The Coil of Carne

by John Oxenham

In view of the abounding comforts with which they were surrounded, it was indeed difficult at times to realise the actual and astounding fact that they were undergoing a siege that would rank as one of the great sieges of the world's history; that this comfortable town was an almost impregnable fortress; and that England and France, outside there, were bending all their energies to its reduction.

For they lacked nothing. Supplies were abundant. They were warm and well-fed, and, beyond the dull boom of the distant guns, they heard nothing of the siege. Through that unclosable northern door, by night and by day, long strings of carts brought in to them everything that was necessary, and much besides. Contrary to custom, it was the besiegers who suffered, not the besieged.

And Jim, when Tatia drove him away from Jack's bedside, to seek exercise and fresh air lest she should have another patient on their hands, quietly observing everything--the rude strength of the defences, the unlimited, even wastefully profuse stores of guns and ammunition, the teeming barracks full of men, and that ever-open door though which the limitless supplies could still be drawn upon--said to himself that the siege might go on for ever.

Jack, however, was in most distressing condition. The slightest exertion, any movement almost, brought on painful fits of coughing which seemed to shake his wounded chest to pieces. Speaking was out of the question, for even breathing was difficult to him; and all Jim could do, to show him what he felt about it all, was to sit by his bedside, holding his hand at times, and at times forcing himself to unnaturally cheerful talk lest the dreadful silence should bring him to foolishness in other ways. For he felt certain, from Jack's appearance and the doctor's manner, that his case was hopeless and the end not far off, and the thought of it was terrible to him.

Of the consequences--of the results to himself, at Carne and Wyvveloe--not one thought. The fluttering of the shadowy wings put all other considerations to rout. This that lay so still on the bed was dear old Jack, and the fear that he was going filled all his heart and mind.

But Tatia, pretty as she was, and of a most vivacious disposition, possessed so much common-sense.

Again and again she insisted on Jim quitting the room and the house, and threatened him with penalties if he came back under a couple of hours. And when her brother was available she would send them off together, begging them only to beware above all things of pointed shells and to turn up again in due course whole and undamaged.

"I would nurse you with enjoyment," she said, her soft dark eyes dwelling appreciatively on Jim's sorrowful long face, in which they seemed to find something that appealed to her strongly. "But, for yourself, you will be better to keep well. If you come back in less than two hours you shall have only half a dinner. Louis, you will see to it."

And Greski would march him away to the harbour front where walking was safe, since the shells rarely topped the hill, and they would discuss matters from both sides as they went.

On that side of the town there was little sign of the siege beyond the activities of the quays, and an occasional roar from the man-of-war moored under Fort Nicholas. But when they strolled along the front, and came round the hill, and up by St. Michael's church and the tower whose clock bore on its face the name of "Barraud, London," then all the grim actualities met them full face.