Who knows but
this is perhaps the last war that Europe will ever know?"
Two days later, when Bob was much stronger, two events took place which
must be recorded. One was the arrival of a letter from his mother.
The doctor's letter, telling her of Bob's doings, had reached her and
so she immediately sent a letter to him full of pride and affection:
"Oh, my boy," she wrote, "if once I was ashamed of you, my pride in you
now is beyond all words! Everybody knows about you and is talking
about you in St. Ia. I simply cannot realise it, and I am crying with
joy as I write this. You are spoken of as a hero; the story of your
splendid deed in rescuing Captain Trevanion is the talk of the county.
I think Captain Pringle met a London journalist in France and told him
all about it. Oh, my dear boy, my heart simply aches to be with you,
and if it is at all possible I shall get across to France to see you.
Meanwhile, I am constantly praying for you. It is all so wonderful,
that my boy should do this because of what he believes to be call of
God.
"By the way," the letter continued, "I suppose you have heard nothing
of Nancy Tresize. I am told she is a nurse in a French hospital, but
where, I haven't the slightest idea. Even the Admiral, whom I saw only
a few days ago, told me he didn't know where she was, but he hinted to
me that her engagement with Captain Trevanion was now practically
settled. The Admiral also told me that the Captain's promotion is
bound to be very rapid, and that if he lived he would doubtless come
back a Colonel; and so, my boy, although my heart is full of joy at
what you have done, I cannot help being sad because I am afraid you
have lost the best girl in Cornwall. Still, as your father used to say
to me, there is nothing higher in the world than to be true to one's
conscience."
After Bob had read this letter he lay for a long time in deep thought.
Yes, in spite of everything, his sky was black. This ghastly war had
wrecked his life's happiness; but for it he and Nancy might have been
together, living a life of happiness and making plans for a life of
usefulness. War was hell; still he had no doubt about his duty. The
God of War must be killed, and this menace to the peace of Europe must
be destroyed. It was a divine call, and he must fight to make war
impossible.
While he lay thinking of the letter, he saw coming towards him,
accompanied by the doctor, a tall, clean-shaven, handsome man, who was
evidently deeply interested in what he saw.
"Yes," Bob heard him say to the doctor, "this is the greatest crime in
history. Here we are, nearly two thousand years after the birth of our
Lord, engaged in the ghastliest war known in the history of the world.
The discoveries of science, instead of being devoted to the good of
mankind, have been devoted to the work of the devil. I, for years,
hoped to be one of the first inventors of a flying-machine; and now I
curse the day when the flying-machine was invented. We have conquered
the heavens, only to make hell."
The doctor laughed at the other's words: "Perhaps there's another side
to the question, Mr. Scarsfield," he said. "If you had seen what I
have seen here during the last few weeks, you would know that the war
has brought out many noble traits."
"Yes, yes, that may be so, and I have come all the way from the States
to see for myself. You see, we are a neutral country, and what I have
seen has made me determined to go back home and take a lecturing tour
right through America denouncing the crime of war."
"Here is Lieutenant Nancarrow," said the doctor, nodding to Bob's bed.
"Yes, I want to see him," said Mr. Hiram Scarsfield; "I read the
account of what he did in the papers, and I am mighty glad that the
authorities have allowed me to come here. I want to shake him by the
hand."
"Sir," he said, coming up to Bob, "whatever may be my views about war,
I admire brave men, and you risked your life to save another. When I
read it in the papers, tears came into my eyes, and when I heard that
you were here, I just made up my mind to see you, and what I want to
ask you, is this: You saved one man; how many have you killed?"
"I don't know," replied Bob.
"Many?"
"I hope so."
"Ah, that is the terror of the whole business! And when you get well
again, are you going back to the front?"
"I hope so," was Bob's reply.
"To kill more, I guess?"
"If it is in my power."
"Young man, don't you feel the hellishness of the thought?"
"Yes," replied Bob, "I shudder at the thought of it."
"Then my advice to you is--desert. When you get well enough, get out
of France and come to America where you can live in peace. Yes, I know
that sounds bad, but then I hate war; it just puts back the clock of
the world; it crucifies our Lord afresh."
Bob looked at the other's face attentively, and he saw immediately that
it was the face of a strong man. There was no suggestion of the
fanatic about it; rather, it was sane and sincere.
"Then you believe in peace--peace at any price?" was Bob's query.
"I guess that is so; I guess there is nothing under heaven worth making
hell for, and that is what I have seen these last few weeks. I haven't
been right up to the fighting-line--I haven't been allowed--but I have
seen enough to make my heart bleed."
"I agree with every word you say," and Bob's voice was almost tremulous.
"Then why are you a soldier?"
"Look here, Mr. Scarsfield," said Bob. "Supposing that the French and
the English and the Belgians and the Russians were all to disarm, what
would happen, do you think?"
"There would be peace," said the American.
"And what kind of peace?"
"There would be a cessation of bloodshed, anyhow. Mind you, I would
rather see all nationalities cease than that war should continue.
Let's all sheathe our swords and trust in God. That is my mission now,
as long as I live. I am going back to America, and I am going to rouse
the whole country to this feeling. It may be that this is because I
have Quaker blood in my veins. I am afraid I am not worthy of my
Quaker forbears, but now I am convinced that they were right."
"Yes," replied Bob, "I too have Quaker blood in my veins, and I too am
convinced in my heart they are right."
"And still you are a soldier," said the other, in astonishment.
"Yes, I am a soldier, until this war is over. Look here, Mr.
Scarsfield, do you believe you could ever convert Germany to your way
of thinking? Have you ever read the works of those German writers--men
like Bernhardi and Treitschke and Nietzsche, and others of that school?
Do you know that their teaching is the religion of the war party in
Germany, and that that war party rules the Empire? Do you know that it
is the avowed determination of Germany to conquer the world by the
sword? You do know it? For thirty years Germany has been building up
her army and her navy for this purpose. She believes that war is a
virtue, and that Germany is called by God to go to war; she worships
the War God; she rejoices in it; lives for it. It is preached from her
pulpits; it is taught in her schools; it is interwoven into the warp
and woof of German life. Because of this they have altered the New
Testament. Instead of preaching, 'Blessed are the peace-makers,' they
preach, 'Blessed are the war-makers,' and they believe that the
Almighty intends them to make war."
"Yes," replied Mr. Scarsfield, "I must admit that. I have read those
writers you mention; read them with a sad heart."
"When I read them," said Bob, "I was obliged to throw them away from
me, as if I had been touching unclean things. I too was brought up to
believe in peace at any price, and I hated war as I hate hell itself;
so much did I hate it, that I refused to enlist in the English Army and
alienated those who were dearest to me. Before I enlisted, I fought
the biggest battle of my life. Presently I realised the meaning of the
German creed; I saw the inwardness and ghastliness of their so-called
Gospel of War; I saw that to carry out their purpose they were willing
to sacrifice honour and to crush humanity. I saw that they professed
friendship in order to betray us; I saw that while they accepted our
hospitality in England, they filled our country with spies in the hope
that when the time was ready, and they made war upon us, they would use
those spies for our destruction. I saw that they regarded a treaty as
something that could be thrown off like an old garment, and I saw they
were determined on war. What could we do? You do not believe, I
suppose, that the murder of the Crown Prince of Austria was the cause
of this war? No one believes that it was anything but a pretext.
Germany made war--a war for which she had been preparing for a quarter
of a century. She signed the Treaty to protect Belgium; she gave her
word of honour as a nation that Belgium's neutrality and integrity
should be maintained. Then she signed her ultimatum to Belgium, and
told her that if she did not allow the German Army to pass through
Belgium country in order to crush France, she should be treated as an
enemy. When our Ambassador in Berlin pleaded that Germany had signed a
treaty to protect Belgium, what was the reply? 'Will you go to war
with us just for a scrap of paper?' That is what the war spirit means
in Germany. They cannot understand how the honour of a nation could
stand in the way of her ambition. And so Germany entered Belgium.
What was mercy? What was honour? What was purity? Read the story of
Louvain, of Malines; think of the outrages, cruelties, blasphemies, and
then ask yourself, what could we have done?"
"Yes," said the American; "but war--think of what it has meant."
"Is not there something worse than war?" said Bob.
"What can be worse?" asked Mr. Hiram Scarsfield.
"Violation of honour, of truth, of purity," said the young man
earnestly. "That is worse; yes, and it is worse than war to allow a
cancer like the German war-spirit to live in the very heart of a
continent, making peace and goodwill impossible."
"Yes, young man," replied the American; "you make out a strong case,
and I have no doubt that if a war could be just, England is fighting a
just war. But no war can be just, because every war is born in hell.
As for me, I'm going back to America on my crusade of peace."
"Mr. Scarsfield," said Bob, "may I suggest something to you?"
"Yes; what is it?"
"That you go back to America, and arouse that great Continent to come
and help us in this war for peace. I know your President professes to
be a peace man. But think! You who could do so much to kill war, are
standing by, supine and neutral, while we are shedding our blood to
make war impossible. To me, it is the call of God to every young man
and to every man who has health and strength, to give his life to kill
this war devil at the heart of Europe. And I tell you this, until it
is killed, your talk about peace will be so much wind and useless
sound. America could, if she would, put an end to this war."
"How?" cried the American.
"By, raising an army of millions of men, well accoutred and armed and
provisioned, to come over to help us. If America placed all her mighty
weight on the side of England at this moment, it would paralyse the
German Army. If America said, as we are saying, that this war should
never cease until Germany was powerless ever to make war again, you
would do more for peace than if all the talkers in America were to go
round preaching peace. That is why, Quaker as I am, I am a soldier,
and will remain a soldier as long as God gives me breath, to make peace
not a dream, but a reality."
"But what about the Sermon on the Mount, young man?" said the American.
"What did our Lord mean," urged Bob, "when He said, 'I came not to
bring peace but a sword?' And what did He mean when He said to His
disciples, 'He that hath no sword, let him go and buy one?' Mind you,
we do not hate the Germans in all this; we do not violate the command
'Love your enemy.' It would be the greatest blessing ever known to the
German people if the Kaiser and all his war-fiends were crushed for
ever, for then could peace be made possible."
"Now, Nancarrow," said the doctor, "you have talked enough. You're
getting excited as it is, and we want you back at the front."
"I will say this," said the American, holding out his hand to Bob, "you
have given me something to think about, and I will tell the Americans
what you have said."