THE SENTENCE.
I.
On the outskirts of a village near the junction of the British and
French armies, two guards with loaded rifles kept watch at the doors of
a hut. The warm sunlight of May was bathing the fields in gold, where
here and there a peasant woman could be seen sprinkling seed into the
furrows. Across a field, cutting its way through a farmyard, a light
railway carried its occasional wobbling, narrow-gauged traffic; and
outside half-a-dozen huts soldiers were lolling in the warmth of early
afternoon, polishing accoutrements and exchanging the lazy philosophy
of men resting after herculean tasks. Elsewhere there was no sign of
war. Cattle browsed about the meadows, and the villagers, long since
grown used to the presence of foreign soldiers, pursued their endless
duties.
A sergeant walked briskly from a cottage in the village and went
directly to the field where lay the hut guarded by the sentries. 'Fall
in outside!' he said sharply, opening the door.
Bareheaded, and with his dark hair seeming to cast the shadows that had
gathered beneath his eyes, Dick Durwent emerged and took his place
between the guards.
'To receive the sentence of the court,' said the sergeant in answer to
his questioning glance. 'Escort and prisoner--'shun! Right turn!
Quick march!'
Past the lounging soldiers to the road, and on to the village, they
marched. Women glanced up, curious as to the meaning of the little
procession, but with a shrug of their shoulders resumed their work, and
soon forgot all about it. The escort halted outside the cottage from
which the sergeant had come, and he entered it alone. A minute later
he reappeared, and marched prisoner and guards into the room where the
court-martial had been held that morning. The three officers were
sitting in the same places--a lieutenant-colonel, whose set, sun-tanned
face told nothing; a captain, whose firmness of jaw and steadiness of
eye could not hide his twitching lip; and a subaltern, pale as Dick
Durwent himself.
As president of the court, the senior officer handed a sealed envelope
to the prisoner. Not a word was spoken on either side. The sergeant's
command rang out, and the noise of metalled heels upon the floor was
startlingly loud.
Still without a word, carrying the unread sentence in his hand, Durwent
was marched back to the hut. Again the women cast curious glances, and
a little urchin in a cocked-hat stood at the salute as they passed.
When he was alone once more, Dick broke the seal of the envelope, and
without his face altering, except that the shadows grew darker beneath
his eyes, he read the finding of the court.
He was to be shot.
He read it twice. With a long, quivering intake of the breath, he tore
the thing slowly into a dozen pieces and threw them into a corner.
Walking to the end of the hut, he leaned against the ledge of a little
window, and looked out towards the horizon where the great blue of the
sky stooped to earth. There was the laughter of soldiers, and from an
adjoining meadow came the neighing of a restive horse. The sunlight
deepened, and from a hundred branches birds were trilling welcome to
the promise of another summer.
Two hours passed. The warmth of early afternoon was giving way to the
cool mood of twilight--but the solitary figure had not moved.
II.
Nine days had passed when a motor-lorry drew up on the road, and the
same sergeant ordered Dick Durwent to take his place outside the hut
with his escort. The prisoner asked as to his destination, and was
told that the sentence, having been confirmed, was to be promulgated
before his unit.
They had been travelling for half-an-hour when they reached a field in
which Durwent saw two companies of his battalion drawn up in the form
of a hollow square. Faint with shame, staggering under the hideous
cruelty of the whole thing, he was marched into the centre and ordered
to take a pace forward, while the commanding officer read the sentence
of court-martial to the men: that Private Sherwood, being found guilty
of drunkenness while on guard--it being further proved that he had
obtained unlawful possession of the liquor--was to be shot at dawn, and
that the sentence would be carried out the following morning.
Although his senses reeled with the shock and ignominy of it all, the
prisoner's bearing showed no sign of it. With his head erect, he
looked into the faces of the men whom he had lived and slept and fought
beside; men with whom he had shared privation and danger; men who had
been his comrades through it all. But as he searched their faces he
felt an overpowering loneliness. In the eyes of every one there was
horror; To be killed in battle--what was that? But to be shot like a
cur in the grizzly morning! Yet their horror, their anger, was against
the military law, and was born of a fear that the same thing might come
to them. It was that which cut him to the quick. It was not that _he_
was to be shot the next day, but that _they_ might meet a similar fate.
That was the fear which drove the blood from their cheeks and left
their lips parted in awe.
And then he saw a face which almost broke down his manhood, and sent
scalding tears to the very brink. It was the face of the lad he had
saved from deserting that terrible night. The boy's agony was for him
alone; it was pleading for understanding; it was trying to tell him
that he would never forget--that the condemned man would not go to his
death unmourned by one human heart.
III.
It was his last night. All evening the chaplain had been with him,
offering the solace of divine mercy and forgiveness; but though he was
grateful for the good man's ministrations, Durwent felt that he wanted
to be alone. He hardly knew why; but there were many things to think
of, things which would be remembered more easily if he were by himself.
Towards eleven o'clock he made the request of the chaplain, who left
him, promising to return shortly after midnight; and, with his hands
clasped behind his back, Dick walked slowly up and down the hut.
His mind journeyed to Roselawn--and Elise. At least--and at the
thought he struck his hands together with joy--she would never know.
She would think he had died in China. For several minutes he walked
without his thoughts taking any other form than that, but gradually the
realisation of his surroundings began to leave him. He was roaming
through the woods with Elise; they were climbing a great tree for
birds' eggs; they were casting flies for trout in the stream that ran
through their estate; they were riding across country on ponies that
whinnied with pleasure at the feel of the soft turf. But wherever his
hungry imagination painted her, there was in her face the womanly
tenderness that had always been hers in their companionship.
He stopped in his walk and pressed his clenched fingers against his
lips. She had always believed in him. Through all the hell in which
the Fates had cast his destiny, she had been one star towards which he
could grope. But now--a drunkard--a renegade soldier of a renegade
battalion--to be shot. He had killed her trust! The horrors of the
night closed on him like hounds on a dying stag.
Uttering a dull cry of agony, he staggered across the hut with
outstretched hands--and in the darkness his poor disordered fancy saw
once more the vision of his sister's face. It was as he had seen her
when, as a boy bruised by life, he had gone to her for solace. She had
not changed. She could not change. Her eyes, her lips, were saying
that in the morning she would stand beside him, holding his hand in
hers, until the levelled rifles severed his soul and his body for
eternity.
He sank to his knees, and for the first time in many years he prayed.
It was a prayer to an unknown God, in words that were meaningless,
disjointed things. It was a soul crying out to its source, a soul
struggling towards the throne of Eternal Justice, through a darkness
lit only by a sister's love and the gratitude of an eighteen-year-old
boy saved from shameful death.
The commands of the sergeant of the guard could be heard as sentries
were changed. Durwent rose to his feet and tried to look from the
window, but the night was as black as the grave which had already been
dug for him. Once more there was no sound but the wind moaning about
the deserted fields.
'Mas'r Dick.'
Dick's body grew rigid. Was it a prank of his mind, or had he really
heard the words?
'Mas'r Dick.'
The door had opened an inch. His heart beat wildly, and he crouched
close to the crevice.
'Mathews!' he gasped.
'Sh-sh.' An admonishing hand touched him. 'Come close, sir. This is
a dirty business, Mas'r Dick. If you hear me cough noticeable, get
back and pretend like you're asleep.'
'But--but, in God's name, what are you doing there?'
'I'm a-guardin' you, sir. Sh-sh.'
The old groom moved a couple of paces away from the door, humming a
song about a coachman who loved a turnkey's daughter. Almost mad with
excitement, Dick stood in the darkness of the hut with his outstretched
arms shaking and quivering. He was afraid he would shout, and bit his
finger-nails to help to repress the wild desire.
'Mas'r Dick.'
In an instant he was crouching again by the door.
'There'll be a orficer's inspection,' whispered the sentry, 'a minute
or two arter midnight. When that there little ceremony has took place,
you and me is goin' for a walk.'
'Where?'
'Anywheres, Mas'r Dick.'
'You mean--to escape?'
'Precisely so, sir.'
For a moment his pulses beat furiously with hope; but the realisation
of what it meant for the old groom killed it like a sudden frost. 'No,
Mathews,' he whispered. 'It isn't fair to you. I am not going to try
to escape. Give me your hand; I want to say good-bye.'
For answer, the imperturbable Mathews moved off again, and, in a soft
but most unmusical bass, sang the second verse about the amorous
coachman and the susceptible turnkey's daughter. Dick listened,
hanging greedily on every little sound with its atmosphere of Roselawn.
'Mas'r Dick.' Mathews had returned. 'No argifyin' won't get you
nowhere. If I have to knock you atwixt the ears and drag you out by
the 'eels, you're comin' out o' that there stall to-night. I ain't
goin' for to see a Durwent made a target of. No, sir; not if I have to
blow the whole army up, and them frog-eaters along with 'em. Close
that door, Mas'r Dick. I've got a contrary temper, and can't stand no
argifyin' like. Close that door, sir.'
Almost crazed with excitement, Dick strode about the hut. Even if he
were to get away, the chances of capture were overwhelming. But--to be
shot in an open fight for freedom! That would be a thousand times
better than death by an open grave. Freedom! The word was
intoxication. To breathe the air of heaven once again--to feel the
canopy of the stars--to smell the musk of flowers and new grass! If
only for an hour; yet, what an hour!
And then the chance, remote, but still within the realm of possibility,
of reaching the front line, where men died like men. Of all the
desires he had ever known, none had gripped him like the longing for
battle, where death and honour were inseparable.
But once more the thought of Mathews chilled his purpose. It would
mean penal servitude or worse for the old groom, and he was not going
to be the means of ruining him for his faithfulness. He could not
stoop so low as that.
These and a hundred similar thoughts flashed through his mind, and he
was no nearer their solution when the door was opened and a sergeant
shouted a command. He started. For a second he thought that dawn
might be breaking, and that his hour had arrived; but an officer came
up the steps, and he saw with a quiver of relief that it was the
nightly inspection.
'Everything all right?'
'Yes, sir,' he answered.
'Where's the chaplain?'
'He'll be back directly, sir.'
'Food all right--everything possible being done for you?'
'I have no complaints, sir.'
In the light of the lamp held by the sergeant the two men looked at
each other. Without saying anything more, the officer glanced about
the hut. 'That will do, sergeant.--Good-night.'
'Good-night, sir,' answered Durwent.
The officer had hardly reached the door, where the sergeant had
preceded him with the light, when he turned back impulsively and put
out his hand. 'I suppose this sort of thing is necessary,' he said
hoarsely; 'but it's a damned rotten affair altogether.'
They clasped hands; and turning on his heel, the officer left the hut.
'Take every precaution, sergeant,' Dick heard him say; 'and send a
runner to the chaplain with my compliments. Tell him he must not leave
the prisoner.'
'Very good, sir.'
Silence again--and the crunching of the sentries' heels on the sparsely
sprinkled gravel. The ordeal was becoming unbearable. Dick feared the
passing of the minutes which would bring back the chaplain, and yet
every minute seemed an eternity. The conflict ravaged his very soul.
Was he to take the chance offered him by the strangest trick of
Destiny, or remain and die like a rat caught in a trap?
'Mas'r Dick.'
The door was quietly opened. The old groom's hand fell on his arm and
drew him firmly outwards. He tried to pull back, but with unexpected
strength the older man exerted pressure, until Dick found himself
outside.
It was so dark that he could not see a yard ahead of him as Mathews,
retaining his grip on his companion's arm, led him towards the road.
They were nearly clear of the field, when the groom stopped abruptly,
and they lay flat on the ground. It was the orderly officer and the
sergeant returning from the inspection of a hut some distance off.
'Sentry.' The officer had paused opposite the hut where the prisoner
had been.
'Yes, sir,' came the answer from the soldier still on guard at the
other door.
'Has the chaplain returned?'
'Not yet, sir.'
With an impatient exclamation, the officer went on towards the village;
and gaining their feet, the two men reached the road.
'There's a path alongside, sir,' whispered Mathews, 'and you and me is
goin' to put as much terry-firmy atwixt this village and us as our four
legs can do. Now, sir, we're off!'
With lowered heads, they broke into a run. Stumbling over unseen
stones, lacerating their hands and faces against bushes which over-hung
the path, they ran on into the dark. Once a staff car passed them, and
they huddled in a ditch; but it was only for a few seconds, and they
were up again. Unless they were unfortunate enough to run right into
the arms of the military police, the night was offering every chance of
success. A barking dog warned them that they had come to the outskirts
of another village. Leaving the road, they circled the place by
tortuously making their way through uneven fields, until they thought
it safe once more to take the path. On they ran--past silent
fields--by streams--by murky swamps.
Towards dawn Dick was faint with fatigue. The ordeal of the last month
had cruelly sapped his vitality, and as he ran he found himself
stumbling to his knees.
'Hold hard, sir,' said the groom, who was leading. 'Another mile or
so, and you and me, sir, will breathe ourselves proper.'
Only another mile--but a mile of utter anguish. Twice Dick fell, and
the second time he could not rise without assistance.
'Mas'r Dick,' pleaded the groom, 'look 'ee, sir. Up yonder hill
somewheres about I knows there is a cornfield, for I have noted it many
a time. 'We can't hide here, sir, in this stubble. Lean on me, Mas'r
Dick--that's the way. Now, sir, for England, 'ome, and beauty.'
Struggling to retain his consciousness, Dick limped beside the old
servitor, until, gaining the hill, they saw an abandoned cornfield.
There was a roll of guns as they made their way into the field, and
through the dense blackness of the night a few streaks of gray could be
seen towards the east.
Without a sound, Dick sank to the ground in complete exhaustion. The
groom unstrapped his own greatcoat, which had been carried rolled, and
covered the lad with it. Taking a thermos bottle from his haversack,
he poured some hot tea between Dick's lips, and saw a little glow of
warmth creep into the cheeks.
'Now, sir,' he said, 'take a bit 'o' this sandwich. 'Ave another swig
o' the tea. Bless my heart, sir, won't them fellers be surprised when
they finds as how they ain't got no corpse for their funeral? That's
better, sir. I will say about army tea that even if it ain't what my
old woman would make, it's rare an' strong, Mas'r Dick--rare an' strong
an' powerful, likewise and sim'lar.'
'Mathews,' said Dick weakly, 'how was it--you were on guard--last
night? Was it just an accident?'
'Yes, sir. Just a accident. Well, not precisely a accident neither,
sir. I be what the War Office calls "a headquarter troop," and do odd
jobs behind the lines. Sometimes I dig graves, and other times I be a
officer's servant, and likewise do a turn o' sentry-go. Well, sir,
when I heard that you was a prisoner and was goin' for to be shot, I
persuades the corp'l to put me on guard, exchangin' a diggin' job with
a bloke by the name o' Griggs, so as not to incormode the records o'
the War Office. That's all, sir. There I were, and here we be; and
arter you've had a sleep, you and me will have a jaw on our immed'ate
future. 'Ave a good snooze, Mas'r Dick, and I'll keep an eye trimmed
on the road.'
With the same boyishness he had shown that night in Selwyn's rooms,
Dick put out his hand and pressed the old groom's arm. With a paternal
air, Mathews patted the hand with his own and reached for his pipe,
explaining that he would steal a smoke before daylight. But the lad
did not hear him. He was lost in a deep, dreamless sleep.