An American Part 13

"They come and they go," she often sadly said. "It seems to me that there is nothing steadfast in this world except the G.o.d on whom I always lean when all else fails me.... I wish I _could_ find something strong enough to tie my faith to ... I _wish_ I could ... it would be wonderful to know that I could always find good, solid ground beneath my human feet ... it would be wonderful to feel that nothing mattered between another human being and myself ... to feel that nothing, good or bad, could ever really change our feelings toward each other ... but I'd have to know for sure that it was so ..." she'd add, "I'd have to know for sure, I'd have to try it out somehow ... so many things have slipped away from me ... so very many things ... I'd have to know for sure, somehow, before I'd dare to trust too much."

While these personal matters were taking the attention of some of those within the shadowy hospital, Father Felix was undergoing an altogether different experience.

The good Priest had, more than once, covered the entire eight miles of entrenchments around Santiago on foot and with a heavy pack containing supplies on his broad back; during the time that elapsed between the naval battle of Santiago and the surrender of the city on Sunday, July 17, 1898, he had marched with his little flock of soldiers over many stony trails and through many miry pa.s.ses, and, while the engagement itself was in progress, he had performed many heroic deeds and, more than once, he had fervently thanked G.o.d for his st.u.r.dy strength of arm and limb because he was thereby enabled to give material as well as spiritual aid to those who came within the reach of his hands; had anyone been watching a certain shady spot near Santiago on July 3, 1898, he might have witnessed a peculiar scene.

A rather short thick-set man, dressed as an army Chaplain and wearing a crucifix attached to a strong chain around his neck, was bending over one who lay there in the shade; he seemed to be examining the man to see if life remained in his body, and, yet, he always held the crucifix before the face of him who lay there as if he wished him to behold it, in case his earthly eyes should evermore see anything; he tried in every way he could to gain some recognition of his holy office from the man over whose earthly tenement he was then bending, but, as he did not succeed in this, he gently laid the crucifix upon the apparently pulseless breast, and went his way to find, perhaps, another one to whom he might administer the final consolation of the church whose dogmas he believed in.

The man he'd left behind him stirred uneasily, and, as he writhed and twisted there, the crucifix slid off his breast and fell upon the ground; it lay where it had fallen until Father Felix came again and brought with him another sufferer; he looked upon the breast of his first charge and did not see his crucifix ... it lay beneath the body of the one he'd left it with; he gently said:

"I left my crucifix with you, my Friend ... I thought it might be a consolation to you if you came to life again at all. I do not see the crucifix ... could anyone have taken it during my absence, I wonder?"

"I'm sure I don't know anything about your crucifix, good Sir," the man replied in a weak voice. "I have other things to fix my mind on than anything like that. For one thing, I am wounded and I need a surgeon more than I do Priests or crosses."

"I'll supply that need as far as I am able," Father Felix said. "I know I am an amateur and yet I have set broken limbs and tied up arteries and sewed up wounds full many times because there was no one better near enough to do it. Where are you hurt, my Friend?"

"I am not hurt at all, you blundering old fool, you ..." the man began.

"I'm dead and buried ... killed completely ... that is all ... and I don't want any old woman's work. Go get a surgeon for me ... quick! I'm losing lots of blood ... I need a surgeon, I tell you ... go get me one!"

Father Felix did not say a word in answer to this tirade for he had heard full many such remarks since he had been at work among the soldiers, and, so, he bound the wounds of the second sufferer he'd brought before he stopped the flow of blood from his first charge, for, well he knew the loss of some good red blood might make it easier for him to help the man ... he was too full of life and anger ... too full of unrepented viciousness ... for the good Priest to help him very much, and, so, he let him lay there in the shade and curse and fume and rage until he worked his evil temper off a little; then he gently said to him:

"Now, if you think that I can help you any, I will do all I can for you, Friend, but if you'd rather lie there on the ground and take the name of G.o.d in vain, why, I must let you do so. There is no one within hail except myself, who knows a thing about surgery, unless this man, here, does; I do not know about that part but he is wounded, too, so that I guess I am your only hope here on the earth at present. May I see your hurt and maybe bind it up and make your suffering less than it is, now?"

Sheepishly, the man looked up at him, and moved a little so the crucifix became exposed; Father Felix quickly picked it up and put the chain around his neck again, and then he added to the things that he had said before:

"I'm sure I'm very glad I found my crucifix ... it is of value to me for it has been the means of consolation to a great many sufferers from this sad war; it seems to help so many to behold the sufferings of One Who gave His precious life to save the lost and suffering souls who wander on the earth. He loved you, Sir, and, in His Name, I love you, too, and wish to help you, though you flout my work in your behalf. I am an amateur, but I can bind the only wound I see about you, Sir. Shall I do it, Sir, or not? I'd like to do the work the very best I could, but, if you say me nay, I'll leave it as it is."

The man grinned like a bashful boy, but he bowed his head in a.s.sent and Father Felix went to work and bound his wound and left him lying there beside the other sufferer and went to find another man to help; his stocky legs and muscular arms came in quite handily, that time, for, when he came back to the shady spot, he bore one on his shoulder who looked and seemed as if already dead and gone beyond the things of earth but Father Felix laid him gently down and knelt beside him while he gently laid his recovered crucifix upon his almost pulseless breast; the first man watched the operation silently, and, then, he moved a little farther from the deepest of the shade and said:

"Better bring him over here. It's better in the shade. I'll make a little more room here beside me and maybe I can help some in the dressing of his wounds."

"I thank you, Sir," the Priest replied. "I surely thank you kindly, but this man has gone, I fear, beyond our earthly aid; and, yet, I could not bear to leave him lying out there in the sun; the heat is terrible out there and flies and insects gather round and many lying out there suffer from their stings. I'll leave my crucifix, here, on his breast, and, if he moves or speaks, will you please tell him I will be right back?"

And then good Father Felix made another solemn trip to that sad battle-field and brought another man into the shade; and he whom he had brought there, just before, lay silently ... the silent crucifix upon his breast. The priest leaned down to listen for his breathing, then, and raised his head with joy depicted on his countenance.

"He lives!" he cried aloud. "This poor fellow is alive! Perhaps it may be possible for us to bring him into consciousness again. Now, Sir," he addressed the man he had first brought into the friendly shade, "maybe you can help me. Take one of his hands between your own and rub it just as hard as you can rub it, Sir; that's right ... now, take the other one and do the same with it. Your strong vitality will maybe help his weakness, Sir. We two together may be instruments in G.o.d's Hands to bring him back to earthly life again."

He put some drops of cordial on his tongue and chafed his limbs and turned him over many times until he saw some signs of returning consciousness and then he raised him up and rested his head upon his helper's breast and held the crucifix before his face so he would see it if his eyes would open; and his helper held the hands of him who seemed about to die and gazed with eagerness into his countenance.

The good Priest saw this look upon his helper's face and joyed to see it there instead of the malevolent expression that had rested on his rather handsome features only a short time before.

At length, the sufferer resting on the other's breast opened his wide eyes and gazed upon the crucifix and motioned that it be brought nearer to his dying lips; he kissed it, then, devoutly, and his deathless spirit pa.s.sed to Him Who gave it life at first.

Father Felix gently laid his body down upon the ground and placed the crucifix upon his cold, still breast, and, then, he said to him who watched it all in silence:

"You see, Sir, some are happier to have the crucifix to kiss before they go to meet their Maker; I did not know that you felt as you said you did about it. I beg your pardon, Sir ... I humbly beg your pardon."

CHAPTER XIX

On July 17, 1898, United States troops marched into and took possession of the city of Santiago, thereby completing the a.s.surance of independence to Cuba.

On that auspicious day Ruth Wakefield closed her temporary hospital and turned over to its new owner the little cottage which she had built to shelter her small family during her stay near Santiago; with tears of joy as well as sorrow, she had said good-bye to Estrella and her new-found relatives who were about to return to the home of the latter; Father Felix had decided to return to his little flock at San Domingo as he felt that his work with the army was finished, so that, in his company and with old Mage and Tid-i-wats safely ensconced near to her, she sailed upon the first steamer going toward Havana after there was no longer need of her help among the American soldiers.

It was with mingled feelings of joy and sorrow that she left the scene of her recent activities ... she was carrying with her many sad memories of heroism and of suffering borne with patriotic patience ... her heart was heavy when she reflected upon the horrors she had witnessed, but her spirit was loyal to the sacred cause for which so many splendid lives had been sacrificed ... she could see, with prophetic vision, a happy and prosperous race of people taking the place of the down-trodden and pitiful company of cowering peasants with which she had been all too familiar ... it seemed to her that she could see the smiling faces of many happy children crowding along the narrow streets of the small villages of Cuba ... it seemed to her that she could almost hear old men relating the long-past horrors that had been common under the iron heel of the Spanish oppressor ... relating these remembered facts to those who shook their heads, half doubtingly, as they listened to them.

Ruth herself, was looking forward with bright antic.i.p.ation to her return to her own beloved home ... dear to her, not only because of its intrinsic attractiveness, but also because of the precious memories it held of her parents whom she constantly mourned for and kept alive within her loving heart; for so it is, as I believe, that those who are beyond the earth yet live among us who are yet in human form; I think that those who are made welcome in the hearts of men and women continue, often, their stay within the circle of humanity; so long as mortals remember and long for them, so long will they care to wander among the hills and mountains and along the pleasant valleys and by the oceans and the rivers of the earth; if they should be forgotten by all humanity, it does not seem to me that they would often wish to look upon the moonlight or the sunlight of our world; if nowhere in our world their spirits could find a resting-place, it seems to me they would not care to stray among mortal men and women.

Freed souls, as I believe, are not compelled to a.s.sociate with those who are uncongenial to them; they do not have to yield their finest taste and dearest wishes, as so many mortals do, to what is far beneath them ... far beneath their inner consciousness of right and wrong. They do not, as I hope, just because they made some sad mistake, go on suffering for dreary years, as many women have, because they saw no way of sure release except through death itself.

It is a pitiful but well-established fact that many wives and mothers have borne long years of martyrdom because, in their first youth, they made unfortunate matrimonial alliances.

There are so very many ways to put on binding-chains in human life; there are so many changes common to most mortals, steadfastness and truth are such rare qualities, that I sometimes wonder how men and women manage even as well as they do.

Sometimes, we criticize our fellow-men and fellow-women pretty harshly, but, then, perhaps, we only see one side, and if we could look down from some great height, perhaps we, then, would marvel that they do as well as they do, now, with human life.

There have been those who honestly expected that, when they would leave their earthly tenements, they would go to sleep, when they had gone across the unknown river that they knew as death's cold stream, and, maybe, sleep a thousand years or so; they must have dreaded that last, long sleep, especially if they, as might have happened, had never been very sound or very quiet sleepers ... if they had always seemed to be on guard and wakened at the slightest unfamiliar sound ... the thought that they would just lie silently within the narrow grave they must have known it was intended they should be put in must have been a most unpleasant one; they must have edged around it all they could and seldom mentioned it to anyone around them, and, yet, that horrid thought ...

that last, long sleep ... must have, often, been present in their waking thoughts, and must have, even, sometimes, haunted them in their dreams.

But I believe that we go right on living when we leave the earth-plane; I believe that most of us will be wide awake and conscious from the very start of that larger life that we will, then, begin to live. I hope that we will find that we do not have to sleep at all unless we choose to do so.

Ruth Wakefield kept the memories of her parents in her heart and so she always had them with her where she went, and, now, that she was going back where they and she had spent so very many happy years together, it was natural that she should think of them even more than common; a feeling of deep sadness stole across her mind whenever she reflected on her parents and their home, somehow; she could not account for this at all ... she could not satisfy herself that she had any real reason for this feeling of sadness ... but it would creep over her in spite of her efforts to banish it from her mind; old Mage felt this and tried to cheer her dear young lady up ... little Tid-i-wats felt it and rubbed against her lovingly and purred her little happy song of comfort and content ... and, yet, Ruth Wakefield dreaded, while she longed for, her own home, and, as the vessel they were on drew near to Havana, this feeling of unaccountable sadness deepened with the girl ... she drew her breath in sharply and a deep and heart-felt sigh broke from her lips as they reached the landing-place and left the wild and treacherous waters far behind them.

Father Felix wondered if this evident sadness and dread were due, in part, to the experiences through which they had both pa.s.sed, and also, the thought of the man whom Ruth had married surrept.i.tiously would often cross the mind of the good Priest, for he knew well she often must remember him and his das.h.i.+ng, dark and manly beauty; old Mage almost cursed him in her fierce old heart when she noticed that Ruth was sad although she'd always been so glad to come back home.

"It's that fellow's fault!" she grumbled to herself. "It's all his fault ... I hope he's good and dead by this time! I'm sure I'd help to make him so, most willingly! What did he want to come into her young life and almost ruin it for? The low-lived pup!"

They started out, as dusk was falling, the day they reached Havana, to go to San Domingo, and, then, home; Father Felix went with them as far as his refectory, and there he bade them a cheerful good-bye and said he'd come up, soon, and see them in their home again.

Ruth, somehow, feared to say good-bye to the good Priest and kept his hand in hers much longer than was her wont with any man ... he was a bulwark for anyone who clung to him for strength ... his was a nature strong and good and clean and kind.... Ruth felt this more than usually, that evening, and dreaded to go on without him; he noticed this strange mood in her and said with cheery acquiescence:

"Perhaps I'd better go on up the hill with you, my Daughter. I can as well as not. No one awaits me except my little choir-boys and they have managed a long time without me. If you will wait a moment while I look about a bit, I'll just go on up with you and see you nicely settled in your own old place and then I'll come back here and settle down myself."

Suiting his actions to his words, the good Priest looked around and climbed the hill with Ruth and her small retinue; the path seemed so familiar with the shadows falling all around it, that she laughed and said to Father Felix:

"I am a coward, after all ... afraid of friendly wind-mills like Don Quixote ... having had to do so much with Spaniards may have made me like them in some degree at least.... I wonder if Cervantes was afraid, himself, of things that no one ought to be afraid of! I wonder if Sancho Panza was afraid, too ... was Rozinante...."

And, then, she stopped, for they had reached what had been, once, the outer gate of her palatial residence; there was no gate there ... there was no residence ... there was no life there ... it was the tomb of hope and home for her; the dwelling had been razed completely ... in its stead were only smouldering ruins ... all her precious memories ... her visible and tangible reminders of her parents ... had been swept away ... she had paid an awful price for helping those who needed help from her.

Father Felix stood beside her with his hand upon her shoulder ... he could not say a word of consolation or of any sort of help ... he was dumbfounded by it all; old Mage sunk down upon the ground and wept, and Tid-i-wats came close to Ruth and rubbed against her garments; stooping, then, she picked her little pet up and held her closely clasped within her sheltering arms; then she went to her old nurse and said to her:

"Do not despair, my dear old Friend. G.o.d will provide for us, some way.

This is a dreadful thing, but we must make the very best of it that we can possibly. I will try to think of some way whereby we may be sheltered for this one night that is before us and then I hope to find some way to rebuild a portion of the residence we used to have here on this blessed spot. Let's bear this, dear old Friend. Let's think we gave our home to save this country for the people who inhabit it and may their homes be just as full of peace and comfort and joy and gladness as this one that is gone has been for all who came beneath its friendly roof."

The Father Felix stood beside her and said: