the lost road-第23部分

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without　help；　money；　or　affection　he　could　each　morning　have
greeted　it　with　a　smile。　　But　life　without　honor！　He　felt　a　sudden
hot　nausea　of　disgust。　　Why　was　he　still　clinging　to　what　had
lost　its　purpose；　to　what　lacked　the　one　thing　needful？


〃If　life　be　an　ill　thing；〃　he　thought；　〃I　can　lay　it　down！〃

The　thought　was　not　new　to　him；　and　during　the　two　past　weeks　of
aimless　wandering　he　had　carried　with　him　his　service　automatic。
To　reassure　himself　he　laid　his　fingers　on　its　cold　smooth　surface。
He　would　wait；　he　determined；　until　the　musicians　had　finished
their　concert　and　the　women　and　children　had　departed；　and　then

Then　the　orderly　would　find　him　where　he　was　now　seated；　sunken
against　the　hawser…post　with　a　hole　through　his　heart。　　To　his　disordered
brain　his　decision　appeared　quite　sane。　　He　was　sure　he　never　had　been
more　calm。　　And　as　he　prepared　himself　for　death　he　assured　himself
that　for　one　of　his　standard　no　other　choice　was　possible。　　Thoughts
of　the　active　past；　or　of　what　distress　in　the　future　his　act　would　bring
to　others；　did　not　disturb　him。　　The　thing　had　to　be；　no　one　lost　more
heavily　than　himself；　and　regrets　were　cowardly。

He　counted　the　money　he　had　on　his　person　and　was　pleased　to　find
there　was　enough　to　pay　for　what　services　others　soon　must　render
him。　　In　his　pockets　were　letters；　cards；　a　cigarette…case；　each　of
which　would　tell　his　identity。　　He　had　no　wish　to　conceal　it；　for　of
what　he　was　about　to　do　he　was　not　ashamed。　　It　was　not　his　act。
He　would　not　have　died　〃by　his　own　hand。〃　　To　his　unbalanced
brain　the　officers　of　the　court…martial　were　responsible。　　It　was
they　who　had　killed　him。　　As　he　saw　it；　they　had　made　his　death
as　inevitable　as　though　they　had　sentenced　him　to　be　shot　at
sunrise。

A　line　from　〃The　Drums　of　the　Fore　and　Aft〃　came　back　to　him。
Often　he　had　quoted　it；　when　some　one　in　the　service　had　suffered
through　the　fault　of　others。　　It　was　the　death…cry　of　the　boy　officer；
Devlin。　　The　knives　of　the　Ghazi　had　cut　him　down；　but　it　was　his
own　people's　abandoning　him　in　terror　that　had　killed　him。　　And　so；
with　a　sob；　he　flung　the　line　at　the　retreating　backs　of　his　comrades：
〃You've　killed　me；　you　cowards！〃

Swanson；　nursing　his　anger；　repeated　this　savagely。　　He　wished　he
could　bring　it　home　to　those　men　of　the　court…martial。　　He　wished
he　could　make　them　know　that　his　death　lay　at　their　door。　　He
determined　that　they　should　know。　　On　one　of　his　visiting…cards　he
pencilled：
〃To　the　Officers　of　my　Court…Martial：　'You've　killed　me；　you
cowards！'〃

He　placed　the　card　in　the　pocket　of　his　waistcoat。　　They　would
find　it　just　above　the　place　where　the　bullet　would　burn　the　cloth。

The　band　was　playing　〃Auf　Wiedersehen；〃　and　the　waltz　carried
with　it　the　sadness　that　had　made　people　call　the　man　who　wrote
it　the　waltz　king。　　Swanson　listened　gratefully。　　He　was　glad　that
before　he　went　out；　his　last　mood　had　been　of　regret　and　gentleness。
The　sting　of　his　anger　had　departed；　the　music　soothed　and　sobered
him。　　It　had　been　a　very　good　world。　　Until　he　had　broken　the　spine
of　things　it　had　treated　him　well；　far　better；　he　admitted；　than　he
deserved。　　There　were　many　in　it　who　had　been　kind；　to　whom　he
was　grateful。　　He　wished　there　was　some　way　by　which　he　could　let
them　know　that。　　As　though　in　answer　to　his　wish；　from　across　the
parade…ground　the　wireless　again　began　to　crash　and　crackle；　but　now
Swanson　was　at　a　greater　distance　from　it；　and　the　sighing　rhythm　of
the　waltz　was　not　interrupted。

Swanson　considered　to　whom　he　might　send　a　farewell　message；　but
as　in　his　mind　he　passed　from　one　friend　to　another；　he　saw　that　to
each　such　a　greeting　could　bring　only　distress。　　He　decided　it　was
the　music　that　had　led　him　astray。　　This　was　no　moment　for　false
sentiment。　　He　let　his　hand　close　upon　the　pistol。

The　audience　now　was　dispersing。　　The　nurse…maids　had　collected
their　charges；　the　musicians　were　taking　apart　their　music…racks；
and　from　the　steps　of　the　vine…covered　veranda　Admiral　Preble　was
bidding　the　friends　of　his　wife　adieu。　　At　his　side　his　aide；　young；
alert；　confident；　with　ill…concealed　impatience　awaited　their　departure。
Swanson　found　that　he　resented　the　aide。　　He　resented　the　manner　in
which　he　speeded　the　parting　guests。　　Even　if　there　were　matters　of
importance　he　was　anxious　to　communicate　to　his　chief；　he　need　not
make　it　plain　to　the　women　folk　that　they　were　in　the　way。

When；　a　month　before；　he　had　been　adjutant；　in　a　like　situation　he
would　have　shown　more　self…command。　　He　disapproved　of　the　aide
entirely。　　He　resented　the　fact　that　he　was　as　young　as　himself；
that　he　was　in　uniform；　that　he　was　an　aide。　　Swanson　certainly
hoped　that　when　he　was　in　uniform　he　had　not　looked　so　much　the
conquering　hero；　so　self…satisfied；　so　supercilious。　　With　a　smile
he　wondered　why；　at　such　a　moment；　a　man　he　had　never　seen
before；　and　never　would　see　again；　should　so　disturb　him。

In　his　heart　he　knew。　　The　aide　was　going　forward　just　where　he
was　leaving　off。　　The　ribbons　on　the　tunic　of　the　aide；　the　straps
on　his　shoulders；　told　Swanson　that　they　had　served　in　the　same
campaigns；　that　they　were　of　the　same　relative　rank；　and　that
when　he　himself；　had　he　remained　in　the　service；　would　have　been
a　brigadier…general　the　aide　would　command　a　battle…ship。　　The
possible　future　of　the　young　sailor　filled　Swanson　with　honorable
envy　and　bitter　regret。　　With　all　his　soul　he　envied　him　the　right
to　look　his　fellow　man　in　the　eye；　his　right　to　die　for　his　country；
to　give　his　life；　should　it　be　required　of　him；　for　ninety　million
people；　for　a　flag。　　Swanson　saw　the　two　officers　dimly；　with　eyes
of　bitter　self…pity。　　He　was　dying；　but　he　was　not　dying　gloriously
for　a　flag。　　He　had　lost　the　right　to　die　for　it；　and　he　was　dying
because　he　had　lost　that　right。

The　sun　had　sunk　and　the　evening　had　grown　chill。　　At　the　wharf
where　the　steamer　lay　on　which　he　had　arrived；　but　on　which　he
was　not　to　depart；　the　electric　cargo　lights　were　already　burning。
But　for　what　Swanson　had　to　do　there　still　was　light　enough。
From　his　breast…pocket　he　took　the　card　on　which　he　had
written　his　message　to　his　brother　officers；　read　and　reread　it；
and　replaced　it。

Save　for　the　admiral　and　his　aide　at　the　steps　of　the　cottage；
and　a　bareheaded　bluejacket　who　was　reporting　to　them；　and　the
admiral's　orderly；　who　was　walking　toward　Swanson；　no　one　was
in　sight。　　Still　seated　upon　the　stringpiece　of　the　wharf；　Swanson
so　moved　that　his　back　was　toward　the　four　men。　　The　moment
seemed　propitious；　almost　as　though　it　had　been　prearranged。　　For
with　such　an　audience；　for　his　taking　off　no　other　person　could　be
blamed。　　There　would　be　no　question　but　that　death　had　been
self…inflicted。

Approaching　from　behind　him　Swanson　heard　the　brisk　steps　of　the
orderly　drawing　rapidly　nearer。　　He　wondered　if　the　wharf　were
government　property；　if　he　were　trespassing；　and　if　for　that　reason
the　man　had　been　sent　to　order　him　away。　　He　considered　bitterly
that　the　government　grudged　him　a　place　even　in　which　to　die。
Well；　he　would　not　for　long　be　a　trespasser。　　His　hand　slipped
into　his　pocket；　with　his　thumb　he　lowered　the　safety…catch　of
the　pistol。

But　the　hand　with　the　pistol　in　it　did　not　leave　his　pocket。　　The
steps　of　the　orderly　had　come　to　a　sudden　silence。　　Raising　his
head　heavily；　Swanson　saw　the　man；　with　his　eyes　fixed　upon　him；
standing　at　salute。　　They　had　first　made　his　life　unsupportable；
Swanson　thought；　now　they　would　not　let　him　leave　it。

〃Captain　Swanson；　sir？〃　asked　the　orderly。

Swanson　did　not　speak　or　move。

〃The　admiral's　compliments；　sir；〃　snapped　the　orderly；　〃and　will
the　captain　please　speak　with　him？〃

Still　Swanson　did　not　move。


He　felt　that　the　breaking…point　of　his　self…control　had　come。
This　impertinent　interruption；　this　thrusting　into　the　last　few
seconds　of　his　life　of　a　reminder　of　all　that　he　had　lost；　this
futile　postponement　of　his　end；　was　cruel；　unhuman；　unthinkable。
The　pistol　was　still　in　his　hand。　　He　had　but　to　draw　it　and
press　it　close；　and　before　the　marine　could　leap　upon　him　he
would　have　escaped。

From　behind；　approaching　hurriedly；　came　the　sound　of
impatient　footsteps。

The　orderly　stiffened　to　attention。　　〃The　admiral！〃　he　warned。

Twelve　years　of　discipline；　twelve　years　of　recognition　of　authority；
twelve　years　of　deference　to　superior　officers；　dragged　Swanson's
hand　from　his　pistol　and　lifted　him　to　his　feet。　　As　he　turned；
Admiral　Preble；　the　aide；　and　the　bareheaded　bluejacket　were
close　upon　him。　　The　admiral's　face　beamed；　his　eyes　were　young
with　pleasurable　excitement；　with　the　eagerness　of　a　boy　he　waved
aside　formal　greetings。

〃My　dear　Swanson；〃　he　cried；　〃I　assure　you　it's　a　most　astonishing；
most　curious　coincidence！　See　this　man？〃　He　flung　out　his　arm　at
the　bluejacket。　　〃He's　my　wireless　chief。　　He　was　wireless　operator
on　the　transport　that　took　you　to　Manila。　　When　you　came　in　here
this　afternoon　he　recognized　you。　　Half　an　hour　later　he　picks　up
a　messagepicks　it　up　two　thousand　miles　from　herefrom　San
FranciscoAssociated　Press　newsit　concerns　you；　that　is；　no