Chapter XIX
“Number One and All’s Well.”
The cry of the night sentry wailed through the silent barracks, which no longer looked bare and unlovely as when seen in the glaring African sun, but had been transformed by the moonlight into a city of silver walls and roofs of lotus pink.
“Number Two and All’s Well,” came in instant response, and then there was a pause.
“Number Two and All’s Well,” rang out once more, this time with the full power of lusty lungs, in the generous hope of arousing Number Three, happily dreaming in his nest of hay. In vain, however, though Four and Five, alive to the emergency, took up the call right quickly Number Three did not answer, and the omission was at once noticed by experienced ears.
The guard-room door opened hurriedly, and an irate corporal, bearing a lantern, emerged, followed by two men. The recumbent form of Number Three was found, and, after being rudely awakened, was borne straightway to durance vile, there to finish his slumbers. A door banged, a key grated in the lock, and then there was silence once more. This was broken now and again by a sudden savage squeal from the stables, the sharp thudding of hoofs against wood and iron, and the angry growl of a sentry.
In Number One block, Officers’ Quarters, a light was seen to flicker, disappear, and then shine steadily; a door opened, and a figure, gorgeous in dressing-gown of yellow silk and fur, came out on to the verandah, and, leaning his arms on the rail, stood looking out over the sleeping barracks.
“Lucky devil, Number Three, whoever you are,” he muttered; “it’s cells for you to-morrow, right enough, but you’re a lucky devil, all the same. You can sleep, you’re not racked and harried like me. You thank God for your brainlessness, my friend; if I’d been born like that, I too should now be able to sleep. Yet you have your troubles too, I suppose, as great to you as mine are to me—one hundred and sixty-eight hours’ absence from the canteen, that will be one of them. Oh, but I’d do your one hundred and sixty-eight cheerfully, stone-breaking, shot-lifting, or whatever amusement the prison warder provides, to have your peace of mind.
“Half-past three,” as a sharp ting came from the room behind him; “four hours before Murphy comes to call me, four hours of thinking, trying to find some hole in the net I have thrown over myself, a hole which doesn’t exist. I could tear it, and break through it that way, but that I will not do; I gave her my word, love-struck fool that I was, and there’s enough on my soul now without adding perjury to the rest. And yet to do it is... hell! I’d sooner shoot myself, infinitely rather, for that would only destroy the carcase, the other means soul damnation. And coming, as it does, now, now that war is almost certain, and my chance staring at me at last, oh, it’s too wicked, too cruel.”
He clenched his hands and paced restlessly up and down the wooden verandah. “My own fault too, all my own fault. I clamoured for freedom, and I got it, only to bind himself hard and fast again. I was better off with Lucy, for she expected little, but Stara wants everything, my whole life. And she’ll have it too, there’s no escape, and by to-morrow night the wire will have gone, and my career be finished. The regiment will go to war, and I shall not be with them. I shall be a retired officer, living on my pension in some damned French watering-place. I shall read of the war, of Porky getting a D.S.O., Royle a C.B. Oh, God! God! surely there must be some way out, if I could but find it. I’ll get that letter again and read.”
He turned and walked slowly back to his room, which was now in darkness, for the candle had burnt down and gone out. The open doorway gaped a black hole before him; he hesitated, in sudden terror of the dark. Then, feeling in the pocket of his dressing-gown, he produced some matches, and, striking one, hurried into the room, where he snatched up a letter lying beside the bed, and rushed out again, glancing fearfully over his shoulder.
“There are ghosts in there,” he muttered. “I’ve felt them about me before, but never like to-night; not for a thousand pounds would I go back again. Here I stay till dawn.”
He opened the crumpled letter, and, laying it on the rail, read it by the light of the moon, or rather imagined he was reading it, for he knew every word of the letter he now repeated by heart.
“‘My brother has found out at last, someone at home... last mail. He is furious, Hector, I have never seen him like it before, and he says I must either swear never to see you again—as if I should!—or leave here at once for ever. That I don’t mind; not for fifty thousand brothers would I give you up, and would go away and earn my living somehow, but, Hector, I can’t, not now, for it has happened. I meant to tell you that last morning three weeks ago, that’s what I rode after you for, but something in your face stopped me; it was so hard and unsympathetic, not like my Hector at all. Darling, please don’t say you’re sorry. I’m not, not a bit, I shall love it, for it is yours, but I must, dearest, I have no choice, I must ask you to keep your promise and take me away. Is it such a sacrifice, Hector? God knows I hate asking it of you, but perhaps it is for the best after all, our life in the future will not be the lie it is now. And I will make you happy. I will try to prevent your regretting. Oh, think of it, darling, always together, you and I and... her, for that I know you would like best. Don’t worry about me, I know you will, but you needn’t, only send me a wire in answer to this, just the one word “Yes,” and let me have it by Thursday evening.’”
“And to-day is Thursday,” he muttered. Then followed a carefully-erased sentence, which, nevertheless, had been made out by Hector, as such sentences, no matter at what toil, always are made out: “If not by then I shall know, and settle things in my own way.”
Hector flung the letter down on the boards beside him, and crushed it under his foot.
“Is it a sacrifice?” he jeered. “Oh no, no sacrifice at all; and you pretend to understand me, and think I’m a man to be satisfied with the life you propose. No; if I do it—and do it I must, I suppose—it will be hell for both of us. I’ll probably kill you in the end, and myself too. That will be the finish of our heaven, Stara, a heaven green with absinth, most likely, that’s the French remedy, I believe, for despair.”
Once more he took up the letter, and studied the sentence erased. “‘If not by then I shall know, and settle things in my own way,’” he repeated, and then his eyes darkened with anger. “A threat,” he muttered, “to show me up, I suppose, write to the Colonel, like forsaken sweethearts do about their soldier-lovers. Do it then, by all means. God! but you make me laugh, Stara,” and he laughed harshly at the thought.
“No, I’m wrong, though,” he went on after a pause; “you don’t mean that, I know, but what in the devil’s name, then, do you mean? Nothing, I suppose, put it in to add emphasis, and scratched it out on reflection. Four o’clock, another half-hour of Thursday gone, and still no nearer solution. Well, I may as well get it over, as it’s got to be, and, by heaven, yes, there’s just one chance—they may not accept my papers now war’s only a question of days. It’s a toss-up, let Fate decide; if I’m to be great, nothing can stop me; if a derelict, then that I shall be whatever I do. I’ll write that wire out now, and give it to Murphy to take when he calls me; it’s light now, and the ghosts are gone.”
He entered the room, grey and unreal-looking in the approaching dawn, and taking up a telegraph-form from the writing-table sat down and wrote: “Yes—Hector.”
For a moment he sat staring at the words, with a peculiar smile on his face. “Good-bye, Hector Graeme, conqueror of worlds,” he murmured. “Westminster Abbey is not for you, my friend; it’s in Boulogne Cemetery your bones will rot, an example of what woman’s love can do for a man.”
Then a fit of despair came over him. He rose, and hurrying from the room, stood once more on the verandah, with his eyes fixed on the dark blur of mountains appearing dimly through the grey. “Come down, come down, you black devils yonder,” he prayed; “begin your throat-cutting to-day, and I’ll bless you for it. It’s only a few hours I’ve got—for the love of God, come down!”
For a while he remained watching. Then suddenly a great drowsiness came over him: he swayed drunkenly, and, staggering back to his room, fell heavily on the bed and slept.
“Beggy pardin, sir, your tea, sir, you’re for the field, sir. What time would you like the ’orse?”
“And why the devil shouldn’t I drink the stuff if I want to? It’s all I’ve got... eh... er? Oh, Murphy, thank God!”
“What time would you like the ’orse, sir? Field day at nine, sir. Rondyvoo, Grobler’s Farm, two miles from ’ere, sir.”
Graeme sat up and drank the tea at a gulp.
“Horse at half-past eight, and... take that telegram there to the post-office. You can ride the second charger; and don’t gallop him along the road as you always do, you’ll have him down if you do. Bath ready? Right—get out,” and Hector dragged himself wearily out of bed, and proceeded to dress for the coming field day. “My last show this,” he muttered, buckling on his belt, “and I’ll make the most of it. I’ll astonish them all to-day, make Bumps open his eyes, the insolent, ignorant fool. Murphy taken that wire? Yes, it’s gone; no hope now. Only hope he won’t show it about, though it wouldn’t matter much if he did, their thick heads wouldn’t make anything out of it. Murphy’s no Sherlock Holmes, thank heaven; he’s an unobservant beggar too, don’t suppose he’s a thought in his head besides his dinner and beer. Hallo, half-past eight, I must get on.” He went out, mounted his waiting charger, and followed by his orderly and trumpeter, set off at a canter for Grobler’s Farm.
Murphy, from the verandah of the servants’ quarters, watched him go, and then returned to his perusal of the telegram, a rather worried look on his unmeaning countenance.
“Can’t make nothing of it,” he muttered. “‘Yes,’ he says, but ‘Yes,’ what? Now, wot’s ‘Ector up to, I wonder? I don’t like it—I don’t, Pen, straight,” to Penrose, Ferrers’ servant, who was polishing a sword scabbard close by.
“What’s up, Mickey?” said the latter; “bloke turned nasty about yer bill or wot? You take my tip and tell him, as ’e don’t seem to ’ave no confidence in you, you prefer to return to yer dooty at once. It’s what I does with Ferrers when ‘e gits uppish, and I never ‘as no further trouble. ‘’Course I trusts you, Penrose,’ ‘e says. ‘I was a bit ’asty, perhaps; we’ll say no more abaat it.’ And ‘Very good, sir,’ I says, ’uffy like, and goes off to the Orfcers’ Mess for a drink, which I puts down to ’im.”
“‘Ector never says nothing about ’is bills,” answered Murphy, still worried; “’e ain’t got no cause. This ere’s a tallygram to ’is girl Stara, and I can’t make it out, that’s all. You see, Pen, when a bloke’s dotty about a girl, there’s no saying wot kind of foolishness ’e’ll be up to. She’s a good-looking girl, I’ll say that for her,” continued the unobservant one, thoughtfully. “’Ere’s ’er photograph,” taking a card from his breast pocket and handing it to Penrose, who, regarding it, said “Yum.” “But good-looking or not, she ain’t going to put the bloke wrong, and that’s all abaat it.”
“But wot the ’ell can she do, Mickey?”
“I don’t know, Pen, and it’s that wot’s worrying me. There’s ’er last letter I ain’t been able to git ’old of, and there’s something in that letter wot’s troubling ‘Ector. You see, I knows ’im, and I’ll eat my ’orse if so be ‘Ector ain’t going to do something wot ’e ought not. It’s all in this tallygram ’ere, I knows, if I could only get at it.”
“Ain’t your bloke married, Mickey?” said another servant, for a moment stopping hissing at a boot and holding it up for contemplation, his hand acting as boot tree, “Wot’s ’e done with ’is own lawful box of bricks?”
“I dunno, Simmy, and that’s a fact,” answered Murphy; “’e ain’t ’ad no letter from Lucy since ’e come back. It’s my belief she’s needled and given ’im the bag—she would do straight if she saw them letters of Stara’s. ‘Strewth, them letters!” he added reflectively.
“What’s in the letters, Mickey?”
“Never you mind, Simmy; that ain’t no business of yours. A bloke’s letters is ’is own, ’is servant’s different, of course.”
“‘E’s a rum ’un, is ‘Ector,” said Penrose. “Did you blokes ’ear of the turn up between ’im and Tim Molloy yesterday? Tim was up before him for using disrespectful langwidge to the room corporal, and ‘Ector was a dressing of ’im down—’e can throw it abaat too can ‘Ector—when Tim loses ’is ’air, and ups and tells ’im ’e wouldn’t talk to ’im like that if so be ’e weren’t an orfcer and ’im a private. And ‘Ector ’e larfs and stops the Sergeant-Major wot was calling for a file to take Tim to the guard-room. ‘Ho, wouldn’t I?’ ’e says, like that, and ’im and Tim goes orf together to the sick lines, when ’e orfs with ’is coat and the two of ’em go at it, the Sergeant-Major keeping the time; and ‘Ector ’as Tim outed in the second round! Larf fit to bust theirselves did the squadron win they sees Molloy’s eye and ‘Ector’s ear.”
“Didn’t ’e wear mourning whin ’is cat died, Mickey?”
“Wot abaat ’is looting of the commissariat godown whin the dinners was stinking?”
“An’ the lifting of them cabbages off Botha’s farm to teach the men scoutin’? ‘See without being seen,’ ’e says, as ’e pulls ’em up. Ho! ho!”
“Botha was a Dutchman, an’ ’ostile to the English,” answered Murphy, “and as such ’is cabbages was liable to be pinched. But I ain’t goin’ to stop ’ere jawing no longer. ‘Send this tallygram at once,’ the bloke says, ’if not sooner,’ ’e says. ’Ere Tomkins,” to Graeme’s second servant, who was sitting on a iron bed-cot nursing a cat, “nip up to the stable and fetch the chestnut ’orse, while I change my costoom,” and thereupon Murphy retired to his room, where he proceeded to transform himself into as near a representation of his master as the state of his wardrobe allowed.
Having oiled his hair and fastened his collar with an imitation gold safety-pin, he mounted the horse and rode away on his mission. He proceeded at a walking pace till he was well clear of the barracks, but on reaching the hard high road he shook the old horse up, and at a good sharp gallop made his way to the telegraph office.
Hector, meanwhile, was rapidly nearing the place of rendezvous. On the way he overtook Graves—now Adjutant of the 1st Lancers—also bound for Grobler’s Farm.
“Morning, Colonel,” he said, touching his helmet. “Heard the news? It’s all up with the war, Mahongas have caved in. Rotten, ain’t it?” A curse was the only answer, and Graeme rode on, disregarding his brother officer’s “Hold hard, I’m coming too; there’s plenty of time. Surly beggar you are,” continued Graves, looking after him, “but you’re up against it this time all right. I’d have warned you too, if you’d been civil, for I’ve a pretty good notion what to-day’s ‘scheme’ is, after what Johnson let out last night. Deuced unfair one it is too, got up by Bumps solely to floor Graeme; Johnson owned as much. Well, if he is floored, so much, the better; take him down a peg,” and, somewhat consoled, Graves cantered on. Turning off the path, he made his way across the veldt to where a dark mass of men and horses could be seen, assembled for what General Rivers was pleased to call “Instructive Field Operations.”