An hour after Mrs. Gordon received news that Bob was wounded she had turned over her little flock of orphans to a fellow-worker’s charge and was on her way to Cantigny. Her companion had almost more work of her own than she could manage, in spite of her cheerful willingness to accept the added responsibility. Mrs. Gordon felt conscience-stricken at imposing the task upon her, but nothing at that moment could keep her from her son, if she must walk every step of the way to reach him. The telegram was scarcely a reassuring one. It said, “Wounded, degree undetermined,” and it had taken twenty-four hours to come the short distance.
At the moment that she set out, however, fortune favored her. A big motor-lorry, loaded with stores, was crawling along the village street, and a Q.M. officer, to whom she had already appealed for transportation, crossed the street at sight of her, saying:
“Here’s your chance, Mrs. Gordon. I’m so glad we can manage. This lorry is going to Cantigny and will be faster traveling than the railroad. I can’t offer you anything but a seat with the driver.”
Mrs. Gordon thanked him from the depths of her heart in a few hurried words, as he stopped the lorry and helped her to a place beside the soldier at the wheel. “Make as good time as you can, Adams,” he said. “No short cuts, though. Keep well out of range.”
It was only fifteen miles to Cantigny directly northeast, but the necessary détours made the real distance nearer twenty-five. The road was full of holes and cut up into ruts by the heavy traffic to and from the front. On every side the ruin and desolation of blackened shell-torn fields and woodland overpowered the beauty of the springtime, still struggling to show itself in nooks and corners that had escaped the cannon. The soldier at Mrs. Gordon’s side, a lanky, pleasant-faced New Englander, withdrew his eyes from the road occasionally to look at his passenger with pity and a kind of troubled helplessness in his glance.
Mrs. Gordon had begun preparing for her journey immediately after reading the telegram. She had not yielded to a moment’s weakness or inaction, but had gone methodically through the details of turning over her charges and getting herself ready. It was a hot, sultry morning, and in her preoccupation she did not realize how hard she worked in the hour before leaving. Now, seated in the lorry, with two hours at least of waiting before her, her courage seemed all at once to give way, and the dreadful suspense she must endure became unbearable. Her vivid imagination saw Bob seriously wounded, perhaps dying, and wondering why she did not come. The sight tormented her so that she sank her face into her hands, welcoming the hard jolting of the heavy vehicle as at least a momentary distraction from her suffering. Her husband had been given back to her, and could she hope that Bob would be spared too? Then, remembering Lucy, she unreasonably hoped again. Surely Lucy’s captivity was enough to bear, and nothing further would be asked of her just now.
“I got a little cold water here, Ma’am,” said the soldier, breaking the sound of the laboring motor with an embarrassed cough. “This dust is sure the limit.”
Mrs. Gordon looked up at him and read the sympathy in his eyes. He held out to her a full canteen, and she took it gratefully, for the dust-clouds had dried her throat in the first half hour of travel. The dust stuck to her face and hands, too, and powdered her clothing, but she hardly noticed it. She unscrewed the canteen and poured a little of the water into her mouth. It was cool and refreshing and, as she swallowed it, she tried hard to get back a little courage and calmness. She had by nature plenty of both and, in a moment, handing back the canteen to the soldier with a word of thanks, she clasped her hands in her lap and looked about her. She could not tell how far they had come, for the landscape was much the same, except that a church tower, with its belfry shot away, rose now from the woody distance.
“When do you think we shall get to Cantigny?” she asked longingly.
“Well,” was the thoughtful answer, “sometimes I make it in two hours, but that ain’t often. I’ll do the best I can, Ma’am. We’ll be there by noon, sure. It’s not but ten now.” He glanced at the pale face beside him, and at the delicate hands clasped so tightly together and added diffidently, “Don’t feel so bad, Ma’am. The Lieutenant is a strong young feller. He’ll come out right enough.”