by Anthology
If Colonel Hopkins had been less intent upon his own wrongs, he must unquestionably have noticed the agitation of his second-in-command. But he was wholly taken up with his grievance, and Leslie's confusion passed undetected.
"I expect this transfer means additional honour and perhaps another promotion for you," continued the Colonel, though with a shade less gruffness in his voice than before, "so I oughtn't to object. But I hate like the devil to lose you, and that's a fact." He hesitated an instant, and then went on in a still more kindly tone, "I'd like to say for myself, while I have the chance — and I'm confident that I can speak for the other officers of the 92nd — that you've made us all like you more than a little, and we'll not only be sorry to lose a smart officer, but a good friend and comrade as well." He rose to his feet and held out his hand. "Don't forget the old regiment, Colonel. If we can ever help you any in your future career, remember that we'll be more than glad to do it."
In spite of the chaos in his mind, Leslie was touched by the words and manner of his grey-haired commander. He gratefully returned the honest pressure of the Colonel's hand and murmuring a stammered sentence of appreciation, turned away hastily and quitted the room.
Once outside of his superior's quarters, he strove to pull himself together and think connectedly. But try as he might, he could find but one solution to the riddle of this unexpected summons, and that solution filled him with the most sombre forebodings. In some manner, Colonel Villon had unearthed the true history of the Peking mission and Leslie had to acknowledge to himself that the most he could hope for was dismissal from the Service he had grown to love so well. At all events, he thought with a certain grim satisfaction, if he must stand court-martial for his long-past fault, he could at least prove to his accusers that although he had once been guilty of weakness and cowardice, he had since shown beyond all question that he did not lack courage and endurance. And in this reflection he found much comfort.
Armed with a copy of the order relieving him from duty, Leslie sought the chief of railways and prevailed upon that precise-minded functionary to arrange for his departure with a British battalion which was scheduled to leave during the early morning hours of the following day. This done, he returned to his own quarters and commenced to make ready his scanty kit. The news of his supposed transfer spread rapidly through the regiment. When he rode out to his post on the right of the line of majors at afternoon parade, there was an outburst of cheering from the companies, still standing at ease, led by the men of his old battalion, and though the performance was one totally discountenanced by the regulations of the Service, it is worthy of note that quite an appreciable interval was permitted to elapse before the regimental adjutant trotted forward and stilled the uproar by bringing the long line to attention. Leslie's sun-blackened face was scarlet under its covering of tan, but he sat his horse like a statue, and only the nervous movement of the fingers that held the bridle betrayed his feeling to the outer world.
When the companies were dismissed, there was another demonstration. Men who had fought under him on the banks of the Sungari and followed him into the death pit at Yentai now crowded about him to wish him God-speed. They remembered the many little things he had done for them, in the trenches, on the march, amid the heat and hurry of conflict. They remembered how he had studied their needs with unwearied patience, how he had watched over them, each one individually, and taught them to feel that although he wore the distinguishing marks of an officer, he was nevertheless their friend and comrade. And they remembered, too, how in the face of danger he had always gone before to show them the way.
"There's some compensation in not being a brass-bound general," said Hopkins to his adjutant, as he watched the scene. "It's worth a good deal to be able to know the men you command and to have them know and appreciate you."
He spoke with the confidence of experience, for he had been a popular battalion commander in his day and was even now honoured with the enduring affection of as many in his regiment as had worn its uniform long enough to estimate him at his real worth. Perhaps that was one reason why the 92nd had earned the reputation of a fighting command, and why the men of the 92nd stayed by their officers when hell itself broke loose and died for them with a cheerfulness that was at once the envy and admiration of less favoured regimental chiefs.
When at length Leslie was permitted to escape from the circle of his admirers, he bore with him the realisation that for all the suffering he had endured, he had received a great reward. In his former service, he had cared little for the adulation of his fellows. If he could gain the cold, official approval of his superiors, he had felt satisfied and never troubled himself to seek the praise of even those in his own department who, while they were compelled to admit that he was an efficient officer, who did his duty well and understandingly, considered him a rather reserved and unapproachable sort of chap who preferred to go his own way and be let alone, and let him alone accordingly. But the ordeal through which he had passed had broadened his sympathies and opened his heart to those about him; and he had learned that to win the love and esteem of even the humblest enlisted man, who gave these priceless gifts only when they had been fully deserved, was distinctly worth while. And in spite of the dark time that lay before him, he found room in his heart for a prayer of thankfulness that the trial had been sent to him and made his life what it had become.
Although the period for preparation was short, his mess gave him a farewell dinner and drank his health amid shouts of approbation; and when he rose to return thanks, the uproar grew so loud and sustained that he might have recited the multiplication table in lieu of making a speech and sat down again in the full confidence and conviction that not a soul present was a whit the wiser.
"My word!" said the captain of K company, reaching for his glass to refresh a throat made dry by prolonged and extravagant use; "I wouldn't miss this for my step and the D.S.M. thrown in." And every one who heard him fully agreed.
At length when the mess servants had cleared away the remains of the feast, when the coffee had come and gone, and the thick tobacco smoke which filled the room had begun to turn stale, Leslie took formal leave of his comrades-in-arms in a voice not altogether under control. A little group of the ones to whom he had been drawn the closest through the bitter months of the war — Colonel Hopkins, Major West, who had been his senior captain before Yentai, and two or three more — accompanied him to the station, where the train was already awaiting the signal to depart.
"Good-bye, Ben," said the tall Major; "be sure to look us up when we get back to town."
"Give our regards to the folks at home," added Captain Harris, the adjutant of the regiment; "and tell them we're coming."
And last of all came the voice of Colonel Hopkins, "Au revoir, Colonel! We'll hope to see you again soon!"
Leslie stood on the rear platform of the last car and watched them as the train rolled slowly out into the night, and when at last the station lights blurred and ran together with the rapidly increasing distance, he squared his shoulders grimly and turned to enter the car.
"They're damned good fellows," he muttered to himself; "I wonder what they'll say when they know?"
Through the tiresome days of the lengthy journey that followed, his sorrow at leaving the warm friends he would in all probability never meet again, was swallowed up in the contemplation of his future. He wondered sometimes how she would receive him when he returned to her, disgraced and with his life empty and broken. He would ask her forgiveness very humbly for the sorrow he had caused her, and she would grant it because she loved him and because he, too, had suffered much. He would take her in his arms once more and see again the light quiver in her grey eyes and feel the touch of her soft, warm lips upon his own, and then he would go away. Somewhere in the world there was work for him to do, and if he was faithful in the performance of his task and patient, perhaps after years had passed, men would forget that he had once worn the Police uniform.
And so at last he came to London,
and stood at Colonel Villon's door.
Chapter XXIV
Colonel Smith Comes Off The Army List
LONDON. The level rays of the sun, already declining into late afternoon, lighted up the western fronts of the buildings tall enough to emerge from the shadows cast by their neighbours across the street, and flashed in dazzling shafts from their multitudinous windows, until it seemed as though half the city had entered into a common conspiracy and was frantically heliographing messages to accomplices on the distant horizon line. In the streets which ran in such a direction as to permit the warm beams to flood through their entire length, there was an air of spring and of growing things thrusting upwards through the softened earth, and a hint of the long, lazy days to come. Pretty women emerged from their pupal coverings of winter furs and garments of sombre hues, and flamed forth in bright colourings, like so many gorgeous Lepidoptera, bursting from dull cocoons to flaunt gaudy wings in the sunshine. Even the more sober-minded males abandoned the overcoats to which until now they had clung, so as to be provided with a buckler in the event of the retreating forces of winter rallying for a last assault, and boldly defied the cold weather to attempt its worst.
Into the small but richly furnished office of Colonel Villon, situated in the southwest corner of the Federation buildings in Hyde Park, the warm light streamed through the triple Gothic windows, making bright the low-ceilinged interior and lingering with a friendly caress upon the kindly countenance of the stout Intelligence Chief as he sat at his broad desk. On the opposite side of the room, the lean, white-headed form of Admiral Barrows was extended in the most comfortable chair the apartment afforded, and at a little distance from him, another leather-covered chair accommodated the erect figure of General St. John.
"It is indeed kind of you, my friends," the Colonel was saying, "to come to this consultation at my request — you, who have your time occupied with so many affairs of importance to the Federation. But it is a question of justice which made me desire to talk with you — of justice to the Federation and to a brave man as well — and for such a matter, it is necessary that some trouble should be taken, is it not?"
"Oh, don't stop to apologise, Colonel," said Barrows somewhat impatiently; "we know you wouldn't have asked us to come here unless it was something out of the ordinary. What is it you have on your mind now?"
"You have among your officers, my General," Villon went on, addressing himself to St. John, "a certain Colonel Benjamin Smith, who — you will pardon me for speaking of a matter unpleasant to you — appeared from nowhere to give you aid at a critical time in the early days of the war, and has since gained for himself much prominence by reason of his service in the Army of Manchuria. .See then, it has recently come to my knowledge that this Colonel Smith is, or rather wa —"
"Captain Gardiner, of your own department," interrupted Barrows coolly. "Well?"
"Thousand devils!" cried the astonished Colonel; "you know that, my Admiral? Is it that you are a sorcerer?"
"No sorcery about it," replied the unruffled naval officer. "You remember that you sent this fellow, Smith, down to me when I was planning the Peking raid, St. John? Well, when I talked the scheme over with him, he said things that no one but an Intelligence officer had any right to say. I pressed him a bit, and he admitted that he was Captain Gardiner. I would just about have taken his word for it unsupported, in view of the special information he possessed, but in addition, his incognito had been uncovered by one of my own officers, who had known him before he disappeared."
"Sacred name of a saint!" exclaimed Villon; "and you knew all this last summer — and told no one!"
"What was the use?" returned Barrows. "I needed the man at the time, and he was a lot more help to the Federation where he was than he would have been hanging about London, waiting to be court-martialled. Besides, I took a liking to him right from the start, and as long as the other affair was over and done with, I was willing to give him a chance to redeem himself."
Villon looked at St. John, but the General could only gasp helplessly, and his mouth opened and shut in a manner strikingly similar to that usually displayed by a fish out of water. In fact the General was out — totally out — of his element, and stranded high and dry upon an arid bank of incomprehension. The Colonel was the first to speak, and he did it with a gesture of ludicrous despair.
"And this could pass under my very eyes and I know nothing of it! Eh, my friends, it is like the good God to humble our presumption, lest we grow overwise and become vain! But that is beside the point. I have learned a part of the history of this Captain Gardiner or Colonel Smith — whichever you will — and one may guess the rest. Eh, it is a strange story, though I, who have lived so many years and seen so much, know that in this world anything is possible. But it is necessary to talk this matter over before proceeding further — yes, that is required. I have sent for the Captain to meet us here." His keen eye detected a rapid glance which his auditors exchanged and he added hastily, "Please to understand me, my friends. I wish the man well, but one must think of the Service."
"Of course — the Service," agreed St. John dubiously; "but let's do the best we can for the chap."
Villon nodded comprehension and pressed a button under one corner of his desk-top, and in immediate response to the summons, the door of the office swing open and Leslie entered the room. His quick perception took in the men who would pass judgment upon him, even while he crossed the threshold, and the tense superiors.
"Please to be seated, Captain Gardiner," said the Colonel kindly; "we have much to discuss, and you know the old tradition of the Service — 'Under the colours there are officers and men; outside there are only men.' And we are not under the colours here." Barrows nodded approvingly. With his usual tact, the generous-hearted Intelligence Chief had indicated the unofficial nature of the gathering, and his words conveyed to Leslie the assurance that he was among friends and not before a mercilessly just tribunal. Whatever the outcome might be, the harassed officer felt that the sympathies of his hearers were with him; and he had never needed sympathy more than now.
"I have already told you, my Captain," the Colonel continued, when Leslie had seated himself, "what caused me to have you recalled from the regiment you have served so well. These gentlemen know something of your history, and I, perhaps, know a little more than they; but there is a thing which no one knows but you alone, and that is the true story of the Peking mission, which you will tell to us now. When you have done this, we can better determine what course to pursue, both for your own greatest good and the greatest good of the Federation, which demands of those who serve it not less than the fullest measure of service and devotion."
They were very quiet for a time after Leslie had finished his recital. St. John pulled gravely at his heavy moustache and Admiral Barrows thoughtfully shaded his hard, lined face with his hand. Only Colonel Villon seemed unsatisfied, and plainly debated with himself whether to give utterance to what was in his mind, or remain silent. Suddenly he turned in his chair and faced the younger officer.
"You have not told us," he said slowly, "why, at that time, life had become a thing so precious to you that to purchase it, you were willing to give your honour and good name. These are treasures which most men hold are of greater value even than life itself. We, who know your courage and loyalty, find it difficult to believe that because of lack of courage, you failed to endure even so terrible a test."
Leslie hesitated, and his face showed paler in the clear light of the fading day.
"I have told all there is to tell," he said at length, though his voice shook a little.
"No, my friend," returned Villon gently, "you have not told all, and though it is with great regret that I lay bare the secrets of your heart, it must be done to show why a brave man should unaccountably become a coward."
Barrows drew in his breath quickly and sat up in his chair, and St. John ceased tugging at his moustache to stare at the speaker with an expression of puzzled interest.
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"It is in my mind," the Colonel pursued, "that at some time before he was ordered upon this so difficult and hazardous duty, Captain Gardiner had met with a woman who had become more to him than anything else in the world — more to him even than his honour and reputation. Is not this so?" He appealed to Leslie directly, and the latter could only bow his head in silent assent.
"Now how the deuce did you learn that?" asked St. John, breaking harshly into the tense atmosphere of the little room.
"It was not I," replied Villon, becoming suddenly apologetic. "The credit is due to my daughter, who in some way known only to a woman, discovered the secret of our friend. But when she had told me, I could understand."
"I guess I can, too," said Barrows; "though Lord knows, it's a long time since — " He stopped abruptly, as if ashamed of the confession he had not made. "But let's get down to business. What we must decide is whether we ought to pass this affair over, in consideration of Gardiner's subsequent record, or have him court-martialled and broke for cowardice. Is that it, Colonel?"
Villon did not reply to the question immediately. Instead he signed to Leslie, who hastily arose and left the room. When the door had closed behind the accused man, the Colonel turned to Barrows.
"— For cowardice — and treason," he said in a low voice. "Yes, my Admiral, that is what I mean."
"By Jove, Villon," exclaimed St. John;, "the matter does look rather nasty, put in that light. We might get over the cowardice — quite excusable under the circumstances and considering Gardiner's record since — but the other — I'm not so sure."
"Hold on a minute," said the Admiral. "Let's see just where we stand. How many know of this affair besides ourselves?"
"No one," replied Villon quickly. "All the others believe that Captain Gardiner died — when the Major did."
"There's that officer of mine," Barrows considered, "who, I suspect, knows all that we do, if not more. But he's Gardiner's friend and can be trusted to keep his mouth shut. Yes, I think the matter rests entirely with us."
