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Charlie Thurkow led the way to a ward which we had never used a ward I had set apart for infectious cases. A man was dozing in a long chair in the open window. As we entered he rose hastily and brought a lamp. We bent over a bed the only one occupied. The occupant was a man I did not know. He looked like a Goorkha, and he was dying. In a few moments I knew all that there was to know.
At first I thought that it was my servant waiting to take the horse, but a moment later I recognized Charlie Thurkow recognized him by his fair hair, for he was hatless. At the same time my syce roused himself from slumber in the shadow of an arch, and ran forward to my stirrup. "Come to the hospital!" said Thurkow, the moment I alighted. His voice was dull and unnatural.
At this moment the door opened, and Charlie Thurkow came in. His eyes were bright with excitement, and he glanced at us both quickly. He was quite well aware of his father's weakness in regard to himself, and I am afraid he sometimes took advantage of it. He often ignored discipline entirely, as he did in coming into the room at that moment.
No strategist, but a leader who could be trusted with his country's honour. Upright, honourable, honest, brave and it had come to this. It had come to his sitting shamefaced before a poor unknown sawbones not daring to look him in the face. His duty was plain enough. Charlie Thurkow's turn had come. Charlie Thurkow must be sent to Capoo by his father's orders.
I looked at old Thurkow, sitting white-lipped behind the decanter, and I knew that there was villainy in his upright, honest heart. He scarcely met my eyes. He moved uneasily in his chair. All through a long life this man had carried nobly the noblest name that can be given to any the name of gentleman. No great soldier, but a man of dauntless courage.
It had been an understood thing between Fitz and myself that the winds of our service were to be tempered to Charlie Thurkow, and I imagine we had succeeded in withholding the fact from his knowledge. Like most spoilt sons, Charlie was a little selfish, with that convenient blindness which does not perceive how much dirty work is done by others. But we had never deceived the brigadier.
Martin was getting the vacant bed ready. I was by that bedside all day. All that I knew I did for Charlie Thurkow. I dosed myself with more than one Indian drug to stimulate the brain to keep myself up to doing and thinking. This was a white man's life, and God forgive me if I set undue store upon it as compared with the black lives we were losing daily.
Their doctor poor young Barber died, and the self-importance of the Capoo garrison oozed out of their finger-ends. They sent down post-haste to us for help, and a special letter addressed to me detailed symptoms of no human malady. I had two men under me. The question seemed simple enough. One of them would have to go. As to which one there was really no doubt whatever. The duty fell upon Thurkow.
"Say, doctor," he said, looking up at me in his peculiar thoughtful way, "give me a chance." I knew what he meant. He wanted me to send him to a certain death instead of young Thurkow. Those little missions to that bourne from whence no traveller returns are all in the work of a soldier's life, and we two were soldiers, although ours was the task of repairing instead of doing the damage.
"My orders are to start to-night with one trooper," he answered. "What time?" "In half an hour." "I will ride with you a few miles," I said. He turned and went to his quarters, which were next to mine. I was still at work when Charlie Thurkow came in. He had changed his dress clothes for an old working suit. I was working in my evening dress a subtle difference. "Do you want any help?" he asked.
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