Читать книгу The Uncounted Cost - Mary Gaunt - Страница 8

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"Soft snows that hard winds harden

Till each flake bite

Fill all the flowerless garden

Whose flowers took flight

Long since when summer ceased,

And men rose up from feast,

And warm west wind grew east, and warm day night."

THE day of the court martial broke bleak and cold over Sheerness. The strong tide raced in up the river, and a keen wind blowing before it a misty rain came down from the north. It had forgotten to be summer, and winter seemed come before his time.

Cunningham had not slept all night. The weary hours had gone round, and he had counted the strokes of the bell, remembering as he did so how often he had heard them, and that this was for the last time. As a small boy on the Britannia he had lain awake his first night in the navy realising with a keen joy that he was now a naval officer, serving his queen and country. He had not slept that night because he had dreamed of the deeds he would do in the future, and now he did not sleep because all the deeds he should ever do were done, and his career was ended. He rose and dressed, dressed very carefully, and he was looking out of the scuttle at the grey sea, and the red sails of the barges that gave the spot of colour to the seascape, when Dicky Bullen knocked and came in.

"Boom!" It was the salute of one gun the Navy gives her prisoners, innocent or guilty, and Cunningham remembered that the Union Jack must be flying at the peak, the sign that a court martial is being held on board. "There it goes," he said. "The only salute I shall ever get."

"Don't," said Bullen. The thing got on his nerves and hurt him. "Oh, d——n the women."

Dicky Bullen had reasons of his own for damning the women, which Cunningham did not know. The gunnery lieutenant was feeling he had an unpleasant quarter of an hour before him. He only hoped the interview he felt impending could be compressed into a quarter of an hour. No man who was not an absolute blackguard could write such a letter as he had written to a woman whom he knew loved him desperately without feeling some compunction. And Dicky Bullen had nothing of the blackguard in him; he was only a gay, careless young sailor. Anne, when she had recovered from the blow he had dealt her, would, he felt sure, insist on seeing him. She would beg and pray, and would he be able to resist? He must resist, because he knew that the moment he left her side he would remember how impossible it was for a lieutenant with only his pay to marry a struggling writer. What a fool he would be to throw away the chance of improving his position that had come his way! If he married an admiral's daughter, and an admiral in active employment——He had said many things, he knew, in his moments of passion, but must a man be bound by his moments of passion? If Anne would not take the matter so seriously, if she would only be her gentle, kindly self? After all, other men did this sort of thing every day, and weren't made to feel blackguards for it. Oh, hang the woman, why didn't she write, say all she had to say and get it over. "D——n the woman," he repeated again.

"After all," said Cunningham dully, "it was as much my fault as hers."

"If the baggage had only given you my telegram."

The bitterness of it welled up in Cunningham's heart again. "Never trust a woman even in little things, Dicky."

"I don't propose to," said Bullen, but he could not help thinking that occasionally it was the woman who suffered for trusting. "Look here, throw yourself on the mercy of the court. Tell the whole story without the woman's name. It'll get you through."

"I'll do nothing of the sort," said Cunningham. "I'll have no more tinkering with the thing. I'll plead guilty and have done with it. I won't have the thing gone into. I won't have that brute O'Flaherty prying into my affairs, revelling over the details. I tell you, Bullen, I shall plead guilty."

When Cunningham called him Bullen, Dicky knew it was pretty hopeless to try and move him.

"I have a good mind," he said, "to appeal to the woman herself."

Cunningham turned on him savagely. "I told you there was no woman in the business. How dare you suppose any such thing, Mr Bullen?"

Dicky shrivelled.

"Oh, Potiphar," he said humbly, "I beg your pardon. I was only trying to think of some way out."

Cunningham pushed his breakfast tray away, the food was as sawdust in his mouth, and looked out of the scuttle again. There was silence for a moment, a moment that seemed to Dicky strangely long, then he turned.

"Old man," he said, his voice softening, "I know you meant it all most kindly. There never was a better friend. But look here, as you do happen to know there was a woman in the business you must know that whatever happens I can't bring her name into it. I don't know where we were drifting. I'm inclined to think she had her head far too well screwed on ever to have got beyond a flirtation——"

"You don't mean to tell me," interrupted Dicky, a little astonished, "that——"

"Oh, I'm not saving a woman's good name now, I assure you, it was nothing more than a flirtation."

"Though she let you spend the night in her house?"

"Though she let me spend the night in her house. My dear fellow, she's not the woman to be moved on her own account, she only wanted me to dangle, and I did it to some purpose."

"You're sacrificing yourself for a woman who is absolutely nothing to you!"

"Absolutely nothing to me. I hope I never see her again. But I don't see any way out."

Neither did Dicky. His code of honour did not forbid him to take all a woman could give under the impression that she was all in all to him, and then to throw her off like a soiled glove, but it did forbid him to brand a woman openly, even though she had in great measure brought the trouble on herself. Cunningham could not be rescued by the confession of Kitty Pearce that she had kept back the telegram. Such a confession was not to be thought of for a moment.

"Have a smoke," said Dicky miserably, offering his cigar case.

Cunningham took a cigar and put it between his teeth, but he forgot to light it. In his heart he was remembering that this was the last day of his career, the very last. He listened to the lap-lap of the water against the ship's side, the sound of the men at quarters on deck, even to the swish of the broom as some servant swept the passage outside his door. One moment the minutes were flying swiftly, and the next they were crawling on leaden feet, while Dicky Bullen sat opposite to him alternating hopeful remarks with curses on women. To Cunningham they all meant the same thing—Dicky was a good fellow, but he could not help him.

Five bells struck, loud and clear, and the court martial was at eleven. He looked out again at the grey sea. The tide was racing in and a launch was coming up on it. Some of the members of the court martial were in the stern. They were shrouded in waterproofs, and he noticed dully how shabby their cocked hats were and how tarnished the lace. Each man had a tin case beside him. Oh yes, he knew the meaning of that well enough. The good cocked hats were in those japanned cases. They would be produced for his condemnation, and he laughed. Couldn't they hoist a man out just as comfortably in old cocked hats as in new?

"Don't," said Bullen; "don't laugh. You'll pull through all right. There are some things one feels can't happen."

"But they do happen, old chap; they do happen. I'll face it."

"It will be all right, if you'll only have a little common-sense."

"I'll do all I can, you may be sure. Don't harp on that string, Dicky. There are some things a man can't do and you know it."

Again there was silence. Every man draws the line somewhere, and each of these two drew it in his own way.

The Provost Marshal knocked at the door. "Please, sir, the court is open."

"And they want the body of the prisoner. All right," said Cunningham grimly.

The court was deadly still as he entered before the Provost Marshal. The room was the captain's outer cabin, the place where he had had that fatal interview only last week. Now one of the tables was gone and in its place two stanchions covered with red and a red cord running across made a dock for him, the prisoner, to stand in. The Navy does not err on the side of mercy; there is no accused, he is the prisoner. Round the table on which lay his naked sword sat his judges: an admiral four captains and three commanders, men personally known to him, one or two of whom he counted among his intimate friends. By a table at his left sat O'Flaherty, the prosecutor, and on his right was Bullen, who was to act as prisoner's friend. Mechanically he looked round. Again his eyes sought the great bush cow's head with its glassy unseeing eyes, underneath it was a cartoon of Sir John Fisher from Vanity Fair and another of Lord Charles Beresford hung on the other side. He had the same in his own cabin. They had stood to him as object lessons of what a man might do; and now he had stumbled and fallen; they could interest, could influence him no longer. Over the heads of the judges hung a couple of large brass trays from Calabar, and between them an ora from Ibadan. He knew the ora well enough. It marked the subjugation of women. Well, in England here the women weren't subjugated and yet they had to be protected, and for their protection man must suffer. He thought of the old proverb about paying too dearly for his whistle, but he had to pay, and hadn't even got a whistle.

Some of the officers of the Irrepressible were there, some from the other ships at anchor round, and one or two civilians, their friends. He had an uncomfortable feeling that someone was sketching him and turned his face away, but after all why not? He turned back again and gazed steadily at the ora that hung between the brass trays. The trays caught and reflected what dull daylight there was, and it troubled him a little. He looked out of the port. A black destroyer broke the grey sea line, a Thames barge with red sails followed it, there was a shrill whistle from a launch, and then the Deputy Judge Advocate rose to his feet and began to read out the warrant and the names of the officers whose attendance had been commanded.

It was a relief to Cunningham. From the faint sigh and rustle that went round the audience possibly it was a relief to others too. And the Deputy Judge Advocate read well. He was a clean-shaven young man, the admiral's secretary, a man who would have made a good factor, and he played his small part well.

He turned to Cunningham and asked if he objected to any of these men acting as his judges. Cunningham had no objection. As well be judged by them as by anyone, were they not his friends? It was to him as if they were all playing parts.

The clean-shaven young man turned to the judges and in his crisp clear voice administered the oath.

"I," they repeated after him, each man putting in his own name, "do swear that I will duly administer justice according to law, without partiality, favour, or affection, and I do further swear that I will not on any account, at any time whatsoever, disclose or discover the vote or opinion of any particular member of this court martial unless thereunto required in due course of law. So help me God."

It was a confused jumble as they all read it together, but Cunningham knew it so well that to him each man seemed to enunciate sharply. Then one after another they bent forward and kissed the book with its white cross on the front.

Cunningham was wearily impatient before the Deputy Judge Advocate had gone through the formula. It was only a formula. Why not get it over quickly? His mind wandered from the business in hand, as our minds do sometimes wander at critical moments of our lives, and he looked at the spick and span cocked hats that lay on the table round his own sword. He could almost have laughed; those were the hats that had come on board in japanned cases. When his attention came back again the Deputy Judge Advocate was reading the charge against him.

"For that he, Joseph Cunningham," he heard, "Commander belonging to H.M.S. Irrepressible, being then a person subject to the Naval Discipline Act, Ist, Was absent without leave between three P.M. the 19th day of June and noon the 22nd day of June. 2ndly, Used threatening and insulting language to Captain O'Flaherty of the said ship, his superior officer, being in the execution of his office."

He laid down the paper from which he read and took up the circumstantial letter.

"SIR [he read],—I regret to report the following acts of misconduct on the part of Commander J. Cunningham with a view to his being tried by court martial should you think fit. On the 19th day of June, H.M. ship under my command being ordered to proceed unexpectedly to sea, it was found that Commander Cunningham had gone on leave without giving any address, and the ship had to proceed without him, he being absent without leave 69 hours. On the 22nd of June, when sent for by me, Commander Cunningham, in violent manner, addressed to me the following words:—'You damned hound, if I had you ashore——'

"I have the honour to be,

"Sir,

"Your obedient servant,

"CONRAN O'FLAHERTY.

"The COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF,

"THE NORE."

How sordid it all sounded, and how damning. Explanation there was none, there could be none. O'Flaherty sat shuffling the papers on the table before him and irritating Cunningham beyond all bearing. One of the lieutenants among the audience bent forward and touched Dicky Bullen on the arm, giving him silently a piece of paper on which something was scribbled. What had Crawford in his wisdom evolved? Nothing, it seemed, for Bullen crumpled up the paper and shook his head.

Cunningham shivered a little. He had been to many court martials. It was all so familiar, and yet it hurt more than he could have supposed possible. He was numb, he must be numb, and yet it hurt him. All his future had lain so fair before him—a commander at twenty-nine, what might he not have hoped for, and now—now he was a ruined man. A ruined man, the waves that lapped against the ship's side were whispering it, the panting launches that crossed the blot of grey in the portholes shrieked it on their shrill whistles, it came as an undercurrent to the Deputy Judge Advocate's clear voice. He was addressing Cunningham now.

"You are not required," he said, "to plead either guilty or not guilty. But should you desire to plead guilty now is the time to do so."

The President leaned forward. Cunningham was keenly conscious of it and hardened his heart. The President had always been interested in him, and had watched his career from a lad up, the career of a man without interest and without money, and yet who had borne himself well. He unfolded a big bandanna and passed it over his bald head. Cunningham found himself wondering how Admiral Somerset, strict disciplinarian and punctilious man as he was, had so far forgotten himself as to use a coloured handkerchief in uniform, the bandanna lending a bright spot of colour to the general greyness. He saw the kindness in the admiral's face change to something like consternation as he realised his mistake and hastily put back the offending handkerchief into his pocket. He had forgotten Cunningham, so would they all forget him soon, but what did it matter? Nothing could ever undo that threat, that threat that could be sworn to by Somerville. The only thing was to get it over quickly. Again he was conscious of the pleading in Bullen's face.

"Make a statement in mitigation," his face urged; but what was the good of any mitigation, what was the good of going out as a man branded, a man with something to live down? It was surely better to go altogether than to lose his high place, to see other men go over his head, to linger on hoping in vain for the promotion that would never come. Besides, he wanted to kill O'Flaherty. He did not dare look at his friend, he turned his eyes from his pleading face, and said very distinctly, "Guilty."

His words caused a sensation. No one but Bullen had expected them, even though Bullen had explained to the ward-room that "Potiphar was bloody-minded."

"Do you wish to make any statement in mitigation?" asked the Deputy Judge Advocate in his smooth voice, although even he was apparently a little astonished.

Dicky Bullen started forward and laid his hand on his arm, but Cunningham shook him off.

"I have no statement to make," he said, and his voice seemed to him to belong to someone else. What was the good of any statement?

"Do you wish to bring witnesses as to your general character?"

Again Dicky Bullen's eager eyes were begging him not to let this chance go. What a good fellow he was! What a splendid chum! But Cunningham felt he knew his own business best. He must go. The quicker it was over the better, for this was hard to be borne.

"I shall bring no witnesses."

Bullen handed the Judge Advocate Cunningham's roll of certificates and he read them over. The prisoner had no doubt about those certificates. No man could have had better. Always his conduct had been "Very satisfactory." He was sober, and he had never taken sufficient alcohol to annoy any official superior, who had to judge as to the amount that was good for him.

The court was cleared for the framing of the sentence.

Dicky Bullen followed the prisoner. "You might have put in mitigating circumstances," he said reproachfully. "There wasn't a man there, from old Somerset downwards, who wouldn't have listened."

"What would be the good? Might as well make a clean sweep of it," said Cunningham doggedly. "Dicky, I can't have the thing inquired into. They'll hoist me out, of course, and then——"

"And then?"

"I'll thrash O'Flaherty within an inch of his life."

The court took a very short time framing the sentence, and presently it was reopened and the Provost Marshal brought back his prisoner.

The day if possible had grown more dreary. The rain, like a dirty grey sheet, seemed to cut all within the ports off from the rest of the world, and the launches that steamed past had their outlines dimmed; but Cunningham kept his eyes on the square port. His first glance had told him that it was as he had known it would be. The members of the court all wore those spick and span cocked hats, and his sword lay on the table with its point towards him. It hurt far more than he had thought it would do, far far more. His thoughts went back to his childhood when he had defied authority, and been sent to bed for some childish fault. He had said he would not mind, and he had minded. He had turned his face to the wall, and wept till his mother had come and comforted him and remitted his punishment; but there was no remittance here—none—none. He was reaping far more than he had ever sown, and he set his lips and looked away from the sword; but he could not shut out the voice of the Deputy Judge Advocate reading the sentence that brought ruin on his life.

"The prisoner having pleaded guilty the court considers the charges proved, and therefore adjudges him, the said Joseph Cunningham, to be dismissed from his Majesty's service."

It was signed by all the members of the court.

"Remove the prisoner. Court is dissolved. Haul down the Jack."

Cunningham walked out of the room blindly looking away from the men who followed crowding round holding out their hands. Absent without leave! It might happen to any one of them, and as for calling O'Flaherty a damned hound, there was not a man on board the Irrepressible who did not heartily concur.

It had come, the very worst had happened. He was disgraced in the eyes of all men, and all for the sake of a woman—a light, good-natured, kindly woman, whom he had played at loving, who had played at loving him. The beginning of it all seemed very remote now. She was a dim figure in the background. It was with an effort that he brought her into the business at all. He had no thoughts of rushing off to her for consolation. She was made for happiness and summer sunshine, not the woman to go to in a storm. This must be faced alone.

He was in his cabin staring dully at his belongings. Bullen had brought his sword back and laid it on the table, his cap lay beside it, a new cap, and he would never wear it now.

"You can thrash O'Flaherty within an inch of his life," said Bullen with a choke in his voice. He wanted to sympathise, he wanted to help, and there was nothing in all the wide world he could do.

Cunningham felt that he did not even care about thrashing O'Flaherty. The spring had gone out of his life. His youth was gone, he had nothing to hope for, and nothing that he could do would give him back the hopes that were dead.

He felt physically weak and ill, the strain had been too much for him. He sat down by the table, and pushing the sword and cap out of his way dropped his head on his arms. He had braced himself ever since the receipt of Bullen's telegram with the thought that he must see it through; and now it was all over his strength gave way. There was nothing more to be done. It was the end.