PART TWELVE

CONCENTRATIONS

§ 1

A woman may forget her love, a child its mother, but no Gunner ever quite forgets his first long route-march—the clink of chain and the thop of hooves on the roadway, crunch of wheels and rattle of waggons, the men’s faces on the limbers, the smoke of their cigarettes curling into the air. . . .

It was early June when the fourth Southdown Brigade left Shoreham for its final concentration at Aldershot; and for three sun-drenched days, the mile-long column rolled on its way, inland from the sea, across the swelling weald, by white cottages where children waved and cheered, through sleepy villages and woods damp with early dews, halting to water at shallow pools on green commons, rolling on again in the warm glow of afternoon, horse-heads nodding in unison, traces taut, “numbers one” riding proudly behind their waggons.

True, they had no guns as yet: true that Lodden’s water-cart overturned on the steep upward slope out of Happy Valley: true that Stark growled at them for clumsy tailors: that fat Doctor Carson, red-cheeked and nearly white-haired, fifty if a day, grew so stiff he could hardly climb to horse:—still, they were moving, moving slowly towards the job for which each had joined, Active Service.

For these were volunteers, still eager for adventure: and though, in after days, there came the time when realization turned that eagerness to misery unutterable, to horror and the fear of maimings—nevertheless the spirit lived on, dour, untameable, ultimate arbiter of the World’s destinies. . . .

Those three days, even unemotional Peter felt the uplift of the game. “Little Willie” danced and pranced, tossing his white silk head-rope, shaking at bit-chain; the Doctor, riding stiffly on a broad roan mare, cracked time-worn jokes, pulled steadily at his whiskey-filled water-bottle; Purves, trotting up and down the column, knees still a little uncertain against the saddle-wallets, made the passing of Stark’s simplest order into a full-dress parade.

Something in the continuous movement of it all, in their aloofness from everyday life, jolted Peter’s mind—for the first time since he had set forth, subaltern of an hour, from Lowndes Square—clean out of the commercial groove in which it had so long been running. He forgot the old things, remembered only the new. His chagrin at the loss of Nirvana found healing. Behind, rolled this new entity which he was helping to create—an entity of flesh and steel and the open air. Ahead, lay adventure. . . .

§ 2

And on the third evening, the Brigade wound slowly across the bridge, past the lake and under the fir trees, till their wheels raised the soft dust along the path road to Deepcut Barracks.

Alice and Patricia and Peter’s children watched them as they came. To the children, it was all excitement; they waved to the horsemen, to the dusty limber-gunners trudging the little slope. Better than lead soldiers, those real playthings! But to the two women, the end seemed very near.

Each in her own way; grave, the one—with her white frocked daughters beside her; moist-eyed the other—thinking of her child to be—they resented this new world, that would so soon tear their men-folk from them, leaving nothing to hope for save the comfort of pencilled letters, the joy of snatched “leaves,” and always, defying comfort, lurking behind joy, fear—the fear of the telegram!

§ 3

Very often, through that June and July and August of 1915, Patricia regretted her decision to share house with Alice. Their red-brick villa among the dusty pine-trees held no chance of privacy; always, it seemed to Patricia, horses and grooms waited by the laurels before its door; always came visitors—of a morning, of an afternoon, of an evening—to the communal lunch-table, to tea, and drinks after tea, to dinner and drinks after dinner: always they were playing bridge, or preparing sandwiches for field-days among the heather, or listening to long talks between man and man. . . .

No privacy! It seemed to her as though they lived at a boarding-house of which she were proprietress; Peter only an occasional guest.

For now, work and equipment so crowded on the Brigade that our Mr. Jameson entirely forgot, in his concentration on the immediate job, the job which he had left behind him!

§ 4

Reminder, a blow straight between the eyes, took the form of an “express” letter, addressed in Simpson’s crabby handwriting and brought over from the Orderly Room to the crowded Mess where Peter was snatching tea. He slipped it, unopened, into his tunic-pocket, went on talking to Torrington and Bromley.

Torrington, far too ill to go out, but determined not to stop at home, his pale face white with overwork, his eyes pin-pointy, was expostulating about the non-promotion to warrant-rank of his acting Battery Sergeant-Major; Bromley, newly promoted Captain to command “D” Battery, wanted to know how soon they would be doing their firing practice.

All down the long table—Billy Williams and Lodden wrangling at its head—men chattered, cups clinked, flies hurled themselves at the covered jam-pots. From the near-by road, came the jingle of teams returning, the hoot of General Blacklock’s car.

“Time I was getting back,” said Peter.

He passed out through the low ante-room; picked up his cap; clinked across the gravel, up the two wooden stairs into the office. The day’s Orders awaited signature on his desk: he signed them; shouted for Driver Norris, the stenographer; handed him the six copies; sat down; took the letter from his pocket; opened it.

Half way through, he put the crabbed sheets on the table; took out his case and lit a cigar. Then he finished the letter; read it through again.

“Hell,” said our Mr. Jameson. “Hell!” . . .

The tale, as related by Simpson, resolved itself into a very ordinary swindle. Hartopp, as the naturalized Hun Hagenburg called himself, had placed a big order for Beckmann cigars; shipped the goods to Amsterdam before payment became due . . . and followed them on the next steamer. He had, as he wrote with the sublime effrontery of his race to Simpson, not the slightest intention of returning to England or paying for the goods till Germany had won the war!

For the first time in his business career, Peter knew the inclination to panic. Thought stampeded. Why should this happen? And at such a time? Blast all Germans! Simpson never ought to have trusted Hagenburg. He, Peter, had always warned him that Hagenburg was a wrong ’un. This was the result of serving one’s country. Damn one’s country! Other people didn’t worry about their ruddy country. Look at Rawlings—the patriot of Whitehall. To Hell with Rawlings. . . .

He pulled himself together; stuffed away his emotions into that waste-paper basket of the brain which scientists call the subconscious mind. Now, thought came consecutively.

Simpson gave no figure of loss: but the last time Peter was in Lime Street, Hagenburg’s account stood at five thousand. Simpson had spoken of larger orders pending. Therefore the loss must be more than five thousand. Eight? Ten, perhaps. Jamesons could just stand ten. Only just. Simpson appeared panicky. He had better go up to town and see Simpson.

Peter pulled a telegraph pad towards him; wrote a deliberate wire to Simpson’s private address at Harrow; called “Driver Norris!”

A bullet head poked itself in at the doorway, said “Yes, sir.”

“Go and find Driver Jelks. Tell him to take a bicycle and get this wire off sharp. Then go over to the Mess; find Mr. Purves; ask him if he’d mind coming over to see me for a minute. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. Very good, sir.”

A few minutes later Purves, with a mock salute and a drawled “Did’st send for me, P.J.?” came into the room.

“I say, old man, I’ve got to go up to town tomorrow”—it will be noticed that Peter took Stark’s leave for granted—“So you’ll have to cancel that telephone parade of yours.”

“Oh, I say . . .”

“Sorry. I’ll be back in the evening. It’s rather important.”

“Nothing serious, I hope.” Purves noticed that P.J.’s voice was a trifle grim.

“Oh, no. Just something in the City that needs my personal attention.”

Neither that night, as the four sat down to their usual set rubber, nor next morning as she drove him in the Crossley to Farnborough Station, did Patricia—put off with the same explanation—suspect the unpalatable truth.

§ 5

The Lime Street offices had altered but little. They seemed—as Peter, booted and spurred, clinked through the doorway—a shade gloomier, a shade dustier. A tumble-haired office-girl occupied Parkins’ reception-box. No George—pensioned six months since—pottered about the cigar-racks. The piles of boxes had shrunk to mere remnants of their cedar selves. But otherwise the place was unchanged: looked the same, smelt the same as the first day Peter joined his father in the city.

Only Simpson, sitting in the dark back-room, had become an old man! He seemed to have shrunk: lines streaked his face, white hairs his beard. At sight of him, Peter’s anger evaporated. “Poor old Tom!” he thought, “poor old Tom!”

“It was good of you to come up at once.” The old man looked at the soldier, drew a little comfort from his obvious strength. “This has been my fault, right from the start. You were always against giving the fellow credit. I was talking to my missis about it last night after your wire came—and she thinks—I think—as it’s all my fault—that I ought to stand the whole loss. . . .”

Peter turned away to hide his feelings; made great play of hanging up cap and riding-cane. The offer touched him keenly. It was fine—damn fine—the offer of a white man. But. . . .

“Don’t be such an ass, Tom. I’m just as responsible as you are.” The face above the khaki collar showed no trace of emotion.

Simpson protested; was cut short with a curt, “Forget it, Tom. I wouldn’t let you stand more than your share if you were worth a million. All I came up for was to see if I could be of any use.”

“There’s nothing much to be done, Peter. The man’s gone; the cigars are gone; the money’s gone.”

“Can’t we bring an action in the Dutch courts?”

“He’ll be over the border by now; selling the stuff in Germany. It’ll be worth a small fortune over there. Perhaps it serves me right for going on dealing with Beckmanns. Probably they put him up to it. There have been some ugly rumours about the Beckmann firm lately. I didn’t want to worry you with them. But people say young Albert gave a dinner-party to celebrate the sinking of the _Lusitania_. I wrote to them about it. Of course, they denied it. Here”—he pulled a document from the basket on his desk; handed it to Peter.

The document, a statement sworn before the British Consul in Havana, contradicted the rumour, “that either Señor Albert Beckmann and/or any member of the _Cuban_ firm of Beckmann y _Compania_ had ever adopted a policy hostile to Great Britain and her Allies, and specifically that they had never celebrated in any way the sinking of the _Lusitania_. . . .”

“It reads like a lie,” said Peter.

“It is a lie,” said Simpson.

“And what are we going to do about it?”

“About Hagenburg?”

“No. About Beckmanns.” Peter’s voice grew steely. “We must cut ’em out, Tom. Not another case. Do you agree?”

The older man hesitated a moment. “Supposing they ship their goods to some one else.”

“Let ’em, Tom. Let ’em. When I come back after this show’s over, it won’t be to buy goods from any dirty Hun—Cuban or otherwise. You’re with me? Right. Then let’s get down to business. How much has this bastard done us in the eye for?”

“About nine thousand, five hundred.”

“Phew!” Peter whistled. “Let’s get out the private ledger and see exactly how we stand.”

For half-an-hour, they pored over the cold figures.

“It means,” said Peter, summing them up, “that we’re worth about fourteen thousand pounds a-piece. Lucky you didn’t have a Nirvana of your own, Tom. What? Question now is: Can we run this business on a capital of twenty-eight thousand?”

“I think so. We’ve got five thou. on deposit; and the Bank will lend us the rest. Goods are selling almost as soon as they arrive, too. That’ll help.”

“We shall have to cut our drawings down, though. At least I shall. You always were economical. . . .”

They settled, after some discussion, on £750 a year each, the firm to pay and debit Peter’s account with his Life Assurance Policies; and Peter, with a final: “Now for God’s sake, don’t worry, Tom,” went back to Aldershot. . . .

“Did you get your business settled all right, dear?” asked Patricia, meeting him in the dusk.

“Quite all right, old thing.” He climbed aboard; and she swung the car round the big station Square. “I wanted to talk to Simpson about your allowance while I was away,” went on the man.

She recognized half truth from the tone of his voice. “Oh, the kids and I won’t want much,” she said, switching gear-lever into top. . . .

* * * * *

That night, for the only time Patricia could remember, she woke to hear her husband murmuring vaguely in his sleep. . . . Her father could have told her that it was the sub-conscious mind—wastepaper-basket of the brain—striving to eject its suppressed emotions.

§ 6

And P.J. went back to his work—a little dourer; a shade less patient; rather more inclined to drop over to the Mess for a cocktail at 11 o’clock; to stay there for lunch; and sit about in the ante-room, listening to Bromley’s grave surmises and the laughter from the billiard-room where the “Brat” and “Monkey-face” played perpetual fives on the dilapidated table, before going home to his dinner.

In his own way, as a pal, as a partner, Peter “loved” his wife; admired her; felt towards her the protective instinct of average male to average female. Had she been altogether away from him in those days, he would probably have missed her presence acutely. But knowing her waiting for him just round the corner; feeling that he had “let her down” (as he phrased the comparatively small allowance to which she agreed so cheerfully); anxious above all things to avoid the sentimentalities of departure; the man withdrew himself, confined their intercourse more and more to the commonplaces of matrimony.

All Patricia’s real love for her husband, all the yearning to take him in her arms, make him understand that in good luck or evil she was _his_, his mate against the world, suffered and suffered damnably. She grew to envy Alice. Alice with the easily suffused eyes and the child in her womb. She even grew to resent her own children, their perpetual, “Daddy’s going to France to kill Germans.” But neither the mate nor the mother in Patricia flinched: as pal or as play-mate, she did her duty, laughter on her lips, gold head held high.

And so they came to the last day.

§ 7

Four fifteen P. M.! A gray August afternoon. Peter, confirmed in his Adjutancy, cigar in mouth, stood on the steps of the office-hut. Behind him, gutted to the last paper, lay the Orderly Room. In front, the gun-park showed a serried mass of vehicles—the spidery Headquarters telephone-waggon, wires gleaming red on their drums, black and white poles poking out behind; fat mess-floats, loaded and over-loaded; A. S. C. waggons, piled high with fodder and biscuit-boxes, tarpaulin-topped; low limbered ammunition-waggons, mackintoshes strapped to their seats, heavy with fodder-bales, new saws in their leather cases, yellow against dark-green paint; guns, covers shrouding breech and muzzle, canvas water-buckets and grease-boxes dangling from hooked-in limbers. . . .

Peter heard the hoot of a horn from the roadway past the Mess; a car streaked up to the Orderly Room. Out of it, dashed an excited Staff Officer from Divisional Headquarters.

“Good afternoon, sir.” Peter saluted.

“Afternoon. Afternoon. Your Colonel in?” said Colonel Starcross, a heavy man, white with rage, shaking with excitement, perspiration beading lined forehead under gold-rimmed cap-peak.

“No, sir. He’s at home.”

“At home. At home. Good God, on an afternoon like this. Why hasn’t your first half battery started? Good God, why hasn’t it started yet? . . .”

Peter looked calmly at his wrist-watch. “First half of ‘Don’ Battery hooks-in at 4:30, sir. Head of column passes barrack-gates at 4:50 P. M.”

“Christ in Heaven! You’ll never be in time. The 3rd Brigade’s not entrained yet. Half the traffic of the South of England’s disorganized. Colonel Brasenose ought to be relieved of his command—relieved of his command, I tell you.”

“This isn’t Colonel Brasenose’s Brigade, sir,” said Peter stiffly.

Colonel Starcross stamped on the gravel: “Don’t argue with me, young man. Don’t argue with me. Go and turn your men out. Turn ’em out, damn it.”

“It’s exactly four-thirty, sir,” announced Peter imperturbably. Even as he spoke, they heard Bromley’s whistle, saw him striding, fully equipped, across the gun-park. Came now, from their tin stables, two by two, drivers between, the harnessed teams. Came, at the double, the dismounted men, filled haversacks flopping at their sides. . . . Five minutes of crisp commands, backing horses, bobbing heads, bending bodies.

“Ready, Sergeant Major?” Bromley’s voice rang clear across the turmoil. “Ready, sir.”

“_Stand to your horses._” The ex-Cavalryman swung to his saddle.

“_Prepare to mount._” Boots grope for stirrups, hands clutch saddle-peaks and limber rails.

“_Mount!_” Bodies rise and turn; saddles creak; hooves protest; chains jingle. Bodies drop to their places; fidget for a second; sit stiffly to attention. Bromley, seeing a red-gold cap on the Orderly Room stairs, shouts “Sit at ease”; trots over; swings up hand and elbow in the Gunners’ salute.

“Right Section, Don Battery, Fourth Southdown Brigade. May we march off, sir?”

Colonel Starcross acknowledges the salute, says: “Yes. Yes. Do—for God’s sake.”

“_Right half Battery. Advance in column of route from the right. Walk—March!_”

Pat of whip: zip of trace tightening: creak of wheel. Slowly, the six-horse teams, the two guns and their loaded waggons, file by. Last of all, swinging hand once more to the salute, rides Bromley. . . .

Peter looked at his watch. “Four forty-eight P. M. sir.”

Starcross looked at Peter: “What’s your name, young man?”

“Jameson, sir. Peter Jameson.”

“Well, you may tell your Colonel, with my compliments, that his Adjutant might be a damn sight worse. Sorry I blinded at you. Been up four nights running.”

He hopped back to the car; streaked off down the road. “Lucky thing it wasn’t Lodden’s crowd” thought Peter.

And day wore on to night. For it took eleven trains to move the seven-hundred and thirty-one officers and men, the five hundred and thirty-nine horses, the sixteen guns and hundred odd waggons of the old-time Artillery Brigade with its Ammunition Column.

§ 8

Eleven-thirty P. M.! Already, D and C Batteries, and the three clumsy sections of Billy Williams’ Ammunition Column were away into the jingling darkness.

Peter had come home to dinner; departed again. Upstairs at the villa, Patricia could hear Alice sobbing gently, and Stark’s deep voice, the parade-rasp clean gone out of it, “Don’t cry, sweetheart. For God’s sake, don’t cry.” . . .

“I mustn’t cry for Peter. Not until he’s gone,” thought Patricia. She tip-toed upstairs; slipped into a cloak; stole out of the house.

The night had cleared; stars twinkled through the fir-trees as she made her way down the sandy road. From the General’s house and the big Mess Hut, lights streaked thinly; she could hear men’s voices. A soldier was singing, far off, up the hillside towards Blackdown. She came to the sentry-box at the gate; passed unchallenged.

In the gun-park electric torches glowed, went out again. She was aware of hooves stamping, chains jingling, men moving everywhere. A hurricane-lamp, hanging at a stable-doorway, showed up the shadows of soldiers, standing to shadowy horses.

She heard Torrington’s voice, “B Battery. Prepare to mount. Mount!”

Boots clapped on gravel; shadows swung to saddles; a mare neighed.

“_Column of Route from the right. Walk—March! Right Incline. Steady that leading team._”

They came towards her, lumbering through the gloom; filed by.

“That you, Mrs. P.J.?” called the last horseman.

“Yes, Captain Torrington.”

“Good luck.”

“And good luck to you all.” They were by now. She heard a voice, “Mind that water-cart”; heard the curse of a driver as wheel shaved gate-post. Dust rolled back; choked her. . . .

“Dear God,” she thought, “can I stick it?”

Another voice hailed her. “That you, Mrs. P.J.? I suspected as much. Come to bid the hero Adjutant farewell?” It was Purves—and she hated him. “He’s in the Orderly Room. By that light.”

“Thank you, Mr. Purves.”

She walked very quietly to the gleaming doorway; climbed the two steps; looked in.

“Hello, old thing,” said Peter. He had just opened a little packet of revolver cartridges; was slipping them into the pouch of the laden Sam Browne spread out on the table under the acetylene lamp.

“Bet you a fiver I never fire any of these in anger.” He picked up one of the brass cylinders; stretched it out to her. “Did you see B’s first section go off? Looked well, didn’t they?”

“Yes, awfully well.” She found voice somehow.

“Come and have a look at Little Willie. I’ve got nothing to do for another hour. . . .”

He took her arm as they crossed the parade-ground. Their hands touched; clasped; released each other. In the gloom and odorous warmth of his stall, the rugged bay stamped restlessly on the tiled floor, flirted with his stable head-collar. “Queen Bess,” Peter’s second charger, eyed them imperturbably from the loose-box railings. Peter gentled the bay; caressing the soft muzzle with his open hand.

“Some horse, my Little William, isn’t he?”

“Rather.” Now she had herself well in hand.

They left the stables; wandered arm-in-arm across the gun-park; past Divisional Office, shuttered and silent; till they stood in darkness under pine trees.

“Pat, old thing,” he said suddenly, “you’re not nervous about my going out, are you?”

“No,” she lied, “not a bit. Only—it will be rather dull without you.” She could feel the heart inside her thumping—thumping. . . .

“I’m sorry about the money, Pat. But we’ll make another fortune when the war’s over.”

“Of course, dear.” Oh, but this was Hell—Hell unutterable.

“And, Pat”—-he caught her hand, drew her towards him—“we’ve been jolly good pals, haven’t we?”

“Yes, dear,” she whispered, resting for a second in his arms.

“You ought to be in bed, you know, Pat. It’s very late.”

“Ought I?”

“Yes.” He bent down; kissed her, quietly, tenderly, on the forehead, then on the lips. She steeled herself to give no cry.

“Good-bye,” she whispered. “And, boy, boy, for Heaven’s sake take care of yourself.”

“Trust me!” said our Mr. Jameson. . . .

And so they parted.