An Irishman in a major’s uniform came out of the cool of the barracks and stopped beside Vincent. “Another week ought to see us in the capital,” he said slowly. “But I don’t like this business, general. These beggars don’t amount to anything. Why did you order them shot?”
A barefoot girl of some ten years crept around the corner of the sunbaked wall. She picked her way over the sand, darting hot glances fearfully at the two officers. Suddenly she stooped over the crooked body of one of the motionless ones. She tugged at the sleeve of a shirt, and as the face turned slightly upward to her effort, she fell to beating on the ground with both hands, and sobbed in the heat, dry-eyed.
Vincent strode over to her, and gently picked her up. Her quick sobs did not cease as he carried her into the shade, his own face drawn and white. He looked over at the major, who stood gnawing on his stubby mustache. He did not reply to the question until the major repeated it angrily. “It was because ... they deserved it....” Vincent stopped, and then went on, almost inaudibly, “God knows why I did it, and then there’s ... the——” He stopped once more, for the girl’s hard sobs had ceased, and her lithe hand had darted from the folds of her scanty gown to the young general’s throat, and the major saw him set the burden softly down, and then fall forward, the blood pouring around the blade of a knife deep in his throat.
With an oath the major leaped over to him and lifted his head. Vincent’s eyes looked clearly into his. Then the wounded man looked over at the little girl, poised for flight, a dozen feet away. He nodded at her with an air of absolute comprehension, and then died.
THE BLOOD OF A COMRADE
By Neil Gillespie
“A short, severe war is less cruel than a long drawn-out fight,” said the captain, easily. “Of course it is! Everybody knows it! So why do the people at home criticise us, and libel and court-martial us because we use every means in our power to prevent further rebellion?”
“They ought to be thankful we don’t use Spanish methods,” said Wilcox, the junior member of the mess. He was only six weeks out of his cadet gray, and a new arrival at Camp Chicobang.
The captain smiled, pleasantly. “No?” he said. “Haven’t we a reconcentrado system similar to theirs? Haven’t we a blockade? We’re merely taking up affairs where they left them, and following Spanish methods in our own way. When this rebellion began, we tried to treat the natives as civilized creatures, but, thank heaven, we’re learning sense at last.”
The subaltern flushed to the roots of his close-cropped hair. “Do you mean to say that any measure, however cruel, is justifiable in war?”