CHAPTER XVI
"Feel my pulse, sir, if you want to,
but it ain't much use to try—"
"Never say that," said the Surgeon,
as he smothered down a sigh:
"Chuck a brace, for it won't do, man,
for a soldier to say die!"
"What you say don't make no diffrunce, Doctor,
an'—you wouldn't lie. . . ."
"THE OLD SERGEANT"
"Git there! Come a-Haw-r-r, then! Whoa!" With a flourish, Constable Miles Sloan, the Regimental Teamster, swung the leaders of his splendid four-in-hand and pulled up at the front entrance of the Holy Cross Hospital. Slewing around on his high box-seat he addressed himself to the drag's occupants, Slavin and Yorke.
"I don't know whether they will let you see him, or not," he remarked doubtfully, "he's a pretty sick man."
"We will chance ut, anyway," mumbled Slavin, as he and Yorke climbed out of the rig. "Ye'd best wait awhile, Miles! We shan't be long."
Quietly—very quietly, Sister Marthe opened the door of room Number Fifty-six, and with list-slippered noiselessness stepped out into the corridor.
"Oh, Mon Dieu!" she ejaculated, startled at the sudden apparition of two scarlet-coated figures standing motionless outside the door, "Oh, m'sieurs, 'ow you fright me!" and the expressive eyes under the white coif and the shoulders and supple hands of the French-Canadian Nursing-Sister made great play.
Yorke saluted her with grave courtesy. "Sister," he said anxiously, "how is Constable Redmond doing? Can we see him?"
She glanced irresolutely a moment at the handsome, imploring countenance of the speaker, and then her gaze flickered to his huge companion. The silent, wistful appeal she read in the latter's grim, cadaverous face decided her.
"Eheu!" she said softly, "'e is a ver' seeck man . . . but come then, m'sieurs, if you wish it!"
Cautiously they tip-toed into the room behind her.
Yes! They decided, he was a "seeck" man all right! So sick that he could not raise his flushed, hollow-cheeked young face from the pillow to salute his comrades with his customary impious bonhomie. Now, gabbling away to himself in the throes of delirium, ever his feverish eyes stared beyond the hospital-walls westwards to Davidsburg.
With his brow contracted with an expression of vague worry, he was living over and over again the memorable night in which he had gotten his wound.
"Slavin!—Yorkey!" he kept repeating, in tones of such yearning entreaty that moved those individuals more than they cared to show. Yes, they were both of them there, standing by the side of his cot; but the poor sufferer's unseeing eyes betrayed no recognition.
The deep sorrow that oppressed Slavin and Yorke just then those worthies rarely—if ever—alluded to afterwards. Passing the love of women is the unspoken, indefinable spirit of true comradeship that exists between some men.
For one brief, soul-baring moment the comrades stared at each other, their self-conscious faces reflecting mutually their inmost feelings; then Yorke turned to Sister Marthe.
"What does the Doctor say?" he whispered anxiously.
The nurse was about to make answer when the door was softly opened and that gentleman entered the room, accompanied by Captain Bargrave and Inspector Kilbride.
Involuntarily, from long habit of discipline, Slavin and Yorke, stiffened to "attention" in the presence of their superiors, until, with a kindly, yet withal slightly imperious gesture, the O.C. mutely signified them to relax their formal attitude. The Regimental Surgeon, Dr. Sampson, a tall, gray-moustached, pleasant-faced man, nodded to them familiarly and proceeded to make minute examination of his patient's wound. From time to time he questioned and issued low-voiced instructions to Sister Marthe. Perfectly motionless, the grave-eyed quartette of policemen stood grouped around the cot, silently awaiting the physician's verdict.
Throughout, poor Redmond had continued to toss and rave incessantly. Much of his babbling was incoherent and fragmentary—breaking off short in the middle of a sentence or dying away in a mumbling, indistinct murmur. At intervals though, his voice rang out with startling clearness.
"Ah-a-a! Here he is!" he cried out suddenly, "Gully!"—all eyes were centred on the flushed, unquiet face and restless hands. There seemed a curious, morbid fascination in watching the workings of that sub-conscious mind. "No use, Gully! You can't make it from there!"—the twitching hands made a motion as of levelling a carbine—"No use, man! I've got you covered. . . . You' better give in! . . ."
He paused for a space, panting feverishly, then his eyes became wilder and his speech more rapid.
"No! no! Gully!" he gasped out imploringly, "it's Yorkey, I tell you—oh, don't pick off Yorkey! . . . Drink? . . ."—the unnaturally bright eyes stared unseeingly at the motionless figure of the O.C., standing at the foot of the cot—"Not so much—now—since—looking after him. . . . Not a bad chap. . . . We fought once. . . . Yes, Sir! . . . had—hell of a fight! . . . Pax? . . . sure!—bless you!—buried ruddy hatchet—auld lang syne—Slavin. . . . St. Agnes' Eve! . . . How he sings—! Oh, shut up, Yorkey!—Sings, I tell you—! Hark! . . . that's him singin' now—Listen! . . . What? . . . it's Stevenson's 'Requiem'. . . . Burke! Burke! . . . the ——'s always singin' that . . . goes—"
And the weak, fretful voice shrilled up in a quavering falsetto—
"Under the wide—and—starry sky
Dig—the grave, and—let me—lie;
Glad did I—live, and—gladly die,
And I laid—me down with—a w——"
The shaky, pitiful tones died away in vague, incoherent mumblings.
Yorke uttered a queer choking sound in his throat, and turned his face away from the little group. Slavin, in silent comprehending sympathy, laid a huge hand on the other's shoulder to steady him. In customary British fashion, the O.C. and the Inspector strove to mask their emotions under an exaggerated grimness of mien, only their eyes betraying their feelings. The former, toying with his sweeping, fair moustache in agitated fashion, gazed drearily around the sick-room till his stern, yet kindly old eyes finally came to rest upon a framed scriptural quotation which was hanging on the wall above the head of the cot.
In corpulent, garish, black, red and gold German text the inscription ran:
At even, when the sun was set,
The sick, O Lord, around Thee lay;
Oh in what divers pains they met!
Oh in what joy they went away!
Abstractedly, the old soldier read and re-read the verse till his eyes ached, and he was forced to lower them and meet the tell-tale ones of Kilbride.
The Doctor, with a final satisfied scrutiny of his patient's wound, which he had laid bare, bade the nurse dress it afresh, then, beckoning to the others, he withdrew from the room, followed by the O.C. and his subordinates. The Doctor's first words reassured them in no little degree.
"Oh, I've good hopes of him," he said. "He seems to be doing all right. He'll pull around—that is, unless any unforeseen complications set in. It's that journey down here yesterday that's upset him. Absolutely necessary under the circumstances, of course, but—terribly hard on a man in his condition. I think it'll be best for nobody to visit him—for awhile anyway . . . must be kept as quiet as possible. Well! let's have a look at the others!"
The remaining wounded men occupied a large, semi-private ward lower down the corridor. Of these last Hardy's case was by far the most serious. He had been shot through the body; the high-pressure Luger bullet luckily missing any vital organ. McCullough had been drilled through the calf of his left leg, Davis through the arm, and Belt had had the knuckles stripped from his right hand. All of them were resting quietly, though weak from loss of blood and the train journey,
The O.C. and Kilbride remained for a short time in the ward, manifesting much kindly sympathy for the injured men, then, deeming that perhaps the party was retarding the nurses' ministrations, the O.C. withdrew, beckoning his subordinates to follow him.
Slavin and Yorke walked slowly down the hospital steps and climbed into the Police drag again. Sloan gathered up his lines and swung around on his high seat.
"Hullo!" he remarked sleepily. "Here you are again, eh? Begun to think you were both in there for keeps! Well, did you see him?"
"Yes!" answered Yorke tonelessly, avoiding the teamster's eyes, "We've seen him. Home, James!"
Firm, measured footsteps sounded in the hospital corridor and halted with a jingle of spurs outside the door of room Number Fifty-six.
"Come aboard!" came the clear, boyish voice of its occupant, in response to a knuckle-tattoo on the panel, and the visitors, Slavin and Yorke, entered.
Redmond, sitting up in bed, comfortably propped with pillows, threw aside the magazine he had been reading and greeted the new-comers jovially and with a light in his eyes which did the hearts of those worthies good to see.
A month's careful nursing and absolute quiet had transformed their wounded comrade into a somewhat different being from the delirious patient they had beheld when last they stood in that room. Allowing for a slight emaciation and the inevitable hospital pallor, he appeared to be well on the road to convalescence.
"Sit at ease!" he said, with a fair semblance of his old grin. "Smoke up if you want to, they don't kick about it here. I've tried it but it tastes rotten as yet. Well! What's doin' in L?" (He referred to the Division.)
"Hell, yu' mane," corrected Slavin grimly, as he and Yorke proceeded to divest themselves of their side-arms and unbutton their tunics. "Not much doin' now, but—later, p'raps. . . ."
"Just got back from Supreme Court," explained Yorke. "Gully! . . . He's to be 'bumped off' this day-month. . . ."
There came a long, tense silence.
"G—-d!" broke out Yorke suddenly, arousing Redmond out of the deep
reverie into which he had sunk on receipt of the news—"the look on that
Eugene Aram face of his when the jury filed in and threw the book at him!
I can't forget it somehow."
"Well! yeh want tu thin!" remarked Slavin bluntly. "Quit ut! . . . d'ju hear? . . . 'Tis no sort av talk, that, for a sick room. . . ."
And hereafter they all avoided the sinister subject.
Presently McCullough came limping in on his crutches, and ere long that wily individual succeeded with his customary ingenuity in inveigling the company into a facetious barrack-room argument. Later they commenced relating racy stories.
Slavin's deep-set eyes began to twinkle and glow, as he unburdened himself of a lengthy narrative concerning a furlough he had spent in his native land many years back, in which Ballymeen Races, a disreputable "welshing" bookmaker, himself, a jug of whiskey and a blackthorn stick were all hopelessly mixed in one grand Hibernian tangle.
"Beat ut, he did, over hedge an' bog an' ditch, wid all our money, th' dhirrty dog. But I cud run tu, in thim days, an' whin I caught up I shure did play a tchune on th' nob av um!" concluded the sergeant thoughtfully. In pursuance of his daily round of the wards, Dr. Sampson presently came swinging in amongst them and saluted the party with his usual breezy bonhomie. A universal favourite with the members of the Force his entry was acclaimed with delight. They promptly bade him sit down and contribute—à la Boccaccio—to their impromptu Decameron, which request he (sad to relate) complied with.
Amid the roar of laughter that greeted the Doctor's last bon mot, that gentleman looked ruefully at his watch and prepared to depart.
"Twenty past twelve!" he ejaculated, "and I've got four more patients to see yet. . . ! Behold the retarding influences of bad company!"
"Say, Doctor," enquired Yorke, "how's Hardy doing? Is he bucking up at all? He was pretty down in the mouth last time I saw him."
The Doctor's genial countenance clouded slightly. "Well, no!" he said, gravely, "he's not doing well at all. I've been rather worried over him lately. The man's relapsed into a curious state of inertia—seems incapable of being roused. Organically he's nothing to fear now; I'll stake my professional reputation on that. But when a man gets down like he is now, why, the mind often reacts on the body with serious results. If he was in a tropical climate he'd snuff out like a candle. That's all that's retarding his otherwise certain recovery now—if we could only——"
Here, McCullough, who had been an interested listener broke in. "Rouse him, Doctor?" he queried, "you say he wants rousing? . . . Is that all? . . . All right then! . . . I know him better than you do—I'll bet you I'll rouse him!" he concluded a trifle brutally.
And he swung off on his crutches and presently levered himself into the ward where Hardy lay.
In actual bodily recovery the latter's physical condition fully equalled Redmond's, but the brooding, listless demeanor of the patient confirmed only too well the Doctor's diagnosis. Now, sunk in the coma of utter dejection, Hardy was lying back on his pillows like a man weary of life.
Sometime earlier, in response to his earnest solicitations, he had been allowed to have his beloved parrot in hospital with him. All day long the disreputable-looking bird gabbled away contentedly as it climbed around in its cage, which had been placed on a small table alongside the cot.
McCullough's first move was to resort to the never-failing expedient of arousing the parrot's ire by puffing tobacco-smoke into its cage. Mechanically the outraged bird responded with a shocking blast of invective, winking rapidly its white parchment-lidded eyes and swinging excitedly to and fro on its perch.
Hardy admonished the joker—lethargically, but with a certain degree of malevolence in his weary tones.
"Aw, chack it, Mac!" he drawled. "W'y carn't yer let th' bleedin' bird alone? Yer know 'e don't like that bein' done t'im. Jes' 'awk t'im tellin' yer as much!"
McCullough turned on his crutches and leered awhile upon the speaker with a sort of mournful triumph, than he lifted up his voice in a very fair imitation of Hardy's own unmusical wail——
"Old soldiers never die, never die, never die,
Old soldiers never die—they simply fade aw-ay."
"I don't think!" he concluded sotto voce to Davis, as that individual, sitting down on the next cot began preparing his wounded arm for the ministrations of Sister Marthe who had just entered the ward.
"No use!" McCullough rambled on. "I tell yu' th' man's as good as 'gone up.' Harry. . . . Well! I'll have old Kissiwasti when he pegs out anyway. I won't half smoke-dry th' old beggar then! I'll teach him to swear. . . !"
"Eh! . . . 'Ere, wot abaht it?"
The cockney's voice held no trace of lethargy now. The sharply-uttered, vindictive query was matched by the blazing eyes which were regarding the farrier-corporal with undisguised hostility.
"Wot abaht wot?" mimicked McCullough, though his heart smote him for the cold-blooded evasion.
"Wot abaht wot you sed abaht me. . . ?"
"Well, wot abaht it. . . ?"
Speechless with rage, for a moment Hardy gazed into the other's nonchalant mask-like visage, then, with a gesture of maniacal impotence, he raised his clenched fists high above his head.
Sister Marthe now judged it high time to intervene. During the enactment of this little tableau she had stood looking on in mute bewilderment. Despite her imperfect knowledge of English, and especially the vernacular, she had a shrewd intuition of what had passed between the two men.
Seizing McCullough by the arm, despite his protestations of injured innocence, she gently, but firmly, escorted him out of the ward.
"Vas! vas!—Now you go, M'sieu McCullough! . . . out of ze ward right-away! . . . Vat you say—vat you do—I do not know, but you 'ave excite 'im 'orrible! . . . Oh, pardonnez-moi, Docteur!" she ejaculated, as she bumped into that gentleman in the corridor.
"Hullo!" said the latter inquiringly, as he remarked the little nurse's flushed, angry face. "What's up, Sister Marthe?"
For answer, that irate lady pointed accusingly to McCullough. That worthy, his questionable experiment accomplished, was retreating up the corridor as fast as his crutches could carry him.
"First, Docteur," began the nurse indignantly, "'e blow smoke in ze eye of ze parrot, then 'e turn roun' to pauvre M'sieu 'Ardy an' 'e sing—oh, I 'ave not ze English, but 'e blaguè 'im so—
"Vieux soldats ne meurent! jamais! jamais! jamais!
Vieux soldats ne meurent jamais!—ils simplement passent!"
"An' M'sieu 'Ardy 'e say: 'Vat about?' an' then 'e raise 'is two 'ands è
Ciel—so! an' 'e tell Le Bon Dieu all about it. Oh, 'ow 'e pray!
Ecoutez! Docteur! you can 'ear 'im now! . . ."
And awhile Doctor Sampson listened, a grim smile lurking around the corners of his firm mouth, as he leaned against the open door of the ward.
"Praying, Sister?" he ejaculated. "It's the queerest kind of praying
I've ever heard. But is it him—or is it the parrot?"
Two days later he remarked to the O.C. and Kilbride: "I'm glad to be able to report a decided improvement in that man Hardy's condition. His pulse is stronger, his appetite is increasing and—he's beginning to grouse. That old ruffian of a farrier-corporal, McCullough, was right, begad!—he knew the man better than I did. As a general rule I'm inclined to be rather sceptical of such drastic experiments, but in certain cases, er—"
"Something of the sort might be beneficial if applied to young Redmond, too," remarked the O.C., testily. "He's down in the dumps now; though to give him his due . . . he tries hard not to show it whenever I happen to be in the hospital. Dudley, my Orderly-room sergeant, is leaving next month—time-expired—so I thought I was conferring a great favour on the boy by promising him the step-up—good staff appointment—give him a chance to recuperate thoroughly. But no!—my young gentleman courteously declines my munificent offer. Nothing must serve him but he must go back to me Irish 'ginthleman' and that d——d dissipated scamp of a Yorke."
"It's the spirit of comradeship," remarked Kilbride quietly. "If I might suggest, Sir, . . . I think it would be better if you do decide to let him go back there. They pull well together and do good work, those three."
"'Ullo, Reddy!" called out Constable Hardy, as he directed his wobbly steps towards the bench on the hospital balcony where George was seated, "'ow long 'ave you bin up 'ere? Th' O.C. an' Kilbride was round jes' now. You didn't see 'em, eh?"
"No," answered Redmond listlessly. And thereupon he relapsed into moody silence.
"Wy, wot's up?" enquired Hardy presently, scanning the other's downcast countenance. "Wot's th' matter wiv you, son? . . . you don't look 'appy! . . ."
"You bet I'm not, either!" burst out George suddenly. "The Old Man's offered me Dudley's job, but I don't want a staff job. I want to go back to Davidsburg. Who cares to be stuck around the Post?"
"Me for one!" retorted the old soldier grinning, "Jes' now, anyway. Listen, son! Th' Old Man 'e sez to me: ''Ardy!' 'e sez, 'you've bin 'it pretty bad and I find you deserve a softer class of dewty than goin' back t' prisoner's escort. I think I'll recommend you for Provo'-Sorjint, in charge o' th' Guard-room, w'en you're able t' return t' dewty,' 'e sez."
With an effort Redmond roused himself to the point of congratulating the Cockney upon his prospective promotion. He had no desire to act as a wet blanket on such an auspicious occasion as this, his own troubles notwithstanding.
"That ain't all," continued Hardy, with a gloating chuckle. "Th' Old Man, 'e sez 'Belt's bein' invalided, McCullough's gettin' 'is third stripe, an' Dyvis is goin' dahn t' th' Corp'ril's Class at Regina, but that there young Redmond worries me! I don't know wot t' do abaht 'im,' 'e sez—jes' like that—sorter kind-like—not a bit like th' O.C. o' a Division torkin' t' a buck private.
"'Beg yer pardon, Sir!' I sez, 'but if you let 'im go back t' Dyvidsburg
I fink 'e'll be quite contented. Seems like 'e wants t' be wiv Sorjint
Slavin an' Constable Yorke agin.'
"'Fink so?' sez 'e, pullin' 'is oweld moustache, 'I sure do, Sir,' I sez. 'So be it, then!' 'e sez, turnin' t' Kilbride, but th' Inspector 'e sez nothin':—'e on'y larfs. An' then they went away."
Redmond, giving vent to a delighted oath, came out of his sulks on the instant.
"Hardy!" he cried, "you're a gentleman! . . ."
"Nay!" was the other's disclaimer. "A dranken oweld soweljer, son . . . that's all."
But Redmond heard him not. With elbows resting upon the balcony-rail he was looking beyond the Elbow Bridge, beyond Shagnappi Point—westwards to Davidsburg, his face registering the supreme content of a man who had just attained his heart's desire.