AFTER
"Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life."
Revelation ii., 10.
THE next morning "The Latest Tommy" asked to speak to his nearest "Non Com.," and what he said so puzzled that worthy, he was for a moment speechless. Then scratching his head reflectively he answered, "Well, I can't say, I'm sure; there's nobody but the Colonel himself could give the order. If I could get the message up to him now, through all the others, he's such a good sort, he might say to put it through. Anyhow, Tommy, me boy, we can but try."
The message was evidently one which worked its way, for by midday "The Latest Tommy" was sent for by the great man himself.
Very nervous, not feeling at all sure how his request might be taken, he was ushered into the Colonel's own private den and found him sitting at a table absorbed in writing. With feet which seemed to him to take up all the room, and hands which would not keep still, "Tommy" stood whirling his cap round and round in a perfect agony, until he suddenly became aware of a stern voice, saying: "Stop twirling that cap, my man, and answer me. You are Private S.—? and you made a singular request of your Non Com. this morning,—am I right?
" Ye—yes—Sir," stammered Tommy.
"Well, speak up, I'm very busy, but I'm also interested, what is it?"
"It's about the little dog 'Army,' Sir, wot you must 'ave 'eard uv, Sir. The little faithful fellow's laid on his Master's grave all winter long, an' now this mornin', 'e's dead. Mebbe yer 'aven't rightly 'eard the story, Sir, 'ow Rice in the 42nd—s crept out into No Man's Land an' brought the little beggar 'ome in the face uv the h'enemy's fire, an' 'ow 'e an' the doctor mended 'im w'ere they devils 'ad shot 'im, an' 'ow 'e stuck tight ter Rice allus, an' couldn' by no manner nor means be forced ter leave 'is grave w'en Rice died, Sir, an' 'ow the Reg'ment fed 'im an' looked arfter 'im, an' guv 'im ter the next, an' the next, h'until 'e cum down ter us, Sir. Larst night I feared 'e was a dyin', an' h'it mos' broke me 'eart ter leave 'im alone; an' now, Sir, wot we wants is, ter pay 'im some sort uv 'onor, Sir, like wot 'is own Reg'ment would 'a done. Ef yer please, Sir, ef yer cud let the Reg'ment go out, as many as cud, an' let us 'ave the bugle call; us men 'd all thank yer, Sir, fer lettin' alone luvin' the little chap, Sir, we don't none uv us want the 42nd—s ter think we've failed 'em."
As he ended his breathless little speech, "The Latest Tommy" was not ashamed openly to wipe his eyes.
The Colonel also seemed to find something of unusual interest on his desk, but at last he looked up and said, "I'm glad to hear the story, S., and I will give orders that it may be done as you and the others wish. Of course it will have to be about sunset, when our friend Fritz over there generally gives us a rest."
Saluting with a fervor he had never experienced before, The Latest Tommy hurried away, and late that afternoon, for some time before sunset, men in full accoutrements might have been seen in little groups finding their way back to the cemetery behind the town.
There in the beautiful field of the dead under the blossoming apple-trees, a full company gathered and watched "The Latest Tommy" and another, as they wrapped the little body in the Master's cloak and laid it carefully in the small grave made as close as possible to the big one. Then when the spade had done its work with the very same sound we all know so well, the loud sharp command of "Shun"! was heard, and the company stood rigid in honor of the little faithful soldier, until a bugle, clear and sweet, sounded the "Retreat." The call of the dying Day to the vanished Sun. . . .
By twos and threes the men silently melted away, until "The
Latest Tommy" found himself alone, as he smoothed the grave and tidied up the ground around it.
When all was finished to his satisfaction, he rested on his spade, and said with a deep sigh, "I'll miss the little beggar, though I'm glad 'is sufferin' 's over.
"I wonder now, I do, . . . 'Ere's all these chaps lyin' 'ere dead, they guv their lives cos they knew good 'of Hengland needed 'em; an' Army 'ere, 'e guv 'is cos 'e thought 'is friend needed 'im. . . . All uv 'em faithful 'til death, . . ."
Silent and thoughtful, he stood under the darkening sky, looking up at the stars as they twinkled one by one out of the blue. . . . Then lifting his cap reverently, he said slowly . . . "I wonder, I do . . . but Gawd . . . 'E knows."