THE mother stood listening at her cottage door, amid stillness which was only broken by the sleepy chirrup of a bird. At last she caught the sound of brisk footsteps.
Her heart was heavy while she waited, for she was pondering the tragic words, “Dismissed with ignominy.” Oh, that her son should return to her like this! A fine soldier, ruined through drink.
There was, however, no hint of reproach in her greeting to the wanderer. “Come in, my lad! Tea’s just ready,” and she turned to the hearth to take up a dish of ham and eggs.
“It smells good, mother!” Jim was gazing round the room. How natural it all was! The tall old woman, whose gray eyes, under their straight, dark brows, seemed to pierce into his very soul; the geraniums in the window; the grandfather clock; the blue and white plates he had used as a boy — nothing was changed. Nothing except the lad who had returned — a failure.
The meal passed almost in silence, and presently Jim, who had wandered round the garden, came in and leaned against the mantelpiece.
“Mother,” he began.
“Yes, my lad?” She clasped her knitting while she looked up at him.
“I want to say I’m sorry, mother. I tried — oh, many times — to give up drink, but always it would master me. So I had those months of detention in barracks — it’s only another name for prison.” The voice dropped.
The shadow of the roses made a flickering pattern on the sunny floor, and he watched it absently while he talked.
“There was a Bible there, and I used to read it. One day I was pretty low, thinking of the chances I’d lost, and I come on to words, ‘Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.’ Eh, mother, that went home, it did. I knew it were meant for me.” His voice broke, and he could go no further for a moment.
“I want to start again, mother. Not by myself this time. I’ve done that so many times, and failed. I found another text afterward: ‘My grace is sufficient for thee.’ Now I’d like to try and make up for all the trouble I’ve caused you.”
She stroked his hair, and kissed him again and again. “We’ll try to help each other, lad. Never mind the past. What does that matter, if thou’st found the Lord? Praise His name!”
So he set out on the new life. It was not easy to encounter the neighbors’ cold looks, yet, when he showed himself steady and reliable, people began to perceive that Jim Oldham had certainly changed for the better.
Then, suddenly, the land was overshadowed, and the nation was plunged into war. Jim went about his work with an absent air. Now and then he would relapse into long silence, and his mother would glance keenly at him.
“Mother,” he said at last, “I must go into River mouth and try my luck.”
“I’ll none hinder you, my lad,” she said quietly.
When Jim entered the recruiting office, the sergeant looked up. “You’re a fine, strapping fellow! Ever been in the Army?”
The lad’s face whitened. “Yes, sir.”
“Time up?” Jim shook his head.
“What, then?”
Jim looked into the other’s, eyes. “Discharged with ignominy, sir.”
“What a pity! Drink, lad?” Jim nodded. “Ah! such a likely fellow, too. But it’s no use coming to me. I can’t take you on with that record.”
Jim tried again here and there, but always with the same-result. One night he got out a pencil, and sat dower to write a letter. When completed, it ran thus: —
“DEAR KING, — I’ve been a bad lad through drink. But Christ has made me a good lad. Now I want to serve my country. I’ll do my best. May I enlist?”
Jim signed his name, and posted the letter; then waited impatiently for the reply.
On his return one evening his mother held up an imposing communication.
“Eh, lad, what’s to do now?” she queried.
He tore it open, and read eagerly. “Oh, mother! I wrote to t’ King and told him everything. It’s a letter from his Private Secretary. He says that if I’ll tak’ this to t’ recruiting officer it’ll be all right.”
“Well, well, for sure, I’d niver have thought of such a thing! Upon my word, lad, ye deserve to pass, ye do an’ all.”
Once more Jim presented himself at the office he had first tried. The sergeant’s face fell when he recognized the applicant. “Now, my boy, what’s the good of wasting my time? How do you think I can pass you with such a record? It can’t be done.”
Jim handed him the precious letter. He read it with amazement, Well! “he exclaimed. “There’s no gainsaying this. That settles it.”
So it was not long before Jim found himself a sharer in the grim scenes of war, and what he did there, as well as what went before, is a story told by the Rev. J. H. Bateson, Wesleyan Chaplain to H.M. Forces.
Jim’s mother, with Spartan composure, had bidden him goodbye, her head erect, her eyes glowing.
“God bless you, lad. Your old mother’s praying for you.” “I know mother. I’ll try to do you credit, and make good.”
Months passed by. Amid the tragedy around, Jim steadily went through long stretches of waiting, and he drew strength and courage from the little Book over which he had often pored.
Then suddenly there developed around him what is described as “great activity on the Western Front.” Attack and counter-attack succeeded each other with exhausting rapidity. The struggle swayed back and forth, giving little apparent advantage to either side.
One particularly “hot corner” accounted for many casualties.
“Something must be done to silence that machine-gun. I want volunteers. Who will go?”
Instantly a number of men responded. Major Champneys selected several, Jim among the number, and gave them full instructions. Dusk closed in. The bombardment had lessened for a time, and things seemed comparatively quiet.
In the dense blackness of a moonless night the little party crept over the parapet, and stealthily made its way across the grim No-Man’s-Land. Silently they crawled and wriggled, pausing when the too-inquisitive light of a star-shell threatened to reveal their movements, or when the enemy sentry faced them. Thus they wound their way towards the German trenches, and then lay still, listening to the talk of the occupants.
Suddenly, before the enemy was aware, a deadly hand-to-hand struggle was in progress. Muffled cries and groans were heard, and after a few tense and vivid moments the deadly gun was effectually put out of action.
Not without loss, however. Two of the invading band had fallen, and the rest were not unscathed. But their work was done, and all that remained was to get back to their own trench.
Creeping out, they started cautiously on their return, crawling and resting by turns. They had made good progress when a star-shell flared up, and their figures were clearly revealed against the background of gloom. The little party started forward at the double, but the enemy instantly opened a shattering rifle-fire, which found its mark.
Major Champneys fell heavily, and near him one or two men. Jim, glancing over his shoulder, saw them lying there, fully exposed. Regardless of the lead spattering about him, he darted towards the officer, got him on to his back, and made for home. Ready hands were stretched out to help him, and the prostrate officer was lifted over the parapet.
Jim turned, and sprinted back into the night to reach another comrade. His cap was shot off, and his cheek badly grazed, but he hoisted the wounded man on to his shoulder, and stumbled back to the trench under the ping-ping of bullets.
“Well done, old chap! Here, come on.”
Jim shook his head. “Johnson’s out there. I’m going to have a try for him,” he cried.
Once more he turned. Once more the vivid light revealed the prostrate form of his comrade. Once more Jim raised the sufferer and conveyed him — somehow — back. He had lifted Johnson to the parapet, when the scene was lit up by the unrelenting glare of a searchlight. The scream of a shell was heard. Jim laid hold of the trench, and then — quite suddenly — let go.
The men behind the sandbags lowered their burden, peered out, and caught sight of a maimed, pitiful object which had been Jim. They drew him over, and laid him tenderly down. Jim smiled faintly, and his lips moved. Leaning over him, they just caught the words, “Tell mother I made good.”
The hours drift on. The struggle continues, but Jim lies unheeding. His life ebbs away, and at dawn the blue eyes close. The old, old enemy, Death, is vanquished. Jim, the ne’er-do-well, is more than conqueror, “through Him that loved” him.
FLORENCE M. BURDITT.