Part 16 (1/2)

”As I said, your rulers will get their deserts in time, but I think, Baron von Dressler, your Nemesis has come on you already. That little poor kid is asking you for her mother. Don't forget it in the years to come, Baron. No, I don't think you _will_ forget it.”

My story is finished. Later on, when some of the dreadful nightmare through which she had pa.s.sed had been effaced from her mind, Maisie and the man who had come to her out of the grey waters discussed many things. And the story which the Prussian had told her after the dance on the flags.h.i.+p was finally discredited.

Can anyone recommend me a good cheap book on ”Things a Best Man Should Know”?

CHAPTER VII

THE DEATH GRIP

Two reasons have impelled me to tell the story of Hugh Latimer, and both I think are good and sufficient. First I was his best friend, and second I know more about the tragedy than anyone else--even including his wife.

I saw the beginning and the end; she--poor broken-hearted girl--saw only the end.

There have been many tragedies since this war started; there will be many more before Finis is written--and each, I suppose, to its own particular sufferers seems the worst. But, somehow, to my mind Hugh's case is without parallel, unique--the devil's arch of cruelty. I will give you the story--and you shall judge for yourself.

Let us lift the curtain and present a dug-out in a support trench somewhere near Givenchy. A candle gutters in a bottle, the grease running down like a miniature stalact.i.te congeals on an upturned packing-case. On another packing-case the remnants of a tongue, some sardines, and a goodly array of bottles with some tin mugs and plates completes the furniture--or almost. I must not omit the handsome coloured pictures--three in all--of ladies of great beauty and charm, clad in--well, clad in something at any rate. The occupants of this palatial abode were Hugh Latimer and myself; at the rise of the curtain both lying in corners, on piles of straw.

Outside, a musician was coaxing noises from a mouth-organ; occasional s.n.a.t.c.hes of song came through the open entrance, intermingled with bursts of laughter. One man, I remember, was telling an interminable story which seemed to be the history of a gentleman called n.o.bby Clark, who had dallied awhile with a lady in an estaminet at Bethune, and had ultimately received a knock-out blow with a frying-pan over the right eye, for being too rapid in his attentions. Just the usual dull, strange, haunting trench life--which varies not from day's end to day's end.

At intervals a battery of our own let drive, the blast of the explosion catching one through the open door; at intervals a big German sh.e.l.l moaned its way through the air overhead--an express bound for somewhere.

Had you looked out to the front, you would have seen the bright green flares lobbing monotonously up into the night, all along the line.

War--modern war; boring, incredible when viewed in cold blood....

”Hullo, Hugh.” A voice at the door roused us both from our doze, and the Adjutant came in. ”Will you put your watches right by mine? We are making a small local attack to-morrow morning, and the battalion is to leave the trenches at 6.35 exactly.”

”Rather sudden, isn't it?” queried Hugh, setting his watch.

”Just come through from Brigade Headquarters. Bombs are being brought up to H.15. Further orders sent round later. Bye-bye.”

He was gone, and once more we sat thinking to the same old accompaniment of trench noises; but in rather a different frame of mind. To-morrow morning at 6.35 peace would cease; we should be out and running over the top of the ground; we should be...

”Will they use gas, I wonder?” Hugh broke the silence.

”Wind too fitful,” I answered; ”and I suppose it's only a small show.”

”I wonder what it's for. I wish one knew more about these affairs; I suppose one can't, but it would make it more interesting.”

The mouth-organ stopped; there were vigorous demands for an encore.

”Poor devils,” he went on after a moment. ”I wonder how many?--I wonder how many?”

”A new development for you, Hugh.” I grinned at him. ”Merry and bright, old son--your usual motto, isn't it?”

He laughed. ”Dash it, Ginger--you can't always be merry and bright. I don't know why--perhaps it's second sight--but I feel a sort of presentiment of impending disaster to-night. I had the feeling before Clements came in.”

”Rot, old man,” I answered cheerfully. ”You'll probably win a V.C., and the greatest event of the war will be when it is presented to your cheeild.”

Which prophecy was destined to prove the cruellest mixture of truth and fiction the mind of man could well conceive....