A QUESTION OF NERVE
“Gentlemen, may I introduce Captain Dunbar, your sky-pilot, padre,
chaplain, anything you like? They say he's a devil of a good preacher.
The Lord knows you need one.”
So Barry's commanding officer introduced him to the mess.
He bowed in different directions to the group of officers who, in the
ante-room of the mess, were having a pre-prandial cocktail. Barry found
a place near the foot of the table and for a few minutes sat silent,
getting his bearings.
Some of the officers were known to him. He had met the commanding
officer, Colonel Leighton, a typical, burly Englishman, the owner of
an Alberta horse ranch, who, well to do to begin with, had made money
during his five years in the country. He had the reputation of being a
sporting man, of easy morality, fond of his glass and of good living. He
owed his present position, partly to political influence, and partly
to his previous military experience in the South African war. His
popularity with his officers was due largely to his easy discipline, and
to the absence of that rigidity of manner which is supposed to go with
high military command, and which civilians are wont to find so irksome.
Barry had also met Major Bustead, the Senior Major of the Battalion, and
President of the mess, an eastern Canadian, with no military experience
whatever, but with abounding energy and ambition; the close friend and
boon companion of Colonel Leighton, he naturally had become his second
in command. Barry was especially delighted to observe Major Bayne, whom
he had not seen since his first meeting with him some months ago on the
Red Pine Trail. Captain Neil Fraser and Lieutenant Stewart Duff were the
only officers about the table whom he recognised, except that, among
the junior lieutenants, he caught the face of young Duncan Cameron, the
oldest son of his superintendent, and a fine, clean-looking young fellow
he appeared.
Altogether Barry was strongly attracted by the clean, strong faces about
him. He would surely soon find good friends among them, and he only
hoped he might be able to be of some service to them.
The young fellow on his right introduced himself as Captain Hopeton.
He was a young English public school boy, who, though a failure as a
rancher, had proved an immense success in the social circles of the
city. Because of this, and also of his family connections “at home,” he
had been appointed to a Civil Service position. A rather bored manner
and a supercilious air spoiled what would otherwise have been a handsome
and attractive face.
After a single remark about the “beastly bore” of military duty, Hopeton
ignored Barry, giving such attention as he had to spare from his dinner
to a man across the table, with whom, apparently, he had shared some
rather exciting social experiences in the city.
For the first half hour of the meal, the conversation was of the most
trivial nature, and was to Barry supremely uninteresting. “Shop talk”
was strictly taboo, and also all reference to the war. The thin stream
of conversation that trickled from lip to lip ran the gamut of sport,
spiced somewhat highly with society scandal which, even in that little
city, appeared to flourish.
To Barry it was as if he were in a strange land and among people of a
strange tongue. Of sport, as understood by these young chaps, he knew
little, and of scandal he was entirely innocent; so much so that many
of the references that excited the most merriment were to him utterly
obscure. After some attempts to introduce topics of conversation which
he thought might be of mutual interest, but which had fallen quite flat,
Barry gave up, and sat silent with a desolating sense of loneliness
growing upon his spirit.
“After the port,” when smoking was permitted, he was offered a cigarette
by Hopeton, and surprised that young man mightily by saying that he
never smoked. This surprise, it is to be feared, deepened into disgust
when, a few moments later, he declined a drink from Hopeton's whisky
bottle, which a servant brought him.
Liquors were not provided at the mess, but officers were permitted to
order what they desired.
As the bottles circulated, tongues were loosened. There was nothing foul
in the talk, but more and more profanity, with frequent apology to the
chaplain, began to decorate the conversation. Conscious of a deepening
disgust with his environment, and of an overwhelming sense of isolation,
Barry cast vainly about for a means of escape. Of military etiquette he
was ignorant; hence he could only wait in deepening disgust for the
O. C. to give the signal to rise. How long he could have endured is
doubtful, but release came in a startling, and, to most of the members
of the mess, a truly horrifying manner.
In one of those strange silences that fall upon even the noisiest of
companies, Colonel Leighton, under the influence of a somewhat liberal
indulgence in his whisky bottle, began the relation of a tale of very
doubtful flavour. In the midst of the laughter that followed the tale,
Barry rose to his feet, his face white and his eyes aflame, and in a
voice vibrating with passion, said:
“May I be excused, sir?”
“Why, certainly,” said the colonel pleasantly, adding after a moment's
hesitation, “is there anything wrong, Dunbar? Are you ill?”
“No, sir.” Barry's voice had the resonant quality of a cello string.
“I mean, yes, sir,” he corrected. “I am ill. The atmosphere surrounding
such a tale is nauseating to me.”
In the horrified silence that followed his remark, he walked out from
the room. Upon his ears, as he stood in the ante-room, trembling with
the violence of his passion, a burst of laughter fell. A sudden wrath
like a hot flame swept his body. He wheeled in his tracks, tore open the
door, and with head high and face set, strode to his place at the table
and sat down.
Astonishment beyond all words held the company in tense stillness. From
Barry's face they looked toward the colonel, who, too dumfounded for
speech or action, sat gazing at his chaplain. Then from the end of the
table a few places down from Barry, a voice was heard.
“Feel better, Dunbar?” The cool, clear voice cut through the tense
silence like the zip of a sword.
“I do, thank you, sir,” looking him straight in the eye.
“The fresh air, doubtless,” continued the cool voice. “I always find
myself that even a whiff of fresh air is a very effective antidote for
threatening vertigo. I remember once--” continued the speaker, dropping
into a conversational tone, and leaning across the table slightly toward
Barry, “I was in the room with a company of men--” And the speaker
entered upon a long and none too interesting relation of an experience
of his, the point of which no one grasped, but the effect of which every
one welcomed with the profoundest relief. He was the regimental medical
officer, a tall, slight man, with a keen eye, a pleasant face crowned by
a topknot of flaming hair, and with a little dab of hair of like colour
upon his upper lip, which he fondly cherished, as an important item in
his military equipment.
“Say, the old doc is a lifesaver, sure enough,” said a young subaltern,
answering to the name of “Sally,” colloquial for Salford, as he stood
amid a circle of officers gathered in the smoking room a few minutes
later. “A lifesaver,” repeated Sally, with emphasis. “He can have me for
his laboratory collection after I'm through.”
“He is one sure singing bird,” said another sub, a stout, overgrown boy
by the name of Booth. “The nerve of him,” added Booth in admiration.
“Nerve!” echoed a young captain, “but what about the pilot's nerve?”
“Sui generis, Train, I should say,” drawled Hopeton.
“Suey, who did you say?” inquired Sally. “What's her second name? But
let me tell you I could have fallen on his neck and burst into tears of
gratitude. For me,” continued Sally, glancing about the room, “I don't
hold with that dirt stuff at mess. It isn't necessary.”
“Beastly bad form,” said Hopeton, “but, good Lord! Your Commanding
Officer, Sally! There's such a thing as discipline, you know.”
“What extraordinary thing is it that Sally knows?” inquired Major
Bustead, who lounged up to the group.
“We were discussing the padre's break, Major, which for my part,”
drawled Hopeton, “I consider rotten discipline.”
“Discipline!” snorted the major. “By Gad, it was a piece of the most
damnable cheek I have ever heard at a mess table. He ought to be sent to
Coventry. I only hope the O. C. will get him exchanged.”
The major made no effort to subdue his voice, which was plainly audible
throughout the room.
“Hush, for God's sake,” warned Captain Train, as Barry entered the door.
“Here he is.”
But Barry had caught the major's words. For a moment he stood
irresolute; then walked quietly toward the group.
“I couldn't help hearing you, Major Bustead,” he said, in a voice
pleasant and under perfect control. “I gather you were referring to me.”
“I was, sir,” said the major defiantly.
“And why should I be sent to Coventry, or exchanged, may I ask?” Barry's
voice was that of an interested outsider.
“Because,” stuttered the Major, “I consider, sir, that--that--you have
been guilty of a piece of damnable impertinence toward your Commanding
Officer. I never heard anything like it in my life. Infernal cheek, I
call it, sir.”
While the major was speaking, Barry stood listening with an air of
respectful attention.
“I wonder!” he said, after a moment's thought. “If I thought I had been
impertinent, I should at once apologise. But, sir, do you think it is
part of my duty to allow any man, even my Commanding Officer, to--pardon
the disgusting metaphor, it is not so disgusting as the action
complained of--to spit in my soup, and take it without protest? Do you,
sir?”
“I--you--” The major grew very red in the face. “You need to learn your
place in this battalion, sir.”
“I do,” said Barry, still preserving his quiet voice and manner. “I
want to learn--I am really anxious to learn it. Do you mind answering
my question?” His tone was that of a man who is earnestly but quite
respectfully seeking information from a superior officer.
“Your question, sir?” stuttered the major, “your--your--question. Damn
your question, and yourself too.”
The major turned abruptly away. Barry heard him quite unmoved, stood
looking after him in silence a moment or two, then, shaking his head,
with a puzzled expression on his face, moved slowly away from the group.
“Oh, my aunt Caroline,” breathed Sally into his friend Hopeton's ear,
resting heavily meanwhile against his shoulder. “What a score! What a
score!”
“A bull, begad! a clean bull!” murmured Hopeton, supporting his friend
out of the room as he added, “A little fresh air, as a preventative of
vertigo, as the old doc says, eh, Sally.”
“Good Lord, is he just a plain ass, or what?” inquired young Booth, his
eye following Barry down the room.
“Ass! A mule, I should say. And one with a good lot of kick in him,”
replied Captain Train. “I don't know that I care for that kind of an
animal, though.”
Before many hours had passed, the whole battalion had received with
undiluted joy an account of the incident, for though the Commanding
Officer was popular with his men, to have him called down at his own
mess by one of his own officers was an event too thrilling to give
anything but unalloyed delight to those who had to suffer in silence
similar indignities at the hands of their officers.
A notable exception in the battalion, however, was Sergeant Major
McFetteridge, who, because of his military experience, and of his
reputation as a disciplinarian, had been recently transferred to the
battalion. To the sergeant major this act of Barry's was but another and
more flagrant example of his fondness for “buttin' in,” and the sergeant
major let it be known that he strongly condemned the chaplain for what
he declared was an unheard of breach of military discipline.
Of course there were others who openly approved, and who admired the
chaplain's “nerve in standing up to the old man.” In their opinion he
was entirely justified in what he had said. The O. C. had insulted him,
and every officer at the mess, by his off-colour story, but on the whole
the general result of the incident was that Barry's life became more and
more one of isolation from both officers and men. For this reason and
because of a haunting sense of failure the months of training preceding
the battalion's departure for England were for Barry one long and almost
uninterrupted misery. It seemed impossible to establish any point of
contact with either the officers or the men. In their athletics, in
their social gatherings, in their reading, he was quietly ignored and
made to feel that he was in no way necessary. An impalpable but very
real barrier prevented his near approach to those whom he was so eager
to serve.
This unexpressed opposition was quickened into active hostility by the
chaplain's uncompromising attitude on the liquor question. By the army
regulations, the battalion canteen was dry, but in spite of this
many, both of the officers and the men, freely indulged in the use
of intoxicating drink. The effect upon discipline was, of course,
deplorable, and in his public addresses as well as private conversation,
Barry constantly denounced these demoralising habits, winning thereby
the violent dislike of those especially affected, and the latent
hostility of the majority of the men who agreed with the sergeant major
in resenting the chaplain's “buttin' in.”
It was, therefore, with unspeakable joy that Barry learned that the
battalion was warned for overseas service. Any change in his lot would
be an improvement, for he was convinced that he had reached the limit of
wretchedness in the exercise of his duty as chaplain of the battalion.
In this conviction, however, he was mistaken. On shipboard, he
discovered that there were still depths of misery which he was called
upon to plumb. Assigned to a miserable stateroom in an uncomfortable
part of the ship, he suffered horribly from seasickness, and for the
first half of the voyage lay foodless and spiritless in his bunk,
indifferent to his environment or to his fate. His sole friend was his
batman, Harry Hobbs, but, of course, he could not confide to Harry the
misery of his body, or the deeper misery of his soul.
It was Harry, however, that brought relief, for it was he that called
the M. O. to his officer's bedside. The M. O. was shocked to find the
chaplain in a state of extreme physical weakness, and mental depression.
At once, he gave orders that Barry should be removed to his own
stateroom, which was large and airy and open to the sea breezes. The
effect was immediately apparent, for the change of room, and more
especially the touch of human sympathy, did much to restore Barry to his
normal health and spirits. A friendship sprang up between the M. O.
and the chaplain. With this friendship a new interest came into Barry's
life, and with surprising rapidity he regained both his physical and
mental tone.
The doctor took him resolutely in hand, pressed him to take his part in
the daily physical drill, induced him to share the daily programme of
sports, and, best of all, discovering a violin on board, insisted on his
taking a place on the musical programme rendered nightly in the salon.
As might be expected, his violin won him friends among all of the music
lovers on board ship, and life for Barry began once more to be bearable.
Returning strength, however, recalled him to the performance of
his duties as chaplain, and straightway in the exercise of what he
considered his duty, he came into conflict with no less a personage than
the sergeant major himself. The trouble arose over his batman, Harry
Hobbs.
Harry was a man who, in his youthful days, had been a diligent patron of
the London music halls, and in consequence had become himself an amateur
entertainer of very considerable ability. His sailor's hornpipes, Irish
jigs, his old English North-country ballads and his coster songs were an
unending joy to his comrades. Their gratitude and admiration took forms
that proved poor Harry's undoing, and besides some of them took an
unholy joy in sending the chaplain's batman to his officer incapable of
service.
Barry's indignation and grief were beyond words. He dealt faithfully
with the erring Hobbs, as his minister, as his officer, as chaplain, but
the downward drag of his environment proved too great for his batman's
powers of resistance. Once and again Barry sought the aid of the
sergeant major to rescue Harry from his downward course, but the old
sergeant major was unimpressed with the account of Harry's lapses.
“Is your batman unfit for duty, sir?” he inquired.
“Yes, he is, often,” said Barry indignantly.
“Did you report him, sir?” inquired the sergeant major.
“No, I did not.”
“Then, sir, I am afraid that until you do your duty I can do nothing,”
answered the sergeant major, with suave respect.
“If you did your duty,” Barry was moved to say, “then Hobbs would not
need to be reported. The regulations governing that canteen should
prevent these frequent examples of drunkenness, which are a disgrace to
the battalion.”
“Do I understand, sir,” inquired the sergeant major, with quiet respect,
“that you are accusing me of a failure in duty?”
“I am saying that if the regulations were observed my batman and
others would not be so frequently drunk, and the enforcing of these
regulations, I understand, is a part of your duty.”
“Then, sir,” replied the sergeant major, “perhaps I had better report
myself to the Commanding Officer.”
“You can please yourself,” said Barry, shortly, as he turned away.
“Very good, sir,” replied the sergeant major. “I shall report myself at
once.”
The day following, the chaplain received an order to appear before the
O. C. in the orderly room.
“Captain Dunbar, I understand that you are making a charge against
Sergeant Major McFetteridge,” was Colonel Leighton's greeting.
“I am making no charge against any one, sir,” replied Barry quietly.
“What do you say to that, Sergeant Major McFetteridge?”
In reply, the sergeant major gave a full and fair statement of the
passage between the chaplain and himself the day before.
“Is this correct, Captain Dunbar?” asked the O. C.
“Substantially correct, sir, except that the sergeant major is here on
his own suggestion, and on no order of mine.”
“Then I understand that you withdraw your charge against the sergeant
major.”
“I withdraw nothing, sir. I had no intention of laying a charge, and I
have laid no charge against the sergeant major; but at the same time I
have no hesitation in saying that the regulations governing the canteen
are not observed, and, as I understand that the responsibility for
enforcing these regulations is in the sergeant major's hands, in that
sense I consider that he has failed in his duty.”
But the sergeant major was too old a soldier to be caught napping.
He had his witnesses ready at hand to testify that the canteen was
conducted according to regulations, and that if the chaplain's batman
or any others took more liquor than they should, neither the corporal in
charge of the canteen nor the sergeant major was to be blamed.
“All I can say, sir,” replied Barry, “is that soldiers are frequently
drunk on this ship, and I myself have seen them when the worse for
liquor going into the canteen.”
“And did you report these men to their officers or to me, Captain
Dunbar, or did you report the corporal in charge of the canteen?”
“No, sir, I did not.”
“Then sir, do you know that you have been guilty of serious neglect of
duty?” said the colonel sternly.
“Do I understand, sir, that it is my duty to report to you every man I
see the worse for liquor on this ship?”
“Most certainly,” replied the colonel, emphatically. “Every breach of
discipline must be reported.”
“I understood, sir, that an officer had a certain amount of discretion
in a matter of this kind.”
“Where did you get that notion?” inquired the colonel. “Let me tell you
that you are wrong. Discretionary powers lie solely with me.”
“Then, sir, I am to understand that I must report every man whom I see
the worse for liquor?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“And every officer, as well, sir?”
The colonel hesitated a moment, fumbled with his papers, and then
blurted out:
“Certainly, sir. And let me say, Captain Dunbar, that an officer,
especially an officer in your position, ought to be very careful in
making a charge against a N. C. O., more particularly the sergeant major
of his battalion. Nothing is more calculated to drag down discipline.
The case is dismissed.”
“Sir,” said Barry, maintaining his place before the table. “May I ask
one question?”
“The case is dismissed, Captain Dunbar. What do you want?” asked the
colonel brusquely.
“I want to be quite clear as to my duty, in the future, sir. Do I
understand that if any man or officer is found under the influence of
liquor, anywhere in this ship, and at any hour of the day or night, he
is to be reported at once to the orderly room, even though that officer
should be, say, even the adjutant or yourself?” Barry said, gazing up
at the colonel with a face in which earnestness and candour were equally
blended.
The colonel gazed back at him with a face in which rage and perplexity
were equally apparent. For some moments, he was speechless, while the
whole orderly room held its breath.
“I mean--that you--you understand--of course,” stuttered the colonel,
“that an officer must use common sense. He must be damned sure of what
he says, in other words,” said the colonel, rushing his speech.
“But, sir,” continued Barry.
“Oh, go to the devil, sir,” roared the colonel. “The case is dismissed.”
Barry saluted and left the room.
“Is the man an infernal and condemned fool, or what is the matter with
him?” exclaimed the colonel, turning to his adjutant in a helpless
appeal, while the orderly room struggled with its grins.
“The devil only knows,” said Major Bustead. “He beats me. He is an
interfering and impertinent ass, in my opinion, but what else he is, I
don't know.”
It is fair to say that the sergeant major bore the chaplain no grudge
for his part in the affair. The whole battalion, however, soon became
possessed of the tale, adorned and expanded to an unrecognisable extent,
and revelled in ecstasy over the discomfort of the C. O. The consensus
of opinion was that on the whole the sergeant major had come off with
premier honours, and as between the “old man” and the “Sky Pilot,” as
Barry was coming to be called, it was about an even break. As for the
Pilot, he remained more than ever a mystery, and on the whole, the
battalion was inclined to leave him alone.
The chaplain, however, had partially, at least, achieved his aim, in
that the regulations governing the canteen were more strictly enforced,
to the vast improvement of discipline generally, and to the immense
advantage of Harry Hobbs in particular.
Soon after this, another event occurred which aided materially in
bringing about this same result, and which also led to a modification of
opinion in the battalion in regard to their chaplain.
To the civilian soldier the punctilio of military etiquette is
frequently not only a bore, but at times takes on the appearance of
wilful insult which no grown man should be expected to tolerate. To the
civilian soldier born and brought up in wide spaces of the far Northwest
this is especially the case.
It is not surprising, therefore, that McCuaig, fresh from his
thirty-five years of life in the Athabasca wilds, should find the
routine of military discipline extremely irksome and the niceties of
military etiquette as from a private to an officer not only foolish
but degrading both to officer and man. Under the patient shepherding of
Barry's father, he had endured much without protest or complaint, but,
with the advent of Sergeant Major McFetteridge, with his rigid military
discipline and his strict insistence upon etiquette, McCuaig passed
into a new atmosphere. To the freeborn and freebred recruit from the
Athabasca plains, the stiff and somewhat exaggerated military bearing
of the sergeant major was at first a source of quiet amusement, later of
perplexity, and finally of annoyance. For McFetteridge and his minutiae
of military discipline McCuaig held only contempt. To him, the whole
business was a piece of silly nonsense unworthy of serious men.
It was inevitable that the sergeant major should sooner or later
discover this opinion in Private McCuaig, and that he should consider
the holding of this opinion as a tendency toward insubordination. It was
also inevitable that the sergeant major should order a course of special
fatigues calculated to subdue the spirit of the insubordinate private.
It took McCuaig some days to discover that in these frequent fatigues
and special duties, he was undergoing punishment, but once made, the
discovery wrought in him a cold and silent rage, which drove him to
an undue and quite unwonted devotion to the canteen, which in turn
transformed the reserved, self-controlled man of the wilds into a
demonstrative, disorderly and quarrelsome “rookie” aching for trouble.
Under these circumstances, an outburst was inevitable. Corporal Ferry,
in charge of the canteen, furnished the occasion.
“No more for you, McCuaig. You've got more aboard now than you can
carry.”
To the injury of being denied another beer was added the insult
of suggesting his inability to carry what he had. This to a man of
McCuaig's experience in every bar and camp and roadhouse from Edmonton
to the Arctic circle, was not to be endured.
He leaned over the improvised bar, until his face almost touched the
corporal's.
“What?” he ejaculated, but in the single expletive there darted out
such concentrated fury, that the little corporal sprang back as from a
striking snake.
“You can't have any more beer, McCuaig,” said the corporal, from a safe
distance.
“Watch me, sonny!” replied McCuaig.
With a single sweep of his hand, he snatched two bottles from the ledge
behind the corporal's head. Holding one aloft, he knocked the top off
the other, drank its contents slowly and smashed the empty bottle at the
spot where the corporal's head had been; knocked the top off the second
bottle and was proceeding to drink it, in a more or less leisurely
fashion.
“Private Timms! Private Mulligan!” shouted Corporal Ferry, reappearing
from beneath the counter. “Arrest that man!”
“Wait, sonny; give me a chance,” cried McCuaig, in a wild, high,
singsong voice. Lifting his bottle to his lips, he continued to drink
slowly, keeping his eye upon the two privates, who were considering the
best method of carrying out their orders.
“There, sonny, fill that up again,” cried McCuaig, good-naturedly, when
he had finished his drink, tossing the second bottle at the head of
the corporal, who, being on the alert, again made a successful
disappearance.
“Now, then, boys, come on,” said McCuaig, backing toward the wall, and
dropping his hands to his hips. With a curse of disappointment that he
found himself without his usual weapons of defence, McCuaig raised a
shout, sprang into the air, cracked his heels together in a double rap,
and swinging his arms around his head, yelled:
“Come on, my boys! I'm hungry, I am! Meat! Meat! Meat!”
With each “meat,” his white teeth came together with a snap like that
of a hungry wolf. Such was the beastly ferocity in his face and posture
that both Private Timms and Private Mulligan, themselves men of more
than average strength, paused and looked at the corporal for further
orders.
“Arrest that man,” said the corporal again, preserving at the same time
an attitude that revealed a complete readiness for swift disappearance.
“Private McTavish,” he added, calling upon a tall Highlander who was
gazing with admiring eyes upon the raging McCuaig, “assist Private Timms
and Private Mulligan in arresting that man.”
“Why don't you come yourself, sonny?” inquired McCuaig. With a swift
sidestep and a swifter swoop of his long arm, he reached for the
corporal, who once more found safety in swift disappearance.
At that instant, the Highlander, seeing his opportunity, flung himself
upon McCuaig, and winding his arms around him, hung to him grimly,
crying out:
“Get hold of his legs! Queeck! Will you?”
When the sergeant major, attracted by the unwonted uproar, appeared upon
the scene, there was a man on every one of McQuaig's limbs, and another
one astride his stomach. “Heavin' like sawlogs shootin' a rapid,” as
Private Corbin, a lumberjack from the Eau Claire, was later heard to
remark.
“What is he like now?” inquired the colonel, after listening to the
sergeant major's report of the Homeric combat.
“He is in a compartment in the hold, sir, and raging like one demented.
He very nearly did for Major Bustead, smashing at him with a scantling
that he ripped from the ship's timbers, sir. He still has the scantling,
sir.”
“Let him cool off all night,” said the Commanding Officer, after
consultation with the adjutant.
Barry, who with difficulty had restrained himself during the sergeant
major's report, slipped from the room, found the M. O., to whom he
detailed the story and dragged him off to visit the raging McCuaig.
They found a corporal on guard outside.
“I would not open the door, sir. He is really dangerous.”
“Oh, rot!” replied the M. O. “Open up the door!”
“Excuse me, sir,” said the corporal, “it is not safe. At present, he is
clean crazy. He is off his nut entirely.”
The M. O. stood listening at the door. From within came moaning sounds
as from a suffering beast.
“That man is suffering. Open the door!” ordered the M. O. peremptorily.
The corporal, with great reluctance, unlocked the padlock, shot back the
bolt, and then stood away from the door.
“It is the medical officer, McCuaig,” said the doctor, opening the door
slightly.
Bang! Crash! came the scantling upon the door jamb, shattering it to
pieces. The whole guard flung themselves against the door, shoved it
shut, and shot the bolt.
“I warned you, sir,” said the panting corporal. “Better leave him until
morning. He's a regular devil!”
“He is no more a devil than you are, corporal,” said Barry, in a loud,
clear voice. “He is one of the best men in the battalion. More than
that, he is my friend, and if he spends the night there, I spend it with
him.”
So saying, and before any one could stop him, Barry shot back the bolt,
opened the door, and with his torchlight flashing before him, stepped
inside.
“Hello, McCuaig,” he called, in a quiet, clear voice, “where are you?
It's Dunbar, you know.”
He drew the door shut after him. The corporal was for following him, but
the M. O. interposed.
“Stop out!” he ordered. “Stay where you are! You have done enough
mischief already.”
“But, sir, he'll kill him!”
“This is my case,” said the M. O. sharply. “Fall back all of you, out of
sight!”
Together they stood listening in awestruck silence, expecting every
moment to hear sounds of conflict, and cries for help, but all they
heard was the cool, even flow of a quiet voice, and after some minutes
had passed, the sound of moans, mingled with a terrible sobbing.
The M. O., moving toward the corporal and his guard, said in a low tone:
“Take your men down the passage and keep them there until I call for
you.”
“Sir,” began the corporal.
“Will you obey my orders?” said the M. O. “I'm in command here! Go!”
Without further words, the corporal moved his men away.
Half an hour later, the sergeant major, going his rounds, received a
rude shock. In the passage leading to McCuaig's compartment, he met four
men, bearing on a stretcher toward the sick bay a long silent form.
“Who have you got there, corporal?” he inquired in a tone of kindly
interest.
“McCuaig, sir.”
“McCuaig?” roared the sergeant major. “And who--”
“Medical officer's orders.”
“Silence there,” said a sharp voice in the rear. “Carry on, men.”
And past the astonished sergeant major, the procession filed with the
medical officer and the chaplain at its tail end.
After the sergeant major had made his report to the O. C., as was his
duty, the M. O. was sent for. What took place at that interview
was never divulged to the mess, but it was known that whereas the
conversation began in very loud tones by the Officer Commanding, it
ended half an hour later with the M. O. being shown out of the room by
the colonel himself, who was heard to remark:
“A very fine bit of work. Tell him I want to see him when he has a few
minutes, and thank you, doctor, thank you!”
“Who does the old man want to see?” inquired Sally, who, with Hopeton
and Booth, happened to be passing.
“The chaplain,” snapped the M. O., going on his way.
“The chaplain? By Jove, he's a queer one, eh?”
The M. O. turned sharply back, and coming very close to Sally, said in a
wrathful voice:
“A queer one? Yes, a queer one! But if some of you damned young idiots
that sniff at him had just half his guts, you'd be twice the men you
are.--Shut up, Hopeton! Listen to me--” and in words of fiery rage that
ran close to tears, he recounted his experience of the last hour.
“By Jove! Doc, some guts, eh?” said Sally in a low tone, as he moved
away.