Part 8

“‘I’ve got a few t’ousand in me clodes,’ I says, like I was considerin’, ‘but I aint got no quarter for _him_. Away wid ’m!’ I says.

“‘Dammit!’ says Hickey, growin’ excited, ‘can’t youse quit y’r foolin’? I mus’ be gettin’ back to de comp’ny or I’ll be losin’ me stripes!’

“‘Hear de hardened vilyun cursin’ w’en deat’ stares’m in de eye!’ says McKenzie, holdin’ up his hands wid horror. ‘Oh, Hickey, Hickey, you’re in danger o’ losin’ de number o’ y’r mess--den w’y worry ’bout a little t’ing like a pair o’ miser’ble corp’ral’s stripes?’

“‘Boys,’ I says, ‘I pity dis poor mug. S’posin’ we fin’ out how he’s feelin’ ’bout dis time?’ An’ I turned t’wards de pris’ner. ‘Hickey,’ I says, ‘are youse ever goin’ to preside over anodder blanket-tossin’ convention--I mean, one wid _me_ in it?’ An’ he swore dat he hones’ wouldn’t.

“‘Higky,’ asks Schultz, ‘vill you dot pecos off dis affair dere shall no hart veelin’ pe?’ An’ Hickey said dat dere shouldn’t.

“‘Hickey,’ says McKenzie, w’en it come his turn at de bat, ‘if you’re lucky ’nough to come out alive at de end o’ dis awful day o’ strife will youse remember dat odder people ’sides y’rself has t’roats--w’ich needs occasional wettin’?’ An’ Hickey give his word dat he’d set ’em up for de crowd w’en we got back to town.

“‘Dis all bein’ so,’ says Jonesey, ‘an’ no objection bein’ made, we’ll spare y’r wort’less life. But we’re under oat’ to do our full duty by de Commonwealt’ for a term o’ t’ree years, an’ so we can’t let yer go. Private McKenzie on de right, Private Schultz on de lef’, de pris’ner betwixt youse--_fall in_!’ says he. An’ dey fell in, an’ started back t’wards de comp’ny, wid Hickey a-kickin’ himself for a t’underin’ jackuss, an’ me a-follerin’, t’umpin’ meself wid joy.

“Well, we comes back to de comp’ny, an’ I makes a break for de head o’ de percession--’cause ’twas _my_ entertainment, y’ know--an’ w’en de fellies sees us marchin’ up, dey sets up a yell, for dey all knows Hickey. An’ w’en we gets to de cap’n I salutes an’ says, ‘Cap’n, here’s a spy,’ I says. ‘W’at’ll we do wid’m?’

“Cap’n Stearns, he looked Hickey all over, an’ seen de dirt on’m, an’ says, ‘Whew! he looks like he’d be’n huntin’ for trouble an’ foun’ it! Are dey diggin’ a mine under us, or w’at? Take’m away,’ he says, ‘an’ play de hose on’m an’ don’t bodder me wid’m.’ An’ he had to laff.

“But he didn’t get no time for a real _good_ laff, ’cause jus’ den de enermy begun to charge us, an’ he had his han’s full keepin’ de boys from fightin’ in earnest. For our fellies wasn’t goin’ to let _K_ walk on deir necks. But ’twas ’gainst orders for bayonets to be crossed, an’ so we played dat we was captured. But we wasn’t, all de same, for if’t had b’en really _war_ we’d have kep’ a coroner’s jury busy for a week sortin’ out de remains o’ _K_.

“An’ dat, sir,” said Major Larry, facing towards the colonel with a final salute, “near’s I c’n remember, is w’at _A_ done, two weeks ago yesterd’y, at de right o’ Major Pollard’s line o’ battle.”

The colonel brought out a half-dollar. “Larry,” said he, handing it to the boy, “we all are greatly indebted to you for your excellent and most technical report. For my own part, I can truthfully say that I’ve learned a great deal about grand strategy. You are excused, with the thanks of all present.”

Larry left the room with the step of a grenadier. Rodman closed his note-book with a snap, saying softly, “That’ll be good for two columns.” There was an instant of awed silence. And then the colonel turned to the adjutant, and said, “Hereafter, Charley, there’ll be two reports made of anything that _A_ may be concerned in--one written, and one oral. That’s a standing order. _See?_”

Rodman’s notes worked up to two columns and a half of the next day’s _Globe_, and for a second time Major Larry Callahan found himself locally famous. What Captain Tom Stearns said when his eye fell upon the marked copy of the paper which was thoughtfully mailed to him by the adjutant, is not upon record. But it is a fact that he has been more than prompt, of late, in the matter of forwarding required reports.

SPECIAL ORDERS, NO. 49.

They call it the incurable ward. In coming down the corridor one sees above its doorway, upon the blank, white wall, a plain, black letter _A_. It almost seems as though the painter had thought to transcribe there, “All hope abandon”--and then had relented, after outlining the initial letter of the grisly legend. Perhaps he well might have finished his work, for those who enter that quiet room are borne thither because their days are nearly numbered.

On that afternoon there was but one patient in Ward _A_. He seemed content to lie motionless, watching with drowsy, half-closed eyes the play of a stray shaft of sunlight upon the snowy counterpane. Beside him, steadily swinging a fan, sat a white-robed nurse. The long June day was wearing slowly on towards its ending.

In through the casement to the westward there came a soft breath of flower-scented air. The nurse felt its caress upon her cheek, and laid aside her fan. Then, with a little sigh of relief, she rose from her chair, and quietly stole over to the window for a moment’s glance out into the garden which lay below.

She was standing there when her trained ear caught the sound of a restless movement upon the cot. “A glass of water, please,” murmured the sick man, as she turned and came quickly towards him.

“Thank you,” said he, after a long, grateful draught from the glass which she had held to his lips. “I must be a terrible nuisance to you. But,” he added, in a lower tone, “it’ll not be for much longer, please God!”

“_Sh-h!_” said the nurse, reprovingly. “You mustn’t say that. I can’t see, I’m sure, why it should be thought that nurses are intended more for ornament than use. Not,” with a smile, “but that we’re flattered by that view of the situation.”

“But really and truly,” she went on, picking up the fan, “we should grow terribly tired of the monotony if it weren’t for the relief that comes from doing these little things.”

“I suppose I must believe you,” said the sick man, smiling faintly in his turn. “And if--‘really and truly’--it will serve to break the monotony, I’ll venture to ask you to do me one more favor. About that packet of trinkets that I--”

“Oh, how stupid of me!” exclaimed the nurse, hastily rising from her chair. “The superintendent sent them in while you were taking your nap.” With the swift, noiseless step of one long trained in hospital service she crossed the room, and took from the mantel a small package. “Here they are,” said she. “Shall I take them out for you?”

At his nod of assent she deftly untied the faded blue ribbon with which the packet was secured, removed the tissue-paper covering, and brought to light a jewel-case, in which lay three military decorations--the badge of the Loyal Legion, the plain, bronze star of the Grand Army, and the enamelled Maltese cross of the old 19th Army Corps.

One by one she laid the medals upon the thin hand feebly outstretched over the white coverlid, and for a moment the sick man’s tired eyes kindled as he gazed upon them. But the feeble hand relaxed, the eyes quickly became dim again. “Ah, well,” he said, a bit huskily, “I’m through--through with all that now. And I’ve no son--there’s no one to care--no one to whom I can leave these things. You’ll see that some one pins them on my breast when--when I’m carried out?”

“Yes,” said the nurse, gathering up the medals as she spoke, “I’ll be very careful about having it done.” And then she added quietly, “I’ll attend to it myself.”

“I’m wofully helpless,” said the man upon the cot apologetically; “may I trouble you to hand me the photograph?”

The nurse drew from beneath his pillow a faded and worn morocco case, opened it, and handed it to him. Then she turned away and made pretence of busying herself about some little matter, while her charge looked long and wistfully upon the picture of a woman’s face that smiled back at him from its resting place within the leathern frame.

The sick man sighed, but not unhappily. A look of peace came upon his worn face, and a smile--a wonderfully tender smile--hovered about his lips.

“Will you put the medals under my pillow?” said he, as the nurse came towards the bed. “Thank you. Really, you’ve been very kind to me. I’d like to tell you how grateful I am for it all--but may be I needn’t. My mind’s quite at rest now: those letters that you wrote for me settled the last of my worries. And now I’m not sure--I think--think that perhaps I could sleep again for a little while.” He wearily turned his head to one side, resting it upon the palm of his hand. And within the hand, pressed close against his cheek, lay the photograph in its worn and faded case.

The nurse smoothed out the pillow, passed her hand gently over the iron-grey hair that clustered thickly above his forehead, and taking her place by the bedside, once more began to swing the fan slowly to and fro.

In the great, white room the shadows deepened as the sun went down. The sick man was breathing regularly, but very lightly. He had fallen asleep. Once the silent watcher saw his lips move, and caught the sound of murmured words: then all was still again. The fan swung slowly back and forth--still more slowly--and then it stopped.

The world outside seemed very beautiful in the June twilight, and the confinement, by contrast, became doubly irksome. The nurse slipped quietly over to the open window. She was standing there when the house surgeon came briskly into the room. “S-sh!” said she, turning at the sound of the footsteps, and raising a warning hand. “He’s asleep.”

But the surgeon already was standing beside the cot. He gave one keen glance at the form lying before him, and placed his hand over the heart. Then he straightened up and turned towards the nurse. His face had become grave. “Yes,” said he, in answer to the look of anxious inquiry; “yes, he’s asleep. I hadn’t looked for this before tomorrow,” he went on quietly, “but he’s--he’s asleep, as you say.”

Dimness had come with the failing light, but it was not so dark that the doctor and the nurse could not see upon the dead man’s face the calm smile of perfect peace. “See,” whispered the nurse, gently drawing the photograph from its resting place--and as she held the picture towards her companion she gave a little sob. “Yes, I see,” said the surgeon, softly. “I know his story.” And then in a lower tone he added, “He’s asleep at last. _God send him rest!_”

* * * * *

It was nearing nine o’clock. Colonel Elliott glanced at his watch, and then leaned back in his chair with the comfortable consciousness that his evening’s work was over. One by one he had gone through the pile of papers that he had found upon his desk. He had written, “Respectfully forwarded, approved,” upon each in its turn, and now they were ready to go to the adjutant, to be entered up and sent along upon their sluggish travels “through channels.”

The colonel gathered the scattered documents into a bunch, snapped a rubber band about them, and then called, “Orderly!”

“Take these papers to the adjutant,” said the chief, as a soldier stepped promptly into the room, with his hand at his cap. “Then find Major Pollard, and say to him, with my compliments, that I’d like him to report to me here.”

The orderly saluted, and disappeared. The colonel bit the tip from a cigar, lighted it, and then drew from his pocket a half dozen letters. Rapidly running through them, he picked out one, tossed it upon his desk, and then, letting his head fall back, he fixed his eyes upon the ceiling, and smoked away in thoughtful silence.

Along the broad corridors of the armory echoed the steady tramp of feet, the rattle of arms, and the sharp commands of the line officers, for it was a regular drill-night of The Third, and four of the regiment’s twelve companies were at work in the great hall lying beyond the administrative rooms. Presently, above the hum of the other sounds, the colonel heard quick, firm footsteps approaching his door, and in a moment Major Pollard and Van Sickles, of the staff, came into the room.

“You sent for me, Colonel?” said the major, inquiringly.

“Yes,” said the chief, adding, as Van Sickles made a motion as if to withdraw, “I’d like to have you stay, Van. I’ve something to tell that’ll answer a question you once asked me.”

Both drew up chairs. The colonel passed over his cigar case, and then said, “A year ago you fellows got me to talking, one night up in The Battery, about something that happened while I was out with the ‘Old Regiment.’ As I recall it, I told you a yarn about the resurrection of Bob Sheldon, and you, Van, asked me, when I’d finished, what had become of Bob since the war. Do you remember?”

“Sheldon?” said Van Sickles. “Oh, yes. He was the man that was brained by a splinter of shell, and afterwards came to time all right. Your old captain, wasn’t he? Yes, I remember.”

“Well,” said the colonel slowly, “I had a letter from him this morning--and he’s dead.”

“Not really!” said Van Sickles, as the chief made this odd announcement. “Well, I’m sorry on your account, sir.”

“He’s dead, poor old Bob!” said the colonel, resting his elbow upon the edge of his desk and letting his chin drop into the palm of his hand. “Yes, he’s got his papers at last. And now, Van, I can take up the story that I left unfinished. It was incomplete then, but now the last chapter’s been written.”

“You’ve had the first of it already,” went on the chief, settling back in his chair. “Here’s the rest of it--and the last of it. You’ll listen, too, Pollard.

“I’ve told you already, I think, that Bob Sheldon and I were the closest of friends. I stood up with him when he was married to his Nell--his ‘little Nell’--the girl whose name came to his lips when he lay in delirium after the shell had struck him down. Poor little Nell--poor old Bob! Well, all the trouble’s ended at last.

“The friendships that are made in active service are lasting ones. When the ‘Old Regiment’ came back, after doing its share of the work of hammering our erring brothers into a peaceful state, Bob was on the roster as major, and I’d been given his old company. But it never occurred to either of us, when off duty, that such a thing as rank had any existence. It was ‘Bob’ for him and ‘Harry’ for me, and he’d have thought me crazy if I’d addressed him as ‘Major’ except when I was at the head of my company.

“I’ll be older than I am now before I forget the day that we were mustered out. We’d gone to the front with something over the full thousand: there were three hundred and sixty of us, rank and file, when we came home again. For we’d been a fighting regiment from start to finish, and the hard knocks of four long years had cut the original roll to ribbons. Those were the days when veteran regiments were allowed to dwindle down to skeletons, through battle and disease, while the recruits that should have been turned over to them to stop the gaps were herded together in one raw, half useless lump, given a fresh regimental number and a stand of colors bright and crisp from the shop, and then bundled off to where there was _fighting_ to be done--and all because some ambitious politician felt that a pair of eagles would be becoming to his peculiar style of corpulent beauty.

“We had a royal welcome home. I needn’t tell you what battles were gilded on the stripes of the old flag, because you know well enough the sort of record that we fellows made when cutting out the pace for you youngsters. We’d done our work, and we knew that we’d done it well, and we felt that the people knew it, too. And when we made our last march, that day, through the swarming streets, we took as rightfully ours the cheers that went up as the wreck of the ‘Old Regiment’ followed the faded colors home again.

“Then came the final breaking up; the time when ‘break ranks’ meant that regimental line never would be formed again. I remember how, for the last time, we presented to the colors--the ragged, blood-streaked scraps of silk whose worn folds told our whole war story. Bob turned to me when the tattered old things were being carried away from us forever. His face was working, and--I doubt, though, if he knew it--a big tear was rolling down each gaunt, sun-burned cheek. I--well, I was sobbing like a child, I’m not ashamed to say. So were the boys at my back--God bless ’em!

“‘Bob,’ says I, trying to swallow the lump in my throat, ‘Bob, old man, what’s left for us now?’ He turned in his saddle and looked across the parade to where a group of white gowns--his Nell was there, with the colonel’s wife and a lot of other women--had gathered to watch the last act in our war drama. ‘What’s left?’ says he, turning to me again, ‘What’s left? Why, _everything_!’ And though the tears still glistened at the corners of his eyes, his face shone with the light that has but one meaning.

“Well, we of the ‘Old Regiment’ shook hands, and drifted back to our places in civil life. There are easier things than dropping the customs of the service, and taking up the monotony of everyday existence. It came hard at first, but we managed it somehow.

“Bob was married. He wouldn’t let a week go by, after we were mustered out, before he had that much of his career settled. I volunteered to stand by him to the last, and he held me in reserve as best man until the knot was safely tied. It was a military wedding. Nearly all the officers of the ‘Old Regiment’ were there. It was a dingy looking lot of uniforms that gathered in the little church, but the men inside the faded blue coats were all right.

“It wasn’t long before I followed Bob’s example. Then life ran on smoothly with us both for a long stretch of years. To be sure, we missed the excitement of the old days; but I’d come ’round to Bob’s view of life, and was willing to admit that there was a good deal left to live for, after all. There are several queer things about war: one of ’em is the way in which it teaches old soldiers to appreciate the comfort of peace.

“Yes, life ran on smoothly for a time,” repeated the colonel with a sigh; “and then came trouble, big trouble for poor Bob. He had one child, a boy. He was a bright, sturdy chap. Bob really believed that the world revolved ’round him. But just after he’d had his tenth birthday, he died.

“It was terribly rough! Bob had planned to send the youngster to ‘The Point,’ when the proper time came; and he’d talk to me by the hour of the pride he’d feel when he had a son in the service. ‘Harry,’ he’d say, when we’d be smoking our old pipes together, ‘you and I were good enough soldiers according to our lights: we could fight just as nastily as though we’d been in the business for a lifetime. But when it came to the fine points of the profession, we weren’t quite up to concert pitch; the fellows from ‘The Point’ scored on us then. Now, there’s going to be another war some day. It’s a long way ahead, and it’s two to tuppence that we’ll not be in it. But I want to feel that the name of Sheldon will be on some regiment’s roster then--and I’m thinking that little Bob’ll take care of that for me.’

“It was cruel work for poor Bob when we laid the little fellow away, and my heart went out to him in his trouble. But there was a heavier blow yet to fall. Two years after we’d buried the boy, I stood by Bob’s side and gripped his arm while his wife’s coffin was being lowered into the grave. My God! I learned then what despair meant. When all was over, Bob clung to me, and asked the question that I’d put to him on the day they took our old colors from us. ‘Harry,’ he said, almost with a groan, ‘Harry, what’s left for me now?’ And before I could think of the words that I wanted, he answered his own question with, ‘_Nothing!_’

“And then I lost him for a time. He simply dropped everything and went away. For three years he was abroad, and from time to time I’d hear from him. But the letters were hopelessly unhappy, and I knew that he’d not recovered from the wrench that he’d got. Then came four months of silence.

“I was beginning to get alarmed at not hearing from him, when, one fearfully hot day in August, I looked up from my work, and saw him standing by the desk in my office. ’Pon my soul, I couldn’t have been blamed for thinking that I saw his ghost! He was haggard and thin, and his eyes had a troubled, haunted look that made my heart ache for him.

“‘I’m back again,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘It’s hot, isn’t it? I’m going to ask you a favor, Harry. The old house over in Cambridge has been closed ever since--ever since I went away, and I’m going there this afternoon: will you go with me?’

“I hadn’t lunched, but he seemed feverishly impatient to be off, and fairly dragged me along with him. We took a cab, and started on the long, hot ride. I did all the talking on the way: he sat silently by me, and his face wore a look that made me terribly uneasy.

“When we were nearly at the end of our ride I happened to catch sight of a doctor’s sign upon the door of a house, and to my surprise I saw that it bore the name of the assistant surgeon of the ‘Old Regiment.’ A sudden idea came to me, and I made the cabman pull up, explaining to Bob that I’d a message to leave for a friend. I was pretty sure that he’d not notice anything: the look in his eyes told me that his mind was busy with something besides his surroundings.

“Running up to the door, I pulled the bell in a way that meant business, and in a very short time I’d explained matters to the doctor. We agreed between us that the heat and the strain of coming back to the desolate home might work upon Bob in a fashion that, coupled with the effect of his old wound, would bring on bad results. So we arranged that the doctor should follow, in about a quarter of an hour, and drop in at Bob’s house as if by accident. It was a clumsy sort of scheme, I must confess, but it was the best that I could think of under the circumstances.

“Bob and I drove on. When we reached the house, he tried to unlock the door, but his hand shook so pitifully that I took the key from him, and let him in. The house was hot and close, and the air musty with the damp of long disuse. It _was_ a mournful home-coming, and I felt that it couldn’t help doing harm of some sort to poor Bob.

“We went about from room to room. I opened a window here and there, for though the outside air was torrid anything seemed preferable to the closeness of those long untenanted walls. Bob moved in a dazed sort of way, as if he were walking in a dream. I’d tried to find out if he had any definite object in coming, but he answered me incoherently, and I gave up my questioning.

“We’d been there for a full quarter of an hour when the door-bell rang. It sounded queerly, that tinkling peal in the silence of the deserted house. Bob jumped as if he’d been struck, when he heard the bell. ‘What’s that?’ he said nervously.

“‘I’ll go to the door,’ says I, knowing well enough what it meant. ‘Thank you,’ said Bob; ‘if it isn’t too much bother. I don’t care about seeing any of the neighbors just yet. I’ll run upstairs for a second, and you can call me when the coast’s clear.’

“I opened the door, and there stood the doctor. ‘Hello, Elliott!’ he sang out, in a purposely loud voice, ‘_You_ here? I happened to be passing, and noticed that the windows were open. Has the major come back?’ He stepped into the hall, and I closed the door behind him. ‘Yes, he turned up to-day,’ said I, also very loudly and distinctly. ‘He’ll be glad to see you. Funny coincidence, your dropping in on us this way. Sort of regimental reunion, eh? We’ll have to--’

“I stopped right there. A pistol shot rang out in one of the upper chambers, and after it came the sound of a heavy fall. ‘God! we’re too late,’ gasped the doctor. But he rushed for the stairs without an instant’s hesitation, and I tore up after him.