The Example
"And the fourth angel poured out his vial upon the sun; and power wasgiven unto him to scorch men with fire. And men were scorched with greatheat, and blasphemed the name of God, which hath power over theseplagues; and they repented not to give Him glory."The droning voice quivered and fell silent. Within the hospital tent,only the buzz of flies innumerable was audible. Without, there soundednear at hand the squeak of a sentry's boots, and in the distance theclatter of the camp.The man who lay dying was in a remote and quite detached sense aware ofthese things, but his fevered imagination had carried him beyond. Hewatched, as it were, the glowing pictures that came and went in hisfurnace of pain. These little details were to him but the distanthumming of the spinning-wheel of time from which he was drawing everfarther and farther away. They did not touch that inner consciousnesswith which he saw his visions.Now and then he turned his head sharply on the pillow, as an alien mightturn at the sound of a familiar voice, but always, after listeningintently, it came back to its old position, and the man's restless eyesreturned to the crack high up in the tent canvas through which the sunshone upon him like a piercing eye.The occupant of the bed next to him watched him furtively, fascinatedbut uneasy. He was a young soldier of the simple country type, and thewild words that came now and again from the fevered lips startled himuncomfortably. He wished the dying man would cease his mutterings andlet him sleep. But every time the prolonged silence seemed to indicate afinal cessation of the nuisance, the droning voice took up the tale oncemore."And men were scorched with great heat--and they repented not--repentednot."A soft-stepping native orderly moved to the bedside and paused.Instantly the wandering words were hushed."Bring me some water, Sammy," the same voice said huskily. "If you can'ttake the sun out of the sky, you can give me a drink."The native shook his head."The doctor will come soon," he said soothingly. "Have patience."Patience! The word had no meaning for him in that inferno of suffering.He moved his head, that searching spot of sunlight dancing in his eyes,and cursed deep in his throat the man who kept him waiting.Barely a minute later the doctor came--a quiet, bronzed man, level-eyedand strong. He bent over the stricken figure on the bed, and drew thetumbled covering up a little higher. He had just written "mortallywounded" of this man on his hospital report, but there was nothing inhis manner to indicate that he had no hope for him."Get another pillow," he said to the native orderly. And to the dyingman: "That will take the sun out of your eyes. I see it is botheringyou.""Curse the sun!" the parched lips gasped. "Can't you give me a drink?"The eyes of the young soldier in the next bed scanned the doctor's faceanxiously. He, too, wanted a drink. He thirsted from the depths of hissoul. But he knew there was no water to be had. The supply had been cutoff hours before."No," the doctor said gravely. "I can't give it you yet. By-and-bye,perhaps----""By-and-bye!" There was a dreadful sound like laughter in the huskyvoice.The doctor laid a restraining hand on the man's chest."Hush!" he said, in a lower tone. "It's this sort of thing that showswhat a fellow is made of. All these other poor chaps are children. Butyou, Ford, you are grown up, so to speak. I look to you to help me,--toset the example.""Example! Man alive!" A queer light danced like a mocking spirit inPrivate Ford's eyes, and again he laughed--an exceeding bitter laugh."I've been made an example of all my life," he said. "I've sometimesthought it was what I was created for. Ah, thanks!" he added in adifferent tone, as the doctor raised him on the extra pillow. "You're abrick, sir! Sit down a minute, will you? I want to talk to you."The doctor complied, his hand on the wounded man's wrist."That's better," Ford said. "Keep it there. And stop me if I rave. It'sa queer little world, isn't it? I remember you well, but you wouldn'tknow me. You were one of the highfliers, and I was always more or lessof an earthworm. But you'll remember Rotherby, the captain of the firsteleven? A fine chap--that. He's dead now, eh?""Yes," the doctor said, "Rotherby's dead."He was looking with an intent scrutiny at the scarred and bandaged faceon the pillow. He had felt from the first that this man was no ordinaryranker. Yet till that moment it had never occurred to him that theymight have met before."I always liked Rotherby," the husky voice went on. "He was a big swell,and he didn't think much of small fry. But you--you and he were friends,weren't you?""For a time," the doctor said. "It didn't last."There was regret in his voice--the keen regret of a man who has lost athing he valued."No; it didn't last," Ford agreed. "I remember when you chucked him. Orwas it the other way round? I saw a good deal of him in those days. Ithought him a jolly good fellow, till I found out what a scoundrel hewas. And I had a soft feeling for him even then. You knew he was ascoundrel, didn't you?""Yes, I knew."The doctor spoke reluctantly. The hospital tent, the silent row ofwounded men, the stifling atmosphere, the flies, all were gone from hisinner vision. He was looking with grave, compassionate eyes at thepicture that absorbed the man at his side."He was good company, eh?" the restless voice went on. "But he had hisblack moments. I didn't know him so well in the days when you and hewere friends.""Nor I," the doctor said. "But--why do you want to talk of him?"Again he was searching the face at his side with grave intensity. It didnot seem to him that this man could ever have been of the sort that hisfriend Rotherby would have cared to admit to terms of intimacy.Rotherby--notwithstanding his sins--had been fastidious in many ways.The answer seemed to make the matter more comprehensible."I was with him when he died," the man said. "It was in just such aninferno as this. We were alone together, looking for gold in theAustralian desert. We didn't find it, though it was there, mountains ofit. The water gave out. We tossed for the last drain--and I won. Thatwas how Rotherby came to die. He hadn't much to live for, and he wasgoing to die, anyhow. A queer chap, he was. He and his wife never livedtogether after the smash came, and he had to leave the country. Perhapsyou knew?""Yes," the doctor said again, "I knew."Ford moved his head restlessly."The thought of her used to worry him in the night," he said. "I'veknown him lie for hours not sleeping, just staring up at the stars, andthinking, thinking. I've sometimes thought that the worst torture onearth can't equal that. You know, after he was dead, they found herminiature on him--a thing in a gold case, with their names engravedinside. He used to wear it round his neck like a charm. It was by thatthey identified him--that and his signet-ring, and one or two letters.Scamp though I was, I had the grace not to rob the dead. They sent thethings to his wife. I've often wondered what she did with them.""I can tell you that," said the doctor quietly. "She keeps them amongher greatest treasures."Ford turned sharply on his pillows, and stifled an exclamation of pain."You know her still, then?" he said."She is my wife," the doctor answered.A long silence followed his words. The wounded soldier lay with closedeyes and drawn brows. He seemed to be unconscious of everything savephysical pain.Suddenly he seemed to recover himself, and looked up."You," he said slowly, "you are Montagu Durant, the fellow she wasengaged to before she married Rotherby."The doctor bent his head."Yes," he said. "I am Montagu Durant.""Rotherby's friend," Ford went on. "The chap who stuck to him throughthick and thin--to be betrayed in the end. I know all about you, yousee, though you haven't placed me yet.""No, I can't place you," Durant said. "I don't think we ever knew eachother very well. You will have to tell me who you are.""Later--later," said Ford. "No, you never knew me very well. It wasalways you and Rotherby, you and Rotherby. You never looked at any oneelse, till that row at the 'Varsity when he got kicked out. Yes," with asudden, sharp sigh, "I was a 'Varsity man too. I admired LeonardRotherby in those days. Poor old Leo! He knew how to hit a boundary aswell as any fellow! You never forgave him, I suppose, for marrying yourgirl?"There was a pause, and the fevered eyes sought Durant's face. The answercame at length very slowly."I could have forgiven him," Durant said, "if he had stuck to her andmade her happy.""Ah! There came the rub. But did Rotherby ever stick to anything? It wasa jolly good thing he died--for all concerned. Yet, you know, he caredfor her to the last. Blackguard as he was, he carried her in his heartright up to his death. I tell you I was with him, and I know."There was strong insistence in the man's words. Durant could feel theracing pulse leap and quiver under his hand. He leaned forward a little,looking closely into the drawn face."I think you have talked enough," he said. "Try to get some rest.""I haven't raved," said Ford, with confidence. "It has done me good totalk. I can't help thinking of Leo Rotherby. My brain runs on him. Hewanted to see you--horribly--before he died. I believe he'd have askedyour forgiveness. But you wouldn't have given it to him, I suppose? Youwill never forgive him in your heart?"Again the answer did not come at once. Durant was frowning a little--thefrown of a man who tries to fathom his own secret impulses."I think," he said at last, "that if I had seen him and he had asked forit, I should not have refused my forgiveness.""No one ever refused Rotherby anything," said the dying man, with acurious, half-humorous twist of his mouth under its dark moustache."Except yourself," Durant reminded him, almost involuntarily.Again the wandering, uneasy eyes sought his. "You mean--that drain ofwater," Ford said, with a total lack of shame or remorse. "Yes, it'strue Rotherby didn't have that. But it didn't make any difference, youknow. He was going to die. And the living come before the dead, eh,doctor?"Durant did not quite understand his tone, but he suffered the words togo unchallenged. He was not there to discuss the higher morality with adying man. Moreover, he knew that the bare mention of water was a fierytorture to him, disguise it as he might.He sat a little longer, then rose to go. He fancied that there was ashade less of restlessness about this man, whom he knew to be sufferingwhat no other man in the tent could have endured in silence.In response to a sign he stooped to catch a few, low-spoken words."By-and-bye," said Private Ford, with husky self-assurance, "when it'sdark--or only moonlight--a man will creep out between the lines andcrawl down to the river, to get some water for--the children."He was wandering again, Durant saw; and his pity mounted high."Perhaps, poor fellow; perhaps," he answered gently.As he went away he heard again the droning, unconscious voice:"And power was given unto him to scorch men with fire. And men werescorched--with great heat. Eh, Sammy? Is that water you have there?Quick! Give me--what? There is none? Then why the--why the--" There camean abrupt pause; then a brief, dry chuckle that was like the cracklingof flame through dead twigs. "Ah, I forgot. I mustn't curse. I've got toset the example to these children. But, O God, the heat and the flies!"Durant wondered if after all it had been a kindness to call back thepassing spirit that had begun to forget.* * * * *Slowly the scorching day wore away, till evening descended in a blaze ofgorgeous colouring upon the desolate African wilderness and the band ofmen that had been surrounded and cut off by a wily enemy.They were expecting relief. Hourly they expected it, but, being hamperedby a score of wounded, it was not possible for them to break through thethickly populated scrub unassisted. And they had no water.A stream flowed, brown and sluggish, not more than a hundred yards belowthe camp. But that same stream was flanked on the farther side by along, black line of thicket that poured forth fire upon any man whoventured out from behind the great rocks that protected the camp.It had been attempted again and again, for the needs of the wounded weredesperate. But each effort had been disastrous, and at last an order hadgone forth that no man was to expose himself again to this deadly risk.So, silent behind their entrenchments, with the hospital tent in theirmidst, the British force had to endure the situation, waiting with adogged patience for the coming of their comrades who could not be faraway.Regal to the last, the sun sank away in orange and gold; and night,burning, majestic, shimmering, spread over a cloudless sky. A full moonfloated up behind dense forest trees, and shed a glimmering radianceeverywhere. The heat did not seem to vary by a breath.A great restlessness spread like a wave through the hospital tent. Menwaked from troubled slumber, crying aloud like children, piteously,unreasoningly, for water.The doctor went from one to another, restraining, soothing, reassuring.His influence made itself felt, and quiet returned; but it was a quietthat held no peace; it was the silent gripping of an agony that wasbound to overcome.Again and again through the crawling hours the bitter protest broke outafresh, like the crying of souls in torment. One or two became deliriousand had to be forcibly restrained from struggling forth in search ofthat which alone could still their torture.Durant was too fully occupied with these raving patients of his to spareany attention for the bed in the far corner on which they had laid theone man whose injuries were mortal. If he thought of the man at all, itwas to reflect that he was probably dead.But at last a young officer entered the seething tent, and touched himon the shoulder."Can you come outside a moment? You're wanted," he said.Durant turned from a man who was lying exhausted and barely conscious,took up his case, and followed him out. He did just glance at the bed inthe corner as he went, but he saw no movement there.His summoner turned upon him abruptly as they emerged."Look here," he said. "There's a water-bag quite full, waiting for thosepoor beggars in there. Better send one of the orderlies for it.""Water!" said Durant sharply, as if the news were difficult to believe.Then, recovering himself: "Tell the sentry, will you? I can't spare anorderly."The young officer complied, and hurried him on."The poor chap is breathing his last," he said. "You can't do him anygood, but he wants you.""Who is it?" asked the doctor."The man who fetched the water--Ford. He was badly wounded when hestarted. He crawled every inch of the way on his stomach, and backagain, dragging the bag with him. Heaven knows how he did it! It's takenhim hours.""Ford?" the doctor said incredulously. "Ford? Impossible! How did he getaway?""Oh, he crawled through somehow; Heaven only knows how! But he's donenow, poor beggar--pegging out fast. We got him into shelter, but wecouldn't do more, he was in such agony."The speaker stopped, for Durant had broken into a run. The moonlightshowed him a group of men gathered about a prone figure. They separatedand stood aside as he reached them; and he, kneeling, found in the pronefigure the man who had talked with him in the afternoon of the friendwho had played him false.He was very far gone, lying in a dreadful twisted heap, his head, withits bloodstained bandages, resting on his arm. Yet Durant saw that hestill lived, and tried with gentle hands to ease the strain of hisposition.With a sharp gasp, Ford opened his eyes."Hullo!" he said. "It's you, is it? Did they get the water?""They have got it by now," the doctor answered."Ah!" The man's lips twisted in a difficult smile. He struggled bravelyto keep the mortal agony out of his face. "Gave you the slip that time,"he gasped. "Disobeyed orders, too. But it didn't matter--except forexample. You must tell them, eh? Dying men have privileges.""Tell him he'd have had the V. C. for it," whispered the officer incommand, over the doctor's shoulder.Durant complied, and caught the quick gleam that shot up in the dyingeyes at his words."The gods were always behind time--with me," came the husky whisper. "Iused to think I'd scale Olympus, but--they kicked me down. If--ifthere's any water to spare, when it's gone round, I--I----"He broke off with a rending cough. Some one put a tin cup into thedoctor's hand, and he held it to the parched lips. Ford drank in greatgulps, and, as he drank, the worst agony passed. His limbs relaxed afterthe draught, and he lay quite still, his face to the sky.After the passage of minutes he spoke again suddenly. His voice was nolonger husky, but clear and strong. His eyes were the eyes of a man whosees a vision."Jove!" he said. "What a princely gathering to see me carry out my bat!Don't grin, you fellows. I know it was a fluke--a dashed fine fluke,too. But it's what I always meant, after all. There's good old Monty,yelling himself hoarse in the pavilion. And his girl--waving. Sweetgirl, too--the best in the world. I might cut him out there. But Iwon't, I won't! I'm not such a hound as that, though she's the onlywoman in the world, bless her, bless her!"He stopped. Durant was bending over him, listening eagerly, as one mightlisten to the voice of an old, familiar friend, heard again after manyyears.He did not speak. He seemed afraid to dispel the other's dream. Butafter a moment, the man in his arms made a sudden, impulsive movementtowards him. It was almost like a gesture of affection. And their eyesmet.There followed a brief silence that had in it something of strain. ThenFord uttered a shaky laugh. The vision had passed."So--you see--he had to die--anyhow," he said. "My love to--your wife,dear old Monty! Tell her--I'm--awfully--pleased!"His voice ceased, yet for a moment his lips still seemed to form words.Durant stooped lower over him, and spoke at last with a sort of urgenttenderness."Leo!" he said. "Leo, old chap!"But there came no answer save a faint, still smile. The man he calledhad passed beyond his reach.* * * * *Relief came to the beleaguered force at daybreak, and the worst incidentof the campaign ended without disaster. A casualty list, published inthe London papers a few days later, contained an announcement, whichconcerned nobody who read it, to the effect that Private Ford, of a WestAfrican Regiment, had succumbed to his wounds.
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