It was late in March, 1918, that two American officers sat by the side
of a road in France and watched a stream of refugees go by in an
endless pageant of misery. Old men crawled along on bleeding, ill-shod
feet; women were carrying grotesque bundles and leading absurd ponies
that drew household goods on rickety carts; and there were girls,
half-women, who bore infants in their arms, and who looked neither to
right nor left, but followed on in mute fatigue and tearless agony.
Craighouse, who wore the badges of a captain, swore softly to himself.
His companion bit his lip.
"I hear the Germans are smashing through everywhere," said the latter.
"God! I wonder if we have been too late."
Several ambulances passed in rapid succession, their bandaged and
bleeding occupants lying crowded together.
A girl, less than eighteen years of age, dropped to the ground opposite
to them. In a bound Craighouse was by her side and had lifted her to
her feet. For a moment his strong hands gripped her arms tenaciously as
though he would transmit some of his strength to her.
Without a word, without a look at him, she freed herself and staggered
on, her face livid except where a slight flush showed beneath the black
hollows of her eyes.
Craighouse went back to the other officer, but his face was gray and
drawn, while his clenched fists drove the nails into his palms. His
companion cursed blasphemously.
The roar of the guns grew louder, like a storm that is driven on the
wings of a hurricane. They heard the snorting of engines behind them,
and looking quickly, they saw a long line of London omnibuses crowded
with English soldiers. They were shouting encouragement to the
refugees, and waved gaily as they passed the Americans.
"Those chaps will be in action in an hour," said Craighouse, and
swallowed noticeably. "Simpson," he went on, "do you realize that it's
little England who has kept this thing from us for three and a half
years? It's England who stood by her word; and now that she's drained
of her men and boys, she doesn't reproach Russia for letting her down;
she hasn't uttered a word of impatience for our slow arrival--asking
nothing for herself, blaming no one. It's little England who is
gathering the spear-points into her breast that your children and mine
may live like human beings!"
His companion rose to his feet, and his jaw stiffened ominously. He
felt for his revolver-holster and adjusted his haversack.
"Tell the O.C. I've deserted," he said grimly. "I'm going up the line
to join the first bunch that'll take me. There's some vermin up there
that I reckon need exterminating."
Craighouse muttered something about discipline.
"To hell with discipline!" said Lieutenant Simpson, ex-mining engineer
of Colorado. "I'm going----"
A corporal had halted before them and saluted. "O.C.'s compliments," he
said tersely, "and the company is to go up the line as auxiliary
infantry. Parade falling in now, sir. We move off in an hour."
When the officers reached their headquarters they found a scene of
bustling activity. Gas-masks were being inspected, ammunition supplied,
first-aid packages given out where they had been lost, rifles cleaned
and inspected, and all the accouterments of war checked and shortages
replaced.
Craighouse strode up to his section, ignoring the sergeant's salute.
"We're going into this scrap," he said quietly, though his voice
vibrated oddly, "and I want every mother's son of you to see red.
There's a girl out on that road who is dying of fever, and its fear of
the Hun that is driving her on, and before night she'll be lying dead
by the side of the road. She's somebody's daughter--somebody's
sister--and, by Heaven, we'll make the Hun pay for it! What do you say,
you Yankee sons o' guns?"
They cheered him to the echo, and some of them swore, and some of them
laughed (but the laugh had a cruel ring in it), and some of them felt
the salt tears stinging their eyes--but every one saw red.
Craighouse slowly walked over to his hut to superintend the packing of
his own things. In his heart was a great exaltation and a mad love for
the men who looked to him for leadership. In the seclusion of his hut
he did what he had not done for years. He knelt for a moment by the
side of his kit and prayed that he might quit himself like a man.
There are moments in war when men's very souls are touched by a
nobility, by a compassion, by a reverence that rises above all creeds.
Out of the depths they have risen to heights supernal.
X
In a private ward at Abbeville an American officer lay in great pain,
and tossed restlessly in a delirium of fever. A young woman in the
uniform of a V.A.D. watched by his side, and, sponging his palms and
forehead, sought to soothe him with a gentleness and a tenderness that
a mother would show to her child. The man was badly wounded in chest
and leg, and exposure had brought a fever to torment his sufferings.
Once he sat up and glared wildly at her.
"Did the guns get away?" he cried. "Did they get away?"
"Hush!" she said softly. "You must not talk. You are very ill."
He sank back on the pillows and laughed. "There's a girl lying dead on
the road," he said; "but there's a crowd of Huns this morning who are
answering the roll-call in hell."
He was silent for several minutes, then frowned heavily. "Look here,"
he said sternly, "I wish you would stop driving nails into my knee. Who
do you think I am--Hindenburg?"
He laughed again, then groaned, and great drops of perspiration stood
out on his brow. The woman ministered to him with the gentle firmness
of her sex that rises to its best when face to face with suffering. She
smoothed his pillows and shifted his position so that he might not
irritate his wounds; and, as if soothed by her presence, he sighed
weakly and broke into a little negro melody:
"All dat I got on de whole plantation,
All dat I got in de whole creation,
In de big roun' worl' or de deep-blue skies,
Is dat fat li'l feller wid his mammy's eyes,
Li'l feller wid his mammy's eyes."
His voice was very low and soft. Then he suddenly sat up in bed and
pointed past her. "Look!" he cried. "The cavalry! The cavalry! By
Heaven, how they ride! Look at that officer! Great Scott! it's
Oaklands!--Good old Oaklands!--Come on, men--one last fight!--Get those
guns away--d' you hear? Get those guns away--_now_!"
Weak from the effort he had made, he sank back with a moan; and the
woman stroked his brow, and kept back the tears which welled to her
eyes. For half-an-hour he did not speak; then he went through the
pantomime of lighting a cigarette.
"The reason I can't marry her," he said abruptly, "is the same reason
that East is East and West is West. What can I offer her? She can't
dress on two manuscripts a month; and, besides, she knows nothing of
building bridges. If I made a great success I might come to her,
but--as I am now--no--no." He solemnly shook his head and flicked the
ash from the imaginary cigarette. "Can you picture Lady Dorothy in a
pretty little cottage outside New York, helping me to write--my
constant inspiration--the mother of my children? Can you picture her
sharing my discouragements; telling me I can write if the whole world
says I cannot; believing in me when I've lost belief in myself? Can you
see her motoring into New York with me, and the two of us dining at
Rector's to celebrate the acceptance of a play? Would she be happy in
such a life? No--no--no; as Euclid says, it 'is absurd.' By the way, my
dear fellow, you might shift the grand piano, will you? It is resting
on my knee."
His voice trailed into silence, and he sank into a slumber. Twilight
was throwing its cloak over the earth when he spoke again. His hand
reached out, and she took it in both of hers.
"I thought I was dying," he murmured. "I think I should have died
there--in that ditch--but Dorothy--Dorothy--was beside me.... She held
my hand when everything went dark--she wept a little.... It was only a
dream, I know; but I lived. She must never know I loved
her--because----"
"Lawrence!" The word was low and stifled. "Lawrence"--that was all.
Then she leaned over and kissed his lips.
_Galatea had come to life._