The Dop Doctor Part 76

And within the little area of this beleaguered town do not men kill, and are not men killed, every day? The conditions are mediaeval, fast relapsing into the primeval. The modern sanct.i.ty and inviolability attending and surrounding human life are at a discount. Even for children, the grim King of Terrors had become a bugaboo to laugh at; red wounds and ghastly sights are things of everyday experience; there is a slump in mortality.

In those old, far-distant Chilworth Street days, two men who engaged in a battle to the death about a woman desired might have seemed merely savages to Saxham. Here things are different. The elemental bed-rock of human nature has been laid bare, and the grim, naked scars upon it, testifying to the combat of Ice and Fire for the round world's supremacy, will never be quite hidden under Civilisation's green mantle of vegetation, or her toadstool-growths of bricks and mortar, any more.

And the men are well matched. Saxham knows himself the more muscular, but Beauvayse has the advantage of him in years, and is lithe, and strong, and supple as the Greek wrestler who served the sculptor Polycleitos as a model for the Athlete with the Diadem.

It will be a fight worth having. No quarter. And Saxham's breath comes heavily, and his blue eyes have in them a steely glitter, and, as the tarpaulin falls behind him, he s.h.i.+fts to a better grip on the strong old hunting-crop.

Overhead the rain drums deafeningly on the tarpaulins. The long bombproof is heterogeneously furnished with full and empty ammunition-boxes marked A.O.S., a leathern sofa-divan, tattered by spurs and marked by muddy boots, several cane or canvas deck-chairs, and others of the Windsor pattern common to the barrack-room. Arms and accoutrements are in rude racks against the corrugated-iron-panelled walls; a trestle-table covered with oilcloth runs down the middle. It is lighted by a couple of acetylene lamps hanging by their chains from iron bars that cross the trench above, and there is another lamp, green-shaded, upon a bare deal table that stands, strewn with papers, against the farther wall.

A man in s.h.i.+rt-sleeves sits there writing. Another man is busy at a telephone that is fixed against the wall beyond the writing-table. There is something fateful and ominous about the heavy silence in which they do their work. It is broken only by a strange sound that comes almost continuously from--where Saxham does not trouble to ask. It is the groaning, undoubtedly, of the wounded man to whose aid he has been summoned, with the added injunction, "Bring morphia," showing that little further can be done for him, whoever he may be, than to smooth his pa.s.sage into the Beyond by the aid of the Pain Slayer.

Let him wait, however sore his need, until Saxham has dealt with his enemy. He is resentfully impatient in the knowledge that neither of the men present is Beauvayse.

Then, as he stands sullen and lowering, the man who has been writing gets up and comes to him. Saxham recognises the keen-featured face with the rusty-brown moustache, and the grip of the lean, hard hand that hauled a Dop Doctor out of the Slough of Despair is familiar. The pleasant voice he likes says something about somebody being very wet. It is Saxham, from whose soaked garments the water is running in streams, and whose boots squelch as he crosses the carpet that has been spread above the floor-tarpaulin. The friendly hand pours out and offers him a sparing measure of that rare stimulant, whisky.

"As preventive medicine. We can't have our Medical Staff men on the sick-list."

Some such commonplace words accompany the proffered hospitality.

"I shall not suffer, thanks. You have a sh.e.l.l-casualty, you have 'phoned us, but before I see your man it is imperative that I should speak to Lord Beauvayse. Where is he?"

"He is here."

"My business with him is urgent, sir."

The man at the telephone makes a sound indicative that a message is coming through. The Chief is beside him instantly, with the receiver at his ear.

He looks round for an instant at Saxham as he waits for the intelligence, and the muscles of his face twitch as if under the influence of some strong, repressed emotion, and the Doctor's practised glance notes the unsteadiness of the uplifted hand. Then he is saying to the officer in charge at Maxim Kopje South:

"The ammunition comes up to-night. Tell g.a.y.l.o.r.d that we are short-handed here, and shall want him to help on night duty.... Practically as soon as he can join us. No, no better. All for the present ... thanks! Saxham, please come this way."

There is a sleeping-place at the end of the long, narrow, lamp-lit perspective, curtained off from the rude bareness of the outer place.

Light shows between the curtains, and they are of plush, in hue a rich, deep red. As that strong colour sinks into his brain, through his intent and glittering eyes, Saxham the man has a sudden furious impulse to tear the deep folds back, with a clash of brazen rings on iron rods, and call to the betrayer who lurks behind them to come out and be dealt with. But that hollow, feeble moaning sounds continuously from the other side, and Saxham the surgeon stays his hand and follows the Colonel in. There are two camp-beds in the small sleeping-place, and a washstand and a folding-chair. A lamp hangs above, and its light falls full upon the face of the man whom he is seeking.

Ah! where are they? His furious anger and his deadly hate, where are they now? Like snow upon the desert they vanish away. How can one rage against this shattered thing, stretched on the pallet of the low cot-bed from which the blankets have been stripped away? First Aid bandages have been not ineffectually applied. Fragments of packing-case have been employed as splints for the broken arm and shattered hand, but, in spite of all that has been done, the beautiful young life is sinking, waning, flowing out with that ruddy tide that will not be stayed.

The greenish pallor and the sweat of mortal agony are upon the face of Beauvayse, thrown back upon the pillow, and looking upwards to where the deluging rain makes thunder on the tarpaulined roof. The atmosphere is heavy with the sour-sickly smell of blood, and lamp-fumes; he draws each breath laboriously, and exhales it with a whistling sound. Through his clenched teeth, revealed by the lips that are dragged back in the semi-grin of desperate agony, that dumb, ceaseless moaning makes its way despite the gallant effort to restrain it. The one uninjured arm hangs downwards, its restless fingers picking at the bloodstained matting that covers the loose boards of the floor. A sheet has been lightly laid over him. It is dabbled with the prevailing hue, and sinks in an ominous hollow below the breast. And beyond the bottom of it splashed leggings and muddy boots with spurs on them stick out with helpless stiffness.

A flask of brandy--a precious restorative treasured for use in such desperate need as this--stands with a tumbler and a jug of water on the camp washstand that is between the two cot-beds. Upon the second bed sits a big and stoutish man, whose large face, not pink just now, is hidden in his thick, quivering hands. It is Captain Bingo Wrynche, heavy Dragoon, and honest, single-hearted gentleman, to whom belongs the blown and muddy charger drooping in the loose-box outside. The telephone has summoned him in haste from Hotchkiss Outpost North, to see the last of a friend.

XLIX

"It was just before the rainstorm that it happened. He was on the lookout.

They have been moving the big gun and the 16-pounder Krupps again, and some of the laagers seem to be s.h.i.+fting, so we have kept an extra eye open of late, by night as well as by day. He was very keen always...."

Already he is spoken of by those who have known and loved him as one who was and has been.

"He had relieved me at 10 a.m. He might have been up over an hour when it happened. The orderly-sergeant had got his mouth at the speaking-tube, in the act of sending down a message; he did not see him hit. It was a sh.e.l.l from their Maxim-Nordenfelt. And when we got to him, the first glance told us there was little hope."

"There is none at all," says Saxham curtly, as is his wont. "A splinter has shattered the lower portion of the spine. The agony can be deadened with an opiate, and the ruptured arteries ligatured. Beyond that there is nothing else to do, though he may live till morning."

"He managed to ask for Wrynche before he swooned, so we 'phoned him at Hotchkiss Outpost North. He got here ten minutes ago, badly cut up, but there has been no recognition of him. Do what you can, Saxham, in the case. Every moment may bring Wrynche's recall. There is another person I should have expected the poor boy to ask for.... That young girl, Saxham, whose heart has to be broken with the news, sooner or later. Perhaps about nightfall, when it will be safe for her to venture. I ought to send an escort for Miss Mildare?"

The slow, dusky colour rises in Saxham's set, pale face, and as slowly sinks out again. He has been standing in low-toned colloquy with the Chief outside the heavy plush curtains. He turns silently upon his heel and vanishes behind them.

"_Ting--ting--ting!_"

The telephone-bell heralds an urgent recall from Hotchkiss Outpost North.

And a beckoning hand summons Captain Bingo from the bedside of his dying friend ere ever the word of parting has been spoken.

"It is for you, Wrynche, as I expected."

"I am ready, sir. Orderly, get my d.a.m.ned brute out!"

The sorrow and love that swell the big man's heart to bursting find rather absurd expression in his savage objurgation of the innocent brown charger.

But Captain Bingo, when he stoops over the camp-bed where lies Beauvayse, kisses him solemnly and clumsily upon the forehead, and then goes heavily striding out of the death-chamber with his bulldog jowl well down upon his chest; and a moment later when he is seen bucketing the lean brown charger through the thras.h.i.+ng hailstorm that is jagged across by the white-green fires of bursting sh.e.l.l, is rather a tragic figure, or so it seems to me.

Meanwhile, what of the man who lies upon the bed? Since Bingo's face came between and receded into, those thick grey mists that gather about the dying, he has lost consciousness of present things. Fever is rising in those wellnigh empty veins of his, his skin is drawing and creeping; it seems as though innumerable ants were running over him. The hand that is not powerless tries to brush them away. Sometimes he thinks he is in Hospital, and that the man in the next bed is groaning, and then he is aware that the groans are his own. He is conscious that a needle-p.r.i.c.k in the sound wrist has been followed by sensible relief. The unspeakable grinding agonies subside; he is able to murmur, "Thanks, Nurse," as he gulps some liquid from the gla.s.s a strange hand holds to his lips....

The groans are sighs now, and the clogged brain, spurred by morphia, shakes off its lethargy. The fever goes on rising, and he begins, silently, for his powers fail of speech, to wander over all the past.

Could Saxham, sitting motionless and vigilant on the folding-chair, his keen eyes quick to note each change, his deft hand prompt to do all that can be done--could Saxham hear, he would behold, anatomised before his mental vision, the soul of this his fellow-man.

"Coming straight for me--five round black spots punched in the grey. If they go by, luck's on my side, and I marry her. If not ... hit--and done for!"

Exactly thus has Saxham made of the unconscious Father Noah, of the Boer sharp shooters behind their breastwork, the arbiters of Fate.

"Send for Bingo!" flashes across the dying brain "Something to say to Bingo. Don't bring _her_. Who'd want a woman who loved him to remember him like this? What was it the Mahometan _syce_ the _musth_ elephant killed at Bhurtpore said about his wife? '_Let her cool my grave with tears._' Until she finds out ... until someone tells her. Ah--'h!" There is a groan, and a convulsive shudder, and the beautiful dim eyes roll up in agony, and the blue, swollen lips are wrung as the feeble voice whispers: "Nurse, this hurts like--h.e.l.l! Some more--that stuff!"

Saxham gives another subcutaneous injection of morphia. The curtains part, and the Colonel, in waterproof and a dreadnought cap, comes noiselessly in. "No change," Saxham answers to the mute inquiry. "I antic.i.p.ate none before midnight. Of course, the weakness is progressive."

"Of course." The Chief touches the cold, flaccid wrist. There are hollows in his lean cheeks, and deep crow's-feet at the corners of the kindly hazel eyes, and the brown moustache is ominously straight and curveless.

"Tell him, if he recovers consciousness, that I thought it best to send for her. Chagrave has gone with a couple of the men. It's a desperate night for a woman to be out in, but they took an Ambulance sling-chair with them. They'll wrap her in tarpaulins, and carry her in that."

He nods and goes up on the lookout with a night-gla.s.s, and the wearied officer he relieves comes down. As he has said, it is a desperate night of driving sleet and swirling blackness, illuminated only with the malignant coruscations of lyddite bursting-charges. But the tempest without is nothing to the tempest that rages in the soul of the quiet man in sodden khaki who watches by the dying.

She has been sent for.... She is coming.... To kneel by the low cot and weep over him who lies there; kiss the tortured lips and the beautiful dim eyes, and hold the unwounded head upon her breast.... How shall Saxham bear it without crying out to tell her? He clenches his hands, and sets his strong jaw, and the sweat breaks out upon his broad, pale forehead.

The man upon the bed, mentally clear, though incapable of coherent speech, is now listening to comments that shall ere long be made by living men upon one who very soon shall be numbered with the dead.

"Well, well, don't be hard on the poor beggar!" he hears them saying.

"Give the devil his due: not a bad chap--take him all round. Got carried away and lost his head. She's as lovely as they make 'em, and he ...

always a fool where a pretty woman was concerned--poor old Toby!"

He pleads unconsciously, with his most merciless judge, in his utter incapacity to plead at all....