CHAPTER IV
THE FORTUNE OF WAR
Dawn was hardly breaking on the morning of May 21st, when Lucy woke from the heavy sleep into which she had fallen early the night before. Nothing—not the crash of the bombardment nor the ceaseless anxiety of her own thoughts—could have kept her awake for long after her head touched the pillow the evening of Bob’s visit. Sleep had been stronger than all fears, though now she wondered that it had ever come, for the shock of the battle seemed louder and more terrible as it struck her protesting ears. Miss Pearse and her companion were already up, and Lucy hastily dressed herself, eager to learn what Major Greyson had decided about her departure. Last night the plan had still been unsettled, as it must be while trains and motor trucks had three times their normal work to do. It was a bitter disappointment to give up all hope of seeing her mother, though Major Greyson had told her that the renewed bombardment might last for days and that Mr. Leslie would have reached Château-Plessis before this, had any sort of undelayed travel been possible.
She was swayed by alternate hopes and fears as she brushed her hair in the half-darkness, and felt about on the little table for her comb and ribbons. It was so desperately hard to think at all with that unearthly noise dazing her brain, but in spite of her tormenting uncertainty she clung steadfastly to one consoling thought. She had helped to bring her father out of danger. Her journey had not been in vain, however hopeless her longing to do more than stand weakly by watching the struggle in which Bob and the rest fought so gallantly. She knew she could help—even here on the battle-front. Last year it seemed impossible that she could do anything toward winning Bob’s freedom, and yet did she not have a hand in sending Mr. Leslie on that long, hard journey? Lucy had not much conceit in her nature, but she did have a good deal of her brother’s confident energy, and, her courage once firmly grasped, she could persevere in a cause on which her heart was set, like a true soldier’s daughter.
“I’m ready, Miss Pearse,” she called presently, waking from her serious thoughts as the nurse came to her door.
They went in silence down the stairs into the street, for this morning Miss Pearse did not try any of her usual kind and encouraging means of bolstering up Lucy’s cheerfulness. She was strangely silent and preoccupied. In the street a hurrying throng of soldiers, women and children were passing by, dim shadows in the first light of the dawn. Lucy wondered at their numbers as she made her way among them, her eyes turning with a fearful fascination toward the east, where the light of bursting shells outshone the pale streaks of day. The hospital was the scene of a great though orderly confusion. Almost a hundred wounded men had been brought in during the night, and every spare foot of space had been used to lay down a mattress or to unfold a narrow army cot. Doctors, orderlies and nurses were moving in every direction about the crowded halls, and Lucy stole away with painfully beating heart, and found refuge in her father’s little room.
A nurse was sitting there, with her arms upon the window-sill, staring out into the shadowy street. She turned pale cheeks and troubled eyes toward Lucy, and her faint smile had nothing cheerful in it as she rose and offered her a chair by her father’s side. Lucy felt a pang of fear at sight of that tired face. The nurse looked as though she had kept an anxious watch, and Lucy turned searching eyes upon her father, fearing a change for the worse.
“He’s doing well,” the nurse said in her ear, guessing her thoughts, and she accompanied the words with a little encouraging nod, though the color did not come back to her pale cheeks, nor the apprehension leave her eyes.
Lucy sat down at her father’s side, wondering greatly, and the nurse went out. Colonel Gordon was just beginning to wake, but for a few moments more he lingered in a doze. At last he opened his eyes and looked at Lucy with a slow understanding smile of recognition.
“You, little daughter?” he asked, reaching out a hand. “What time is it, anyway? It’s not light yet. What are you doing here?” Then as the full force of the guns smote upon his ears and brain he started up on his pillows, saying with quick earnestness, “You’re going to-day, eh—Lucy? They’ve arranged it? Greyson promised me. Henry’s not back?”