“‘I seem to fail so many times and in so many ways before getting started in my real work, Mr. Routledge. The soldiers are not to blame. They could not understand me; and yet my purpose was so simple. I should not have told them that I meant to be a missionary in Asia when my enlistment was through. It confused them. Some time all will understand. Some time I shall do well and not fail.’
“‘But how did you get away from the command?’ I asked.
“‘I do not know,’ he answered. ‘During the fight I fell from the heat and a slight wound. I awoke alone, concealed my arms in the jungle, and tried to follow the troop. I must have mistaken the trail, because I never saw the American outfit again. Three days of night travel brought me close to the big native coast town of Triacnakato, where I fell in with a party of Mindayans, there on a trading voyage——’
“‘Tell me, Rawder,’ I interrupted, ‘why you joined the cavalry in the first place.’
“‘Asia called to me. Always, in those last days in Boston I heard Asia call me to work. I had no money to reach the Pacific nor to cross it, so I was enlisted with a regiment ordered to service here. I had heard of certain soldiers doing good work among their fellows in the old English regiments, and thought that until I was free again I might be a help in the troop. White men do not seem to listen to me, Mr. Routledge.’
“Thus he talked, Miss Noreen. Do you like him a little bit—my great man, Rawder?”
The girl regarded him hesitatingly for a moment, as if to reply was not easy. “I like him so well,” she answered at last, “that I wish it were my destiny to meet him every little while up the years, as you do. Tell me all.”
“And so he had started in to teach the words of John Wesley, and others, to these Mindayans whom Spain had left to themselves on account of their ferocity. God knows why the Mindayans gave him a Messiah’s chance to learn their language and explain his message, but they let him live. And now I must tell you about another moment or two of battle. There has been far too much war already for your frightened eyes, but this is short and about my bravest man.
“As we talked, there was a sharp crack of a Krag carbine. I could not rise, but crawled to the doorway. The Mindayans had formed in the plaza for action. Tarrant was coming with his squadron of cavalry to settle for the murders of the night before, and the naked Mindayans essayed to meet him in the open—as the Tagals of Luzon had never dared to do. It was all on in a moment. Out of the jungle came the boys from the States—queer, quick lines, blowing their bubbles of white smoke, dropping down to fire and running forward in skirmish, answering the trumpet-talk as running metal answers to the grooves of a mold. In the blazing open—in a light so intense that it was pain to look through it—the forces met. Mindayans, with guns dating from Magellan; the Americans with their swift, animate Krags; a squadron of white men, three skeleton troops picked from forty States, stacked against a thousand-odd glistening blacks all enthused to die. Hell’s forbidden chambers were emptied that hour, Miss Noreen. I hated war then—but have hated it since far more.
“They met—before my eyes they met—and the dead flew out of the lines like chaff, and were trampled like chaff by the toilers. Hand-to-hand at last; shiny black of flesh against the dull green-brown of khaki; the jungle alive with reserves exchanging poisoned salads of metal; science against primal lust; seasoned courage against fanaticism; yellow sky above, yellow sand beneath; blood-letting between, and the eternal jungle on every hand. It was a battle to haunt and debase a watcher’s brain.