All for a Scrap of Paper: A Romance of the Present War

by Joseph Hocking

CHAPTER XXI

When Bob awoke to consciousness again, the scene was altogether unfamiliar to him; he was lying in a big barn-like building, while around him were scores of beds, on each of which lay a wounded man.

He felt weak and languid; but this he would not have minded, it was the awful pain just below his neck that troubled him—a gnawing, maddening pain.

He lifted his hand to try and touch the spot; but this he could not do—it seemed to him as though he caused a fire inside it as he moved.

"I'm not dead, anyhow," he reflected. "What is this, I wonder?"

There were cheerful voices all round him, and he saw forms moving around the beds; but they were very dim—in fact, nothing seemed real at all: "Still I'm not dead, anyhow," he repeated; "as soon as I can, I must tell mother that; as for Nancy, she'll not want to know." That was all; it was like a scene in a play, and it passed away suddenly.

When he awoke again, his mind was clearer. It was the same scene he saw, just a number of beds on which men were lying.

What he took to be a soldier, wearing an officer's uniform, came and stood by him. This man felt his pulse; then he did something to his chest, which gave him a great deal of pain. He didn't trouble much about it, it didn't matter, nothing mattered.

"You'll do all right," said the man; "you'll get better now."

"I'm very tired," said Bob; "I should like to sleep, if I can."

"Then sleep, my dear fellow."

Again he awoke to consciousness; the clouds had altogether gone, and the scene was absolutely clear.

He was lying in an improvised hospital; those men lying on the beds all round were wounded like himself; the man who had spoken to him was the doctor; those figures moving around the beds were nurses—each wore a red cross.

Although everything was clear, he was strangely indifferent to what was taking place. What did it matter to him? He supposed that he would never fight again; his arm was useless. He felt sure of that—his right arm. Still, he had done his work, and at least he had done his best. Then a thought flashed through his mind.

"Oh, but the war is not over yet, and they need me; I must get well."

He threw off the kind of lethargy that possessed him, and presently, when a nurse came to bring him some food, he looked up into her kindly face. She was a Frenchwoman, who was doing all that a woman could, to help; she was not there to kill, but to save.

"Mademoiselle, you're very kind."

"I'm not mademoiselle," was the woman's reply in French; "I am madame." Her voice trembled as she spoke: "I was married just before the war, and my husband was called away to fight."

"Where is he now?"

"I don't know; I have not heard for weeks, but I live in hope. I pray that he will come back; meanwhile, I am doing what I can."

"I wish I could fight again," said Bob.

"Ah, but you will; the doctor told me. Ah, here is the doctor!"

"I'm not done for, doctor?" asked Bob.

"Done for? My dear chap, no; you've had a bad time—collar-bone broken, two ribs broken, nasty wound in your side—but in a few weeks you'll be all right again. Is there any one to whom I could write, so that their minds may be relieved about you?"

"Yes," said Bob, "write to my mother," and he told the doctor his mother's name and address.

"Can friends come to see me?" asked Bob.

"To-morrow or the next day, yes, certainly; in a few days you'll be convalescent."

Away in another part of the hospital a man sat smoking a cigarette; he had, during the early part of the day been taking exercise, and, although he felt no pain, he was tired after his exertions.

"In another week I shall be at it again," he reflected. "Heavens, life is a curious whirligig of a business. Fancy, after all I said to him, his coming to the front in this way! A kind of strange irony of fate that he, of all men, should pull me out of the very jaws of death. Of course, he didn't know who I was, or he wouldn't have done it. It was a plucky thing, anyhow; and—and—by Jove, there she is!"

He rose quickly from his chair as he spoke, and went out into the autumn sunshine, where a woman, wearing a nurse's uniform, was talking with a doctor.

"Nancy," said the man, when presently she came towards him, "I haven't seen you for days; this is a lucky chance."

"I haven't much time for anything," she replied; "fifty poor fellows were brought here from the front this morning, and ever since every one of us has been hard at it. Are you all right?"

"Yes, I shall soon be well. In another week, the doctor tells me, I shall be at the front again. But for the thought of leaving you, I shall be jolly glad. We little thought, Nancy, when we parted in Cornwall, and when I told you you might have to nurse me, that it would actually take place."

"No," replied the girl; "but, somehow, the world seems altogether different now; I feel as though ten years had been added to my life. When the war broke out, I was almost happy about it; it seemed so splendid for those I knew to be able to go to the front and fight for their country; war was something glorious. I shall never think about it in that way again. Poor Lieutenant Russell died this morning. Oh, yes, I know it was wonderful the way he bore up to the end; he thought he was back on the battlefield, and he kept on crying, 'We're gaining ground—we're gaining ground! That's it, lad, at 'em; we'll save England from those beastly Germans.' And then he died; yes, it was a glorious death. But all war is horrible, horrible! Do you know, Captain Trevanion, I never cease wondering at the way you were rescued."

"Don't speak to me like that. Surely I am not 'Captain Trevanion' to you; I'm 'Hector.' You've never called me by my name yet; why won't you? I say, Nancy, can't you promise me anything definite before I go back?"

The girl almost shuddered: "Don't talk about that now," she said. "I—I—it's too horrible. You never described your escape to me. Tell me all about it, will you?"

"I can't," replied Trevanion; "you see, I was unconscious."

"I got an English paper to-day," went on the girl; "I only read it a few minutes ago."

"Read what?" There was an anxious tone in the Captain's voice.

"Here it is," she said. "Haven't you seen it?"

"No. What is it?"

"Oh, it says all sorts of fine things about you. Of course, you'll soon be promoted as a consequence. But don't you see, the paper says that a Lieutenant Nancarrow, learning of your danger, went right out into the open, braving the German fire in order to get at you. It is spoken of as one of the bravest deeds of the war. Didn't you know about it? You tell me nothing."

"You see, I was unconscious," repeated Trevanion; "all I know is that some fellow, unknown to me, did a splendid deed and brought me back to the English lines."

"Then you never saw your rescuer?"

"No," replied the Captain quietly; "I was packed off here. Of course, it was fine on the part of that fellow, whoever he was. Some day I hope I shall have the chance of thanking him."

The girl looked away across the peaceful countryside, and, as she did so, a tremulous sigh escaped her.

"What are you thinking about?" asked Trevanion.

"Oh—nothing—that is, it doesn't matter. It seems strange, though, doesn't it, that the man who saved you from death should be called Nancarrow; it is a Cornish name too."

"And—and you are thinking of that fellow?" said Captain Trevanion, almost angrily.

"Have you heard anything about Bob?—that is, do you know where—what he did when he left St. Ia?"

Trevanion did not look at Nancy's face; he couldn't. He knew what he ought to do, he, who always prided himself upon being a sportsman—he ought to tell her that the man who had saved him was the one of whom she was thinking; but he could not—he was afraid. He, who had faced death calmly day by day; he, who had been noted for his bravery on the field, and who had been mentioned in despatches, was now a coward.

In a way he wondered at himself, and he realised that there was more than one kind of courage. He, himself, had called Bob Nancarrow a coward, because he refused to enlist. Now he realised that there was more courage in Bob Nancarrow's cowardice than in his own bravery. Oh, it was all an awful muddle! He ought to tell Nancy what Lieutenant Proctor had related to him just before he was taken away to the hospital; but he couldn't. If he did, he would forfeit his own chance, and he might—yes, he was sure—he would lose Nancy altogether.

"Of course, it couldn't be he," and Nancy seemed to be speaking to herself; "you see, according to the paper, you were rescued by a Lieutenant Nancarrow who belonged to a London regiment. Even if Bob had joined the Army, he couldn't have been promoted so quickly," and the girl sighed again.

"Nancy," said the Captain, "I—I shouldn't be surprised if it were Bob Nancarrow," and the heroism in those words was greater than that of many deeds for which he had been praised. In that moment Trevanion had won a greater battle than he realised. It had caused him little effort to lead his men against the charges of the German infantry, but he felt as though his heart were being pulled out as he uttered the words I have recorded.

The girl's face became pale: "What do you mean?" she asked. "Have you heard anything?"

Still Trevanion could not speak freely; even yet he wondered if there were not some way whereby doubt could be kept in the girl's mind.

"You see," he said presently, "Nancarrow was in the O.T.C. at Clifton, and, I suppose, did very well there. Captain Pringle spoke to me more than once about him, and—and I heard after he left Cornwall that he joined a London regiment; of course, it was only hearsay, and I paid but very little attention to it—in fact, I didn't believe it! Still, it might be he."

The girl's lips became tremulous: "Do you mean that, after all, Bob joined?"

"He might have," admitted Trevanion, and his voice was almost husky as he spoke, and his eyes became hard.

"No, no," she cried, "It couldn't have been he. If he had, he would have told me—I am sure he would."

"Would he?" asked Trevanion.

She stood silent for a few seconds without speaking. She remembered the circumstances under which she had parted from Bob; she called to mind the time when she had given him a white feather in the Public Hall at St. Ia, and her face crimsoned with shame at the thought of it. No one could offer a more deadly insult than she had offered Bob. She had branded him as a coward, regardless of who might be looking on. No, no, even if he had joined, he would not have told her; his heart would be too bitter against her. Why—why, he must hate her now!

"I say, Nancy," and Trevanion's voice was hoarse with pain, "you don't mean to tell me that you care anything about him still? You know what you said; you told me you despised him, and—and, why, you almost told me to hope! Don't you remember?"

The girl's face was set and stern; she did not hear Trevanion's last words; she was wondering with a great wonder.

"Do you know anything besides what you have told me?" she asked.

"I don't understand," he stammered.

"You said it might be he, as though there were a doubt about it; don't you know for certain? You've seen Captain Pringle; did you see him after you recovered consciousness, that is, after you were rescued?"

"Yes, but of course I scarcely knew what was said to me."

"And did Captain Pringle tell you it was—was—the Nancarrow we knew?"

"He said it was Nancarrow from Clifton, and—and that he had done the bravest thing since the war began; but everything was vague to me. I—I, of course, didn't believe it was Nancarrow; you know what he said? But, I say, Nancy, all this makes no difference to us, does it? You didn't raise my hopes only to dash them to the ground! I shall be off to the front again in a few days, and—oh, if you could give me just a word—just a word, Nancy, everything would be different! Hang it all, even if it is he, and, of course, if it is, I shall not be slow in acknowledging it, I haven't a bad record myself, and I shall go back as major, you know."

But the girl did not answer. Slowly she walked across the yard outside the improvised hospital, without even bidding him "good-day."

"I'm glad I told her, anyhow," reflected Trevanion; "it was beastly hard—one of the hardest things I ever did. Good God, it seems the very irony of fate that he should be the man to save me! I wonder if he knew that it was I? Perhaps though he knows nothing of what passed between us. I wonder where he is now. Anyhow, he shall never have her; there's no other woman in the world for me, and—oh, yes, I'm all right."

* * * * *

Meanwhile, Bob still lay in bed, weak as a child, but still on the highway to recovery. He had no fever, and his wounds were beginning to heal.

Hundreds of men lay around him in the huge building which had been commandeered as a hospital; French and English soldiers were carefully nursed without a thought as to their nationality. It seemed as though all the old enmity between France and England had gone for ever, and that this terrible war made the two nations as one.

Men lay side by side, without knowing each other's language; yet, because they were fighting the same enemy, felt themselves as brothers.

"Ah, yes," said a young French officer, who had been wounded on the day when Bob had been stricken down, "we're at the beginning of a new era. Yes, we have had compulsory military service in France; we have been obliged to have it. We knew all the time that the Germans were waiting to pounce upon us and crush us; that was why we wanted to be ready. But the day is dawning, mon ami; we French have been a fighting nation, but we love war no longer. When the Germans are crushed, as they will be crushed; when their army and their navy are destroyed and they are forbidden ever to have others,—then the day of peace will come; then our nation will no longer be bled to pay for millions of soldiers. Yes, we Frenchmen realise it, and we will fight for it to the very last. It is not so much that Germany is an enemy to France and an enemy to England; it is that she is an enemy to peace, to goodwill, to fraternity—that is why we must fight. I had almost given up a belief in Providence, but, mon Dieu, I believe in it now; the good God is on our side."

"I thought France had largely given up the belief in God?" said Bob.

"No, no, there was a superficial scepticism, and what wonder? Have you read the story of France? Ah, yes, the faith is coming back. This last twenty years, mon ami, a change has come about. There is a new force working. People are beginning to believe again that there is something behind everything—something which cannot be explained away by a shallow philosophy. We have a mission, monsieur—the good God has given us and you a mission; it is to fight for peace. Who knows but this is perhaps the last war that Europe will ever know?"

Two days later, when Bob was much stronger, two events took place which must be recorded. One was the arrival of a letter from his mother. The doctor's letter, telling her of Bob's doings, had reached her and so she immediately sent a letter to him full of pride and affection: "Oh, my boy," she wrote, "if once I was ashamed of you, my pride in you now is beyond all words! Everybody knows about you and is talking about you in St. Ia. I simply cannot realise it, and I am crying with joy as I write this. You are spoken of as a hero; the story of your splendid deed in rescuing Captain Trevanion is the talk of the county. I think Captain Pringle met a London journalist in France and told him all about it. Oh, my dear boy, my heart simply aches to be with you, and if it is at all possible I shall get across to France to see you. Meanwhile, I am constantly praying for you. It is all so wonderful, that my boy should do this because of what he believes to be call of God.

"By the way," the letter continued, "I suppose you have heard nothing of Nancy Tresize. I am told she is a nurse in a French hospital, but where, I haven't the slightest idea. Even the Admiral, whom I saw only a few days ago, told me he didn't know where she was, but he hinted to me that her engagement with Captain Trevanion was now practically settled. The Admiral also told me that the Captain's promotion is bound to be very rapid, and that if he lived he would doubtless come back a Colonel; and so, my boy, although my heart is full of joy at what you have done, I cannot help being sad because I am afraid you have lost the best girl in Cornwall. Still, as your father used to say to me, there is nothing higher in the world than to be true to one's conscience."

After Bob had read this letter he lay for a long time in deep thought. Yes, in spite of everything, his sky was black. This ghastly war had wrecked his life's happiness; but for it he and Nancy might have been together, living a life of happiness and making plans for a life of usefulness. War was hell; still he had no doubt about his duty. The God of War must be killed, and this menace to the peace of Europe must be destroyed. It was a divine call, and he must fight to make war impossible.

While he lay thinking of the letter, he saw coming towards him, accompanied by the doctor, a tall, clean-shaven, handsome man, who was evidently deeply interested in what he saw.

"Yes," Bob heard him say to the doctor, "this is the greatest crime in history. Here we are, nearly two thousand years after the birth of our Lord, engaged in the ghastliest war known in the history of the world. The discoveries of science, instead of being devoted to the good of mankind, have been devoted to the work of the devil. I, for years, hoped to be one of the first inventors of a flying-machine; and now I curse the day when the flying-machine was invented. We have conquered the heavens, only to make hell."

The doctor laughed at the other's words: "Perhaps there's another side to the question, Mr. Scarsfield," he said. "If you had seen what I have seen here during the last few weeks, you would know that the war has brought out many noble traits."

"Yes, yes, that may be so, and I have come all the way from the States to see for myself. You see, we are a neutral country, and what I have seen has made me determined to go back home and take a lecturing tour right through America denouncing the crime of war."

"Here is Lieutenant Nancarrow," said the doctor, nodding to Bob's bed.

"Yes, I want to see him," said Mr. Hiram Scarsfield; "I read the account of what he did in the papers, and I am mighty glad that the authorities have allowed me to come here. I want to shake him by the hand."

"Sir," he said, coming up to Bob, "whatever may be my views about war, I admire brave men, and you risked your life to save another. When I read it in the papers, tears came into my eyes, and when I heard that you were here, I just made up my mind to see you, and what I want to ask you, is this: You saved one man; how many have you killed?"

"I don't know," replied Bob.

"Many?"

"I hope so."

"Ah, that is the terror of the whole business! And when you get well again, are you going back to the front?"

"I hope so," was Bob's reply.

"To kill more, I guess?"

"If it is in my power."

"Young man, don't you feel the hellishness of the thought?"

"Yes," replied Bob, "I shudder at the thought of it."

"Then my advice to you is—desert. When you get well enough, get out of France and come to America where you can live in peace. Yes, I know that sounds bad, but then I hate war; it just puts back the clock of the world; it crucifies our Lord afresh."

Bob looked at the other's face attentively, and he saw immediately that it was the face of a strong man. There was no suggestion of the fanatic about it; rather, it was sane and sincere.

"Then you believe in peace—peace at any price?" was Bob's query.

"I guess that is so; I guess there is nothing under heaven worth making hell for, and that is what I have seen these last few weeks. I haven't been right up to the fighting-line—I haven't been allowed—but I have seen enough to make my heart bleed."

"I agree with every word you say," and Bob's voice was almost tremulous.

"Then why are you a soldier?"

"Look here, Mr. Scarsfield," said Bob. "Supposing that the French and the English and the Belgians and the Russians were all to disarm, what would happen, do you think?"

"There would be peace," said the American.

"And what kind of peace?"

"There would be a cessation of bloodshed, anyhow. Mind you, I would rather see all nationalities cease than that war should continue. Let's all sheathe our swords and trust in God. That is my mission now, as long as I live. I am going back to America, and I am going to rouse the whole country to this feeling. It may be that this is because I have Quaker blood in my veins. I am afraid I am not worthy of my Quaker forbears, but now I am convinced that they were right."

"Yes," replied Bob, "I too have Quaker blood in my veins, and I too am convinced in my heart they are right."

"And still you are a soldier," said the other, in astonishment.

"Yes, I am a soldier, until this war is over. Look here, Mr. Scarsfield, do you believe you could ever convert Germany to your way of thinking? Have you ever read the works of those German writers—men like Bernhardi and Treitschke and Nietzsche, and others of that school? Do you know that their teaching is the religion of the war party in Germany, and that that war party rules the Empire? Do you know that it is the avowed determination of Germany to conquer the world by the sword? You do know it? For thirty years Germany has been building up her army and her navy for this purpose. She believes that war is a virtue, and that Germany is called by God to go to war; she worships the War God; she rejoices in it; lives for it. It is preached from her pulpits; it is taught in her schools; it is interwoven into the warp and woof of German life. Because of this they have altered the New Testament. Instead of preaching, 'Blessed are the peace-makers,' they preach, 'Blessed are the war-makers,' and they believe that the Almighty intends them to make war."

"Yes," replied Mr. Scarsfield, "I must admit that. I have read those writers you mention; read them with a sad heart."

"When I read them," said Bob, "I was obliged to throw them away from me, as if I had been touching unclean things. I too was brought up to believe in peace at any price, and I hated war as I hate hell itself; so much did I hate it, that I refused to enlist in the English Army and alienated those who were dearest to me. Before I enlisted, I fought the biggest battle of my life. Presently I realised the meaning of the German creed; I saw the inwardness and ghastliness of their so-called Gospel of War; I saw that to carry out their purpose they were willing to sacrifice honour and to crush humanity. I saw that they professed friendship in order to betray us; I saw that while they accepted our hospitality in England, they filled our country with spies in the hope that when the time was ready, and they made war upon us, they would use those spies for our destruction. I saw that they regarded a treaty as something that could be thrown off like an old garment, and I saw they were determined on war. What could we do? You do not believe, I suppose, that the murder of the Crown Prince of Austria was the cause of this war? No one believes that it was anything but a pretext. Germany made war—a war for which she had been preparing for a quarter of a century. She signed the Treaty to protect Belgium; she gave her word of honour as a nation that Belgium's neutrality and integrity should be maintained. Then she signed her ultimatum to Belgium, and told her that if she did not allow the German Army to pass through Belgium country in order to crush France, she should be treated as an enemy. When our Ambassador in Berlin pleaded that Germany had signed a treaty to protect Belgium, what was the reply? 'Will you go to war with us just for a scrap of paper?' That is what the war spirit means in Germany. They cannot understand how the honour of a nation could stand in the way of her ambition. And so Germany entered Belgium. What was mercy? What was honour? What was purity? Read the story of Louvain, of Malines; think of the outrages, cruelties, blasphemies, and then ask yourself, what could we have done?"

"Yes," said the American; "but war—think of what it has meant."

"Is not there something worse than war?" said Bob.

"What can be worse?" asked Mr. Hiram Scarsfield.

"Violation of honour, of truth, of purity," said the young man earnestly. "That is worse; yes, and it is worse than war to allow a cancer like the German war-spirit to live in the very heart of a continent, making peace and goodwill impossible."

"Yes, young man," replied the American; "you make out a strong case, and I have no doubt that if a war could be just, England is fighting a just war. But no war can be just, because every war is born in hell. As for me, I'm going back to America on my crusade of peace."

"Mr. Scarsfield," said Bob, "may I suggest something to you?"

"Yes; what is it?"

"That you go back to America, and arouse that great Continent to come and help us in this war for peace. I know your President professes to be a peace man. But think! You who could do so much to kill war, are standing by, supine and neutral, while we are shedding our blood to make war impossible. To me, it is the call of God to every young man and to every man who has health and strength, to give his life to kill this war devil at the heart of Europe. And I tell you this, until it is killed, your talk about peace will be so much wind and useless sound. America could, if she would, put an end to this war."

"How?" cried the American.

"By, raising an army of millions of men, well accoutred and armed and provisioned, to come over to help us. If America placed all her mighty weight on the side of England at this moment, it would paralyse the German Army. If America said, as we are saying, that this war should never cease until Germany was powerless ever to make war again, you would do more for peace than if all the talkers in America were to go round preaching peace. That is why, Quaker as I am, I am a soldier, and will remain a soldier as long as God gives me breath, to make peace not a dream, but a reality."

"But what about the Sermon on the Mount, young man?" said the American.

"What did our Lord mean," urged Bob, "when He said, 'I came not to bring peace but a sword?' And what did He mean when He said to His disciples, 'He that hath no sword, let him go and buy one?' Mind you, we do not hate the Germans in all this; we do not violate the command 'Love your enemy.' It would be the greatest blessing ever known to the German people if the Kaiser and all his war-fiends were crushed for ever, for then could peace be made possible."

"Now, Nancarrow," said the doctor, "you have talked enough. You're getting excited as it is, and we want you back at the front."

"I will say this," said the American, holding out his hand to Bob, "you have given me something to think about, and I will tell the Americans what you have said."