CHAPTER XXIX THE SUPREME SACRIFICE

The men of our regiment were falling in line, and my company had already formed, as I took my place on its right awaiting orders to advance. The bugle rang out and the advance began.

At the foot of a little hill which was scarred by battle-marks we halted, while our air craft circled about it for observation. The tanks were awkwardly trundling into place. A first aid station was set up, and surgeons and devoted Red Cross helpers were coming to do their part. It presaged a battle.

Then I heard the sharp crack of rifles, and calls and cries of men in the distance.

“The Boches are coming!” I heard some one say.

“It’s new,” said another, “for them to advertise a raid in that way.”

“And don’t you believe it,” said another; “they haven’t gone crazy yet. But something is up.”

The shouts and rifle shots grew nearer, and we were on the tips of our toes for action, when there came into view a lone horse speeding like the wind, while the outcry behind him showed that he was escaping in desperate flight from the enemy.

What did it mean? The horse seemed riderless. But a nearer view showed that a man or boy was on the side furthest from the enemy, with his arms around its neck, and his heels holding to the cantle of the saddle like an Indian.

“It must be some one of consequence, to make all that row about,” said our top sergeant.

“Gee!” said Goodwin, “they are determined to kill or catch him!”

On came the horse like mad, head outstretched, with foam flecked flanks, and at last out of range of the enemy’s guns. But still the rider did not right himself in the saddle. An involuntary cheer went up from our ranks for the rider and horse, as they passed the line of danger.

“He is wounded and bleeding,” I cried, viewing him through my glass. And then, a moment later, my heart gave a great jump of pain. I recognized in the rider, Jonathan, and rushed forward to his help.

The horse whinneyed in recognition at my approach and stopped. In another moment I had taken Jonathan from the horse into my arms. His eyes met mine with a faint smile of recognition, and he tried to speak--but could not. I hurried regardless of everything else to the first aid station, sending a messenger ahead, on the run, that they might have everything ready.

“Hurry!” I cried. “Have them ready when we get there!”

The surgeon cut away his shirt, revealing a wound in his left breast and made a rapid examination. “They have done their work,” he said; “there is but little that we can do!”

“Don’t say that!” I cried. “Do all you can to save him!”

Then, seeing the auto that was at my service near by, I said to my messenger, “Go to the base hospital and bring Doctor and Miss Rich. Hurry! Tell them that Lieutenant Nickerson is here desperately wounded.”

The first aid surgeon administered stimulants and more critically examined his breast wound. Then, seeing that his patient was in pain, said: “I can ease his pain, at least.”

“No,” I said with sudden inspiration, “don’t give him morphia; I forbid it!”

“Surgeons command here, sir,” said the doctor sternly, “not captains.” But he put aside his instrument saying thoughtfully, “Perhaps it will be better not to. I don’t see how he can be saved, anyway, from anything but pain.”

“That he is in pain,” I said, “shows that he is alive. And as long as there’s life, there’s hope.”

The surgeon shook his head.

It was not long until Rose and Doctor Rich had come. The doctor examined Jonathan’s eyes and listened to his heart beats, inquired what had been done, and then said, “It is fortunate that no opiates have been given him, for it would have lessened his chances.”

The battle alarm proved to be false. So I asked and was granted a leave of absence to convey Jot to the hospital. He was still conscious, and asked for General Burbank--whom I found there on my arrival.

When the general had come, at Jot’s request, the room was cleared, and the door closed while he delivered a message to the general.

“He would have it so,” said Doctor Rich, “though he fully understood that the exertion of speech might, and probably would, be fatal. He insisted, for he said, ‘My country’s cause demands it and what is my life when weighed with that?’”

So Jot had given his message, and then relapsed into unconsciousness.

“But still,” said the doctor, “there is yet a chance,--a mere chance,--for the interview seemed to have done him as much good as harm.”

I understood. It had eased his mind to deliver that message.

No effort was made to rouse him at that time, and at the surgeon’s request we withdrew from the room. Then the general came to me, greeting me with a silent handshake.

I could not rest, but walked back and forth in the small room. Then came word from Miss Rich, “Jonathan is conscious, and wants to see you.”

I went at once to the room where lay my stricken friend.

A brave look swept over his face, as he held out his hands with imploring invitation, but without words, for me to come to him.

I could not speak, but knelt by his side. His voice came to me in almost a whisper, so faint was his utterance.

“Good old Davie--the first friend I ever had. It is good to be here with those I love. It is so good to die under the dear old flag and for my country. Don’t grieve, Davie. It is good that you believe--and know. God bless you, Davie.” His voice grew weaker. “Take care of Jack, and Muddy. Call Rose--dear Rose!” Then, after a pause, with a smile illumining his thin worn face, he held out his hands to an unseen presence. “Mother, dear, I’m coming--Jed’s boy!” and then fell back with the smile still on his face.

The surgeon stepped to his side, made a brief examination, and shook his head.

General Burbank uncovering said, his voice vibrating with emotion: “There is the truest, most unselfish patriot that I ever knew or expect to know. He was a hero without a stain of selfishness. He was willing to sacrifice all that he held dear, to go down to death branded as a traitor by the friends he loved best, that he might serve his country.”

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A simple wooden cross marks the grave of Jonathan, but the little mound that covers his mortal remains blooms with the flowers of France, brought to this American who died to save France, even as Frenchmen died to save America.

And I who had gone into the war with the buoyant spirit of youth, turned from that grave with a man’s stern determination, that to the uttermost of my powers, his death and that of thousands of other American boys should not have been in vain; that I, side by side with all true men, would offer my life towards that world-wide freedom for which they had given the last full measure of devotion--the supreme sacrifice.

THE END

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Transcriber’s Notes:

Illustrations have been moved to paragraph breaks near where they are mentioned.

Punctuation has been made consistent.

Variations in spelling and hyphenation were retained as they appear in the original publication, except that obvious typographical errors have been corrected.