CHAPTER III
THE VETERANS OF OTHER DAYS
WHEN Peter was able to travel, he was taken home to Beaver Dam, andthere a medical officer, a major in spurs, examined him andcongratulated him on being alive. Peter was given six months' sickleave; and that, he knew, killed his chance of crossing the ocean withhis battalion. He protested, but the officer told him that, whether inbed in his father's house or with his platoon, he was still in the armyand would have to do as he was told. The officer said it kindly andadded that as soon as he was fit he should return to his battalion,whether it was in Canada, England or Flanders.
Jim Hammond vanished. The army marked him as a deserter, and even hisown battalion forgot him. Confused rumors circulated round his homevillage for a little while and then faded and expired. As Jim Hammondvanished from the knowledge and thought of men, so vanished themysterious rifleman who had splintered Peter's rib.
Spring brought the great news of the stand of the First CanadianDivision at Ypres--the stand of the few against the many, of theCanadian militia against the greatest and most ruthless fighting machineof the whole world. The German army was big and ready, but it was notgreat as we know greatness now. The little Belgians had already checkedit and pierced the joints of its armor; the French had beaten it againstodds; the little old army of England, with its monocles and its tea andits pouter-chested sergeant majors, had outshot it and outfought it atevery meeting; and now three brigades of Canadian infantry and a fewbatteries of Canadian artillery had stood undaunted before its deluge ofmetal and strangling gas and held it back from the open road to Calaisand Paris.
Lieut. Pat Hammond wrote home about the battle. He had been in the edgeof it and had escaped unhurt. Henry Starkley, of the First FieldCompany, was there, too. He received a slight wound. Private letters andthe great stories of the newspapers thrilled the hearts of thousands ofpeaceful, unheroic folk. Volunteers flowed in from lumber camps andfarms.
In May Dick Starkley made the great move of his young life. He was nowseventeen years old and sound and strong. He saw that Peter could notget away with his battalion--that, unless something unexpected happened,the Second Canadian Division would get away without a Starkley of BeaverDam.
So he did the unexpected thing: he went away to St. John without a word,introduced himself to Sgt. Dave Hammer as Peter's brother, added a yearto his age and became a member of the 26th Battalion. He found FrankSacobie there, already possessed of all the airs of an old soldier.
Dick sent a telegram to his father and a long, affectionate, confusedletter to his mother. His parents understood and forgave and went to St.John and told him so--and Peter sent word that he, too, understood; andDick was happy. Then with all his thought and energy and ambition he setto work to make himself a good soldier.
Peter did not grumble again about his sick leave. His wound healed; andas the warm days advanced he grew stronger with every day. He had beenwounded in the performance of his duty as surely as if a German hadfired the shot across the mud of No Man's Land; so he accepted thoseextra months in the place and life he loved with a gratitude that wasnone the less deep for being silent.
In June the Battalion embarked for England, in strength eleven hundrednoncommissioned officers and men and forty-two officers. After anuneventful voyage of eleven days they reached Devenport, in England, onthe twenty-fourth day of the month. The three other battalions of thebrigade had reached England a month before; the 26th joined them at thetraining camps in Kent and immediately set to work to learn the scienceof modern warfare. They toiled day and night with vigor and constancy;and before fall the battalion was declared efficient for service at thefront.
Both Dick Starkley and Frank Sacobie throve on the hard work. Themusketry tests proved Sacobie to be one of the best five marksmen in thebattalion. Dick was a good shot, too, but fell far below his friend atthe longer ranges. In drill, bombing and physical training, Dick showedhimself a more apt pupil than the Malecite. At trench digging and routemarching there was nothing to choose between them, in spite of the factthat Sacobie had the advantage of a few inches in length of leg. Bothwere good soldiers, popular with their comrades and trusted by theirofficers. Both were in Dave Hammer's section and Mr. Scammell's platoon.
One afternoon in August Henry Starkley turned up at Westenhanger, onseven days' leave from France. He looked years older than when Dick hadlast seen him and thinner of face, and on his left breast was stitchedthe ribbon of the military cross. He obtained a pass for Dick and tookhim up to London. They put up at a quiet hotel off the Strand, at whichHenry had stopped on his frequent week-end visits to town from SalisburyPlain. As they were engaged in filling in the complicated and exhaustiveregistration form the hall porter gave Henry three letters and told himthat a gentleman had called several times to see him.
"What name?" asked Henry.
"That he didn't tell me, sir," replied the porter, "but as it was himwrote the letters you have in your hand you'll soon know, sir."
Henry opened one of the envelopes and turned the inclosure over in questof the writer's signature. There it was--J. A. Starkley-Davenport. Allthree letters were from the same hand, penned at dates several weeksapart. They said that before her marriage the writer's mother had been aMiss Mary Starkley, daughter of a London merchant by the name of RichardStarkley. Richard Starkley, a colonial by birth with trade connectionswith the West Indies, had come from Beaver Dam in the province of NewBrunswick. The letters said further that their writer had read in thecasualty lists the name of Lieut. Henry Starkley of the CanadianEngineers, and that after diligent inquiry he had learned that this sameofficer had registered at the Canadian High Commissioner's office inOctober, 1914, and given his London address as the Tudor Hotel. Failingto obtain any further information concerning Henry Starkley, the writerhad kept a constant eye on the Tudor Hotel. He begged Mr. Henry Starkleyto ring up Mayfair 2607, without loss of time, should any one of theseletters ever come to his hand.
"What's his hurry, I wonder?" remarked Henry. "After three generationswithout a word I guess he'll have to wait until to-morrow morning tohear from the Starkleys of Beaver Dam."
"Why not let him wait for three more generations?" suggested Dick. "Hisgrandfather, that London merchant, soon forgot about the people back inthe woods at Beaver Dam. Since the second battle of Ypres, this lad withthe hitched-up-double name wants to be seen round with you, Henry."
"If that's all, he does not want much," said Henry. "We'll take a lookat him, anyway. Don't forget that the first Starkley of Beaver Dam wasonce an English soldier and that there was a first battle of Ypresbefore there was a second."
The brothers, the lieutenant of engineers and the infantry private, haddinner at a restaurant where there were shaded candles and music; thenthey went to a theater. Although the war was now only a year old, Londonhad already grown accustomed to the "gentleman ranker." Brothers,cousins and even sons of officers in the little old army were nowprivate soldiers and noncommissioned officers in the big new army. Theuniform was the great thing. Rank badges denoted differences of degree,not of kind. So Lieut. Henry Starkley and Private Dick Starkley,together at their little luxurious table for two and later elbow toelbow at the theater, did not cause comment. Immediately after breakfastthe next morning Henry rang up the Mayfair number. A voice of inquiringdeference, a voice that suggested great circumspection and extremepolish, answered him. Henry asked for Mr. Starkley-Davenport.
"You want the captain, sir," corrected the voice. "Mr. David was killedat Ypres in '14. What name, sir?"
"Starkley," replied Henry.
"Of Canada, sir? Of Beaver Dam? Here is the captain, sir."
Another voice sounded in Henry's ear, asking whether it was HenryStarkley of the sappers on the other end of the line. Henry replied inthe affirmative.
"It is Jack Davenport speaking--Starkley-Davenport," continued thevoice. "Glad you have my letters at last. Are you at the same hotel? Canyou wait there
half an hour for me?"
"I'll wait," said Henry.
He and Dick awaited the arrival of the grandson of Richard Starkley withlively curiosity. That he was a captain, and that some one connectedwith him, perhaps a brother, had been killed at Ypres in 1914, addedconsiderable interest to him in their eyes.
"Size him up before trying any of your old-soldier airs on him, youngfellow," warned Henry.
They sat in the lounge of the hotel and kept a sharp watch on everyonewho entered by the revolving doors. It was a quiet place, as hotels goin London, but during the half hour of their watching more people thanthe entire population of Beaver Dam were presented to their scrutiny. Atlast a pale young fellow in a Panama hat and a gray-flannel suitentered. Under his left shoulder was a crutch and in his right hand abig, rubber-shod stick. His left knee was bent, and his left foot swungclear of the ground. His hands were gloved in gray, and he wore asmoke-blue flower in his buttonhole. Only his necktie was out of tonewith the rest of his equipment: it was in stripes of blue and red andyellow. Behind him, close to his elbow, came a thin, elderly man who wasdressed in black.
"Lieut. Starkley?" he inquired of the hall porter.
At that Henry and Dick both sprang to their feet and went across to theman in gray. Before they could introduce themselves the young strangeredged himself against his elderly companion, thus making a prop of him,hooked the crook of his stick into a side pocket of his coat, andextended his right hand to Henry. He did it all so swiftly and smoothlythat it almost escaped notice; and, pitiful as it was, it almost escapedpity.
"Will you lunch with me--if you have nothing better to do?" he asked."You're on leave, I know, and it sounds cheek to ask--but I want to talkto you about something rather important."
"Of course--and here is my young brother," said Henry.
The captain shook hands with Dick and then stared at him.
"You are only a boy," he said; and then, seeing the blood mount toDick's tanned cheeks, he continued, "and all the better for that,perhaps. The nippiest man in my platoon was only nineteen."
"Of course you remember, sir, Mr. David had not attained his twentiethbirthday," the elderly man in black reminded him.
"You are right, Wilson," said the captain. "Hit in October, '14. He wasmy young brother. There were just the two of us. Shall we toddle along?I kept my taxi."
Capt. J. A. Starkley-Davenport occupied three rooms and a bath in hisown house, which was a big one in a desirable part of town. Theremaining rooms were occupied by his servants. And such servants!
The cook was so poor a performer that whenever the captain had guestsfor luncheon or dinner she sent out to a big hotel near by for the moreimportant dishes--but her husband had been killed in Flanders, and herthree sons were still in the field. Wilson, who had been Jack's father'scolor sergeant in South Africa, was the valet.
The butler was a one-armed man of forty-five years who had served as acompany sergeant major in the early days of the war; in rallying half adozen survivors of his company he had got his arm in the way of a chunkof high-explosive shell and had decorated his chest with theDistinguished Conduct Medal. He had only the vaguest notions what hisduties as butler required of him but occupied his time in arguing thedelicate question of seniority with Wilson and the coachman and makingfrequent reports to the captain.
The coachman, who had served forty years in the navy, most of the timeas chief petty officer, claimed seniority of the butler and Wilson onthe grounds of belonging to the senior service. But the ex-sergeantsargued that the captain's house was as much a bit of the army as brigadeheadquarters in France, and that the polite thing for any sailorman todo who found a home there was to forget all about seniority; and thatfor their part they did not believe the British navy was older than theBritish army.
Captain Starkley-Davenport introduced into this household his cousinsfrom Beaver Dam, without apologies and with only a few words ofexplanation. In spite of the butler's protests, the valet and thecoachman intruded themselves on the luncheon party, pretending to waiton table, but in reality satisfying their curiosity concerning themilitary gentlemen from Canada whose name was the front half of thecaptain's name. They paused frequently in their light duties round thetable and frankly gave ear to the conversation. Their glances went fromface to face with childish eagerness, intent on each speaker in turn.The captain did not mind, for he was accustomed to their ways and theirdevouring interest in him; Henry was puzzled at first and then amused;and Dick was highly flattered.
"There isn't anyone of our blood in our regiment now, and that is what Iparticularly want to talk to you chaps about," said the captain, after alittle talk on general subjects. "My father and young brother are gone,and the chances are that I won't get back. But the interests of theregiment are still mine--and I want the family to continue to have astake in it. No use asking you to transfer, Henry, I can see that; youare a sapper and already proved in the field, and I know how sappersfeel about their job; but Dick's an infantryman. What d'you say totransfer and promotion, Dick? You can get your commission in one of ournew battalions as easy as kiss. It will help you and the old regiment."
"But perhaps I shouldn't make a good officer," replied Dick. "I've neverbeen in action, you know."
"Don't worry about that. I'll answer for your quality. You wouldn't haveenlisted if the right stuff wasn't in you."
"But I'd like to prove it, first--although I'd like to be an officermighty well. That's what I intend to be some day. I think I'll stick tothe 26th a while. That would be fairer--and I'd feel better satisfied,if ever I won a commission, to have it in my own outfit. Frank Sacobiewould feel sore if I left him, before we'd ever been in France together,to be an officer in another outfit. But there is Peter. He is a corporalalready and a mighty good soldier."
He told all about Peter and the queer way he was wounded back in Canadaand then all about his friend, Frank Sacobie. The captain and the threeattendants listened with interest. The captain asked many questions; andthe butler, the valet and the coachman were on the point of doing thesame many times.
After luncheon Wilson, the elderly valet, took command gently but firmlyand led the captain off to bed. The brothers left the addresses ofthemselves and Peter with the captain and promised to call at everyopportunity and to bring Sacobie to see him at the first chance.
Dick and Frank Sacobie continued their training, and in July Dick gothis first stripe. A few members of the battalion went to the hospital,and a few were returned to Canada for one reason or another. In August alittle draft of men fresh from Canada came to the battalion.
One of the new men kept inquiring so persistently for Corp. PeterStarkley that in the course of time he was passed along to Dick, whotold him about Peter.
"I'm downright sorry to hear that," said the new arrival. "I saw him inMr. Hammond's store one day and took a shine to him, but as you're hisown brother I guess I'm in the right outfit. Hiram Sill is my name."
They shook hands cordially.
"I'm an American citizen and not so young as I used to be," continuedSill, "but the minute this war started I knew I'd be into it beforelong. Soldiering is a business now, and I am a business man. So itlooked to me as if I were needed--as if the energy I was expending inselling boots and shoes for Maddock & Co. would count some if turnedagainst the Kaiser. So I swore an oath to fight King George's enemies,and I guess I've made no mistake in that. King George and Hiram Sill seeeye to eye and tooth to tooth in this war like two coons at awatermelon."
In spite of the fact that Mr. Scammell's platoon was already up tostrength, Sill worked his way into it.
He had a very good reason for wanting to be in that particular platoon,and there were men already in it who had no particular reason forremaining in it instead of going to some other platoon; so--as Sill veryjustly remarked to Dick, to Sacobie, to Sergt. Hammer, to Lieut.Scammell and to Capt. Long--he did not see why he could not be where hewanted to be. Friendship for Frank Sacobie and Dick Starkley andadmiration for Ser
gt. Hammer and Lieut. Scammell were the reasons hegave for wanting to be in that platoon.
"He seems a friendly chap," said the adjutant to Mr. Scammell. "Will youtake him? If so, you can let the Smith with the red head go over toNumber Three, where he will be with a whole grist of lads from his ownpart of the country. What d'ye say? He looks smart and willing to me."
"Sure I'll take him," said Mr. Scammell. "He says he admires me."
So Hiram Sill became a member of Number Two Platoon. He worked with theenergy of a tiger and with the good nature of a lamb. He talked a greatdeal, but always with a view to acquiring or imparting knowledge. Whenhe found that his military duties and the cultivation of friendships didnot use up all his time and energy, he set himself to the task ofascertaining how many Americans were enrolled in the First and SecondCanadian divisions. Then indeed he became a busy man; and still his crycontinued to be that soldiering was a business.