Sword of Honor Read online

  “I thought I could find a place for it in the shrubbery but it’s all much more open than I realized.”

  Guy said nothing and turned a page of the Tablet. It was clear that Apthorpe was longing to divulge his secret and would shortly do so.

  “It is no good going to the Q.M. He wouldn’t understand. It’s not exactly an easy thing to explain to anyone.”

  Then, after another pause, he said: “Well, if you must know, it’s my thunder-box.”

  This was far above Guy’s hopes; his mind had been running on food, medicine, fire-arms; at the very best he had hoped for something exotic in footwear.

  “May I see it?” he asked reverently.

  “I don’t see why not,” said Apthorpe. “As a matter of fact I think it will interest you: it’s pretty neat, a type they don’t make any more. Too expensive, I suppose.”

  He went to the cupboard and dragged out the treasure, a brass-bound, oak cube.

  “It’s a beautiful piece of work really.”

  He opened it, showing a mechanism of heavy cast-brass and patterned earthenware of solid Edwardian workmanship. On the inside of the lid was a plaque bearing the embossed title of Connolly’s Chemical Closet.

  “What do you think of it?” said Apthorpe.

  Guy was not sure of the proper terms in which to praise such an exhibit.

  “It’s clearly been very well looked after,” said Guy.

  It seemed he had said the right thing.

  “I got it from a High Court Judge, the year they put drains into the government buildings at Karonga. Gave him five pounds for it. I doubt if you could find one for twenty today. There’s not the craftsmanship any more.”

  “You must be very proud of it.”

  “I am.”

  “But I don’t quite see why you need it here.”

  “Don’t you, old man? Don’t you?” A curiously solemn and fatuous expression replaced the innocent light of ownership that had until now beamed from Apthorpe. “Have you ever heard of a rather unpleasant complaint called ‘clap,’ Crouchback?”

  Guy was dumbfounded.

  “I say, what a beastly thing. I am sorry. I had no idea. I suppose you picked it up the other night in London when you were tight. But are you having it properly seen to? Oughtn’t you to go sick?”

  “No, no, no, no. I haven’t got it.”

  “Then who has?”

  “Sarum-Smith for one.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I don’t know. I simply chose Sarum-Smith as an example. He’s just the sort of young idiot who would. Any of them might. And I don’t intend to take any risks.”

  He shut his box and pushed it away under the stairs. The effort seemed to rile him.

  “What’s more, old man,” he said, “I don’t much like the way you spoke to me just now, accusing me of having clap. It’s a pretty serious thing, you know.”

  “I’m sorry. It was rather a natural mistake in the circumstances.”

  “Not natural to me, old man, and I don’t quite know what you mean by ‘circumstances.’ I never get tight. I should have thought you would have noticed that. Merry, perhaps, on occasions, but never tight. It’s a thing I keep clear of. I’ve seen far too much of it.”

  Apthorpe was up at first light next day exploring the out-buildings and before breakfast had discovered an empty shed where the school perhaps had kept bats and pads. There with the help of Halberdier Crock he installed his chemical closet and thither for several tranquil days he resorted for his comfort. It was two days after the fall of Finland that his troubles began.

  Back from biffing about the downs and, after a late luncheon inclined for half an hour’s rest, Guy was disturbed by Apthorpe. He wore a face of doom.

  “Crouchback, a word with you.”

  “Well.”

  “In private, if you don’t mind.”

  “I do mind. What is it?”

  Apthorpe looked round the ante-room. Everyone seemed occupied.

  “You’ve been using my thunder-box.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Someone has.”

  “Well, it isn’t me.”

  “No one else knows of it.”

  “How about Halberdier Crock?”

  “He wouldn’t dare.”

  “Nor would I, my dear fellow.”

  “Is that your last word?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. But in future I shall keep a look-out.”

  “Yes, I should.”

  “It’s a serious matter, you know. It almost amounts to pilfering. The chemical is far from cheap.”

  “How much a go?”

  “It isn’t the money. It’s the principle.”

  “And the risk of infection?”

  “Exactly.”

  *

  For two days Apthorpe posted himself in the bushes near his shed and spent every available minute on watch. On the third day he drew Guy aside and said: “Crouchback, I owe you an apology. It isn’t you who has been using my thunder-box.”

  “I knew that.”

  “Yes, but you must admit the circumstances were very suspicious. Anyway, I’ve found out who it is, and it’s most disturbing.”

  “Not Sarum-Smith?”

  “No. Much more disturbing than that. It’s the brigadier.”

  “Do you think he’s got clap?”

  “No. Most unlikely. Far too much a man of the world. But the question arises, what action ought I to take?”

  “None.”

  “It’s a matter of principle. As my superior officer he has no more right to use my thunder-box than to wear my boots.”

  “Well, I’d lend him my boots if he wanted them.”

  “Perhaps; but then, if you’ll forgive my saying so, you’re not very particular about your boots, are you, old man? Anyway you think it my duty to submit without protest.”

  “I think you’ll make a tremendous ass of yourself if you don’t.”

  “I shall have to think about it. Do you think I ought to consult the B.M.?”

  “No.”

  “You may be right.”

  *

  Next day Apthorpe reported: “Things are looking worse.”

  It showed how much the thunder-box had occupied Guy’s thoughts that he at once knew what Apthorpe meant.

  “More intruders?”

  “No, not that. But this morning as I was coming out I met the brigadier going in. He gave me a very odd look—you may have noticed he has rather a disagreeable stare on occasions. His look seemed to suggest that I had no business there.”

  “He’s a man of action,” said Guy. “You won’t have to wait long to know what he thinks about it.”

  All day Apthorpe was distracted. He answered haphazardly when asked an opinion on tactics. His solutions of the problems set them were wild. It was a particularly cold day. At every pause in the routine he kept vigil by the hut. He missed tea and did not return until ten minutes before the evening lecture. He was red-nosed and blue-cheeked.

  “You’ll make yourself ill, if this goes on,” said Guy.

  “It can’t go on. The worst has happened already.”

  “What?”

  “Come and see. I wouldn’t have believed it, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

  They went out into the gloom.

  “Just five minutes ago. I’d been on watch since tea and was getting infernally cold, so I started walking about. And the brigadier came right past me. I saluted. He said nothing. Then he did this thing right under my very eyes. Then he came past me again and I saluted and he positively grinned. I tell you, Crouchback, it was devilish.”

  They had reached the hut. Guy could just see something large and white hanging on the door. Apthorpe turned his torch on it and Guy saw a neatly inscribed notice: Out of Bounds to all ranks below brigadier.

  “He must have had it specially made by one of the clerks,” said Apthorpe awfully.

  “It’s put you in rather a fix, hasn’t it
?” said Guy.

  “I shall send in my papers.”

  “I don’t believe you can in wartime.”

  “I can ask for a transfer to another regiment.”

  “I should miss you, Apthorpe, more than you can possibly believe. Anyway there’s a lecture in two minutes. Let’s go in.”

  The brigadier himself lectured. Booby-traps, it appeared, were proving an important feature of patrol-work on the western front. The brigadier spoke of trip-wires, detonators, anti-personnel mines. He described in detail an explosive goat which he had once contrived and driven into a Bedouin encampment. Seldom had he been more exuberant.

  This was one of the evenings when there was no discussion or night exercise and it was generally accepted that those who wished might dine out.

  “Let’s go to the Garibaldi,” said Apthorpe. “I won’t sit at the same table with that man. You must dine with me as my guest.”

  There, in the steam of minestrone, Apthorpe’s face became a healthier color and strengthened by Barolo his despair gave place to defiance. Pelecci leant very near while Apthorpe rehearsed his wrongs. The conversation was abstruse. “Thunder-box,” an invention of this capable officer’s, unjustly misappropriated by a superior, was clearly a new weapon of value.

  “I don’t think,” said Apthorpe, “it would be any good appealing to the Army Council, do you?”

  “No.”

  “You could not expect them to meet a case like this with purely open minds. I don’t suggest positive prejudice but, after all, it’s in their interest to support authority if they possibly can. If they found a loophole…”

  “You think there are loopholes in your case?”

  “Quite frankly, old man, I do. In a court of honor, of course, the thing would be different, but in its purely legal aspect one has to admit that the brigadier is within his rights in putting any part of the brigade premises out of bounds. It is also true that I installed my thunder-box without permission. That’s just the sort of point the Army Council would jump on.”

  “Of course,” said Guy, “it’s arguable that since the thunder-box has not risen to the rank of brigadier, it is itself at the moment out of bounds.”

  “You’ve got it, Crouchback. You’ve hit the nail right on the head.” He goggled across the table with frank admiration. “There’s such a thing, you know, as being too near to a problem. Here I’ve been turning this thing over and over in my mind till I felt quite ill with worry. I knew I needed an outside opinion; anybody’s, just someone who wasn’t personally implicated. I’ve no doubt I’d have come to the same solution myself sooner or later, but I might have worried half the night. I owe you a real debt of gratitude, old man.”

  More food arrived and more wine. Giuseppe Pelecci was out of his depth. “Thunder-box,” it now appeared, was the code name of some politician of importance but no military rank, held concealed in the district. He would pass the information on for what it was worth; keener brains than his should make what they could of it. He had no ambition to rise in his profession. He was doing nicely out of the restaurant. He had worked up the good-will of the place himself. Politics bored him and battles frightened him. It was only in order to escape military service that he had come here in the first place.

  “And afterwards a special zabaglione, gentlemen?”

  “Yes,” said Apthorpe. “Yes, rather. Let’s have all you’ve got.” And to Guy: “You must understand that this is my dinner.”

  So Guy had understood from the first; this reminder, Guy thought, was perhaps a clumsy expression of gratitude. It was in fact a sly appeal for further services.

  “I think we’ve cleared up the whole legal aspect very neatly,” Apthorpe continued. “But there’s now the question of action. How are we going to get the thunder-box out?”

  “The way you got it in, I suppose.”

  “Not so easy, old man. There’s wheels within wheels. Halberdier Crock and I carried it there. How can we carry it away without going out of bounds? One can’t order a man to perform an unlawful action. You must remember that. Besides I shouldn’t really care to ask him. He was distinctly uncooperative about the whole undertaking.”

  “Couldn’t you lasso it from the door?”

  “Pretty ticklish, old man. Besides, my lariat is with the rest of my gear at the commodore’s.”

  “Couldn’t you draw it out with a magnet?”

  “I say, are you trying to be funny, Crouchback?”

  “It was just a suggestion.”

  “Not a very practical one, if you don’t mind my saying so. No. Someone must go in and get it.”

  “Out of bounds?”

  “Someone who doesn’t know, or at least who the brigadier doesn’t know knows, that the hut is out of bounds. If he was caught he could always plead that he didn’t see the notice in the dark.”

  “You mean me?”

  “Well, you’re more or less the obvious person, aren’t you, old man?”

  “All right,” said Guy. “I don’t mind.”

  “Good for you,” said Apthorpe, greatly relieved.

  They finished their dinner. Apthorpe grumbled about the bill but he paid it. They returned to Kut-al-Imara. There was no one about. Apthorpe kept cave and Guy, without much difficulty, dragged the object into the open.

  “Where to now?”

  “That’s the question. Where do you think will be the best place?”

  “The latrines.”

  “Really, old man, this is scarcely the time or place for humor.”

  “I was only thinking of Chesterton’s observation, ‘Where is the best place to hide a leaf? In a tree.’ ”

  “I don’t get you, old man. It would be jolly awkward up a tree, from every point of view.”

  “Well, let’s not take it far. It’s bloody heavy.”

  “There’s a potting-shed I found when I was making my recce.”

  They took it there, fifty yards away. It was less commodious than the hut, but Apthorpe said it would do. As they were returning from their adventure he paused in the path and said with unusual warmth: “I shan’t forget this evening’s work, Crouchback. Thank you very much.”

  “And thank you for the dinner.”

  “That wop did pile it on, didn’t he?”

  After a few more steps, Apthorpe said: “Look here, old man, if you’d care to use the thunder-box, too, it’s all right with me.”

  It was a moment of heightened emotion; an historic moment, had Guy recognized it, when in their complicated relationship Apthorpe came nearest to love and trust. It passed, as such moments do between Englishmen.

  “It’s very good of you but I’m quite content as I am.”

  “Sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s all right then,” said Apthorpe, greatly relieved.

  Thus Guy stood high in Apthorpe’s favor and became with him joint custodian of the thunder-box.

  III

  In full retrospect all the last weeks of March resolved themselves into the saga of the chemical closet. Apthorpe soon forgot his original motive for installing it.

  He was no longer driven by fear of infection. His right of property was at stake. Waiting to fall in, on the morning after the first translation, Apthorpe drew Guy aside. Their new comradeship was on a different plane from frank geniality; they were fellow conspirators now. “It’s still there.”

  “Good.”

  “Untouched.”

  “Fine.”

  “I think, old man, that in the circumstances we had better not be seen talking together too much.”

  Later, as they went into the mess for luncheon Guy had the odd impression that someone in the crowd was attempting to hold his hand. He looked about him and saw Apthorpe near, with averted face, talking with great emphasis to Captain Sanders. Then he realized that a note was being passed to him.

  Apthorpe made for a place at table as far as possible from his. Guy opened the screw of paper and read: “The notice has been taken down from th
e hut. Unconditional surrender?”

  Not until tea-time did Apthorpe consider it safe to speak.

  “I don’t think we’ve any more to worry about. The brig. has given us best.”

  “It doesn’t sound like him.”

  “Oh, he’s unscrupulous enough for anything. I know that. But he has his dignity to consider.”

  Guy did not wish to upset Apthorpe’s new, gleeful mood, but he doubted whether these adversaries had an identical sense of dignity. Next day it was apparent that they had not.

  Apthorpe arrived for parade (under the new regime there was half an hour’s drill and physical training every morning) with a face of horror. He fell in next to Guy. Again there was an odd inter-fumbling of fingers and Guy found himself holding a message. He read it at the first stand-easy while Apthorpe turned ostentatiously away. “Must speak to you alone first opportunity. Gravest developments.”

  An opportunity came half-way through the morning.

  “The man’s mad. A dangerous, certifiable maniac. I don’t know what I ought to do about it.”

  “What’s he done now?”

  “He came within an inch of killing me, that’s all. If I hadn’t been wearing my steel helmet I shouldn’t be here to tell you. He caught me with a bloody great flower-pot, full of earth and a dead geranium, square on the top of my head. That’s what he did this morning.”

  “He threw it at you?”

  “It was on top of the potting-shed door.”

  “Why were you wearing your tin hat?”

  “Instinct, old man. Self-preservation.”

  “But you said last night you thought the whole thing was over. Apthorpe, do you always wear your tin hat on the thunder-box?”

  “All this is irrelevant. The point is that this man simply isn’t responsible. It’s a very serious matter for someone in his position—and ours. A time may come when he holds our lives in his hands. What ought I to do?”

  “Move the box again.”

  “And not report the matter?”

  “Well, there’s your dignity to consider.”

  “You mean there are people who might think it funny?”

  “Awfully funny.”

  “Damn,” said Apthorpe. “I hadn’t considered that side of the question.”