With firm resolve she wiped her eyes and hurried through the bed making, brought a pitcher of water to the little oak washstand, found fresh towels, a piece of soap. She remembered the tears with which she had laid away these things after her dear mother was gone, thinking that perhaps she would never unpack them again, not wanting to recall the precious days of which they reminded her.
She wiped the dust from a little old rocker, plumped up its patchwork cushion, straightened the small mirror, set the window shade straight, and then turned away. The room was as ready as she could make it.
As she went softly down the stairs she had a fleeting wish that she had dared to give Lucinda a room on the second floor. It was surely her due if she was willing to undertake the job of nursing this strange household while she was away. But she knew if she did, it would bring on a torrent of abuse and scorn from Elaine, and probably break up the whole affair even before it was begun. And perhaps Lucinda herself would have chosen the attic room, as a refuge from all that she would surely have to bear even for a little while under Elaine’s domination.
So she went quietly down to the kitchen and began to get some lunch on the table. As she did so she heard the children trooping back to the house. They had been across the street playing with some children when she returned, probably sent by their mother to get rid of them while she transacted her business with her lawyer. Well, she would give the children some lunch. That would keep them still for a few minutes, and occupy her troubled, trembling hands.
But suddenly she had a feeling that she was not alone, and looking up she saw Bettinger Thomas standing in the open doorway with a fiendish grin on his face.
“Oh, so you thought you’d get by with a tale like that, did you? Well, you’ve got another guess coming. You can walk right in here, young lady, and come clean. Walk! Your sister wants you.”
Chapter 6
The way had been long and hard, day after day under fire, night after night creeping furtively from bush to bush, from shadow to shadow, sometimes alone, and now and again in contact with others of the same group. It seemed endless, and Benedict Barron felt that he was scarcely human anymore. When there was food, coarse and poor for the most part, he wolfed it, and when there was no food he drew in his belt tighter and crept forward. He had to go on! It was an order! Just why he who had never been prepared for an existence of this sort had been selected for this special service, he couldn’t tell. It was all a part of the bewildering medley of war; he was only a cog in a wheel that turned on and on relentlessly. He was nothing but an automaton whose business it was to move on and through, no matter how the fires burned, no matter how hot the ground was where he crawled, thankful only that he still had ammunition for a few more shots at the spitfires that peppered him so constantly, thankful that there was still enough blood left in his body to keep going.
And from time to time there would come a lull in the starlit nights when the fires for the moment had ceased to fall, and a cool breeze would blow. Not for long, but always it would remind him of that cool mountain town back in his homeland, and the little girl in blue swinging on the gate. Then he would remember his intention to write someday and tell her about how the thought of her had helped him through the horror of these days and nights. Someday he would surely write to her, if he lived to find quiet and a pen and paper, or even just a pencil and an old envelope.
Now there was a river in the way, a deep, wide river, and he was so tired. If he could only rest before trying to swim. Would he ever get across?
Then as he plunged into the dark, cold waters, his senses sharpened, and he seemed to be hearing words from long ago. His mother’s voice, or was that his grandmother’s, reading from the Bible? Ah! It was his grandfather, reading at family worship, a favorite chapter. The words seemed graven in his heart. He had heard them so many times when he was a little boy—strange that after so many years they should come back to him just now when he was going through this experience!
“When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee.” Was He here? “When thou walkest through the fire,” ah, there was fire ahead, on the other side of that river, great walls of fire that he was expected to pass through—Was that God’s voice speaking these old familiar words, or just his old grandfather? He couldn’t stop to reason now. It took all his energy to get across this wide dark water and keep his ammunition dry. But maybe God had let his grandfather ring out those words from heaven where he went long years ago, words that he knew God Himself uttered centuries ago. Could they perhaps have been meant for him down in this present modern-century stress, and his great need? These deep, dark waters were a terrible barrier. He could not get on, yet if God was here perhaps he would get through to his duty, and the fire on the opposite shore. The words went ringing on in his heart, in that strangely familiar voice: “When thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.”
Were these words really being spoken to him, or was this just a trick of his imagination? His sick imagination?
And then the shore, and the fire raging close at hand! Ah! Now the fire again!
All through that awful night, the fiercest of them all, those words kept ringing when each man of them felt that the final test had come, the end had arrived. It was a fight to the death, and they expected death—in fact, almost welcomed the relief it would bring to have it over, just the end and the peace that death could bring. But as they fought through that night and the day that followed, and then as another night came down, grim determination, and courage that seemed to be born from above, had kept them going. Dropping down with pain and exhaustion, then rousing and in that vital energy that does not die in desperate need, going on—even when it had seemed to the enemy that they were conquered. “We must not lose,” each said in his heart, “we must win! We’re dying, yes, all right, but our death must win this war!”
So it was when the fire came over Ben Barron again, and that burning flame fell and went through his very being in one great, overwhelming stab. He dropped to the blackened hot sand in the deep night, as the fire burned itself out. There he lay through the darkness and pain and sickness that seemed but a lingering death.
But before his senses went out and left him in the blank darkness, he saw those mountains of home rise about him, felt the cooling breezes blow over this throbbing temples, and saw again the little girl in a blue dress swinging on the white gate, with a song on his lips and a light in her eyes. He found himself wondering in his pain: Was this heaven, and was he going in without any more preparation than this? Just a transfer from a battlefield to the Presence of God? Strange that he had never thought of that possibility before. Death? Yes. He had counted that cost, had been willing to go, but the thought of what would come after, going into God’s presence, hadn’t been presented to his mind, either by himself or by any sermon he had heard. And he didn’t somehow feel ready for the Presence of God.
In his delirium he looked around—the little white gate—it was there yet, and the little girl in the blue dress. Could she perhaps be an angel? Would she remember him? The little girl on the gate, and the jaunty schoolboy? Would she perhaps remember him? She had helped him once as he passed on through these fires, could she help him again, now, in case this happened to be heaven he had reached? He hadn’t written that letter to thank her for the help she had given in that wild, hot fire, by sending cool mountain breezes. He had surely meant to write that letter. Where was he now? Was this heaven? And how had he dared drift in here, if it was?
Dozing off into delirium, it came to him to wonder about the Presence of God, into which he was probably going. How would he be received there? Had he done a creditable job of fighting? Could he pass on his merits as a soldier or not?
But God didn’t care about his courage as a soldier, did He? He was too big and too powerful Himself to care about a little thing a soldier could do, all in the way of his job, wasn’t
He? It wasn’t as if he had done something outstanding, like bringing down his plane in the midst of a lot of Japanese soldiers and getting away with it. He was only a plain soldier, a fighter, going through fire. Was the fire all done, or would it come again and devour him before he was ushered into the Presence of God? Would God listen if he tried to tell Him how hot those fires had been? How hard it was to keep on with that bullet in his shoulder and the blood seeping away all the time making him weaker? Or did God know already? Perhaps He did. Those words from the Bible that his grandfather used to read seemed to ring that way. His mother used to think God knew and cared about everything and everybody. “His own,” she used to say. “God cares for His own.” But that meant people who had done something about it, “accepted Him” they used to call it in Sunday school many years ago. And he had never really done anything about it, not even joined the church when the other kids did. He didn’t see standing up before the world and nodding assent to things he wasn’t sure of, and then likely going out and acting just the same. The world wouldn’t seem any difference in him, and would wonder why he did it anyway. But now, perhaps about to approach into the Presence of God, he wished he had. If he could say, “I’m a member of the old First Presbyterian Church in Nassau in good little old New York state where my grandmother lived, and where Grandfather was an elder and respected,” would that make any difference when he was introduced to the Presence? But somehow he didn’t seem to feel that even that would make him acceptable. He would be just one of many dead men, and what would God want of a dead church member anyway, since he had never thought about God, nor had Him in mind at all when alive?
If he only knew somebody who knew God well, perhaps that would make a difference. Of course his mother, and his grandmother, but they were already gone. He couldn’t likely find them “up there” before he had to make his entrance into the Presence. That little girl in the blue dress? She was here somewhere. He had seen her in his vision. Child or angel? Would she help him? She had brought a memory of dew and cool mountain air down there on the hot battlefield. She had cooled his forehead—little Lexie. Had that been her cool little child-sized hand on his fevered brow? Would she introduce him to God? He was almost certain she knew God. If he could just see her again, he would ask her. Where had she gone?
In his delirium he tried to rise, but the pain in his shoulder made him faint and fall back. And then the world went out and he was a long time in the darkness. But it couldn’t have been heaven, could it? Dark like that? He seemed to remember a verse he had learned in Sunday school, “And there shall be no night there.” What would a place be like with no night? No falling fires? No bombs?
It was sometime during that night that the Lord came and stood beside him, looking deep into his eyes, speaking gently: “Ben Barron, I came with you, as I promised, through the water, and through the fire. I am the Lord your God… your Savior. If you want me I will go with you all the rest of the way. For I have loved you. You need not be afraid when I am with you.”
The wonder and the awe of it made him forget his pain. Could this be heaven, here on this scorched battlefield? If not, how was it that he was already in the Presence of God? Perhaps heaven was anywhere where God was? Or was he already dead of his wounds, and this was the heaven above?
Then even the thought of heaven vanished and he sank into oblivion. If there were more fires, he did not know it. Bombs bursting about him made no impression. If he thought at all, he thought he was dead.
He never knew when comrades came to him, touched his forehead, felt for his pulse, shook their heads.
“Take him up carefully, he’s got a bad wound. He may not be last to get there.”
“Do you think it’s worthwhile to take him in? It seems to me only a matter of a few minutes. He many not live to get there. The room is limited you know, and there are so many who stand a better chance of getting well.”
“Take him in,” said the sergeant. “Give him his chance. He’s a good guy. He’d do as much for you.”
A murmur of assent, gentle handling, lifted and borne. He never knew any of it. If he had, he would have been grateful.
To the swarming semi-privacy of an overcrowded ward he was taken, in a foreign hospital, understaffed, undersupplied, and the weary rushing doctors and nurses with too many patients to attend did their best for him in the intervals between what they considered duty toward more important patients. There was so little hope for Barron. He had lain too long on the battlefield, too long in suffering and loss of blood.
Yet because God had come to him out there on that battlefield and given him a vision of Himself, and spoken a quiet word to his soul, he lived on unexpectedly; slowly, very slowly, he began to recover. It seemed incredible to the nurses, even to the skillful doctors who had done their poor best for him with the small equipment given them. All were astonished at the vitality that kept him alive. Until at last one day they began to understand that he was really coming back to life again.
“Well, Barron, you’re going to get well!” the head doctor said to him one morning as he made his hurried rounds. “That’s swell. You’ll be begging us to let you go back to your outfit again pretty soon, I suppose.”
Benedict Barron turned dreamy eyes to the doctor and studied his face, examined his smile, responded with a comprehending glint in his own eyes.
“Is the fire still there?” he asked after a minute. “Isn’t it all over yet?”
The nurse murmured something about where he had been picked up, and the doctor frowned.
“Oh, I understand!” he said. “No, Barron, the fire in that particular spot you manned is out. Definitely out. They couldn’t take what you gave ’em. The battle has moved farther on, up over the last mountain stronghold. It won’t be long now till we have ’em completely licked!” He gave Ben Barron an affable grin, as well as he could control the poor tired muscles of his face, and Ben tried to smile back.
“Good boy!” said the doctor. “You’re definitely on the mend now, and I guess you’re glad they don’t need you to go through any more fires at present. It was a pretty tough job you had, man! I’m sure you’ll do your best the rest of your life to forget all about it.”
Ben Barron looked at him startled for a moment, with eyes that had so recently been seeing into another world. Then he slowly shook his head.
“No,” he said softly, “I shall never forget. I don’t think I want to forget.”
“You don’t want to forget?” said the doctor, astonished. “Why, that’s strange. I’m sure if I had been there I would want to forget it. Why don’t you?”
Ben Barron gave a slow smile that lit up his whole face.
“Because, you see, I met God out there. I had never met Him before. But I met Him, and He talked with me, and now I know Him. I shall never mind dying anymore because now I know the Lord.”
The doctor studied him, startled, with a strange, unaccustomed tenderness about his mouth and moisture in his eyes, and then he said in a grave, husky tone: “Oh, I see!” and he turned away and cleared his throat. “Well, you wouldn’t of course if you had that experience! Well, so long. I’m glad you’re better. And I’ll be seeing you.”
Then he went out in the corridor where the nurses were talking together in low tones, and approached one.
“Say, have you noticed, is that guy in the last bed a bit touched in the head?”
“Why no, Doctor,” said the nurse who had been attending Barron. “I hadn’t noticed it. Why, did he seem wrong to you? He’s a very quiet fellow.”
“Yes, quiet enough perhaps, but he seems to have been seeing visions, or else he hasn’t quite got back to normal yet. Keep a watch on him, will you, and let me know if there are any abnormal developments.” And then he looked into the room once more furtively and gazed at Ben Barron as he lay there on his cot with his eyes closed and a look of real peace on his face. The doctor went on to other patients, wondering to himself, would having a vision of God bring peace to everyone who was
wounded? Was there a God? He had always thought he didn’t believe there was, but perhaps there was Something. Some Force or Power that worked on weary spirits through nerves that were worn to a frazzle. But that soldier really acted as if he was ready to go out again and fight. As if he really wanted to go if there was more fighting to be done. Pity they couldn’t have more soldiers seeing visions if it worked like that on them. This Barron must be a regular guy.
From that day on Benedict Barron grew steadily better, and one morning he asked his nurse for writing materials.
“I want to write a letter,” he said with an apologetic smile.
“Oh! Do you feel able?”
“Sure! I guess I can manage.”
“Going to write to your mother?” she asked as she handed him a tablet and pencil, and arranged his pillows so he could write with the least exertion.
He gave her a sad little smile.
“One can’t write letters to heaven,” he said. “That’s where my mother is now. She doesn’t have to worry about me not getting home.”
“Oh!” said the nurse with gentleness in her voice. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he said. “I’m glad she’s there. She hasn’t had to worry about this war at all.”
“You’ve got something there!” said the nurse gravely. But she asked no more questions about the letter. And when it was finished she took it to mail, and studied the address carefully. Miss Alexia Kendall, Nassau Park, N.Y., U.S.A. An oddly lovely name. Some girl he knew back in the United States. How interesting! She held the letter with respect in her face, and started it out on its long journey.
Ben Barron lay there on his hard narrow cot thinking over the words he had written, and wondering if they would ever reach the person to whom they were addressed.
He knew the words by heart because he had been framing them over and over, reframing them in his mind for days and days before he started to write. And so now he went over them again, questioning each word to be sure it was just the right one.