"And the fourth angel poured out his vial upon the sun; andpower was given unto him to scorch men with fire. And men werescorched with great heat, and blasphemed the name of God, whichhath power over these plagues; and they repented not to give Himglory." The droning voice quivered and fell silent. Within the hospitaltent, only the buzz of flies innumerable was audible. Without,there sounded near at hand the squeak of a sentry's boots, and inthe distance the clatter of the camp. The man who lay dying was in a remote and quite detached senseaware of these things, but his fevered imagination had carried himbeyond. He watched, as it were, the glowing pictures that came andwent in his furnace of pain. These little details were to him butthe distant humming of the spinning-wheel of time from which he wasdrawing ever farther and farther away. They did not touch thatinner consciousness with which he saw his visions. Now and then he turned his head sharply on the pillow, as analien might turn at the sound of a familiar voice, but always,after listening intently, it came back to its old position, and theman's restless eyes returned to the crack high up in the tentcanvas through which the sun shone upon him like a piercingeye. The occupant of the bed next to him watched him furtively,fascinated but uneasy. He was a young soldier of the simple countrytype, and the wild words that came now and again from the feveredlips startled him uncomfortably. He wished the dying man wouldcease his mutterings and let him sleep. But every time theprolonged silence seemed to indicate a final cessation of thenuisance, the droning voice took up the tale once more. "And men were scorched with great heat--and they repentednot--repented not." 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. "Ifyou can't take the sun out of the sky, you can give me adrink." The native shook his head. "The doctor will come soon," he said soothingly. "Havepatience." Patience! The word had no meaning for him in that inferno ofsuffering. He moved his head, that searching spot of sunlightdancing in his eyes, and cursed deep in his throat the man who kepthim waiting. Barely a minute later the doctor came--a quiet, bronzed man,level-eyed and strong. He bent over the stricken figure on the bed,and drew the tumbled covering up a little higher. He had justwritten "mortally wounded" of this man on his hospital report, butthere was nothing in his manner to indicate that he had no hope forhim.
"Get another pillow," he said to the native orderly. And to thedying man: "That will take the sun out of your eyes. I see it isbothering you." "Curse the sun!" the parched lips gasped. "Can't you give me adrink?" The eyes of the young soldier in the next bed scanned thedoctor's face anxiously. He, too, wanted a drink. He thirsted fromthe depths of his soul. But he knew there was no water to be had.The supply had been cut off 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 thehusky voice. The doctor laid a restraining hand on the man's chest. "Hush!" he said, in a lower tone. "It's this sort of thing thatshows what a fellow is made of. All these other poor chaps arechildren. But you, Ford, you are grown up, so to speak. I look toyou to help me,--to set the example." "Example! Man alive!" A queer light danced like a mocking spiritin Private Ford's eyes, and again he laughed--an exceeding bitterlaugh. "I've been made an example of all my life," he said. "I'vesometimes thought it was what I was created for. Ah, thanks!" headded in a different tone, as the doctor raised him on the extrapillow. "You're a brick, sir! Sit down a minute, will you? I wantto 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 Irave. It's a queer little world, isn't it? I remember you well, butyou wouldn't know me. You were one of the highfliers, and I wasalways more or less of an earthworm. But you'll remember Rotherby,the captain of the first eleven? 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 andbandaged face on the pillow. He had felt from the first that thisman was no ordinary ranker. Yet till that moment it had neveroccurred to him that they might have met before. "I always liked Rotherby," the husky voice went on. "He was abig swell, and he didn't think much of small fry. But you--you andhe 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 haslost a thing he valued.
"No; it didn't last," Ford agreed. "I remember when you chuckedhim. Or was it the other way round? I saw a good deal of him inthose days. I thought him a jolly good fellow, till I found outwhat a scoundrel he was. And I had a soft feeling for him eventhen. You knew he was a scoundrel, didn't you?" "Yes, I knew." The doctor spoke reluctantly. The hospital tent, the silent rowof wounded men, the stifling atmosphere, the flies, all were gonefrom his inner vision. He was looking with grave, compassionateeyes at the picture that absorbed the man at his side. "He was good company, eh?" the restless voice went on. "But hehad his black moments. I didn't know him so well in the days whenyou and he were friends." "Nor I," the doctor said. "But--why do you want to talk ofhim?" Again he was searching the face at his side with graveintensity. It did not seem to him that this man could ever havebeen of the sort that his friend Rotherby would have cared to admitto terms of intimacy. Rotherby--notwithstanding his sins--had beenfastidious 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 justsuch an inferno as this. We were alone together, looking for goldin the Australian desert. We didn't find it, though it was there,mountains of it. The water gave out. We tossed for the lastdrain--and I won. That was how Rotherby came to die. He hadn't muchto live for, and he was going to die, anyhow. A queer chap, he was.He and his wife never lived together after the smash came, and hehad to leave the country. Perhaps you 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've known him lie for hours not sleeping, just staring up at thestars, and thinking, thinking. I've sometimes thought that theworst torture on earth can't equal that. You know, after he wasdead, they found her miniature on him--a thing in a gold case, withtheir names engraved inside. He used to wear it round his neck likea charm. It was by that they identified him--that and hissignet-ring, and one or two letters. Scamp though I was, I had thegrace not to rob the dead. They sent the things to his wife. I'veoften wondered what she did with them." "I can tell you that," said the doctor quietly. "She keeps themamong her greatest treasures." Ford turned sharply on his pillows, and stifled an exclamationof 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 withclosed eyes and drawn brows. He seemed to be unconscious ofeverything save physical pain. Suddenly he seemed to recover himself, and looked up. "You," he said slowly, "you are Montagu Durant, the fellow shewas engaged 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 himthrough thick and thin--to be betrayed in the end. I know all aboutyou, you see, though you haven't placed me yet." "No, I can't place you," Durant said. "I don't think we everknew each other very well. You will have to tell me who youare." "Later--later," said Ford. "No, you never knew me very well. Itwas always you and Rotherby, you and Rotherby. You never looked atany one else, till that row at the 'Varsity when he got kicked out.Yes," with a sudden, sharp sigh, "I was a 'Varsity man too. Iadmired Leonard Rotherby in those days. Poor old Leo! He knew howto hit a boundary as well as any fellow! You never forgave him, Isuppose, for marrying your girl?" There was a pause, and the fevered eyes sought Durant's face.The answer came at length very slowly. "I could have forgiven him," Durant said, "if he had stuck toher and made her happy." "Ah! There came the rub. But did Rotherby ever stick toanything? It was a jolly good thing he died--for all concerned.Yet, you know, he cared for her to the last. Blackguard as he was,he carried her in his heart right up to his death. I tell you I waswith him, and I know." There was strong insistence in the man's words. Durant couldfeel the racing pulse leap and quiver under his hand. He leanedforward a little, looking closely into the drawn face. "I think you have talked enough," he said. "Try to get somerest." "I haven't raved," said Ford, with confidence. "It has done megood to talk. I can't help thinking of Leo Rotherby. My brain runson him. He wanted to see you--horribly--before he died. I believehe'd have asked your forgiveness. But you wouldn't have given it tohim, I suppose? You will never forgive him in your heart?"
Again the answer did not come at once. Durant was frowning alittle--the frown of a man who tries to fathom his own secretimpulses. "I think," he said at last, "that if I had seen him and he hadasked for it, I should not have refused my forgiveness." "No one ever refused Rotherby anything," said the dying man,with a curious, half-humorous twist of his mouth under its darkmoustache. "Except yourself," Durant reminded him, almostinvoluntarily. Again the wandering, uneasy eyes sought his. "You mean--thatdrain of water," Ford said, with a total lack of shame or remorse."Yes, it's true Rotherby didn't have that. But it didn't make anydifference, you know. He was going to die. And the living comebefore the dead, eh, doctor?" Durant did not quite understand his tone, but he suffered thewords to go unchallenged. He was not there to discuss the highermorality with a dying man. Moreover, he knew that the bare mentionof water was a fiery torture to him, disguise it as he might. He sat a little longer, then rose to go. He fancied that therewas a shade less of restlessness about this man, whom he knew to besuffering what no other man in the tent could have endured insilence. In response to a sign he stooped to catch a few, low-spokenwords. "By-and-bye," said Private Ford, with husky self-assurance,"when it's dark--or only moonlight--a man will creep out betweenthe lines and crawl down to the river, to get some water for-thechildren." He was wandering again, Durant saw; and his pity mountedhigh. "Perhaps, poor fellow; perhaps," he answered gently. As he went away he heard again the droning, unconsciousvoice: "And power was given unto him to scorch men with fire. And menwere scorched--with great heat. Eh, Sammy? Is that water you havethere? Quick! Give me--what? There is none? Then why the--whythe--" There came an abrupt pause; then a brief, dry chuckle thatwas like the crackling of flame through dead twigs. "Ah, I forgot.I mustn't curse. I've got to set 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 backthe passing spirit that had begun to forget. *****
Slowly the scorching day wore away, till evening descended in ablaze of gorgeous colouring upon the desolate African wildernessand the band of men that had been surrounded and cut off by a wilyenemy. They were expecting relief. Hourly they expected it, but, beinghampered by a score of wounded, it was not possible for them tobreak through the thickly populated scrub unassisted. And they hadno water. A stream flowed, brown and sluggish, not more than a hundredyards below the camp. But that same stream was flanked on thefarther side by a long, black line of thicket that poured forthfire upon any man who ventured out from behind the great rocks thatprotected the camp. It had been attempted again and again, for the needs of thewounded were desperate. But each effort had been disastrous, and atlast an order had gone forth that no man was to expose himselfagain to this deadly risk. So, silent behind their entrenchments, with the hospital tent intheir midst, the British force had to endure the situation, waitingwith a dogged patience for the coming of their comrades who couldnot be far away. Regal to the last, the sun sank away in orange and gold; andnight, burning, majestic, shimmering, spread over a cloudless sky.A full moon floated up behind dense forest trees, and shed aglimmering radiance everywhere. The heat did not seem to vary by abreath. A great restlessness spread like a wave through the hospitaltent. Men waked 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; butit was a quiet that held no peace; it was the silent gripping of anagony that was bound to overcome. Again and again through the crawling hours the bitter protestbroke out afresh, like the crying of souls in torment. One or twobecame delirious and had to be forcibly restrained from strugglingforth in search of that which alone could still their torture. Durant was too fully occupied with these raving patients of histo spare any attention for the bed in the far corner on which theyhad laid the one man whose injuries were mortal. If he thought ofthe man at all, it was to reflect that he was probably dead. But at last a young officer entered the seething tent, andtouched him on the shoulder. "Can you come outside a moment? You're wanted," he said. Durant turned from a man who was lying exhausted and barelyconscious, took up his case, and followed him out. He did justglance at the bed in the corner as he went, but he saw no movementthere.
His summoner turned upon him abruptly as they emerged. "Look here," he said. "There's a water-bag quite full, waitingfor those poor beggars in there. Better send one of the orderliesfor it." "Water!" said Durant sharply, as if the news were difficult tobelieve. Then, recovering himself: "Tell the sentry, will you? Ican't spare an orderly." The young officer complied, and hurried him on. "The poor chap is breathing his last," he said. "You can't dohim any good, but he wants you." "Who is it?" asked the doctor. "The man who fetched the water--Ford. He was badly wounded whenhe started. He crawled every inch of the way on his stomach, andback again, dragging the bag with him. Heaven knows how he did it!It's taken him hours." "Ford?" the doctor said incredulously. "Ford? Impossible! Howdid he get away?" "Oh, he crawled through somehow; Heaven only knows how! But he'sdone now, poor beggar-pegging out fast. We got him into shelter,but we couldn't do more, he was in such agony." The speaker stopped, for Durant had broken into a run. Themoonlight showed him a group of men gathered about a prone figure.They separated and stood aside as he reached them; and he,kneeling, found in the prone figure the man who had talked with himin the afternoon of the friend who had played him false. He was very far gone, lying in a dreadful twisted heap, hishead, with its bloodstained bandages, resting on his arm. YetDurant saw that he still lived, and tried with gentle hands to easethe strain of his position. 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 struggledbravely to keep the mortal agony out of his face. "Gave you theslip that time," he gasped. "Disobeyed orders, too. But it didn'tmatter--except for example. You must tell them, eh? Dying men haveprivileges." "Tell him he'd have had the V. C. for it," whispered the officerin command, over the doctor's shoulder. Durant complied, and caught the quick gleam that shot up in thedying eyes at his words.
"The gods were always behind time--with me," came the huskywhisper. "I used to think I'd scale Olympus, but--they kicked medown. If--if there'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 intothe doctor's hand, and he held it to the parched lips. Ford drankin great gulps, and, as he drank, the worst agony passed. His limbsrelaxed after the draught, and he lay quite still, his face to thesky. After the passage of minutes he spoke again suddenly. His voicewas no longer husky, but clear and strong. His eyes were the eyesof a man who sees a vision. "Jove!" he said. "What a princely gathering to see me carry outmy bat! Don't grin, you fellows. I know it was a fluke--a dashedfine fluke, too. But it's what I always meant, after all. There'sgood old Monty, yelling himself hoarse in the pavilion. And hisgirl--waving. Sweet girl, too--the best in the world. I might cuthim out there. But I won't, I won't! I'm not such a hound as that,though she's the only woman in the world, bless her, blessher!" He stopped. Durant was bending over him, listening eagerly, asone might listen to the voice of an old, familiar friend, heardagain after many years. He did not speak. He seemed afraid to dispel the other's dream.But after a moment, the man in his arms made a sudden, impulsivemovement towards him. It was almost like a gesture of affection.And their eyes met. There followed a brief silence that had in it something ofstrain. Then Ford uttered a shaky laugh. The vision had passed. "So--you see--he had to die--anyhow," he said. "My love to--yourwife, dear old Monty! Tell her-I'm--awfully--pleased!" His voice ceased, yet for a moment his lips still seemed to formwords. Durant stooped lower over him, and spoke at last with a sort ofurgent tenderness. "Leo!" he said. "Leo, old chap!" But there came no answer save a faint, still smile. The man hecalled had passed beyond his reach. ***** Relief came to the beleaguered force at daybreak, and the worstincident of the campaign ended without disaster. A casualty list,published in the London papers a few days later, contained anannouncement, which concerned nobody who read it, to the effectthat Private Ford, of a West African Regiment, had succumbed to hiswounds.