How Bradford Rejoined His Regiment

I

THE inn at the top of the marketplace was not new at the time of the Wars of the Roses, the church rebuilt in the sixteenth century is said to have been originally built in the twelfth century, and the market cross is so old that no one can give it a date; but the market-place itself is older far than any of them.

When the Normans came here they found a Saxon village, and the Saxons when they came found Britons here. They say that the monuments on the moor were raised three thousand years ago, and that some of the men who built them lived in this village. It is one of the oldest villages in the oldest part of Britain, — the west country, where Arthur lived.

Even now there is not much that is modern in the village. The main street is still called Holy Street, and the market-place is paved with cobbles at the side. There is no railway, and the news comes still by coach — a motor coach, but still a coach.

In the early morning the market-place awoke in busy mood. The little shops were opened; there were boys who passed with milk and bread, and the children clattered along to school. Then it relapsed into emptiness and silence for a while, to fill again before eleven. But this time the people were different, and their purpose not apparent.

Two or three dogcarts drove in and waited along one side, and there was a motor car; men and women came along the road from the little villas built beyond the church; shop-keepers appeared at their doors. The curate arrived, the doctor from his surgery; the one policeman found that he had duty there; some workmen momentarily left their work and came. So that when the church clock pointed to eleven there may have been fifty people in the place, standing about, waiting and doing nothing. They did not even talk. They waited.

Then with a noise and rattle the motor coach rounded the comer, snorted up the hill, and drew up at the PostOffice. The bundle of papers was thrown off and it went on.

And now indeed the people were alive. They thronged the street, the doorway whence the papers would be issued; they formed a queue that extended past the lich-gate of the churchyard. They were excited, anxious, but silent still.

And each one as he got his paper just went away a few yards from the throng and opened it. What news of the war to-day? The scanty bulletin was quickly read and then they formed in little groups and talked.

‘Well! and what do you think of it?’ the doctor asked.

Colonel Bradford shook his head. ‘Not good,’ he said, ‘not good. They tell us little, and behind that little there is much — untold. Not good. Except always that they are gallant lads.’

‘No news of Dick?’

‘None since the card last week, and that only to say he was well.’

‘And what more do you want?’ said the doctor cheerily. ‘He will keep well, and one day he will come back and tell us all about it, eh?’

The old man brightened up and smiled. ‘I hope so. Yes.’ Then, as a friend beckoned to him, he said, ‘There ’s Stevens, impatient as usual. Are you coming?’

The doctor shook his head and went away, and Bradford joined three other friends, old retired officers like himself, and together they went to the inn. There they had a map upon the wall of the bar parlor, and each day when news came they moved the flags. Then they discussed the situation, and then the little coterie of veterans parted. Each went home to tell his family, to read the paper through and through again and so pass the day — for indeed their day held little else for them than this.

Bradford had not far to go, — just up Holy Street and to the right, and he came to his cottage. There was a garden at the front and back, and that was all he cared for. That the cottage was but small never occurred to him, never had occurred to him even when, over twenty years ago, he had come here with his wife and baby boy, — never would occur to him. Such things mattered to him not at all. Money, luxury, reputation, advancement, amusement, all these things which are so much to most men, had never been anything to him. Even his wife, although he loved her, had not been much. For most of his life there had been only one thing that mattered, — his regiment, and what he could do for it; still there was but one, — the regiment and his son who served in it.

When, at forty-five, he had been obliged to retire, all desire of life went out. To go at forty-five, a young man still — and why? The doctors said his heart was bad — they said that all the malaria and hardships of an Indian frontier campaign had so affected it that it was too weak to do its duty. Taken care of, it might last him many years, but a sudden strain might burst it. What matter that? Let it fail and break and make an end. But leave the army? No.

And when they made him go he nearly died. For he had no interest in life, no knowledge of life, no desire for life. He was a soldier, and when he ceased to be a soldier he ceased to be anything — so it seemed to him. He was motiveless in a world he neither knew nor cared for. Why live on?

And indeed he probably would have died through sheer unhappiness if his wife had not married him. How it happened he did n’t know. It was none of his doing. She simply came and took charge of him and married him, and that was all he knew. And having married him she tried to bring him back to life. She loved him and she hoped that her love and care would stir in him a new pleasure in life and that he would awaken. She studied him and tried to rouse him to some new work, something to take the place of the old regiment.

She failed. Bradford had, during all of his life that he could remember, lived to be a soldier; since he had joined his regiment he lived for it, and now he could not change. No new love could replace the old. The regiment and Bradford’s heart were one.

But his wife was a wise woman and she still had hope. She still laughed; she still was happy. She was not jealous that she could not replace the regiment in her husband’s love. She tried no more to fight the old devotion. No. She had now a wiser plan: she would enlist it on her side. Then she would win. But meanwhile she would be silent and endure.

And so in truth her victory did come. It came one spring morning very early, when, the doctor having given leave, Bradford went on tiptoe into his wife’s room. She lay exhausted on the bed, her face pale and twisted with the pain she had endured. But when she heard his step and felt him bending over her, she managed just to look at him and smile. And as he bent still lower, ‘Look,’ she whispered, and she moved her arm, ‘Look at your new recruit — for the old regiment,’ and dropped into unconsciousness again. And as Bradford looked upon the tiny face it seemed to him that something of the glory of the spring without had come into the room, — new life, new hope, new happiness.

From that moment Bradford was young again. His interest in life returned; the tie with his old regiment, which he thought broken forever, was renewed. The chain he thought had snapped, had only slipped from one link to another.

He was the soldier once again, the colonel with a recruit to train, a draft for the old regiment. Well, he must see about it. Here was work for him to do — and he must do it.

He did it. He wanted to begin at once indeed, and it required much persuasion from his wife to make him see that the recruit must be brought on slowly, and at first by her. He could superintend, of course, if it so pleased him, whistle bugle-calls to stop the recruit crying, and carry him about in a martial manner. But the spare time Bradford could put in by getting himself up to date again. Drill was altering, and strategy and tactics, and if he was to bring up his recruit to be a good officer, he must make himself a good teacher. He must study the history of the past and the evolution of the present. So all his interest in life returned and he became a happy man. He adored his son, and because his wife had given him this son he loved her; and because she was still for many years to be the recruit’s commanding officer he respected her. No other children came; they were content with him they had. They lived in the boy. They left their house at the seaside and came to live in this village, to save money for his education and to help him when he joined. They cared nothing for themselves, only for him, — to bring him up to be a worthy successor to a line of soldiers. And they succeeded. The boy grew up strong and active. He was not spoiled. He gave back freely all the affection he received; he worked and did well in school, so well that his headmaster wanted to send him to Woolwich. But Bradford would not have it. Had he not been announced from the beginning as a recruit for the old regiment? So into the old regiment he must go. The boy passed out of Sandhurst and in due time was gazetted to his father’s regiment. He served a couple of years at home, then two in India, and the battalion had been at home again only a few months when war broke out. Then it was sent to France. The Bradfords received a post-card from Boulogne; then silence; and so we come to this day in September where we began.

II

Bradford walked slowly up to his front door. There was a wealth of creeper on the porch, and the roses were still in bloom, but he did not notice them. He was thinking always of the war, — of the retreat from Mons, now at length known; of the battle of the Marne, now in full progress. His wife came out and met him.

‘Well? ’ she said.

He shook his head. ‘We hold our own, they say, Mary, and that is all they say. They will not tell us much.’

‘And Dick is too busy to write,’ she answered.

‘Aye, aye,’ said Bradford. ‘When you are using the sword and rifle all day the pen is forgotten. Don’t blame him, Mary.’

‘I don’t,’ she answered, ‘only I want to know. And Mrs. Allan heard last night that her boy was killed.’ Tears rose to her eyes.

‘The fighting’s hard,’ said Bradford. ‘I thought I had seen service, but it was nothing to this. The losses are terrible, they say. Whole regiments gone. But we will get through all right.’

She did not answer, and the two stood there in silence gazing on the scene. The golden sunshine filled the valley to its brim, making the corn more golden and the grass more green. There was a great peace that held the hills. She gazed upon them; and then her eyes came back to the road below. A boy on a red bicycle had just appeared. She gripped Bradford’s arm, her heart grown cold.

‘Harry,’she said,‘there is the telegraph boy.’

‘There are many wires nowadays,’ said Bradford. ‘It will be for Johnson. He is always getting them.’

‘But he has passed Johnson’s house,’ she whispered. ‘He is coming here. It is for us. O Harry, Harry.’

There was a garden seat close by, and Bradford took her to it. Then with a firm step he went down to the gate. The boy had dismounted from his bicycle and held the telegram.

‘For me?’

‘Yes, sir. Shall I wait for an answer, sir?’

But Bradford shook his head. He was not a business man and rarely got telegrams. It could be but one thing. ‘No,’ he said and turned. He put the telegram unopened into his pocket and went up to his wife. ‘Let us go in,’ he said.

She took his arm and the two went in. The sunshine seemed to have gone cold and dim, and the door closed.

III

In the very early morning of next day, Bradford stood in his bedroom looking down into a trunk. There came from it a scent of naphthaline and camphor, and a gleam of red and gold. How long since last he wore it? He forgot. There was a hot hard feeling in his brain that made him forget everything. The past seemed obliterated; only the future remained. Well, he knew what he was going to do in that future. It was clear enough.

He bent down and took out his uniform, that of a bygone age. Now they wear khaki, but they did not then. He tried it on. Yes, he had not grown fat, he could wear it still, to appear in at the War Office. He would have to get a khaki uniform, of course, at once. He would do that after. He might have gone to the War Office in mufti, as he was retired, but the thought never came to him. Dick was dead. The old regiment was short of a Bradford; therefore he must go himself, to rejoin. From the moment of Dick’s death he was called on. It was a pity that rules and regulations prevented his starting at once for the front, and made it necessary to lose valuable time at the War Office getting permission to go. But that could not be helped.

He put the uniform on, fastened his sword, pinned on his medals, and he was ready. He could catch the early train, be up in town by noon and back again by ten o’clock, so he wanted no luggage. His wife watched him wistfully and kissed him in silence. She had tried to talk to him, to persuade him to remain with her, but he had not heard. It was not that he refused to listen; he did not hear.

On the journey, people stared at this old man in his old uniform, but he did not notice. In London the taxi-driver smiled, but Bradford did not see. His eyes were hard and fixed. He came to the War Office and went in.

Then came the disappointment.

The Military Secretary could not see him. ‘Have you an appointment, sir?’ he was asked, and when he shook his head, ’The Military Secretary sees no one except by appointment,’ he was told. ‘You must write and wait.’

They did not want him. Surely they did not want him; and he had thought they would admit his claim at once. He must ‘write and wait.’ And the old regiment ?

He leaned against the wall of the corridor. His heart seemed cold and his head was giddy. Tears rose in his eyes. Well, he would write and wait. He would go now.

A sound came down the corridor and the ring of feet. Some men came down, a tall stern soldier at the head, followed by other soldiers. And Bradford drew himself to the salute. The tall soldier glanced at him and smiled and passed — and stopped and turned. ‘Have you seen any one?’ he asked.

‘No, sir, they say that I must write.’

‘Then come with me.’

The great soldier went on again and Bradford followed. They came to a room and entered. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘sit down and tell me.’

Then Bradford told him. ‘Let me rejoin,’ he added at the end, ‘as anything, to take my son’s place. I do not want my rank. I want the regiment, and it wants me.’

The great soldier’s eyes half closed as if he had been hurt, and opened again.

‘I am old,’ said Bradford urgently, ‘but I am strong and well. And age makes me all the fitter to stop a bullet instead of a young man. Yes, I am strong.’

And he felt strong for a moment, yet suddenly the room got misty and dark, quite dark—

Then some one out of the mist said, ‘Drink this,’ and he drank. It was brandy; and then the room came slowly back again to him, and the great soldier and two other officers came into view. One, by his shoulder-straps, was evidently an army doctor, and gave Bradford brandy from a cup. He had been holding his wrist, but dropped it now.

And Bradford felt himself ashamed and afraid. They would never now let him rejoin the old regiment, because he was ill, —ill, and they would scorn him and reject him.

But no, they smiled at him. The doctor said, ‘There, there. It’s nothing. You were excited, that is all.’

And the great soldier said, ‘Goodbye. You shall have your wish. You shall rejoin your regiment.’

‘In France?’

There was no answer to this question, but Bradford did not notice.

‘And at once, sir?’ he continued, a glow of happiness filling all his veins.

‘Not quite at once. Go home and wait — it certainly shall come.’

Then Bradford rose, and although they offered him an arm, he would not take it. No, he would walk alone. He saluted and went out.

The soldiers looked at one another.

IV

Bradford got back at ten o’clock. He was very weary, more weary than he had ever been before, and his head was bad. It would turn giddy now and then. That was excitement, so he thought. Well, he must fight it.

He told his wife.

‘And,’ he said to her, ‘as orders may come any time, to-morrow, or even tonight, I must get ready. There is much to do.’

‘Rest first,’ she said.

But no, he would not. He must be ready when the orders came. His will, — that was already done, but there were other matters. She must go to bed. He would work an hour or two, but she must go to bed. And so, to please him, she went away, but not to bed. She watched.

She saw him open his desk and take out many papers. Some of these he tore up; some he replaced. It took him a long while, for every now and then he would let the papers fall and seem to sleep a little, but, recovering, would continue.

The papers finished, he sat down again and began to write. But now his weariness overcame him, and after struggling against it for a little he gave in. He put his face on his hands and seemed to sleep.

She watched him.

Then suddenly he woke again. He raised his head as if he heard a call — a bugle-call.

He rose suddenly to his feet — stood for a moment at attention, his face bright with joy, and fell. And when she ran to his assistance he was dead.

So did Bradford rejoin the old regiment. But not in France. For indeed, save for a few wounded, the old regiment was not in France.

He found them where he went.