The desertion of Lieutenant Nickerson was the subject of many ugly
remarks. A few asserted that they had suspicions from their first
acquaintance with him that he was disloyal; but this assertion was
not backed by any evidence to justify it. Others stoutly defended him
by declaring that, while his desertion was a mystery, it would be
explained sometime to his credit. But these were in a minority, and
naturally so; for men will prefer to believe what they see, rather than
theories or explanations.
For my start I was simply dazed. At one moment, remembering Jot and his
many manly qualities, I could not believe him to be a traitor to his
country. Then, with the cold facts before me, how could I explain what
I had seen in any other way?
For a time I was heartsick and gloomy; but I did not let this mood
interfere with my duty as an officer. I was more intensely loyal if
possible than before.
Shortly after Jot’s desertion I went to visit my wounded friend,
Chaplain John, who was slowly recovering from his wound. The surgeon
who had him in charge explained to me that it was a complicated case.
A bullet had perforated his lung and,--but could not follow his
diagnosis. (Why can’t a doctor speak plain English?) But what he
really meant, I inferred, was, that after a time he would recover if--
The chaplain greeted me heartily. He was cheerful though weak and, as
he said, tired out with lying in bed.
I purposely avoided mentioning Lieutenant Nickerson, for I could not
bear to discuss his desertion, since I could not explain it to his
advantage, and with the facts all against him. My friend himself
introduced the subject.
“I am sorry about Nickerson. I know you must feel blue over it, Stark;
I do myself.”
“Thanks,” I said, “for thinking of us, when you have so much to bear
yourself.”
“Oh,” he said, “this is mere physical pain, isn’t it, after all, the
least of pains we have to bear? Mental distress--soul pangs--are the
hardest, it seems to me.”
“I don’t know about that,” I replied. “Have you ever had the jumping
toothache, or been seasick?”
“Yes,” he replied, laughing heartily, “and they were tough nuts to
crack;” and then soberly added, “but, after all, they are not to
be compared with mental anguish; for one knows that when they are
conquered that will be all of it. Now you are sad hearted and see no
way out of it; and there is but one way, and that is by asking help
from Heaven. That is never denied us, however great our distress.”
Every word was balm to me, and seemed to bring a benediction. It was as
though his courage and spiritual confidence had entered my soul to heal
and purify.
Then we had a comforting talk. The mere words were nothing in
themselves, it was the spirit of the man. It was such a communion of
thought and feeling as I had never had with any one before, except my
dear mother--and it seemed at times as though she was present with us.
It did me a lot of good. It was as though the sun had come out from
a long-clouded sky. In some way, which I can not express in my poor
words, I went out leaving my gloom behind me, and feeling in some
indefinable way that the “clouds would break with blessings on my head.”
With this new feeling of faith or confidence I went to duty again.
“Have you had good news?” asked Captain Cross when I met him.
“Yes,” I replied; but I made no explanation, for the news was not of
the kind he had meant.
I met Colonel Burbank at the officers’ mess, and was greeted as usual.
I wanted to ask him about the nature of the interviews he had had with
Nickerson, at times that I have mentioned, but did not know how. But
when we came out and walked through the narrow street together, he
kindly took my arm and said, as though he had read my thoughts:
“What is it, Lieutenant? What do you want to say to me?”
“I have my troubles,” I replied, “but I do not know if they can be made
less by asking you to resolve them.”
“Possibly not,” he replied gravely, and then in a low tone, “Sometimes
a great cause demands and accepts great sacrifices. There are great
self-forgetting souls that are so devoted to a cause that they
willingly make surrenders greater than life! Can you understand?”
What was I to understand by these words? I felt that I could not ask
him, for with all his graciousness there was a barrier of reserve,
though unexpressed in words, which I felt must not be passed.
At parting he gripped my shoulder and said, looking me earnestly in the
face, “You don’t ask for explanations--possibly you may never get any.”
In this talk neither of us had mentioned Lieutenant Nickerson’s name.
I had written to Emily Grant telling her the circumstances of
Lieutenant Nickerson’s desertion without, however, a word of
explanation, or what I felt or thought about it. In her reply, she
wrote as though she knew I was blue and troubled about it, and simply
said, “You can not do anything but wait. Time sometimes brings
explanations that can not be given otherwise. Miss Rich is deeply
troubled; but she will not believe that your friend is a traitor.”
Shortly after the talk I had with Colonel Burbank, there was another
desertion that hurt me. Muddy mysteriously disappeared for parts
unknown. I inquired at the mess sergeant’s, where he sometimes went for
a bit of meat or a bone; but he had not been seen there. Neither was he
at the colonel’s, where he was often to be seen asleep in a chair. The
last I had seen of him he was asleep on my blankets.
Several days passed without his appearance, and I was annoyed and
perplexed; for he had never absented himself like this before.
The enemy, who had been unusually quiet for several days, began to show
greater activity. Their air craft came inquisitively nosing around, and
when one was brought down or driven back, others persisted in coming to
take their places in spying. Their heavy guns, that for a time had been
inactive, now began firing with increasing intensity.
“It looks,” said Captain Cross, “as though another drive was maturing.
Possibly they have got some new information about us, and have been
training their men for a decisive drive and are now about ready to
strike.”
The cannonading continued quite active for a day or two, and then
slackened and died away. That a sudden attack was feared was shown by
the unusually watchful guard kept on the line of the river. Occasional
raids began to be made on the enemy’s positions. The slightest movement
there was regarded with suspicion, sometimes with amusing results. Our
gunners were exceedingly proficient. An artillery officer had said to
me, “I can always place the third shot in a five foot square. And then,
as he saw an enemy soup kitchen coming down a far-off hill, added, ‘Now
watch me do it!’”
He fired two shots, and the second one was a perfect hit, the “soup
gun” flying into flinders.
“Some of the poor devils,” I said, “will have to go without their soup
tonight.”
Then, shortly after, our artillery in the sector to the right of us,
opened up a wonderful barrage with an impressive roar of guns and
exploding shells. We relished it a good deal more, since we knew that
our men were “pulling off” a raid, and not the Boches.
Just then my attention was called by Sam Jenkins to an object in the
river.
“Say, Lieutenant, just see me hit that muskrat,” said Sam, bringing his
rifle to his shoulder to fire.
“Don’t fire,” I said; “let the poor creature live!” For I felt that
where there was so much needful destruction, that innocent creatures
should be protected.
In another moment, it was seen that it was a dog, as the little
fellow came dripping and shaking his shaggy coat from the water. I
whistled and Muddy, as was his habit when caught in mischief, came
crouching with apologetic waggles at my feet. I tried to reassure him
of my forgiveness, but he rolled over on his back with paws dangling
imploringly. Then I took him in my arms, wet as he was, I was so glad
to see him, and he snuggled down, whimpering.
When I had taken him to my quarters and fed him, I discovered that he
was very hungry; for he ate as though starved, and then whimpered and
barked and fawned upon me, as though to tell me that he had had a hard
time, and was glad to get back to me. I left him asleep on my blanket
and went to duty again, for he seemed too tired to go with me as usual.
Colonel Burbank knew that Muddy had been “lost and found,” and when
later I called at his quarters, seemed pleased to see Muddy as well as
myself.
While I was standing at attention, Muddy jumped to his lap snuggled
down, and then I saw him fumble with Muddy’s collar and take from under
it a small package of paper which he put in his pocket.
“This was something for me,” he coolly replied, to my look of
astonishment, and then added:
“You are not to mention anything you see in my office.”
I did not know what to make of it all. Muddy must have been with
Lieutenant Nickerson, for I knew that no one else could coax him away
from me. But what about the message he had brought back?