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The Second GenerationV
And in Cuba it rained. In a few days Reilly`s brigade discovered that by their successful charge they had gained the inestimable privilege of sitting in a wet trench and slowly but surely starving to death. Men`s tempers crumbled like dry bread. The soldiers who so cheerfully, quietly and decently had captured positions which the foreign experts had said were impregnable, now in turn underwent an attack which was furious as well as insidious. The heat of the sun alternated with rains which boomed and roared in their falling like mountain cataracts. It seemed as if men took the fever through sheer lack of other occupation. During the days of battle none had had time to get even a tropic headache, but no sooner was that brisk period over than men began to shiver and shudder by squads and platoons. Rations were scarce enough to make a little fat strip of bacon seem of the size of a corner lot, and coffee grains were pearls. There would have been godless quarreling over fragments if it were not that with these fevers came a great listlessness, so that men were almost content to die, if death required no exertion.
It was an occasion which distinctly separated the sheep from the goats. The goats were few enough, but their qualities glared out like crimson spots.
One morning Jameson and Ripley, two Captains in the Forty-fourth Foot, lay under a flimsy shelter of sticks and palm branches. Their dreamy, dull eyes contemplated the men in the trench which went to left and right. To them came Caspar Cadogan, moaning. "By Jove," he said, as he flung himself wearily on the ground, "I can`t stand much more of this, you know. It`s killing me." A bristly beard sprouted through the grime on his face; his eyelids were crimson; an indescribably dirty shirt fell away from his roughened neck; and at the same time various lines of evil and greed were deepened on his face, until he practically stood forth as a revelation, a confession. "I can`t stand it. By Jove, I can`t."
Stanford, a Lieutenant under Jameson, came stumbling along toward them. He was a lad of the class of `98 at West Point. It could be seen that he was flaming with fever. He rolled a calm eye at them. "Have you any water, sir?" he said to his Captain. Jameson got upon his feet and helped Stanford to lay his shaking length under the shelter. "No, boy," he answered gloomily. "Not a drop. You got any, Rip?"
"No," answered Ripley, looking with anxiety upon the young officer. "Not a drop."
"You, Cadogan?"
Here Caspar hesitated oddly for a second, and then in a tone of deep regret made answer, "No, Captain; not a mouthful."
Jameson moved off weekly. "You lay quietly, Stanford, and I`ll see what I can rustle."
Presently Caspar felt that Ripley was steadily regarding him. He returned the look with one of half-guilty questioning.
"God forgive you, Cadogan," said Ripley, "but you are a damned beast. Your canteen is full of water."
Even then the apathy in their veins prevented the scene from becoming as sharp as the words sounded. Caspar sputtered like a child, and at length merely said: "No, it isn`t." Stanford lifted his head to shoot a keen, proud glance at Caspar, and then turned away his face.
"You lie," said Ripley. "I can tell the sound of a full canteen as far as I can hear it."
"Well, if it is, I -- I must have forgotten it."
"You lie; no man in this Army just now forgets whether his canteen is full or empty. Hand it over."
Fever is the physical counterpart of shame, and when a man has the one he accepts the other with an ease which would revolt his healthy self. However, Caspar made a desperate struggle to preserve the forms. He arose and taking the string from his shoulder, passed the canteen to Ripley. But after all there was a whine in his voice, and the assumption of dignity was really a farce. "I think I had better go, Captain. You can have the water if you want it, I`m sure. But -- but I fail to see -- I fail to see what reason you have for insulting me."
"Do you?" said Ripley stolidly. "That`s all right."
Caspar stood for a terrible moment. He simply did not have the strength to turn his back on this -- this affair. It seemed to him that he must stand forever and face it. But when he found the audacity to look again at Ripley he saw the latter was not at all concerned with the situation. Ripley, too, had the fever. The fever changes all laws of proportion. Caspar went away.
"Here, youngster; here is your drink."
Stanford made a weak gesture. "I wouldn`t touch a drop from his blamed canteen if it was the last water in the world," he murmured in his high, boyish voice.
"Don`t you be a young jackass," quoth Ripley tenderly.
The boy stole a glance at the canteen. He felt the propriety of arising and hurling it after Caspar, but -- he, too, had the fever.
"Don`t you be a young jackass," said Ripley again.
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