Leerie Part 21

Again the piper whistled it through, and then again and again. A smile brushed Jamie's lips, and the others, watching, breathless, saw.

"What is it?" asked "Granny," softly.

"Naught. Only for the moment I was thinking I could be smelling the dew on the bogs, yonder. Can ye pipe for the blackbirds, Johnnie?"

And Johnnie piped.

So a new order of things was established in Ward 7-A, and as heretofore the lads had vied in witty derision of their calamities they vied now with one another in telling tales of Ireland. Each marshaled forth his dearest, greenest memory, clothed in its best, to fill the ears and heart of Jamie O'Hara. Sometimes he smiled, and then there was a great, silent rejoicing among the twelve; sometimes he asked for more, and then tongues tripped over one another in mad effort to furnish forth a memory more wonderful than all that had gone before. But more often he sat still and white, as if he heard nothing. And in the midst of it all, as the lads drew each day nearer to health, Sheila noted a new uneasiness among them. It was Larry who spoke the trouble while the nurse was doing his dressings. He whispered it, so the others should not hear.

"By rights we don't belong here. Well, they'll be movin' us soon as we're mended, won't they?"

The nurse nodded.

"Invalided home. Ye know what that means?"

Again the nurse nodded.

"Mind ye, there's been never a word dropped atween us, but we're all fearin' it like--" Larry rubbed his sleeve over his mouth twice before he went on. "While we've got Jamie to think about, we can manage, but when he's packed off somewheres--to learn readin' an' writin' for the blind--an' we're scattered to the four winds o' Ireland, we'll be realizin' for the first time what we are, just. Then what are we goin' to do? I ask ye it honest, miss."

And honestly Sheila answered, "I don't know."

A day later "Granny" whispered over his dressings: "Faith there's a shadow creeping over the sill. Can't ye be feeling it?" And the color-sergeant's spirits failed to rise that day at all.

Yet for all their fears the inevitable day came upon them unawares and caught them, as you might say, red-handed. Sheila had stolen a half-hour from rest and was sitting with them, listening to Casey Ryan, the Galway lad, tell of the fis.h.i.+ng in Kilkieran Bay.

Larry took the words out of his mouth. "'Twill be the proud day for us all when we cast our eyes on Irish wather again, whether 'tis in Dublin Bay or off the Skerries."

"Aye, and smelling the thorn bloom and hearing the throstles sing!"

"Granny's" rejoicing followed on the heels of Larry's, while he shook his fist at him in warning.

Larry threw a helpless look at Jamie and sank back on his pillow, while Patsy roared his ultimatum: "I'd a deal sight rather hear a throstle sing than see all the b.l.o.o.d.y wather in the world. Larry's fair mad about wather ever since he went dirty for a fortnight at Vimy."

"Sure, the thing I'm most wantin'," croaked "Bertha," "is to hear the wind in the heather again, deep o' the night. There isn't a sweeter sound than that, so soft an' croony-like."

"Yes, an' I'll be wantin' to hear the old cracked voice o' Biddy Donoghue callin' c.o.c.kles at the Antrim fair. Faith, she's worth thravelin' far to be hearin'. An' think o' gettin' your tooth on a live c.o.c.kle!" Johnnie moistened his lips in antic.i.p.ation as he broke forth in a falsetto:

"c.o.c.kles--good c.o.c.kles--here's some for your dad, An' some for your la.s.sie--an' more for your lad."

Amid the appreciative chuckle of the listeners, the door of Ward 7-A opened and the chief stood on the threshold. He smiled as a man may when he has a hurting thing to do and grudges the doing of it. He saluted the remnants of Company--of the Royal Irish:

"Orders, lads. You'll be leaving to-morrow for--Blighty."

There was nothing but silence, a silence of agony and apprehension, until Patsy whispered, "Leavin' _together_, sir?"

"I--hope so."

"Thravelin'--the same?" It was Timothy Brennan this time.

"I don't know."

"Will we be afther makin' the same hospital yondther--do ye think?" It took all Larry's fighting soul to keep his voice steady.

"I--It isn't likely."

"Thank ye, sir."

That was all. The chief left, and Sheila sat on in the stillness of Ward 7-A, wondering wherein lay the value of theories when in the face of the first crucial need one sat stunned and helpless. The mask of good spirits had dropped from the lads like a camouflaged screen; behind it showed the naked, bleeding souls of twelve terror-stricken men. For Jamie's mask was still upon him. If the orders had brought any added misery to him, no one could have told.

As Sheila looked into their faces and saw all that was written there, she gripped her hands behind her and tried to tell them what she had thought out so clearly in the operating-room days and days before. But the message she had thought was hers to give had somehow become meaningless. What guarantee had she to make that their lives would go on being vital, necessary to the big scheme of humanity? How could she promise that out of their share in the war and the price they had paid would be wrought something so fine, so strong and eternal, that the years ahead must needs hold plenty for their hearts and souls? She could not get beyond the realization that it was all only theory, the theory of one glowingly healthy mind in a sound body. If such a promise could be given at all, it must not come from such as she; if it was to bear faith, it must be spoken by one who had gone through the crucible as they had gone through--and come out even as they had come.

She looked at Jamie. If Jamie had only had eyes to catch the meaning of the thing she was trying to say! If he who had sung courage into their hearts in the old days could sing it once again! A message from Jamie would bring it home.

But there was nothing in that blank, white face Sheila could reach. He seemed as he had seemed from the beginning, a soul apart, so wrapped in its own despair that no human cry of need could shake it free. In desperation she looked at Larry. His eyes were closed; his face had gone almost as white as Jamie's. Patsy was gazing at the ceiling; the veins on his arms stood out as they had on that first day when he had fainted twice from the pain of his dressing. Down the line of cots the nurse's eyes traveled, and back again. Every lad was past speaking for another; each lay transfixed with his own personal fear.

The minutes seemed intolerable. The silence grew heavy with so much m.u.f.fling of despair. Sheila found herself praying that the men would groan, cry out, curse, anything to break the ghastly hush. Then suddenly "Bertha" propped himself as best he could on an elbow and croaked: "For the love of Mary, miss, can't ye cram us with morphine the night? 'Twould save the British Empire a few s.h.i.+llin's' expense and them at home a deal o' misery."

And the color-sergeant choked out, "Aye, in G.o.d's mercy send us west, along wi' them lucky seven that has gone already!"

Without knowing why she did it, Sheila reached over and gripped one of Jamie's hands. "Help, can't you?" she whispered. The late afternoon sun was s.h.i.+ning through the window back of him. The glory of it was full on his face, so that every lad in the ward saw plainly the smile that crept into the lips, a tender, whimsical smile that belonged to the Jamie of old. And the deep, vibrating voice was the voice of the Jamie of fighting days.

"Patsy, ye rascal! I'm thinking it was like yourself to come breaking into the first song I've had on my lips in a month. You've nearly ruined it for me, lad."

Amazement, incredulity, thanksgiving swept over the faces like puffs of wind over young wheat. Unnoticed, Sheila turned to the window and wept a scattering of tears that could no longer be held back. Jamie pulled himself out of the wheel-chair and found his way down the s.p.a.ce at the foot of the cots to the door. He was very straight, and his head was high.

"Just a minute, lads." He dug his hands deep into his pockets. "Before I give ye the song I've made for ye, there's something I have to be saying first. Miss O'Leary was right when she said a man has more than one pair of eyes to see with. He can see grand with his heart--if he's shown the way. That's what I have to thank ye for this day, the wiping of my memory clean of those last days, and the showing me how to see anew. Ye've given Ireland back to me with her lark songs, her blue, dancing water, her wind-brushed heather like a purple sea. Ye've made the world beautiful for me again, and ye've given me the heart to sing."

He stopped a minute and smiled again. "I was thinking all this when the chief came in, and after that I was so busy with the song that sprang into my mind that I came near forgetting the lot o' ye. If that rascal Patsy hadn't interrupted me, faith, I might have made the song longer."

Sheila turned back from the window. There was a grin on the face of every lad, and on the face of Jamie was the look of a man who had found his dreams again. The song being new to his tongue, he gave it slowly:

"They say the earth's a bit shot up--well, we can say the same, But, praise to every lad that's fought, the scars they show no shame.

And for those who have prayed for us--why, here's an end to tears.

Sure, G.o.d can do much healing in the next handful of years.

"So, Johnnie, set your chanter and blow your pipes full strong, And, Larry, raise your voice again and lead our marching song.

Let Mac unfurl the colors--till they sweep yon crimson west, For we're still the Royal Irish, a-fighting with the best."

And that is precisely the way they went when they left the American Military Hospital No. 10 the next morning. The color-sergeant led. Jamie walked beside the stretcher to give a hand with the staff. Johnnie sat bolt upright, bolstered with many pillows, to enable him to get a firm grip on the pipes, and he skirled the "Shule Aroon" as he had never skirled before. Larry's voice again boomed in the lead, and every man in the hospital that had breath to spare cheered them as they pa.s.sed. And for every one who saw or heard the going of the Royal Irish, that day, was left behind a memory green enough to last till the end of time.

Chapter VIII

INTO HER OWN

The last big drive was on. Somewhere on the road between what had been the line of defense and what was the line of farthest advance rumbled a hospital camion with its nose to the war trail like an old dog on a fresh scent. In the camion sat Sheila O'Leary, late of the old San and later yet of the American Military Hospital No. 10. She was in field uniform; a pair of the chief's own boots were strapped over two pairs of woolen stockings.