The safe was an old one that opened with a key. As adjutant, Captain
Swanson had charge of certain funds of the regiment and kept in the
safe about five thousand dollars. No one but himself and Rueff, his
first sergeant, had access to it. And as Rueff proved an alibi, the
money might have been removed by an outsider. The court-martial gave
Swanson the benefit of the doubt, and a reprimand for not taking
greater care of the keys, and Swanson made good the five thousand.
Swanson did not think it was a burglar who had robbed the safe. He
thought Rueff had robbed it, but he could not possibly prove that. At
the time of the robbery Rueff was outside the Presidio, in uniform, at
a moving-picture show in San Francisco. A dozen people saw him there.
Besides, Rueff held an excellent record. He was a silent, clerk-like
young man, better at "paper work" than campaigning, but even as a
soldier he had never come upon the books. And he had seen service in
two campaigns, and was supposed to cherish ambitions toward a
commission. But, as he kept much to himself, his fellow non-coms could
only guess that.
On his captain's account he was loyally distressed over the
court-martial, and in his testimony tried to shield Swanson, by
agreeing heartily that through his own carelessness the keys might have
fallen into the hands of some one outside the post. But his loyalty
could not save his superior officer from what was a verdict virtually
of "not proven."
It was a most distressing affair, and, on account of the social
prominence of Swanson's people, his own popularity, and the name he had
made at Batangas and in the Boxer business, was much commented upon,
not only in the services, but by the newspapers all over the United
States.
Every one who knew Swanson knew the court-martial was only a matter of
form. Even his enemies ventured only to suggest that overnight he
might have borrowed the money, meaning to replace it the next morning.
And the only reason for considering this explanation was that Swanson
was known to be in debt. For he was a persistent gambler. Just as at
Pekin he had gambled with death for his number, in times of peace he
gambled for money. It was always his own money.
From the start Swanson's own attitude toward the affair was one of
blind, unreasoning rage. In it he saw no necessary routine of
discipline, only crass, ignorant stupidity. That any one should
suspect him was so preposterous, so unintelligent, as to be nearly
comic. And when, instantly, he demanded a court of inquiry, he could
not believe it when he was summoned before a court-martial. It
sickened, wounded, deeply affronted him; turned him quite savage.
On his stand his attitude and answers were so insolent that his old
friend and classmate, Captain Copley, who was acting as his counsel,
would gladly have kicked him. The findings of the court-martial, that
neither cleared nor condemned, and the reprimand, were an intolerable
insult to his feelings, and, in a fit of bitter disgust with the
service and every one in it, Swanson resigned. Of course, the moment
he had done so he was sorry. Swanson's thought was that he could no
longer associate with any one who could believe him capable of theft.
It was his idea of showing his own opinion of himself and the army.
But no one saw it in that light. On the contrary, people said:
"Swanson has been allowed to resign." In the army, voluntarily
resigning and being "allowed to resign" lest greater evils befall, are
two vastly different things. And when it was too late no one than
Swanson saw that more clearly. His anger gave way to extreme
morbidness. He believed that in resigning he had assured every one of
his guilt. In every friend and stranger he saw a man who doubted him.
He imagined snubs, rebuffs, and coldnesses. His morbidness fastened
upon his mind like a parasite upon a tree, and the brain sickened.
When men and women glanced at his alert, well-set-up figure and
shoulders, that even when he wore "cits" seemed to support epaulets,
and smiled approvingly, Swanson thought they sneered. In a week he
longed to be back in the army with a homesickness that made every one
who belonged to it his enemy.
He left San Francisco, where he was known to all, and travelled south
through Texas, and then to New Orleans and Florida. He never could
recall this period with clearness. He remembered changing from one
train to another, from one hotel to the next. Nothing impressed itself
upon him. For what he had lost nothing could give consolation.
Without honor life held no charm. And he believed that in the eyes of
all men he was a thief, a pariah, and an outcast.
He had been in Cuba with the Army of Occupation, and of that beautiful
island had grown foolishly fond. He was familiar with every part of
it, and he believed in one or another of its pretty ports he could so
completely hide himself that no one could intrude upon his misery. In
the States, in the newspapers he seemed to read only of those places
where he had seen service, of those places and friends and associates
he most loved. In the little Cuban village in which he would bury
himself he would cut himself off from all newspapers, from all who knew
him; from those who had been his friends, and those who knew his name
only to connect it with a scandal.
On his way from Port Tampa to Cuba the boat stopped at Key West, and
for the hour in which she discharged cargo Swanson went ashore and
wandered aimlessly. The little town, reared on a flat island of coral
and limestone, did not long detain him. The main street of shops,
eating-houses, and saloons, the pretty residences with overhanging
balconies, set among gardens and magnolia-trees, were soon explored,
and he was returning to the boat when the martial music of a band
caused him to halt. A side street led to a great gateway surmounted by
an anchor. Beyond it Swanson saw lawns of well-kept grass, regular
paths, pretty cottages, the two-starred flag of an admiral, and, rising
high above these, like four Eiffel towers, the gigantic masts of a
wireless. He recognized that he was at the entrance to the Key West
naval station, and turned quickly away.
He walked a few feet, the music of the band still in his ears. In an
hour he would be steaming toward Cuba, and, should he hold to his
present purpose, in many years this would be the last time he would
stand on American soil, would see the uniform of his country, would
hear a military band lull the sun to sleep. It would hurt, but he
wondered if it were not worth the hurt. A smart sergeant of marines,
in passing, cast one glance at the man who seemed always to wear
epaulets, and brought his hand sharply to salute. The act determined
Swanson. He had obtained the salute under false pretenses, but it had
pleased, not hurt him. He turned back and passed into the gate of the
naval station.
From the gate a grass-lined carriage drive led to the waters of the
harbor and the wharfs. At its extreme end was the band-stand, flanked
on one side by the cottage of the admiral, on the other by a sail-loft
with iron-barred windows and whitewashed walls. Upon the turf were
pyramids of cannon-balls and, laid out in rows as though awaiting
burial, old-time muzzle-loading guns. Across the harbor the sun was
sinking into the coral reefs, and the spring air, still warm from its
caresses, was stirred by the music of the band into gentle, rhythmic
waves. The scene was one of peace, order, and content.
But as Swanson advanced, the measure of the music was instantly
shattered by a fierce volley of explosions. They came so suddenly and
sharply as to make him start. It was as though from his flank a
quick-firing gun in ambush had opened upon him. Swanson smiled at
having been taken unawares. For in San Francisco he often had heard
the roar and rattle of the wireless. But never before had he listened
to an attack like this.
From a tiny white-and-green cottage, squatting among the four giant
masts, came the roar of a forest fire. One could hear the crackle of
the flames, the crash of the falling tree-trunks. The air about the
cottage was torn into threads; beneath the shocks of the electricity
the lawn seemed to heave and tremble. It was like some giant monster,
bound and fettered, struggling to be free. Now it growled sullenly,
now in impotent rage it spat and spluttered, now it lashed about with
crashing, stunning blows. It seemed as though the wooden walls of the
station could not contain it.
From the road Swanson watched, through the open windows of the cottage,
the electric bolts flash and flare and disappear. The thing appealed
to his imagination. Its power, its capabilities fascinated him. In it
he saw a hungry monster reaching out to every corner of the continent
and devouring the news of the world; feeding upon tales of shipwreck
and disaster, lingering over some dainty morsel of scandal, snatching
from ships and cities two thousand miles away the thrice-told tale of a
conflagration, the score of a baseball match, the fall of a cabinet,
the assassination of a king.
In a sudden access of fierceness, as though in an ecstasy over some
fresh horror just received, it shrieked and chortled. And then, as
suddenly as it had broken forth, it sank to silence, and from the end
of the carriage drive again rose, undisturbed, the music of the band.
The musicians were playing to a select audience. On benches around the
band-stand sat a half dozen nurse-maids with knitting in their hands,
the baby-carriages within arm's length. On the turf older children of
the officers were at play, and up and down the paths bareheaded girls,
and matrons, and officers in uniform strolled leisurely. From the
vine-covered cottage of Admiral Preble, set in a garden of flowering
plants and bending palmettos, came the tinkle of tea-cups and the
ripple of laughter, and at a respectful distance, seated on the
dismantled cannon, were marines in khaki and bluejackets in glistening
white.
It was a family group, and had not Swanson recognized among the little
audience others of the passengers from the steamer and natives of the
town who, like himself, had been attracted by the music, he would have
felt that he intruded. He now wished to remain. He wanted to carry
with him into his exile a memory of the men in uniform, of the music,
and pretty women, of the gorgeous crimson sunset. But, though he
wished to remain, he did not wish to be recognized.
From the glances already turned toward him, he saw that in this little
family gathering the presence of a stranger was an event, and he was
aware that during the trial the newspapers had made his face
conspicuous. Also it might be that stationed at the post was some
officer or enlisted man who had served with him in Cuba, China, or the
Philippines, and who might point him out to others. Fearing this,
Swanson made a detour and approached the band-stand from the wharf, and
with his back to a hawser-post seated himself upon the string-piece.
He was overcome with an intolerable melancholy. From where he sat he
could see, softened into shadows by the wire screens of the veranda,
Admiral Preble and his wife and their guests at tea. A month before,
he would have reported to the admiral as the commandant of the station,
and paid his respects. Now he could not do that; at least not without
inviting a rebuff. A month before, he need only have shown his card to
the admiral's orderly, and the orderly and the guard and the officers'
mess and the admiral himself would have turned the post upside down to
do him honor. But of what avail now was his record in three campaigns?
Of what avail now was his medal of honor? They now knew him as Swanson,
who had been court-martialled, who had been allowed to resign, who had
left the army for the army's good; they knew him as a civilian without
rank or authority, as an ex-officer who had robbed his brother
officers, as an outcast.
His position, as his morbid mind thus distorted it, tempted Swanson no
longer. For being in this plight he did not feel that in any way he
was to blame. But with a flaming anger he still blamed his brother
officers of the court-martial who had not cleared his name and with a
clean bill of health restored him to duty. Those were the men he
blamed; not Rueff, the sergeant, who he believed had robbed him, nor
himself, who, in a passion of wounded pride, had resigned and so had
given reason for gossip; but the men who had not in tones like a
bugle-call proclaimed his innocence, who, when they had handed him back
his sword, had given it grudgingly, not with congratulation.
As he saw it, he stood in a perpetual pillory. When they had robbed
him of his honor they had left him naked, and life without honor had
lost its flavor. He could eat, he could drink, he could exist. He
knew that in many corners of the world white arms would reach out to
him and men would beckon him to a place at table.
But he could not cross that little strip of turf between him and the
chattering group on the veranda and hand his card to the admiral's
orderly. Swanson loved life. He loved it so that without help, money,
or affection he could each morning have greeted it with a smile. But
life without honor! He felt a sudden hot nausea of disgust. Why was he
still clinging to what had lost its purpose, to what lacked the one
thing needful?
"If life be an ill thing," he thought, "I can lay it down!"
The thought was not new to him, and during the two past weeks of
aimless wandering he had carried with him his service automatic. To
reassure himself he laid his fingers on its cold smooth surface. He
would wait, he determined, until the musicians had finished their
concert and the women and children had departed, and then--
Then the orderly would find him where he was now seated, sunken against
the hawser-post with a hole through his heart. To his disordered brain
his decision appeared quite sane. He was sure he never had been more
calm. And as he prepared himself for death he assured himself that for
one of his standard no other choice was possible. Thoughts of the
active past, or of what distress in the future his act would bring to
others, did not disturb him. The thing had to be, no one lost more
heavily than himself, and regrets were cowardly.
He counted the money he had on his person and was pleased to find there
was enough to pay for what services others soon must render him. In
his pockets were letters, cards, a cigarette-case, each of which would
tell his identity. He had no wish to conceal it, for of what he was
about to do he was not ashamed. It was not his act. He would not have
died "by his own hand." To his unbalanced brain the officers of the
court-martial were responsible. It was they who had killed him. As he
saw it, they had made his death as inevitable as though they had
sentenced him to be shot at sunrise.
A line from "The Drums of the Fore and Aft" came back to him. Often he
had quoted it, when some one in the service had suffered through the
fault of others. It was the death-cry of the boy officer, Devlin. The
knives of the Ghazi had cut him down, but it was his own people's
abandoning him in terror that had killed him. And so, with a sob, he
flung the line at the retreating backs of his comrades: "You've killed
me, you cowards!"
Swanson, nursing his anger, repeated this savagely. He wished he could
bring it home to those men of the court-martial. He wished he could
make them know that his death lay at their door. He determined that
they should know. On one of his visiting-cards he pencilled:
"To the Officers of my Court-Martial: 'You've killed me, you cowards!'"
He placed the card in the pocket of his waistcoat. They would find it
just above the place where the bullet would burn the cloth.
The band was playing "Auf Wiedersehen," and the waltz carried with it
the sadness that had made people call the man who wrote it the waltz
king. Swanson listened gratefully. He was glad that before he went
out, his last mood had been of regret and gentleness. The sting of his
anger had departed, the music soothed and sobered him. It had been a
very good world. Until he had broken the spine of things it had
treated him well, far better, he admitted, than he deserved. There
were many in it who had been kind, to whom he was grateful. He wished
there was some way by which he could let them know that. As though in
answer to his wish, from across the parade-ground the wireless again
began to crash and crackle; but now Swanson was at a greater distance
from it, and the sighing rhythm of the waltz was not interrupted.
Swanson considered to whom he might send a farewell message, but as in
his mind he passed from one friend to another, he saw that to each such
a greeting could bring only distress. He decided it was the music that
had led him astray. This was no moment for false sentiment. He let
his hand close upon the pistol.
The audience now was dispersing. The nurse-maids had collected their
charges, the musicians were taking apart their music-racks, and from
the steps of the vine-covered veranda Admiral Preble was bidding the
friends of his wife adieu. At his side his aide, young, alert,
confident, with ill-concealed impatience awaited their departure.
Swanson found that he resented the aide. He resented the manner in
which he speeded the parting guests. Even if there were matters of
importance he was anxious to communicate to his chief, he need not make
it plain to the women folk that they were in the way.
When, a month before, he had been adjutant, in a like situation he
would have shown more self-command. He disapproved of the aide
entirely. He resented the fact that he was as young as himself, that
he was in uniform, that he was an aide. Swanson certainly hoped that
when he was in uniform he had not looked so much the conquering hero,
so self-satisfied, so supercilious. With a smile he wondered why, at
such a moment, a man he had never seen before, and never would see
again, should so disturb him.
In his heart he knew. The aide was going forward just where he was
leaving off. The ribbons on the tunic of the aide, the straps on his
shoulders, told Swanson that they had served in the same campaigns,
that they were of the same relative rank, and that when he himself, had
he remained in the service, would have been a brigadier-general the
aide would command a battle-ship. The possible future of the young
sailor filled Swanson with honorable envy and bitter regret. With all
his soul he envied him the right to look his fellow man in the eye, his
right to die for his country, to give his life, should it be required
of him, for ninety million people, for a flag. Swanson saw the two
officers dimly, with eyes of bitter self-pity. He was dying, but he
was not dying gloriously for a flag. He had lost the right to die for
it, and he was dying because he had lost that right.
The sun had sunk and the evening had grown chill. At the wharf where
the steamer lay on which he had arrived, but on which he was not to
depart, the electric cargo lights were already burning. But for what
Swanson had to do there still was light enough. From his breast-pocket
he took the card on which he had written his message to his brother
officers, read and reread it, and replaced it.
Save for the admiral and his aide at the steps of the cottage, and a
bareheaded bluejacket who was reporting to them, and the admiral's
orderly, who was walking toward Swanson, no one was in sight. Still
seated upon the stringpiece of the wharf, Swanson so moved that his
back was toward the four men. The moment seemed propitious, almost as
though it had been prearranged. For with such an audience, for his
taking off no other person could be blamed. There would be no question
but that death had been self-inflicted.
Approaching from behind him Swanson heard the brisk steps of the
orderly drawing rapidly nearer. He wondered if the wharf were
government property, if he were trespassing, and if for that reason the
man had been sent to order him away. He considered bitterly that the
government grudged him a place even in which to die. Well, he would not
for long be a trespasser. His hand slipped into his pocket, with his
thumb he lowered the safety-catch of the pistol.
But the hand with the pistol in it did not leave his pocket. The steps
of the orderly had come to a sudden silence. Raising his head heavily,
Swanson saw the man, with his eyes fixed upon him, standing at salute.
They had first made his life unsupportable, Swanson thought, now they
would not let him leave it.
"Captain Swanson, sir?" asked the orderly.
Swanson did not speak or move.
"The admiral's compliments, sir," snapped the orderly, "and will the
captain please speak with him?"
Still Swanson did not move.
He felt that the breaking-point of his self-control had come. This
impertinent interruption, this thrusting into the last few seconds of
his life of a reminder of all that he had lost, this futile
postponement of his end, was cruel, unhuman, unthinkable. The pistol
was still in his hand. He had but to draw it and press it close, and
before the marine could leap upon him he would have escaped.
From behind, approaching hurriedly, came the sound of impatient
footsteps.
The orderly stiffened to attention. "The admiral!" he warned.
Twelve years of discipline, twelve years of recognition of authority,
twelve years of deference to superior officers, dragged Swanson's hand
from his pistol and lifted him to his feet. As he turned, Admiral
Preble, the aide, and the bareheaded bluejacket were close upon him.
The admiral's face beamed, his eyes were young with pleasurable
excitement; with the eagerness of a boy he waved aside formal greetings.
"My dear Swanson," he cried, "I assure you it's a most astonishing,
most curious coincidence! See this man?" He flung out his arm at the
bluejacket. "He's my wireless chief. He was wireless operator on the
transport that took you to Manila. When you came in here this
afternoon he recognized you. Half an hour later he picks up a
message--picks it up two thousand miles from here--from San
Francisco--Associated Press news--it concerns you; that is, not really
concerns you, but I thought, we thought"--as though signalling for
help, the admiral glanced unhappily at his aide--"we thought you'd like
to know. Of course, to us," he added hastily, "it's quite
superfluous--quite superfluous, but--"
The aide coughed apologetically. "You might read, sir," he suggested.
"What? Exactly! Quite so!" cried the admiral.
In the fading light he held close to his eyes a piece of paper.
"San Francisco, April 20," he read. "Rueff, first sergeant, shot
himself here to-day, leaving written confession theft of regimental
funds for which Swanson, captain, lately court-martialled. Money found
intact in Rueff's mattress. Innocence of Swanson never questioned, but
dissatisfied with findings of court-martial has left army. Brother
officers making every effort to find him and persuade return."
The admiral sighed happily. "And my wife," he added, with an
impressiveness that was intended to show he had at last arrived at the
important part of his message, "says you are to stay to dinner."
Abruptly, rudely, Swanson swung upon his heel and turned his face from
the admiral. His head was thrown back, his arms held rigid at his
sides. In slow, deep breaths, like one who had been dragged from
drowning, he drank in the salt, chill air. After one glance the four
men also turned, and in the falling darkness stood staring at nothing,
and no one spoke.
The aide was the first to break the silence. In a polite tone, as
though he were continuing a conversation which had not been
interrupted, he addressed the admiral. "Of course, Rueff's written
confession was not needed," he said.
"His shooting himself proved that he was guilty."
Swanson started as though across his naked shoulders the aide had drawn
a whip.
In penitence and gratitude he raised his eyes to the stars. High above
his head the strands of the wireless, swinging from the towering masts
like the strings of a giant Aeolian harp, were swept by the wind from
the ocean. To Swanson the sighing and whispering wires sang in praise
and thanksgiving.