按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
without help； money； or affection he could each morning have
greeted it with a smile。 But life without honor！ He felt a sudden
hot nausea of disgust。 Why was he still clinging to what had
lost its purpose； to what lacked the one thing needful？
〃If life be an ill thing；〃 he thought； 〃I can lay it down！〃
The thought was not new to him； and during the two past weeks of
aimless wandering he had carried with him his service automatic。
To reassure himself he laid his fingers on its cold smooth surface。
He would wait； he determined； until the musicians had finished
their concert and the women and children had departed； and then
Then the orderly would find him where he was now seated； sunken
against the hawser…post with a hole through his heart。 To his disordered
brain his decision appeared quite sane。 He was sure he never had been
more calm。 And as he prepared himself for death he assured himself
that for one of his standard no other choice was possible。 Thoughts
of the active past； or of what distress in the future his act would bring
to others； did not disturb him。 The thing had to be； no one lost more
heavily than himself； and regrets were cowardly。
He counted the money he had on his person and was pleased to find
there was enough to pay for what services others soon must render
him。 In his pockets were letters； cards； a cigarette…case； each of
which would tell his identity。 He had no wish to conceal it； for of
what he was about to do he was not ashamed。 It was not his act。
He would not have died 〃by his own hand。〃 To his unbalanced
brain the officers of the court…martial were responsible。 It was
they who had killed him。 As he saw it； they had made his death
as inevitable as though they had sentenced him to be shot at
sunrise。
A line from 〃The Drums of the Fore and Aft〃 came back to him。
Often he had quoted it； when some one in the service had suffered
through the fault of others。 It was the death…cry of the boy officer；
Devlin。 The knives of the Ghazi had cut him down； but it was his
own people's abandoning him in terror that had killed him。 And so；
with a sob； he flung the line at the retreating backs of his comrades：
〃You've killed me； you cowards！〃
Swanson； nursing his anger； repeated this savagely。 He wished he
could bring it home to those men of the court…martial。 He wished
he could make them know that his death lay at their door。 He
determined that they should know。 On one of his visiting…cards he
pencilled：
〃To the Officers of my Court…Martial： 'You've killed me； you
cowards！'〃
He placed the card in the pocket of his waistcoat。 They would
find it just above the place where the bullet would burn the cloth。
The band was playing 〃Auf Wiedersehen；〃 and the waltz carried
with it the sadness that had made people call the man who wrote
it the waltz king。 Swanson listened gratefully。 He was glad that
before he went out； his last mood had been of regret and gentleness。
The sting of his anger had departed； the music soothed and sobered
him。 It had been a very good world。 Until he had broken the spine
of things it had treated him well； far better； he admitted； than he
deserved。 There were many in it who had been kind； to whom he
was grateful。 He wished there was some way by which he could let
them know that。 As though in answer to his wish； from across the
parade…ground the wireless again began to crash and crackle； but now
Swanson was at a greater distance from it； and the sighing rhythm of
the waltz was not interrupted。
Swanson considered to whom he might send a farewell message； but
as in his mind he passed from one friend to another； he saw that to
each such a greeting could bring only distress。 He decided it was
the music that had led him astray。 This was no moment for false
sentiment。 He let his hand close upon the pistol。
The audience now was dispersing。 The nurse…maids had collected
their charges； the musicians were taking apart their music…racks；
and from the steps of the vine…covered veranda Admiral Preble was
bidding the friends of his wife adieu。 At his side his aide； young；
alert； confident； with ill…concealed impatience awaited their departure。
Swanson found that he resented the aide。 He resented the manner in
which he speeded the parting guests。 Even if there were matters of
importance he was anxious to communicate to his chief； he need not
make it plain to the women folk that they were in the way。
When； a month before； he had been adjutant； in a like situation he
would have shown more self…command。 He disapproved of the aide
entirely。 He resented the fact that he was as young as himself；
that he was in uniform； that he was an aide。 Swanson certainly
hoped that when he was in uniform he had not looked so much the
conquering hero； so self…satisfied； so supercilious。 With a smile
he wondered why； at such a moment； a man he had never seen
before； and never would see again； should so disturb him。
In his heart he knew。 The aide was going forward just where he
was leaving off。 The ribbons on the tunic of the aide； the straps
on his shoulders； told Swanson that they had served in the same
campaigns； that they were of the same relative rank； and that
when he himself； had he remained in the service； would have been
a brigadier…general the aide would command a battle…ship。 The
possible future of the young sailor filled Swanson with honorable
envy and bitter regret。 With all his soul he envied him the right
to look his fellow man in the eye； his right to die for his country；
to give his life； should it be required of him； for ninety million
people； for a flag。 Swanson saw the two officers dimly； with eyes
of bitter self…pity。 He was dying； but he was not dying gloriously
for a flag。 He had lost the right to die for it； and he was dying
because he had lost that right。
The sun had sunk and the evening had grown chill。 At the wharf
where the steamer lay on which he had arrived； but on which he
was not to depart； the electric cargo lights were already burning。
But for what Swanson had to do there still was light enough。
From his breast…pocket he took the card on which he had
written his message to his brother officers； read and reread it；
and replaced it。
Save for the admiral and his aide at the steps of the cottage；
and a bareheaded bluejacket who was reporting to them； and the
admiral's orderly； who was walking toward Swanson； no one was
in sight。 Still seated upon the stringpiece of the wharf； Swanson
so moved that his back was toward the four men。 The moment
seemed propitious； almost as though it had been prearranged。 For
with such an audience； for his taking off no other person could be
blamed。 There would be no question but that death had been
self…inflicted。
Approaching from behind him Swanson heard the brisk steps of the
orderly drawing rapidly nearer。 He wondered if the wharf were
government property； if he were trespassing； and if for that reason
the man had been sent to order him away。 He considered bitterly
that the government grudged him a place even in which to die。
Well； he would not for long be a trespasser。 His hand slipped
into his pocket； with his thumb he lowered the safety…catch of
the pistol。
But the hand with the pistol in it did not leave his pocket。 The
steps of the orderly had come to a sudden silence。 Raising his
head heavily； Swanson saw the man； with his eyes fixed upon him；
standing at salute。 They had first made his life unsupportable；
Swanson thought； now they would not let him leave it。
〃Captain Swanson； sir？〃 asked the orderly。
Swanson did not speak or move。
〃The admiral's compliments； sir；〃 snapped the orderly； 〃and will
the captain please speak with him？〃
Still Swanson did not move。
He felt that the breaking…point of his self…control had come。
This impertinent interruption； this thrusting into the last few
seconds of his life of a reminder of all that he had lost； this
futile postponement of his end； was cruel； unhuman； unthinkable。
The pistol was still in his hand。 He had but to draw it and
press it close； and before the marine could leap upon him he
would have escaped。
From behind； approaching hurriedly； came the sound of
impatient footsteps。
The orderly stiffened to attention。 〃The admiral！〃 he warned。
Twelve years of discipline； twelve years of recognition of authority；
twelve years of deference to superior officers； dragged Swanson's
hand from his pistol and lifted him to his feet。 As he turned；
Admiral Preble； the aide； and the bareheaded bluejacket were
close upon him。 The admiral's face beamed； his eyes were young
with pleasurable excitement； with the eagerness of a boy he waved
aside formal greetings。
〃My dear Swanson；〃 he cried； 〃I assure you it's a most astonishing；
most curious coincidence！ See this man？〃 He flung out his arm at
the bluejacket。 〃He's my wireless chief。 He was wireless operator
on the transport that took you to Manila。 When you came in here
this afternoon he recognized you。 Half an hour later he picks up
a messagepicks it up two thousand miles from herefrom San
FranciscoAssociated Press newsit concerns you； that is； no