THE LONELY SOLDIER
Private John Farren of Seattle, glanced listlessly out of the barracks’
window and sighed. It was not a very cheerful view. The snow drove past
his vision in fine, slanting lines that veiled and softened the raw
outlines of the building across the cantonment street. It had been
falling steadily all night, and Farren was tired of the soft, monotonous
brush of icy particles against the glass. It took very little today to
tire him. A month in the contagious ward of a camp hospital is apt to
weaken nerves as well as body, and Farren had come out only the
afternoon before.
A laugh from the other end of the room, loud, hearty, a little strident,
brought a frown to his face and made him lift languidly on one elbow to
glance across the rows of neat cots to where a group of men in khaki was
gathered intimately in the further corner. There were six or eight of
them, bright-eyed, alert, pleasant looking chaps. Their uniforms were
still a trifle new, perhaps, but already there was a touch of the
soldierly in carriage and bearing in spite of the brief tenure of their
training.
Yet Farren, after a single glance, dropped back on his cot, a pang of
bitterness in his heart. That was the very corner where he had been wont
to gather with his chum, Dick Harley, with chuckling, smiling Bruce
Ballard, with lank, taciturn MacComber, and a dozen other of those men
whom six months of close association had transformed from strangers into
the most intimate of friends.
Where were they now, these men who had come to mean so much to him? In
France, no doubt. He could not tell. He only knew that while he lay
helpless in the hospital his regiment had gone, bag and baggage, leaving
him behind. The nature of his illness made it impossible for them to
even come and say good-by. He had returned yesterday to the barracks
which had been his home for months to find it full of
strangers—strangers who had already acquired an air of permanent
possession, which made him feel, curiously, as if he were the rookie and
they the old established veterans.
The newcomers had not been deliberately indifferent. It was simply that
they had already formed their little cliques and friendships. And with
Christmas day at hand, there was the exciting lottery of leave to occupy
them, the interest of Christmas letters and Christmas parcels to fill
their minds. An added obstacle, too, was Farren’s lassitude and
weakness, which made the mere act of friendly overture an effort he
could not bring himself to tackle. So he simply slipped back into his
place, silent, reserved, desperately lonely. He did not even try for
leave. Of what use would that be to him when he knew no one in the East
and had no place to go? Once, to be sure, he thought of the Boy Scouts
he had come to know so pleasantly. They were mighty nice chaps, and he
felt they liked him. But at this season they were probably too full of
Christmas fun and excitement to give him even a thought.
A lump rose in Farren’s throat, his lids drooped defendingly. And out of
the sheltering darkness, the soft swish of snow sounding in his ears,
there rose a picture of—Home! There were dear, familiar faces in that
picture, shadowy familiar objects in its background. And because Farren
was young and rather weak and very lonely, he clung desperately to the
illusion, quite failing to hear the click of a door opening or the rapid
thud of feet across the bare boards. The footsteps ceased abruptly and
there came a momentary pause. Then a low, eager voice broke through his
reverie.
“Jack! Are you asleep?”
Farren’s lids flashed up and he blinked dazedly. Beside the cot a boy of
fifteen looked down on him—a red-cheeked, dark-eyed boy with snow
powdering his mackinaw and clinging to hair and lashes. Farren’s eyes
widened, his lips parted in a smile.
“Why, Micky!” he cried, struggling to a sitting posture. “When did you
blow in?”
“This minute. I’ve just come from the hospital.” He caught the man’s
thin, white fingers and squeezed them tightly. “Gee! but I’m glad to see
you out, Jack!” he exclaimed. “It’s been perfect ages.”
Farren smiled wrily. “It has that,” he agreed. “I began to think they
were going to keep me there forever.”
“How are you feeling?” asked McBride, sitting down on the side of the
cot. “A little rocky yet?”
“Sort of,” nodded Farren. “I’ll pick up, though, in a day or so. It—it
just seems a little queer getting back and finding—”
A roar of laughter came from the far corner of the room and he broke
off, wincing unconsciously. The boy, following the direction of his
glance, nodded comprehendingly.
“I know,” he said in a low tone. “It’s beastly! But maybe they’ll send
you after them. We—we saw them off at the station. It was great, but it
made me feel—sort of queer. They gave us all sorts of messages for
you—Dick and Mac and Bruce, and all the others. They said—”
He paused. Farren had turned abruptly and was staring out at the driving
snow. For a moment the boy hesitated. Then one hand reached out and
gently touched the other’s sleeve. A moment later, his voice,
elaborately casual, broke the silence.
“Can you get leave this afternoon, Jack?”
“Leave? What for? What would I do with it?”
Farren’s tone was dull and listless, but his face softened a little as
he looked into Micky’s eager, smiling eyes.
“Don’t you worry about that,” the boy answered. “We’ll see you have
enough to do. I’ll bet the old man would let you off now if you asked
him. You’ve been sick and all that, and I don’t believe you’re fit to do
any work yet. Come ahead and try. We want you for all day. Cavvy’s
waiting outside with a sleigh. I don’t believe you ever had a sleigh
ride before. They don’t have any snow in Seattle, do they?”
“Not often,” admitted Farren. He hesitated a moment longer and then
stood up slowly. His curiosity was roused, and unconsciously his load of
depression was lightening. “What the deuce have you boys got up your
sleeves?” he asked doubtfully.
Micky’s eyes danced. “That’s a secret,” he grinned. “You just go and get
off for all day and leave the rest to us.”
Farren smiled back at the boy, a pleasant glow stealing over him. After
all there were some who seemed to care whether or not he spent Christmas
day lying around the barracks. His glance strayed to McBride’s legs,
neatly encased in khaki.
“You’re all dolled up in your scout clothes,” he remarked, reaching for
his overcoat.
“Sure! This is a scout stunt—sort of. Here let’s hold that for you.
Where’s your hat? Oh, I see. There! Now, let’s get going. We’ve got a
lot of things to do yet, and it’s getting later every minute.”
He slipped an arm through Farren’s, and together they walked the length
of the barracks and out into the storm. As the door closed behind them
the man was conscious of a sense of relief, as if in that act he had
shut behind him, also, a host of memories and regrets and unattainable
longings. For a time, at least, he was free from the bitterness of the
past and the uncertainty of the future. His eyes brightened and a faint
color came into his face. Life wasn’t such an entirely hopeless
business, after all, he thought as he tilted his hat against the driving
snow.
There proved to be no difficulty in getting leave for the day, and
almost before he realized it they had reached the cantonment entrance
and found Jim Cavanaugh driving a sleigh slowly up and down the road.
His greeting was quite as eager and enthusiastic as McBride’s had been;
and presently, tucked between the two, thick furs drawn up to his chin,
Farren relaxed with a contented sigh. The snow drove against his face,
bringing the blood tingling responsive to his cheeks. The merry jingle
of the bells sounded in his ears. On either hand the white countryside
swept by, veiled, mysterious, pleasantly unfamiliar behind that curtain
of flying particles.
Pleasantly mysterious, too, was their destination. Farren tried to
wheedle something out of the boys, but both refused to give him any
satisfaction. They were full of news, having quantities of things to
tell him of what had happened during his illness. Chief among them was
the exciting incident of the hidden wireless and how the captured men
had proved to be German spies of the most flagrant type.
Seeing that his curiosity must remain ungratified, Farren resigned
himself to the inevitable and listened with much interest to the tale,
which culminated in the arrival of Government Secret Service agents, who
heartily congratulated the scouts and carried off the plotters to, as
Cavvy put it—“Goodness knows where.”
After all, there was a distinct pleasure in just sitting there, warm,
comfortable, relaxed, taking part in the boys’ gay chatter, conscious of
their friendly interest with back of it all that intangible sense of a
surprise party looming in the future.
In the town they made several stops where bulky, mysterious looking
parcels were tucked into the back of the sleigh, adding to the feeling
of festivity. Farren rather expected that they would then head for one
of the boys’ homes, where he would probably be invited to take part in
the family Christmas dinner. But to his surprise Cavanaugh drove
straight down the main street and on out into the country again.
“Look here, son,” he said with mock severity, “you’re not going to try
any kidnapping stunt, I hope. Don’t forget I’ve got to report back at
camp before nine o’clock, or it’ll be the guard house for mine.”
Cavvy grinned. “Don’t worry,” he laughed. “We’ll return you before that
in first class shape, charges paid and all the rest of it.”
“Only the parcel will be a few pounds heavier than when it was posted,”
chuckled McBride.
Farren smiled, but inwardly was puzzled. So it was a Christmas dinner,
then—but where? He knew most of the Wharton scouts well; a few of them
intimately. Not one, so far as he could recall, lived as far out as
this.
His bewilderment increased when the cutter left the main road and turned
to the right into a country road that led back into the hills. It curved
along, winding through bits of woods, past level white stretches which
might have been swamp or meadow land, or between bush-strewn pastures.
The storm had lessened a little and presently the red front of a low
farm house loomed warmly through the snow. But they passed that, too,
and a little later, when Cavanaugh pulled the horse again sharply to the
right into a narrow, twisting track, Farren gave up all speculation, and
settled back comfortably to enjoy his outing.
The road was steep as well as narrow and the horse took it at a walk. On
either side towered great pines and hemlocks, their laden branches
sweeping almost to the ground. Yet here and there through little
openings one could glimpse the close-set ranks of dark trunks standing
out sharply against the snow, which seemed to stretch on indefinitely.
Still climbing steadily, they made a turn and presently another. Then
the track levelled abruptly, and in another moment they came out into an
open space and stopped.
“Well, here we are,” said McBride, throwing aside the fur robes.
Farren’s eyes swept the clearing interestedly. It seemed to be a bare,
rocky shoulder on one of the high hills which looked down on Wharton.
From here, on fine days, one could no doubt get a widespread view of
hill and dale and open country. But Farren was not thinking of the view
just now. His attention was riveted on the structure of logs which stood
before him, nestling against a background of pines. It was a log cabin,
long, low, with an overhanging roof and a great stone chimney rising at
one end. Out of the chimney smoke curled; the small-paned window glowed
with the cheery gleam of fire; the tang of burning wood came pleasantly
to his senses. And as he stared, heedless for the moment of Cavvy’s
question of how he liked it, the door flew open and a horde of boys in
scout uniform burst out pell-mell and clustered around the sleigh.
“Merry Christmas!” they shouted exuberantly. “Merry Christmas, Jack!
How’s the boy? It’s great to see you again. Lay off him, you roughnecks;
don’t paw him to pieces. Give him a chance to get his breath.”
Farren grinned broadly as he stepped from the sleigh into the throng of
dancing, excited youngsters. “I certainly need it,” he laughed, ruffling
one boy’s hair and slapping another on the back. “You fellows put one
over on me this time, all right. But how did it ever come to be here?
You didn’t build it yourselves, did you?”
“Alas, no!” returned Cavvy. “Not that we aren’t capable of it if it had
been necessary, you understand. But we put some magnificent finishing
touches to the interior and furnished it completely. We wanted it to be
a surprise for you and Dick and the others. But before we got it quite
ready they—they went, so you’re the only one left to take part in the
house warming. Come ahead in and look the joint over. Furn, hold the
horse a minute, will you?”
He took Farren’s arm, and with Micky on the other side, and the
remainder of the boys trailing behind, they tramped through the snow to
the open door and stepped inside.
And there they paused, the man surprised, fascinated. He had been
prepared, no matter what he found, to show surprise and approval if for
no other reason than to satisfy the boyish pride of his hosts. But as it
happened there was no pretense necessary; his emotion was entirely
genuine and very keen.