Part 19
"Stara, you must hurry. Lord! but there's the train in sight."
"Hector, I--I, oh, I can't, I can't. I'll write. Good-bye, my own dearest," and Stara, wheeling sharply about, galloped away whence she came.
Hector stood staring after her, with a vague feeling of uneasiness in his heart.
*CHAPTER XIX*
"Number One and All's Well."
The cry of the night sentry wailed through the silent barracks, which no longer looked bare and unlovely as when seen in the glaring African sun, but had been transformed by the moonlight into a city of silver walls and roofs of lotus pink.
"Number Two and All's Well," came in instant response, and then there was a pause.
"Number Two and All's Well," rang out once more, this time with the full power of lusty lungs, in the generous hope of arousing Number Three, happily dreaming in his nest of hay. In vain, however, though Four and Five, alive to the emergency, took up the call right quickly Number Three did not answer, and the omission was at once noticed by experienced ears.
The guard-room door opened hurriedly, and an irate corporal, bearing a lantern, emerged, followed by two men. The recumbent form of Number Three was found, and, after being rudely awakened, was borne straightway to durance vile, there to finish his slumbers. A door banged, a key grated in the lock, and then there was silence once more. This was broken now and again by a sudden savage squeal from the stables, the sharp thudding of hoofs against wood and iron, and the angry growl of a sentry.
In Number One block, Officers' Quarters, a light was seen to flicker, disappear, and then shine steadily; a door opened, and a figure, gorgeous in dressing-gown of yellow silk and fur, came out on to the verandah, and, leaning his arms on the rail, stood looking out over the sleeping barracks.
"Lucky devil, Number Three, whoever you are," he muttered; "it's cells for you to-morrow, right enough, but you're a lucky devil, all the same. You can sleep, you're not racked and harried like me. You thank God for your brainlessness, my friend; if I'd been born like that, I too should now be able to sleep. Yet you have your troubles too, I suppose, as great to you as mine are to me--one hundred and sixty-eight hours' absence from the canteen, that will be one of them. Oh, but I'd do your one hundred and sixty-eight cheerfully, stone-breaking, shot-lifting, or whatever amusement the prison warder provides, to have your peace of mind.
"Half-past three," as a sharp ting came from the room behind him; "four hours before Murphy comes to call me, four hours of thinking, trying to find some hole in the net I have thrown over myself, a hole which doesn't exist. I could tear it, and break through it that way, but that I will not do; I gave her my word, love-struck fool that I was, and there's enough on my soul now without adding perjury to the rest. And yet to do it is ... hell! I'd sooner shoot myself, infinitely rather, for that would only destroy the carcase, the other means soul damnation. And coming, as it does, now, now that war is almost certain, and my chance staring at me at last, oh, it's too wicked, too cruel."
He clenched his hands and paced restlessly up and down the wooden verandah. "My own fault too, all my own fault. I clamoured for freedom, and I got it, only to bind himself hard and fast again. I was better off with Lucy, for she expected little, but Stara wants everything, my whole life. And she'll have it too, there's no escape, and by to-morrow night the wire will have gone, and my career be finished. The regiment will go to war, and I shall not be with them. I shall be a retired officer, living on my pension in some damned French watering-place. I shall read of the war, of Porky getting a D.S.O., Royle a C.B. Oh, God! God! surely there must be some way out, if I could but find it. I'll get that letter again and read."
He turned and walked slowly back to his room, which was now in darkness, for the candle had burnt down and gone out. The open doorway gaped a black hole before him; he hesitated, in sudden terror of the dark. Then, feeling in the pocket of his dressing-gown, he produced some matches, and, striking one, hurried into the room, where he snatched up a letter lying beside the bed, and rushed out again, glancing fearfully over his shoulder.
"There are ghosts in there," he muttered. "I've felt them about me before, but never like to-night; not for a thousand pounds would I go back again. Here I stay till dawn."
He opened the crumpled letter, and, laying it on the rail, read it by the light of the moon, or rather imagined he was reading it, for he knew every word of the letter he now repeated by heart.
"'My brother has found out at last, someone at home ... last mail. He is furious, Hector, I have never seen him like it before, and he says I must either swear never to see you again--as if I should!--or leave here at once for ever. That I don't mind; not for fifty thousand brothers would I give you up, and would go away and earn my living somehow, but, Hector, I can't, not now, for _it_ has happened. I meant to tell you that last morning three weeks ago, that's what I rode after you for, but something in your face stopped me; it was so hard and unsympathetic, not like my Hector at all. Darling, please don't say you're sorry. I'm not, not a bit, I shall love it, for it is yours, but I must, dearest, I have no choice, I must ask you to keep your promise and take me away. Is it such a sacrifice, Hector? God knows I hate asking it of you, but perhaps it is for the best after all, our life in the future will not be the lie it is now. And I will make you happy. I will try to prevent your regretting. Oh, think of it, darling, always together, you and I and ... her, for that I know you would like best. Don't worry about me, I know you will, but you needn't, only send me a wire in answer to this, just the one word "Yes," and let me have it by Thursday evening.'"
"And to-day is Thursday," he muttered. Then followed a carefully-erased sentence, which, nevertheless, had been made out by Hector, as such sentences, no matter at what toil, always are made out: "If not by then I shall know, and settle things in my own way."
Hector flung the letter down on the boards beside him, and crushed it under his foot.
"Is it a sacrifice?" he jeered. "Oh no, no sacrifice at all; and you pretend to understand me, and think I'm a man to be satisfied with the life you propose. No; if I do it--and do it I must, I suppose--it will be hell for both of us. I'll probably kill you in the end, and myself too. That will be the finish of our heaven, Stara, a heaven green with absinth, most likely, that's the French remedy, I believe, for despair."
Once more he took up the letter, and studied the sentence erased. "'If not by then I shall know, and settle things in my own way,'" he repeated, and then his eyes darkened with anger. "A threat," he muttered, "to show me up, I suppose, write to the Colonel, like forsaken sweethearts do about their soldier-lovers. Do it then, by all means. God! but you make me laugh, Stara," and he laughed harshly at the thought.
"No, I'm wrong, though," he went on after a pause; "you don't mean that, I know, but what in the devil's name, then, _do_ you mean? Nothing, I suppose, put it in to add emphasis, and scratched it out on reflection. Four o'clock, another half-hour of Thursday gone, and still no nearer solution. Well, I may as well get it over, as it's got to be, and, by heaven, yes, there's just one chance--they may not accept my papers now war's only a question of days. It's a toss-up, let Fate decide; if I'm to be great, nothing can stop me; if a derelict, then that I shall be whatever I do. I'll write that wire out now, and give it to Murphy to take when he calls me; it's light now, and the ghosts are gone."
He entered the room, grey and unreal-looking in the approaching dawn, and taking up a telegraph-form from the writing-table sat down and wrote: "Yes--Hector."
For a moment he sat staring at the words, with a peculiar smile on his face. "Good-bye, Hector Graeme, conqueror of worlds," he murmured. "Westminster Abbey is not for you, my friend; it's in Boulogne Cemetery your bones will rot, an example of what woman's love can do for a man."
Then a fit of despair came over him. He rose, and hurrying from the room, stood once more on the verandah, with his eyes fixed on the dark blur of mountains appearing dimly through the grey. "Come down, come down, you black devils yonder," he prayed; "begin your throat-cutting to-day, and I'll bless you for it. It's only a few hours I've got--for the love of God, come down!"
For a while he remained watching. Then suddenly a great drowsiness came over him: he swayed drunkenly, and, staggering back to his room, fell heavily on the bed and slept.
* * * * *
"Beggy pardin, sir, your tea, sir, you're for the field, sir. What time would you like the 'orse?"
"And why the devil shouldn't I drink the stuff if I want to? It's all I've got ... eh ... er? Oh, Murphy, thank God!"
"What time would you like the 'orse, sir? Field day at nine, sir. Rondyvoo, Grobler's Farm, two miles from 'ere, sir."
Graeme sat up and drank the tea at a gulp.
"Horse at half-past eight, and ... take that telegram there to the post-office. You can ride the second charger; and don't gallop him along the road as you always do, you'll have him down if you do. Bath ready? Right--get out," and Hector dragged himself wearily out of bed, and proceeded to dress for the coming field day. "My last show this," he muttered, buckling on his belt, "and I'll make the most of it. I'll astonish them all to-day, make Bumps open his eyes, the insolent, ignorant fool. Murphy taken that wire? Yes, it's gone; no hope now. Only hope he won't show it about, though it wouldn't matter much if he did, their thick heads wouldn't make anything out of it. Murphy's no Sherlock Holmes, thank heaven; he's an unobservant beggar too, don't suppose he's a thought in his head besides his dinner and beer. Hallo, half-past eight, I must get on." He went out, mounted his waiting charger, and followed by his orderly and trumpeter, set off at a canter for Grobler's Farm.
Murphy, from the verandah of the servants' quarters, watched him go, and then returned to his perusal of the telegram, a rather worried look on his unmeaning countenance.
"Can't make nothing of it," he muttered. "'Yes,' he says, but 'Yes,' what? Now, wot's 'Ector up to, I wonder? I don't like it--I don't, Pen, straight," to Penrose, Ferrers' servant, who was polishing a sword scabbard close by.
"What's up, Mickey?" said the latter; "bloke turned nasty about yer bill or wot? You take my tip and tell him, as 'e don't seem to 'ave no confidence in you, you prefer to return to yer dooty at once. It's what I does with Ferrers when 'e gits uppish, and I never 'as no further trouble. ''Course I trusts you, Penrose,' 'e says. 'I was a bit 'asty, perhaps; we'll say no more abaat it.' And 'Very good, sir,' I says, 'uffy like, and goes off to the Orfcers' Mess for a drink, which I puts down to 'im."
"'Ector never says nothing about 'is bills," answered Murphy, still worried; "'e ain't got no cause. This ere's a tallygram to 'is girl Stara, and I can't make it out, that's all. You see, Pen, when a bloke's dotty about a girl, there's no saying wot kind of foolishness 'e'll be up to. She's a good-looking girl, I'll say that for her," continued the unobservant one, thoughtfully. "'Ere's 'er photograph," taking a card from his breast pocket and handing it to Penrose, who, regarding it, said "Yum." "But good-looking or not, she ain't going to put the bloke wrong, and that's all abaat it."
"But wot the 'ell can she do, Mickey?"
"I don't know, Pen, and it's that wot's worrying me. There's 'er last letter I ain't been able to git 'old of, and there's something in that letter wot's troubling 'Ector. You see, I knows 'im, and I'll eat my 'orse if so be 'Ector ain't going to do something wot 'e ought not. It's all in this tallygram 'ere, I knows, if I could only get at it."
"Ain't your bloke married, Mickey?" said another servant, for a moment stopping hissing at a boot and holding it up for contemplation, his hand acting as boot tree, "Wot's 'e done with 'is own lawful box of bricks?"
"I dunno, Simmy, and that's a fact," answered Murphy; "'e ain't 'ad no letter from Lucy since 'e come back. It's my belief she's needled and given 'im the bag--she would do straight if she saw them letters of Stara's. 'Strewth, them letters!" he added reflectively.
"What's in the letters, Mickey?"
"Never you mind, Simmy; that ain't no business of yours. A bloke's letters is 'is own, 'is servant's different, of course."
"'E's a rum 'un, is 'Ector," said Penrose. "Did you blokes 'ear of the turn up between 'im and Tim Molloy yesterday? Tim was up before him for using disrespectful langwidge to the room corporal, and 'Ector was a dressing of 'im down--'e can throw it abaat too can 'Ector--when Tim loses 'is 'air, and ups and tells 'im 'e wouldn't talk to 'im like that if so be 'e weren't an orfcer and 'im a private. And 'Ector 'e larfs and stops the Sergeant-Major wot was calling for a file to take Tim to the guard-room. 'Ho, wouldn't I?' 'e says, like that, and 'im and Tim goes orf together to the sick lines, when 'e orfs with 'is coat and the two of 'em go at it, the Sergeant-Major keeping the time; and 'Ector 'as Tim outed in the second round! Larf fit to bust theirselves did the squadron win they sees Molloy's eye and 'Ector's ear."
"Didn't 'e wear mourning whin 'is cat died, Mickey?"
"Wot abaat 'is looting of the commissariat godown whin the dinners was stinking?"
"An' the lifting of them cabbages off Botha's farm to teach the men scoutin'? 'See without being seen,' 'e says, as 'e pulls 'em up. Ho! ho!"
"Botha was a Dutchman, an' 'ostile to the English," answered Murphy, "and as such 'is cabbages was liable to be pinched. But I ain't goin' to stop 'ere jawing no longer. 'Send this tallygram at once,' the bloke says, 'if not sooner,' 'e says. 'Ere Tomkins," to Graeme's second servant, who was sitting on a iron bed-cot nursing a cat, "nip up to the stable and fetch the chestnut 'orse, while I change my costoom," and thereupon Murphy retired to his room, where he proceeded to transform himself into as near a representation of his master as the state of his wardrobe allowed.
Having oiled his hair and fastened his collar with an imitation gold safety-pin, he mounted the horse and rode away on his mission. He proceeded at a walking pace till he was well clear of the barracks, but on reaching the hard high road he shook the old horse up, and at a good sharp gallop made his way to the telegraph office.
Hector, meanwhile, was rapidly nearing the place of rendezvous. On the way he overtook Graves--now Adjutant of the 1st Lancers--also bound for Grobler's Farm.
"Morning, Colonel," he said, touching his helmet. "Heard the news? It's all up with the war, Mahongas have caved in. Rotten, ain't it?" A curse was the only answer, and Graeme rode on, disregarding his brother officer's "Hold hard, I'm coming too; there's plenty of time. Surly beggar you are," continued Graves, looking after him, "but you're up against it this time all right. I'd have warned you too, if you'd been civil, for I've a pretty good notion what to-day's 'scheme' is, after what Johnson let out last night. Deuced unfair one it is too, got up by Bumps solely to floor Graeme; Johnson owned as much. Well, if he is floored, so much, the better; take him down a peg," and, somewhat consoled, Graves cantered on. Turning off the path, he made his way across the veldt to where a dark mass of men and horses could be seen, assembled for what General Rivers was pleased to call "Instructive Field Operations."
*CHAPTER XX*
Major-General Rivers, C.B.--better known as Bumps, from his seat on a horse--was fond of describing himself as "a soldier of the old school."
"I'm a practical man, sir," he was wont to declare, "hard knocks and plenty of 'em for me; that's the way we won our battles in the past--and we'll do again in the future, mark my words--not by poring over books and mugging away at map reading."
This prophecy of the gallant General may or may not have been correct; his liking for hard knocks also was doubtless genuine, though unfortunately it had never been put to the test, actual fighting not having come Bumps's way, but the theory is certainly a convenient one for those who possess neither the ability nor inclination for study. He relied on himself solely; his views on warfare were his own and borrowed from no man, and though at times they were somewhat at variance with those of accepted authorities on the Art of War, who shall say that Bumps was not right when he declared that the opinions of Napoleon, Wellington, and others were as obsolete as the uniforms they wore?
One thing was very certain, however, and that was that Rivers would tolerate no opposition, nor allow his infallibility to be questioned. Some generals there were, he knew, who prefaced their remarks by "My opinion is." Not so Bumps; he despised such a concession as weakness; his criticisms on military operations were no expressions of opinion, but statements of facts, and, with this conviction in his mind, no one was so scathing in condemnation of, or sarcastic in comments on, what he believed to be mistakes in strategy or tactics as Bumps. Indeed, he was an excellent instance of the truth of the saying that, whereas few men think, all will have opinions.
Further, like most general officers whose service has been passed almost exclusively with infantry, he held especially strong views on the subject of cavalry. Engineers and artillery he left alone, they could floor him with abstruse details concerning cubic contents and breech-blocks, but with the mounted arm there were no such annoying technicalities. He knew all about them, he considered, and indeed it was a cherished article of faith with him that, had not Fate ordained his march through life to be in large square-toed boots instead of a seat in a saddle, his career would have been that of a Seidlitz or Murat--that is to say, if he had ever heard of these warriors, which unfortunately he had not.
For Hector Graeme, as has before been mentioned, General Rivers had a particular aversion, not that he admitted this, for hatred means equality, and never would he have allowed the existence of such between himself and a junior. Nevertheless, hate him he did, with that virulent form of hatred a man bestows on one to whom, though superior in rank, he is inferior in the very qualifications of which that rank is the sign manual.
Graeme was his subordinate, and, as such, theoretically bound to accept his dictum and teaching on matters military, while practically, as he well knew, Graeme did nothing of the kind, but on the contrary treated his lessons with an almost open contempt, never missing an opportunity of showing up his instructor and exposing his absurdities to all present; indeed, an argument between the two was productive of much innocent enjoyment to seniors and juniors, with the one exception of Graeme's colonel, Royle, to whom such moments were full of heart-felt anguish.
To-day, however, a supreme effort had been made by Bumps to crush once and for always this insolent questioner of his infallibility, and it was with a glow of anticipatory triumph in his heart, revealed by the twinkle in his small grey eyes, that he now beheld Hector's arrival on the scene.
He returned his salute graciously, and said "Morning, Graeme," a civility awakening instant suspicion in Hector's mind and a muttered "What's Napoleon up to now, I wonder, and what the deuce is the matter with Royle? He looks half dead with funk."
"A little late," continued the General; "almost time to start. All your force is waiting for you to lead them to--victory."
"All, sir?" answered Graeme, looking round. "I don't see the infantry. There are the guns, a section (two) of them, and the cavalry, three squadrons. Those waggons, too, are meant to represent a convoy, I suppose, but no sign of the 'feet.' Am I to take on eight hundred infantry"--there was only that number, as Graeme was naturally aware, in the station--"with three squadrons, two hundred and eighty men in all?" and Hector laughed, a suspicion of the plot dawning upon him. He was to be given an impossible task, was he? Right, then; so much the greater score when he won, as he certainly would.
"You'll know all about it in good time, I've no doubt, Colonel Graeme," answered the other; "but you ought not to think of odds, you know. Dear me, a cavalry officer frightened of infantry--this is something new."
"Not at all, sir. I only wanted to know what was against me. A somewhat usual knowledge, I believe, for a commander to possess."
"The General has just told you, Graeme," put in Royle hastily, "that you'll know all about it in good time. Why can't you wait till them?"
Royle was not quite at his best this morning. Always frightened of a General, he was especially terrified of Bumps; and though ordinarily he had confidence enough in Hector--indeed, he sought his advice on all regimental questions--since seeing the scheme[#] his nerve had left him. Graeme would certainly be defeated, he felt, and on him would fall the blame; for, as he was responsible for the training of his officers, their downfall meant his own.
[#] A printed paper, given to each opposing leader, though naturally differing in each case. On these papers is described an imaginary military situation, followed by the task to be carried out, the actual execution of this being, of course, left to the respective commanders.
Official censure was the one thing most dreaded by Royle, and, though he had escaped it so far, the catastrophe was in sight at last. The sword hung but by a hair, that hair being Graeme's ability to placate; and now, in sheer sport, it seemed that person was making the blade to dance over his head, till the hair must undoubtedly snap in a moment.
He looked imploringly at Graeme as he spoke, and was conscious of a faint sensation of relief, for his subordinate's face was confident as ever. Why could he not feel the same?
"I beg your pardon, sir," answered Hector; "I have no wish to be unduly curious. One thing, however, I should like to ask, if I may, who's commanding the opposite side?"
"Certainly you may know that, Graeme," said Bumps, watching him; "it's Colonel Wicklow." And once more Hector laughed, for his opponent was a Staff College graduate, and reputed one of the smartest officers at that time in South Africa.
"Thank you, sir," he replied; "I'm much obliged to you for giving me a chance of defeating such a distinguished officer."
"I hope you may," snapped the General; "but it's time you saw the scheme; here it is," drawing a long blue envelope from his pocket and handing it to Graeme, at the same time again closely watching him, the twinkle deepening in his eyes.
Hector, however, did not open it there, but walked some hundred yards away, where he seated himself behind a large boulder. He then took out his case, lighted a cigarette, and, having removed his helmet so that the sun beat full on his face, leisurely proceeded to open the envelope.
"As I thought," he muttered; "the plot at last revealed; he's got it up for me this time and no mistake. But no matter; there must be some way out, and I'll find it."
He stretched himself flat on the ground, the cigarette between his teeth, and, closing his eyes, passed into semi-unconsciousness. A voice began to whisper in his ear.