"By the way, Ryan, what did you mean by saying you were a magician?"

"Oh, that was only a bit of a boast, sir. I know a few tricks I learnt in the regiment; one of the privates was a professional conjurer and mighty clever when sober. When I showed off one or two little tricks with stones, or b.u.t.tons, or bits of string, the Burmans were sure I was a real wizard, and looked up to me, so they did, and then the birds and animals being so friendly--I was always so much at my ease with them, and the childher--they said I cast _spells_!"

The steerage pa.s.sengers were not a little surprised to note the forgathering of a first-cla.s.s pa.s.senger with this odd reserved person (whose shaven head was a.s.sociated in their opinion with the interior of Rangoon jail). Nor was this all; now and then a remarkably pretty young lady accompanied the said first-cla.s.s pa.s.senger and brought fruit, and books, and cakes, and the three appeared to be on the best of terms. The _pongye_ and Shafto had many long talks together; they discussed life among the Burmese, the prospects of war, the changes that might awake and shake the world, and, appropriate supplement to the topic of war, more than once they spoke of death.

"I've been so long with the Buddhists that the fear of the grave is wore out of me," said Ryan; "I'd a'most as soon be dead as not--it's only another new life--ye just step in, an' meet yer old friends. I suppose, sir, you do not go along with me there."

"No," replied Shafto, who had all an Englishman's shrinking reluctance to discuss his belief, or his inner life; "yours is a nice easy path--too good to be true, I'm afraid. My creed is, to do our best, to help other people, and to take what comes."

"Goodness knows you have helped me, Mr. Shafto"--and the _pongye_ drew back a step and looked at him queerly--"what with saving me life and then makin' sort o' friends with me--as man to man--your kindness will stand in me memory till the clay is over me!"

Shafto and the _pongye_ separated at Ma.r.s.eilles; the latter went round by the Bay, whilst Mrs. Gregory and her party travelled overland, and they did not meet again for nearly two years.

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII

SERGEANT-MAJOR RYAN

Many months later, on a clear February night, Shafto and Tremenheere stood together outside Headquarters, "somewhere in France," anxiously observing the signs in the sky. Shafto, a machine-gun officer attached to the Blanks, had been granted twenty-four hours' leave, and made a muddy and dangerous journey of fifteen miles to visit his old schoolfellow, now on the staff of a General commanding a division. He was challenged and so was his companion; their faces expressed the long strain of a terrible war; both looked years older than their actual age, for, like the sons and daughters of the worshippers of Moloch, "they had pa.s.sed through the fire."

Shafto was fine-drawn to leanness, heavy lines were scored on his forehead, he had twice been wounded, had taken part in desperate fighting, witnessed many harrowing sights, and lost many friends.

The chill air was full of sounds; a continuous rolling of wheels, rumbling of guns, and the distant scream of a sh.e.l.l.

"There goes a signal to lengthen the German range," remarked Shafto.

"That's right, for they often show up lights that mean nothing."

"Look at that aeroplane of ours dropping red stars over the Boches'

first line of trenches. I suppose the lines are fairly close?"

"By Jove, you may say so! The men can shout across at one another, but the trenches are a good four miles from where we stand."

As he concluded, a star sh.e.l.l broke and lit up a vast expanse of gleaming mud.

To the rolling and rumbling was now added a far-away sound of tramping feet and song.

"Here they come!" exclaimed Tremenheere; "back to billets; they changed at six o'clock, but it's heavy going--mostly wading in slosh."

The marching came nearer and nearer, also the sound of singing and mouth-organs.

"'Michigan,'" said Shafto, "is a favourite; poor old 'Tipperary' is down and out."

Presently the force which had been relieved, muddy to the waist, but splendidly cheerful, splashed into the great courtyard.

"Irish," explained Tremenheere; "magnificent fellows, born fighters."

They watched the men as they fell out and scattered to their quarters in outhouses, barns and offices; and then Shafto and his friends made their way into the battered old chateau, and temporary Orderly room--once a lady's boudoir. It still exhibited strips of artistic wall-paper, a cracked mirror, a beautiful Louis XIV. cabinet stacked with papers, a few rude chairs, a couple of wooden tables.

Presently a sergeant-major came in to report, a fine stalwart fellow with a heavy black moustache and, in spite of his muddy waders, an air of complete self-possession. Having saluted and handed over his papers, his quick blue eyes rested on Shafto. He started, saluted, and said:

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Shafto, sir, but I see you don't know me."

"Well, no, I can't say that I do," replied Shafto, casting his mind over the last eighteen months.

"Well, of course, sir, I'm entirely different to what ye may remember in Rangoon."

"What?--you don't mean to say----"

The late _pongye_ nodded with emphasis..

"I'm now Sergeant-Major Ryan, in the second battalion of the old regiment."

Then suddenly stepping back and lowering his voice, he added, "They think I'm me brother. Shure, I never had one. And how is yourself, sir?"

"All right; I'm a machine-gun officer attached to the Blanks."

"And the young lady?"

"She's a Red Cross nurse at Rouen--I saw her three months ago."

"When next you meet will you give her my humble respects and tell her I've not forgotten her invitation, an' I'm coming to the wedding?"

"And no one will be more welcome; you have our address. I'm told you've been in some heavy fighting?"

"Well, yes, sir, at Ypres we lost eighteen of our officers; oh, it was a cruel bad mix-up. Still and all, the Boches were given their tea in a mug! After our last charge ye'd see thim going every way--like crows in a storm! Our guns are grand; as for them aeroplanes they do all but speak; and the Tanks are wonders, G.o.d bless them!"

"You have been wounded?"

"Only just a cat's scratch--the German wire is mighty stiff; and there's six-inch spikes. Well, since we were last together, sir, you and I have been through a strange time and seen sights as we can't talk about. One thing is sure, we'll worry through all right."

"Oh, yes, we shall, and give the Boches something to think about."

The sudden opening of a distant door released a roar of voices singing, "Take me back to Blighty!" a rousing demand which instantly recalled the sergeant-major to his duty.

"Well, sir," he said, "I must be moving; so I'll wish you good-bye, and the best of luck."

"The same to you, Ryan. You'll let us have a line to say how you get on, won't you?"

Shafto held out his hand; Ryan gave it a hard, convulsive squeeze, and in another moment the stalwart Irishman had saluted and tramped forth.

"An old friend, I see," remarked Tremenheere.

"Yes, I knew him in Burma."

"He is a tip-top non-com., and has the D.C.M. and the French Cross; he worked miracles when his officers were killed at Ypres. They offered him a commission, but he wouldn't take it. The men love him; though he has some funny fads, never touches meat, and sings queer outlandish chants; but he's the splendid sort of fellow who was _born_ for this war; full of heroic qualities and as hard as a bag of nails. I suppose his regiment was in Rangoon."