Stan Lynn Part 37

"Then I'm off. I'm dead-beat, my lad. Every hour, mind, as near as you can guess. Take hold of my whistle, and keep a sharp lookout up the river from where I did."

"What! from up on that pile of stones at the edge of the wharf?"

"Eh?" said Blunt sharply. "How did you know I watched from that heap of stones at the edge of the wharf?"

"I saw you there."

"What! When did you come?"

Stan was silent, feeling quite confused,

"Did you come and look at me before you went to sleep?"

"No," said Stan slowly--"no; I'm sure now that I did not."

"But you said you saw me there, and I never told you nor any one else that I was going to make that my post of observation."

"You didn't tell me," said Stan; "and it seems very strange. I thought I came out to you and you caught me by the shoulder."

"You did not, and I did not catch you by the shoulder till I came and shook you to wake you up."

"Then I must have dreamed it," said Stan, "for I certainly seemed to see you there in the darkness."

"Yes, you must have dreamed it; but it seems very strange."

"Horribly," said Stan.

"Don't you get dreaming any more of that sort of stuff, then," said Blunt shortly. "Here, catch hold of this whistle; but mind, you are not to use it unless the enemy come in sight. Then blow as if you wanted to bring the place down. Pleasant watch to you. I'm off. If I don't go and lie down I shall fall down and sleep on these stones."

"Good rest to you," said Stan quietly. "One moment: where are you going to lie down?"

"On the planks that formed your bed. They're nice and soft now, I suppose."

"No; horribly hard. Put some bags under you."

"Not I," said Blunt gruffly. "I could sleep now on a row of spikes.

Good-night--morning, or whatever it is."

The manager walked quickly to the nearest opening in the wall of chests and pa.s.sed through it, leaving Stan to his watch, which he commenced by giving a good searching look up river and down, and then placing his hand behind his ear to listen, before, feeling satisfied that all was right, he stepped to the bottom of the piled-up block of stones, mounted it carefully, rested the b.u.t.t of his rifle at his feet, felt whether his revolver was within easy reach of his hand, and then began to think about his dream and the strangeness of his imagining that he had walked out to get to the wharf and had then seen his brother-officer, as Blunt seemed to have become now, standing exactly where he had taken his own place.

"All imagination," he said to himself at last, for he could make nothing else of it, and forcing himself to think of something fresh, he began to peer into the darkness in every direction, and long for his first hour to pa.s.s so that he could have something more active to employ his time and go and visit the different posts.

"Let me see," he mused; "they will challenge me by saying, 'Who goes there?' and I shall answer, 'Stranger, quickly tell'--Nonsense! 'A friend.' No, no; that's wrong. What did Mr Blunt tell me to say?

Why, I've forgotten the word. I remember that he told me something, but it seems to have gone right out of my head. How stupid, to be sure! I couldn't have been half-awake after all.

"What shall I do?" thought Stan again, after striving vainly to recall the word. "I must go and ask him again, and that means waking him up.

Why, he'll call me an idiot. I know; I'll go to the nearest sentry and ask him."

The lad stopped short in his musings, for a cold chill ran through him at the thought of the risk he would have to run--the idea of the risk coming to his brain with the thought:

"Why, if I can't give the answer just when he challenges me, he'll fire and send a bullet through my head."

The more the lad thought and strove to recall the pa.s.sword, the more confused his brain seemed to grow. Hundreds of words flowed through, but not one which suggested that which was correct. Time, too, was gliding steadily on, and in imagination he felt that he must be getting very near the end of the hour when his duty would lead him to the first post--for what? He felt ready to groan as he told himself that it was to be shot at.

"Whatever shall I do?" he said at last, when he stood on the stone pile fully believing that the time was past, and that if he did not visit the posts the sentries would grow uneasy and give some alarm, the result of which would be that Blunt would wake up; and how could he meet him after being guilty of such a contemptible lapse of duty?

"He'll look upon me as a complete idiot," thought the lad; "just, too, when I was trying so hard to behave in a manly way, and making him begin to believe in me. It's dreadful; it's horrible! Am I going mad?"

In utter despair, Stan let his rifle-barrel sink into the crook of his left arm, and turning his hands into a binocular, gave a long, careful look up the river, half-expecting to see some tall-sailed junk dropping quietly down the stream. In his excitement he turned trees into masts, and projections from the banks and a solitary long low hut into vessels; but after further inspection he was bound to believe that there was no sign of danger, and at last, with a sigh of weariness, he sank down into a sitting position, with his legs hanging over the side of the pile and his rifle across his knees, to make one more desperate effort to recall the pa.s.sword from the black depths of his brain into which it seemed to have sunk down.

But all his efforts were in vain; his head seemed to grow more and more dense, and he felt that he must rouse himself and run all risks. He determined to walk towards the first sentry, and the moment he was challenged in the darkness call out loudly who he was and say frankly that he had forgotten the pa.s.sword.

"The sentry will think I'm half-mad, and I believe I am. It's the excitement, I suppose, and the risk and dread. I never felt anything like it before. It's dreadful. Yes, it is the excitement."

But he did not give the true cause, for he did not grasp the position-- to wit, that it was due to brain weariness from the overstrain of thought and want of proper rest. For if, when his inability was at its worst, he had been able to lie down and sleep soundly for a few hours, he would have wakened up with his mind perfectly clear and the missing word ready to come quite readily.

"There! it is of no use," he said to himself at last; "the time must have gone by ever so long ago. I must get up and go. It's very risky, but I am bound to risk everything so as to do my duty. Here goes; and if I am shot at, I am shot at. It's a hundred to one that the sentry couldn't hit me in the darkness, hurry, and confusion, and before he could reload and fire again I might rush up to him and explain. Oh, horrible, to have to tell the fellow what a weak-minded m.u.f.f I am!"

Grown perfectly desperate now, as he felt the minutes seem to gallop away, Stan took up his rifle, rose to his feet once more, and descended to the level of the wharf, perplexed by another thought which had come to torment him.

"He'll fire at me, of course," he said, "and I must run in before he can reload, as I said; but what about his revolver? Well, I can't help it,"

he muttered; "I must risk it. And perhaps I can make him understand before he can draw the pistol out of the holster."

Drawing a deep breath, he nerved himself for the encounter, and began to walk steadily for the corner where the first sentry was stationed, and in the effort of action felt stronger and firmer.

"I may find him asleep," he thought, "and pounce upon him before he wakes up to challenge.

"Not likely. Our men here are not like poor Wing; but--Ah! that's possible," he said to himself excitedly. "I forgot to do so; why shouldn't he have done the same? He may not have loaded, and if he has forgotten to slip in a _cartridge_--Oh! Think of that!" he cried half-aloud, for the missing word had come.

Just in the nick of time, too, for the lad's e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n had been heard, and in an instant the challenge came out of the darkness:

"Who goes there?"

"'Cartridge,'" said Stan promptly; and the next moment he was conversing with the first sentry, feeling as if a tremendous load had been taken off his mind.

The man had nothing whatever to report, and Stan went on towards the next.

"Mustn't let that cartridge go off again," he said to himself, with a little laugh. "How stupid it seems now! Cartridge--cartridge! How could I have forgotten it like that?"

There was nothing to report at either of the other posts, and Stan returned to his old station, feeling calm and refreshed, to pa.s.s the rest of the hours, which did not prove weary, though there was nothing more exciting than the occasional cry of a bird, a rustling of wings overhead, and now and then a splash in the river which suggested the possibility of part of a night spent in a boat with fis.h.i.+ng-rod and line. He found himself wondering what Chinese river fish would be like, and whether they bore much resemblance to those of Old England--thoughts which brought up memories of days spent by pond and lake in school excursions.

But whenever the lad's ideas wandered off like this, they were brought up short again by the stern aspect of the present, and he felt ready to blame himself for letting his thoughts go astray when possibly a terrible fate might be awaiting them all, and he was bound to keep his attention fixed upon the broad stream in front.

Fortunately it was a beautiful night, and before the watcher could think it possible the stars grew faint, a long, pale, soft line of light began to appear in the east, and soon after as it broadened there was a twittering and whistling in the belt of reeds across the river where all was rural, half-woody, half-cultivated land, with waving corn and sugar-gra.s.s. Then a loud flapping and splas.h.i.+ng began in the river, whose farther side proved to be a perfect colony of ducks; while after a time the trees, which had during the night been visible only where seen against the lighter parts of the horizon, grew plainer and plainer, till they gradually showed in their natural green. For high up orange flecks were appearing, and before long, as Stan watched, it seemed impossible that anything horrible could be on the way, so grand was the transformation taking place from night to a glorious day.

"Poor old Wing must have taken fright at nothing at all," said Stan to himself; and with the terrors of the night seeming to have pa.s.sed away like a dream, he visited his posts and chatted with the men, joining in the general anxiety whose subject was common to all--namely, how long would it be to breakfast, and would a good, hearty one be spread?

In due time the party were relieved by a couple of men who were sent up with gla.s.ses to the roof of the warehouse, after being duly cautioned not to meet with such a fate as that of poor Wing; and as soon as they were stationed Blunt made his appearance, looking eager, refreshed, and ready for anything that might come.