Part 16 (1/2)

Something between a sob and a groan burst from the Sergeant.

”I've worn chevrons for twenty-seven years, sir,” he said. ”I was made a sergeant when I was twenty-five. I've handled all sorts of men and licked 'em into shape and I ain't got it on my conscience as I ever tried to make a man's lot any harder, or to discourage him, and I never spoke an insultin' word to a soldier in my life, and I hope I'll be called to report to the Great Commander before I do. But I said something chaffin'-like to that poor devil and he struck me, and I didn't hit him back--I didn't hit him back, thank G.o.d, nor threaten to report him. But I had to tell the truth to the Colonel and take part of the blame on myself.”

”That's right,” answered Broussard with deep feeling. The Sergeant little knew how great a stake Broussard had in the business.

”And the chaplain, he seen something was wrong with me and so did Missis McGillicuddy--she's a soldier, sir, is Missis McGillicuddy. I made a clean breast of it to the chaplain and he helped me a lot. I've been goin' to church on Sundays ever since I was married--to tell you the truth, sir, Missis McGillicuddy marched me off every Sunday without askin' me if it was agreeable, any more than she'd ask Ignatius or Aloysius. But since my trouble, I've gone of my own will, and I've headed the prayin' squad, I can tell you, Mr. Broussard.”

”And you took good care of the boy, you and Mrs. McGillicuddy,” said Broussard, who had learned of it from the letter written by Anita at Mrs.

Lawrence's request. The Sergeant took off his cap for a moment, baring his grey head to the biting cold.

”The best we could, so help me G.o.d. There wasn't nothin' me and Missis McGillicuddy could do for the kid as we didn't do. The chaplain told us we done too much, we was over-indulgent to the boy. But we taught him to do right, although we give him better food and better clothes than any of our own eight children ever had, and now----”

The Sergeant stood in silence for a moment, his cap once more in his hand, his head bowed. Broussard knew he was giving thanks.

Broussard, under cover of the darkness, took his way to the quarters which Mrs. Lawrence had never left. He knocked and, receiving no answer, entered the narrow pa.s.sage-way and walked into the little sitting-room.

Lawrence lay back in the arm chair in which his wife had spent so many hours of helpless misery. His face was paler than ever and his lank hair lay damp upon his forehead. Mrs. Lawrence, who had been suffering from the cruel malady known as a shamed and broken heart, sat by her husband, speaking words of cheer and tenderness. As Broussard entered she rose to her feet with new energy, no longer tottering as she walked, and placed both arms about Broussard's neck.

”Oh, my brother! The best of brothers,” she cried and could say no more for her tears.

Presently they were sitting together, all externally calm, but all filled with a tense emotion.

”Try to persuade her,” said Lawrence to Broussard, ”to go away before the court-martial sits. It will be too much for her.”

Mrs. Lawrence turned her dark eyes, once tragic but now br.i.m.m.i.n.g with light, full on Broussard. Broussard said to Lawrence:

”These angelic women are very obstinate.”

”Would your mother, of whom my husband has told me so much, go away if she were in my place?”

Both Broussard and Lawrence remained silent.

”Then,” said Mrs. Lawrence, ”can you blame me if I act as your mother would act?”

Broussard took her hand and kissed it; the marks of toil upon it went to his soul.

”But the boy must be sent away,” cried Lawrence.

”Yes, he may go,” replied Mrs. Lawrence, ”but I shall stay.”

It was nearly seven o'clock, the hour for dinner at the officers' club, before Broussard left the Lawrences' quarters. All the men at the club were delighted to see Broussard, and all of them told him he looked seedy and every one who had served in the Philippines and had caught the jungle fever proposed a different regimen for him, but all agreed that Fort Blizzard was a good place to recuperate and that the ”old man,” as the commanding officer is always called, was rather a decent fellow, and might let him stay, and then they plunged into garrison news and gossip.

Broussard was thoroughly glad to be back once more at the handsome mess table, with the bright faces of the subalterns around him and the cheery talk and honest laughter, but his heart was full of other things--Anita Fortescue, for instance, and Lawrence and his wife and the little boy.

Some questions were asked him about Lawrence. Broussard replied briefly that he found the man in San Francisco trying to get back to Fort Blizzard; he wanted to give himself up at the scene of his crime and Broussard had paid for his railway ticket.

”And brought him with you to keep him from getting away,” said Conway, ”very judicious thing to do with men like Lawrence.”

”I think he would have given himself up anyway,” Broussard replied quietly.

Military justice is short and simple and severe. Within forty-eight hours the court-martial sat. As Lawrence marched into the courtroom between two soldiers, guarding him, his wife, dressed in black, as always, and with Mrs. McGillicuddy sitting near her, rose from her seat and took another one as close to her husband as she could get and smiled encouragement at him. Lawrence, watching her tender gaze, burst into tears.