On Guard

By THEODORE GOODRIDGE ROBERTS

HE 69th Regime (Victoria County Rangers) got the order from Ottawa to recruit to war strength for home service. This happened on the fifth day of August, in the middle of a spell of fine weather. Old John Smiler was haying at the time, but young Bill Smiler, his orphan nephew, was doing most of the work. Bill was nineteen years of age, and worth his "keep" and thirty dollars a month to any agriculturalist; but as old John classed himself as an uncle of an orphan rather than as a farmer in this case, Bill didn't draw down the thirty. As to the "keep," it lacked something in keeping quality.

On the sixth day of August, Bill worked from half-past four in the morning until half-past eight at night, commencing with the chores and going on to milking, driving the mower, raking by horse and hand, pitching and stowing, and wound up gently, after a hasty supper, with cocking up and a little more raking. Then John Smiler discovered that there was no molasses in the house; so Bill took the jug and trudged a mile to Sam Blaine's store at the Corners. It was when Sam was filling the jug that Bill's weary eyes chanced to turn upon the white poster tacked to the open door.

Bill Smiler read the strange words slowly.

"Be they figgerin' to have another camp this summer, Mr. Blaine?" he asked. "I allus did want to git to camp, but Uncle never let me."

Mr. Blaine corked the jug and came heavily to Bill's side. He regarded the poster for several seconds in heavy silence.

"Camp!" he exclaimed at last. "A-playin' at sodgerin'! No, Bill, that ain't the idee. Ye've heard about the War, ain't ye?"

Bill shook his head.

"What war?" he asked. "Be them Chinee fellers a-fightin' them missionaries agin, Mr. Blaine?"

"They ain't," replied the store-keeper crisply. "Don't ye ever read the papers, Bill."

"No. Uncle allus likes to see me asleep when I ain't workin'. He don't hold with readin' the papers."

"Well, Bill, I'll tell ye. This here Austria—Hungry Austria, they call it—felt like a snack, an' tried to make a dinner on some little country over there. The little fellers wouldn't lay quiet on the hot plates, to be et. So the German Emperor bust loose, him bein' peckish, too. He cal'lated to chaw France, and when he was gittin' his teeth pushed out all ready for a bite, he sot his foot down kinder heavy on a little country named Belgium. The Belgiums appear to be better nor they look on the map—little an' sassy, like Nat Robinson's dog—an' they durned soon started the German Emperor a-liftin' and a-shiftin' his feet. Then France buys some duck-shot an' goes gunnin' for that onconsiderate Emperor; an' she gives the tip to King George—our King George of England and Canada—about some sort of partnership agreement they're in.

"'Right ye are!' says King George. 'We gotter stop him quick. I'll give him an hour to quit in.' But the Emperor of Germany ain't quit yet. So King George is into it, and the Rooshuns are into it, and now Cap'n Tim Kelly's into it. He's all for fightin', is the Cap'n. Sot on fightin' somethin'. It ain't long since he was talkin' about goin' to Ireland and helpin' the Natur'lists fight agin the Ulsterists; but now it is them Germans he's after. I was in to the Creek yesterday, on business, and see that the Cap'n and Squire Peters has 'God Save the King!' stuck up everywheres, and they're passin' out the red coats to the boys hand over fist. And Doc. Martin is there, a-lookin' the lads over aod measurin' 'em."

Bill Smiler's dull eyes brightened, and a quick flush of red appeared on his tanned brow and cheeks.

"And Uncle wants a package of soda crackers, Mr. Blaine," he said, with a catch in his voice.

The store-keeper gave him the crackers.

"I ain't takin' the jug," he said. "Uncle will call for it some time, I reckon."

He left the shop then, with the biscuits under his right arm.

Old John Smiler's farm lay to the north of the Corners, and Kelly's Creek lay fifteen miles to the south of the Corners. Bill Smiler walked southward after leaving Blaine's store. His thoughts were bright but confused, flashing in his mind and bewildering him. He was conscious of the beating of his heart, and for a little while he breathed quickly and with difficulty. His feet felt light, his lean legs tireless.

"Never been to a camp yet," he said. "Never been nowhere. But now I'll go an' lend King George a hand, by jinks, if Uncle kills me for it!"

He covered the first five miles of his journey at top speed, the second stage of five miles in an hour and fifteen minutes, the third and last stage in an hour and a half. He halted at the outskirts of the little village of Kelly's Creek, and left the highway in search of a spring or brook. He soon found what he wanted, lay down beside it in the alders, and drank deep. Then he ate about half the package of soda crackers, munching slowly. He topped off the flavourless meal with a handful of wild raspberries picked from a near-by thicket, then lay down on the dry weeds and grasses among the alders. He sank into dreamless sleep almost instantly, and did not awake until the sun was well above the eastern hill.

Captain Kelly's armoury was a barn-like wooden building which stood flush with the road in the centre of the village. Inside the armoury were rooms containing the rifles and clothing for one hundred and twenty-five men, tents and blankets, a small drill-hall and the captain's office, and behind it, in a ten-acre field, a dozen tents were already pitched. The Captain was a prosperous farmer and lumberman, and a devoted Militia officer.

Bill Smiler stood at the wire fence on the plank walk for ten minutes, gazing over at the white bell-tents, the squads of drilling men, and the sentry in his red coat and with a bayonet on the end of his rifle. Could that marching, high-chested, red-coated soldier with the sloped rifle topped with the blade of flashing steel be really Johnny Scott of Green Ridge? The freckled face under the Service cap certainly looked like Johnny's, but Bill had never heard that Johnny was a great soldier.

Bill found a small, very straight man, in tight, dust-coloured clothing, standing beside the door of the Captain's office. Bill did not know him.

"Good mornin' to you, Bill," said the stranger heartily. "If ye've come to join on, step right inside and tell the Captain about it."

Bill took a second look at him and staggered.

"I'm durned if it ain't Jerry Hayward o' Green Ridge!" he exclaimed.

"Colour-Sergeant Hayward, my lad," returned the other. "This way, if ye've come to enlist."

Captain Kelly ran keen eyes over Bill Smiler as he shook hands with him.

"How is your uncle's hay coming on, Bill?" he asked pleasantly.

"Don't know nor don't care, Cap'n," returned Bill. "I be through with Uncle an' his hay."

"You want to enlist?"

"I cal'late to git into a red coat, Cap'n."

"Home or foreign service, Bill?"

"Whichever ye say. I'm cal'lating on fightin' for King George."

The Captain wrote Bill's name and age on a ruled sheet of paper.

"Wait here," he said, and left the room.

He returned fifteen minutes later, accompanied by Doctor Martin. The doctor measured Bill here and there, examined him from his scalp to the soles of his feet, listened to the working of his heart and lungs, and tested his eyes.

"A trifle dusty, but fit as a fiddle," he said.

Then Bill wrote down his name laboriously, repeated some inspiring words after the Captain, and kissed the open Bible, and was marched off to breakfast. After breakfast he took a bath and got into a red coat under the watchful eyes of a corporal.

At three o'clock that afternoon, when Bill Smiler and five other recruits were being instructed in the intricacies of the position of "Attention!" old John Smiler drove up and drew rein outside the wire fence. His small, cold eyes soon alighted upon Bill.

"Hey, you!" he cried. "You, William Smiler, git outer that there red coat an' come along home!"

Many of the volunteers turned their glances upon the old man in the wagon, but Bill was not one of them. The instructor of the squad saw young Smiler's face redden, then whiten.

"D'ye hear me?" yelled the farmer. "Confound you for a worthless hound! Git out of that there dirty red coat an' come along with me, or I'll go in there an' strip it off with this here hoss-whip!"

Colour-Sergeant Hayward, who was orderly-sergeant for the day, ordered a corporal and two men out to arrest John Smiler and march him before Squire Peters. "Tell the Squire that an officer will be around in ten minutes to make the charge," he said. And so it was. Old John Smiler was limp as a rag by the time the Squire and Captain Kelly had finished talking to him.

"You are guilty of using abusive and insulting language to one of His Majesty's soldier's while engaged in his military duty in time of war, and of insulting His Majesty's uniform; but as it is a first offence, I'll let you off with the choice between paying a fine of ten dollars or going to gaol for twenty days," concluded the Squire.

Old John Smiler paid the fine and went home.

a week of Bill Smiler's enlistment for foreign service—"for one year or the period of the War"—Captain Kelly's company of the 69th went into camp at Milltown Junction, with two other companies of the same regiment, and four of the 75th—between eight and nine hundred troops, all ranks. They expected to remain at Milltown Junction a few days, perhaps a week, until they were joined by other foreign service contingents, and then to move on to the great encampment that was to be established at Valcartier, in Quebec.

The ground at the Junction was Government property, and had been used for years for the summer training of the local Militia. It was well situated and well drained, and water was piped into the camp lines from a never-failing spring on the side of a high wooded hill a quarter of a mile away. A guard of one man by day and two by night was placed on this spring.

Bill Smiler mounted guard on the spring at two o'clock of a warm and windless afternoon. His bayonet was fixed and a cartridge lay in the breech of his rifle. He stood and regarded the spring, his mind busy with the wording of his duty, as passed over to him by the old guard.

"Challenge anyone approaching the spring, and shoot anyone who approaches to within a yard of the spring in disregard of your second challenge and your threat to fire, and shoot to kill!"

Bill mumbled the words over several times, memorised them, and considered them. "Shoot to kill!" He didn't like the sound of it, and hoped that no one would come around when he was on duty.

The spring was in the middle of a small sloping clearing. It was partially covered by old planks. The sunlight struck down from the tops of the little spruces into the clean depths of the water.

Bill Smiler circled the spring several times, then came to rest above it, at the upper edge of the clearing. The air was warm and sweet with the essence of sun-steeped spruce and fern. Bill leaned on his rifle and stared down and across the glimmer of still heat between half-closed lids. His thoughts moved fitfully, but slowly and without effort, now concerned with John Smiler and the thankless drudgery of the farm, now with his new life and duties, but more than all with the face and voice of a girl named Eva Smithers. He was picturing his return from the War, with medals on his breast and foreign words on his tongue, and Eva's astonishment and joy at seeing him, when a swishing in the underbrush at his back caused him to start and turn and bring his rifle to the ready.

"Stand!" he exclaimed, with a jump of nervousness in his voice. The man in the underbrush halted and recoiled from the bayonet so suddenly presented at his breast. He was a large, elderly man dressed in a khaki serge uniform. His face was fat and pale, and his eyes were of an unusual colour and daunting expression. He was a stranger to Bill.

"What d'ye want here?" asked Bill, in angry and shaken tones. "Ye can't come nigh to this here spring, mister."

"Very good, my boy," returned the stranger. "Very good indeed. Quick as a trap, you are. Smart as paint, my lad."

Bill felt pleased by the stranger's gracious words, but his pleasure did not dull his sense of duty.

"Thank you, mister; but you better go away from here," he said. "I got orders to shoot anyone foolin' round here."

A pale light flickered in the stranger's eyes.

"I am one of your officers, my lad," he said—"a colonel."

"I never seen ye before, sir," replied Bill.

"I came through the brush to test your alertness and to get a drink."

"You can't go nigh that spring, sir, and you better clear out. I got my orders."

"But I tell you, my man, I'm one of your own officers."

"Can't help that, sir. Nobody ain't goin' near that there spring whilst I'm on guard. An' I never seen ye before. Ye may be a spy, for all I know."

"Step aside. I'll have you before the Colonel for this. You'll get into trouble for this."

"I got my orders, sir. Go away, or I'll shoot ye. Them's my orders."

"You fool! Stand aside! Take your orders from me. I command the brigade."

Bill felt embarrassed and frightened. If this stranger had the authority to give orders, to cancel former orders—if this cold-eyed man was, in fact, a colonel and the commander of the brigade—what would happen to him, Bill Smiler? Bill felt distressed, uncertain as to how to act, fearful of the result of what he had already said and done. This man might be a colonel—he was dressed for the part, at least—but, on the other hand, he might be a spy. As he was correctly dressed as a colonel, therefore he was cleverly dressed as a spy.

Bill was about to step aside, when the stranger dodged and sprang past him and dashed down the slope toward the sacred water.

"Halt, or I fire!" screamed Bill, bringing his rifle to his shoulder.

The stranger halted and turned, hesitated for a moment, then came storming up the slope toward the sentry. His face was white, his eyes afire.

"You fool!" he cried. "What do you mean by threatening to fire upon me? You'll suffer for this! Are you mad? Can't you see who I am?"

"Ye got to keep clear o' that there spring, sir," said Bill breathlessly. "If I knowed ye was the Colonel in command of this here camp, I'd—well, maybe I'd let ye go down to the spring. But I don't know ye, sir, an' I don't know the Colonel in command of this here brigade. I never seen ye before."

"Well, you see me now," retorted the other harshly. "I am Colonel Dunbar. Do you believe me?"

"I do, an', agin, I don't, sir," returned Bill nervously.

"I'll prove it to you," said the other. "To begin with, I come from Milltown, but I know the whole Province. What part of the Province do you come from?"

Bill told him.

"Very good," continued the Colonel. "I've visited your part of the country more than once, on shooting and fishing trips. I've fished Kelly's Creek several times. Captain Kelly comes from there. Are you a member of his company?"

"Yes, sir."

"A fine fellow, your Captain. I was talking to him only a few minutes ago. Rough, of course, possessed of admirable qualities and a considerable knowledge of military matters."

The white pinch of rage had left his face by this time, and his voice was bland; but the expression of his eyes was sinister and chill, and the cock of his left eyebrow ironic. He smiled. He chatted to Bill of places and persons about Kelly's Creek, and of the officers and men of the regiment, until the lad felt sure that he was whom and what he claimed to be.

"And now, my man, are you satisfied that I am not a spy?" he concluded.

"I reckon I be, Colonel," said Bill.

"Very good," returned the stranger. "I have convinced you. You have returned to your senses. See that you stick to them. I am going down now to look at the spring and wet my throat."

"I'd rather ye'd go back to camp for a drink. Colonel," said Bill apologetically. "It ain't far, sir."

"Do you still doubt my identity? Do you still think me a spy and an enemy?"

"No, sir; but if Cap'n Kelly knowed I let ye go to the spring, he'd sure be mad."

The stranger thrust his face close to Bill Smiler's and grinned horribly.

"I've had about enough of this!" he exclaimed. "I've had too much of it! Another word out of you, my man, and you'll go home in disgrace—you'll not last in this brigade as long as a dog with tallow legs can chase asbestos cats through hell!"

Under almost any other circumstances, the words of the Colonel's threat would have sounded distinctly and grotesquely humorous to Bill Smiler; but he looked at the Colonel's eyes, lost colour, and stammered an apology. His mouth and tongue and lips were dry as dust. He ran his tongue nervously between his lips and swallowed hard at nothing. A dry shiver went through him from head to foot.

The stranger turned and went down the slope without a backward glance. He did not hurry, he did not lag.

Bill Smiler gazed dully after him, daunted and apprehensive. For a time his anxiety was all for himself. He reflected fearfully that he had seriously offended the officer who commanded the brigade, and that this officer showed every indication of being one who would neither forget nor forgive. What was his punishment to be? Would he be turned out of the company, out of the regiment, out of the foreign service contingent, and sent back to his uncle in disgrace? No, he would never go back to that old man, and he would never again show himself to the folks he knew—to Eva Smithers in particular—except as a hero, or, at least, as a veteran soldier honourably discharged. Would Colonel Dunbar forgive him his mistake? Perhaps Captain Kelly would plead for him with the brigade commander?

He saw the stranger pause beside the spring, then kneel on the platform of planks which partially covered the surface of the water, and thrust a hand into one of the side-pockets of his tunic. Then suspicion flamed again in Bill Smiler's brain as quick and hot as the flash of powder, and a swift faintness of terror possessed and shook him. What of his duty? What of his word and his soldierly responsibility? He raised his rifle and tried to cry "Halt!" but his voice thinned to a whisper in his dry throat. The stranger gave no heed, but stooped forward over the spring.

"Come back!" cried Bill, in a cracked voice. "Come back, for Heaven's sake, or I got to shoot ye!"

He brought the butt of his rifle to his shoulder, and the sights swam before his eyes, blurring and slipping. The whole rifle jumped in his bands. He steadied it with a desperate effort.

"I'll shoot ye!" he screamed. "I got to! Ye're a spy!"

The stranger straightened his back and turned his face across his shoulder, and at that moment the sights of the rifle stood clear and black to Bill's view, and his fingers pressed the trigger. The report of the exploded cartridge was sharp and loud, but Bill's ears were not conscious of it. He saw the stranger slump forward over the spring and lie motionless. He knelt, dropped his rifle with a thump on the sward of thin grass and wild berries, and covered his bloodless face with his hand. He had shot a man!

Men came running in answer to the ringing alarm of the shot. Bill, lying prone in the warm, thin herbage of the hillside, heard the brushing of their bodies through the woods, the thumping of their feet, their shouts and calls. He scrambled to his hands and knees, and saw running figures and half a dozen excited men grouped about the spring. He saw a young officer join the group; voices struck dully upon his ears; he was conscious of his own name passing from mouth to mouth. He drew his rifle towards him and got unsteadily to his feet. At once a dozen faces were turned toward him, shouts rang out, and a dozen men, headed by the young officer, dashed up the slope.

The officer laid a violent hand on Bill's shoulder and thrust a flaming, twisted face close to Bill's.

"Did you do it? What did you do it for?" he yelped.

Bill moved his lips, but uttered no sound.

"You have murdered an officer!" exclaimed the other.

"I challenged him," said Bill. "He wouldn't heed me. He said he was Colonel Dunbar, but, all of a suddint, I thought he was a spy."

The other dropped his hand from Bill's shoulder. "Colonel Dunbar? The Brigadier!" he exclaimed.

"It ain't Colonel Dunbar," said a sergeant. "That man you shot, sentry, is Peter Benson. He belongs hereabouts, like myself. He ain't Dunbar, nor he ain't a spy."

Bill Smiler sat down heavily, let fall his rifle again, and covered his face with his hands.

"I—I done what I was told to do!" he exclaimed, and then broke into hysterical, dry sobbing.

"Who is this Benson?" asked the subaltern of the sergeant.

"A queer one, sir," replied the other. "Touched a mite in the upper story, an' was sent to the lunatic asylum for a few years, long ago, for tryin' to poison his wife, but harmless now as a babe. Smiler should have had better sense than to shoot so quick."

"I—didn't shoot quick!" sobbed Bill. "I give him fair warnin'—at first. I come pretty nigh believin' he was the Colonel, until a feelin' come over me suddint at the last, an' I couldn't help shootin'."

More officers and men had collected about the spring by this time. A private, with his right arm wet to the shoulder, and a medical officer turned and ascended the slope toward Bill. The doctor halted beside the subaltern and disclosed a small, tightly corked bottle which he held in his hand. It was full of a white powder.

"Arsenic!" he said. "Thank Heaven, the guard shot quick and straight before the cork was pulled!"

And that is how Bill Smiler became one of the early minor heroes of the War. He was made a sergeant next morning, and before he sailed for England he was colour-sergeant of Captain Kelly's company. He takes no credit to himself, however, for having saved the camp by shooting the insane poisoner in the nick of time, before the cork was extracted from the bottle of arsenic.

"It wasn't me done it," he always says. "I was thinkin' of myself—I was scared to stop him—an' then somethin' h'isted the rifle to my shoulder, aimed her, an' pressed my finger. I reckon it was sense of duty done that, or mebbe the ghost of some old soldier."