All for a Scrap of Paper Part 31

Trevanion looked at her with admiring eyes. Even while he hoped she would remain in England, he admired her determination to go and nurse the worst cases.

"What a wife she'll be!" he reflected. "Proud as Lucifer and honourable to the finger tips. Yes, I've got her. She'll regard even this shadow of a promise as binding on her. As for Nancarrow, he's done with for ever. Thank heaven for that! By Jove, I'm a lucky beggar!"

"Perhaps we may meet in France, Nancy," he said aloud; "I may be wounded, and----"

"Don't!" she said, with a shudder.

"Heavens, she loves me!" thought the Captain. "She can't bear the idea of my being wounded."

"Anyhow, the man who has you as a nurse may thank his lucky stars," he said aloud, "and of this you may be sure, if there's any chance of our meeting, I shall make the most of it. Trust me for that."

That same day Trevanion made his way back to Plymouth with a glad heart. He regarded his engagement with Nancy as good as settled, for he knew that she regarded even the suggestion of a promise as sacred.

Besides, he had everything in his favour. He knew that the old Admiral favoured his suit, and would do his best to remove any doubts which might exist in Nancy's mind. As for Bob Nancarrow, he was a negligible quant.i.ty. Nancy had driven him out of the house with scorn and anger in her heart. How could it be otherwise? The fellow was an outsider, a poltroon, a coward. He knew how Nancy despised such; knew that even if she loved him, she would regard it as a sacred duty to crush a love which to her would be a disgrace to the name she bore.

Thus it came about that all three found themselves on French soil. The Captain went at the head of a Cornish regiment, brave and fearless, determined to do his duty as a soldier should. The ethics of the war had never cost him a moment's thought. England was at war, and that was enough for him. He was needed in the firing-line, and he, without a question or a reason, save that he was a soldier, must be there.

Nancy, on the other hand, went because she wanted to nurse--to save.

It was a woman's work--the n.o.blest any woman could do. She was not allowed to fight herself, although she would gladly have done so; but even although she could not fight, she would be near the line of battle. She would do all in her power for the brave fellows who had fallen in fighting their country's battles.

As for Bob, he was there because he had listened to what he was sure was the Call of G.o.d. He hated war, he hated the soldiers' calling, and, because he hated it, he was there. Not one in the whole of His Majesty's Army was more eager to be in the thick of the fight than he, because he wanted to take his part in killing the war devil which had turned a great part of Europe into a h.e.l.l.

CHAPTER XVI

September was nearly at an end when Bob, alighting at a little station, heard the booming of guns. The country-side seemed quiet and peaceful but for this. There were evidences that fighting had been going on, but at present no fighting was to be seen. The sky was a great dome of blue, the air was pure and sweet. It was as though great Mother Nature were defying the War G.o.d to disturb her tranquillity. Scarcely a breath of wind stirred; bird and beast and flower were composing themselves for their nightly sleep.

And yet to Bob the atmosphere was tense with excitement. The very calm of the evening was unnatural. He felt as though lightnings should be flashing, the wind roaring.

"Boom! Boom! Boom!"

The great War G.o.d was roaring, and from his mouth death came. With every boom of the guns men were falling, souls were going home to G.o.d.

Bob felt a shiver to the centre of his being. It seemed to him as though the foundations of his life were shaken. He had never experienced such a feeling before. He did not think it was fear; rather it was awesomeness. For a moment he regarded life, his own life, from a new standpoint. He was only a p.a.w.n on a chess-board, one of a million of human beings, none of whom had any personality, any will. Life and death were nothing. Each had to fill his place, and to do what was allotted to him, regardless of consequences.

He found himself thinking of lines from "The Charge of the Light Brigade":

"Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die, Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred."

Suddenly he found himself alert. The men were forming into marching order, and almost unconsciously he was performing the duties allotted to him.

Bob saw that a large ma.s.s of men had gathered. Other trains had arrived before the one by which he had come, and each had brought its quota from England.

He realised, as he had never realised before, how efficiently, quietly, and at the same time wonderfully, the forces at home were working. He, like others, had read several weeks before, that something like a hundred thousand men had landed on French soil without a casualty, without a mishap. It had come to him, as it had come to us all, as a kind of surprise, that such a ma.s.s of humanity, with horses, accoutrements, and provisions, could have been sent to France with so little noise, and without the nation's knowing anything about it. Yet so it was. While we were wondering, the work was done.

But that was not all. While the country was asleep, or while it was pursuing its usual avocations, tens of thousands of men were leaving our sh.o.r.es, taking the places of those who had fallen or adding to the force already there, while tens of thousands more were preparing to leave. The heart of the Empire was moved, and her sons were offering themselves, many thousands every day, to fight her battles.

"How many men have we at the front?" we often asked.

No one knew, although we hazarded many guesses. But we knew that we were doing what we could, that a great river of humanity was flowing into France, and that hundreds of thousands of our bravest hearts were beating on foreign soil, and that no matter how many men fell wounded or dead, ten times their number could and would be supplied.

Bob's heart thrilled as he thought of it. He was only an obscure youth, who had first fought his battle on the solitary battlefield of his own soul, and then, as a consequence, could no longer keep himself from throwing himself into this great light against tyranny and militarism.

They were marching towards the firing-line! The boom of the guns sounded more and more near. Sometimes above the steady tramp, tramp of the soldiers they thought they heard the ghastly whistle of the sh.e.l.ls as they went on their mission of death.

Bob looked on the faces of the men as they marched. Yes, it was easy to see by the steely glitter of their eyes, the tightly compressed lips, that every nerve was in tension, that they knew they were entering the danger zone. Many were praying who had not prayed for years, while others, careless of life or death, marched forward, with a laugh on their lips.

It is not for me to describe what took place during the next few days.

Indeed, I could not if I would. First, the news which has reached me concerning them is scanty--so scanty that even if I recorded every word of it, it would add but little interest to the narrative I am writing.

More than that, I am utterly ignorant of the art of war, and if I tried to describe in anything like detail the events which have been related to me, I should, doubtless, fall into many mistakes, and convey altogether wrong impressions. Besides, I am not so much writing the story of the war, as the story of Robert Nancarrow, and of what has befallen him these last few weeks.

For the first fortnight after Bob joined the British forces at the front, he was disappointed at not being placed in the fighting-line.

Moreover, his duties seemed to him of an unimportant nature, such as could have been performed by the most unintelligent. He saw others take the places which he longed to occupy, while he had to attend to merely mechanical duties.

Still he did not complain. The work he was doing had to be done, and since some one must do it, why not he as well as another? The great fact which cheered him was that little by little the Allies were slowly gaining ground in this "Battle of the Rivers," even although he saw but little of it. Neither, for that matter, did he know very much of the progress which was being made generally. He was so situated that he heard very little of what was being done. People in England were far better informed of what was taking place than the soldiers, except in some little corner of the great battlefield where they were individually engaged.

He saw enough, however, to realise the horror all around him, and to become inured to the life he was living.

"Oh, to be in the thick of it!" he cried again and again, as day after day pa.s.sed, and he was continually delegated to what seemed to him unimportant duties. He little realised that his time was coming, and that he was to be baptized with a baptism of fire more terrible than befell many, even in that time of horrible carnage.

It was on a Sunday morning in October, in this year of our Lord, 1914, that the events which I have now to describe, began. In England I remember it was like a summer day, while in France it was even warmer, and more cloudless. The night had been comparatively still, and the enemies' guns had scarcely been heard since sunset.

The sentries had reported all well, and when the morning came, it seemed to be generally believed that it would be a quiet day. On the distant hills, several miles away, the German hordes were entrenched and alert. The day previous the Allies had been less harried, and tens of thousands who had been well-nigh worn out by continuous fighting had gained some measure of respite.

Bob awoke just before dawn. All along the lines were watchful sentinels; but many thousands, a.s.sured by the reports of those on outpost duty that all was well, were asleep. Presently the _reveille_ sounded, and then, what had seemed an uninhabited tract of country, was peopled by a great armed host. Men in khaki were everywhere. On every hand were preparations for breakfast; laughter and shouts were heard on every hand. As the light increased, Bob saw thousands upon thousands of men. They literally swarmed everywhere.

"Colonel Sapsworth wants you, sir."

Bob turned and saw a soldier saluting him as delivered his message.

"I wonder what that means," thought Bob, as he found his way towards the spot where the Colonel was. A minute later his heart was beating high with joy and excitement. He was informed that he was appointed to a post of responsibility, which might be of importance. A number of men were to be placed under his command, and great events might be taking place in a few hours.

"I shall know definitely soon," Colonel Sapsworth said, when he had given him some general directions. "Meanwhile you know what to do."

He had scarcely spoken, when a man came to the a tent and asked for admission; a second later he had entered, bearing a despatch.

Colonel Sapsworth read it hastily.

"By G.o.d!" he muttered under his breath; "but I expected it!"

It was a despatch sent from the General of the Division telling him that an attack on his forces would possibly be made that day--that men in the Flying Corps had been able to see the general movements of the enemy, and had brought the news that before long great ma.s.ses of men would be upon them.

A few minutes later everything was in order. The officers had each received his instructions, and were on the _qui vive_.

It was only half an hour past daylight, and the dewdrops were still glistening on the gra.s.s and shining on the tree-tops. It seemed as if some occult influences were at work, and that the men were conscious of the fact that the atmosphere was laden with tragedy, for instead of laughter and merry jest, a strange silence prevailed.