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Updated: August 27, 2024
In the sorely tortured graveyard, beside the little shell-wrecked Zillebeck church, in a hole made by an enemy shell, they laid McCuaig a fitting resting place for one who had lived his days in the free wild spaces of the Canadian west, a fitting tomb for as gallant a soldier as Canada ever sent forth to war to make the world free. That night the battalion was relieved.
Breakfast was eaten in haste. The day's work was before them, and there was no time for talk. In a very few minutes they stood ready for their trip across the portage. With them stood McCuaig. His blanket roll containing his grub, with frying-pan and tea-pail attached, lay at his feet; his rifle beside it. For a moment or two he stood looking back up the stream by which, last night, he had come.
With a curse of disappointment that he found himself without his usual weapons of defence, McCuaig raised a shout, sprang into the air, cracked his heels together in a double rap, and swinging his arms around his head, yelled: "Come on, my boys! I'm hungry, I am! Meat! Meat! Meat!" With each "meat," his white teeth came together with a snap like that of a hungry wolf.
"You bet your life I'm going. But, come on. We'll talk as we eat. And we can't stay long, either." Duff introduced the party. "My name's McCuaig," said the stranger. "Scotch, I guess?" enquired Duff. "My father came out with The Company. I was born up north.
"I'm getting kind of weak, Barry," whispered McCuaig. "I guess I won't be long, mebbe." His words recalled Barry's nerve. "Mac, would you like me to say a prayer?" he asked. "Just as you feel about it, you know." "Yes I would but I ain't your religion you know though I like awful well the way you talk about Him."
Before turning in for the night, Barry went to the river's edge, and stood looking up at the stars holding their steadfast watch over the turbulent and tossing waters below. "Quiet, ain't they?" said a voice at his shoulder. "Why, you startled me, Mr. McCuaig; I never heard you step." McCuaig laughed his quiet laugh.
"For the love of God, Pilot," exclaimed Duff, springing up and gripping Barry's hand, "it's good to see you, but what are you doing here?" "I came up for McCuaig," said Barry, after a warm greeting to both. "Oh, say, that's good. We have got him as far as the next dugout here, the old bear. I've been trying to get him out for half a day. There's a soldier for you!
"Private McTavish," he added, calling upon a tall Highlander who was gazing with admiring eyes upon the raging McCuaig, "assist Private Timms and Private Mulligan in arresting that man." "Why don't you come yourself, sonny?" inquired McCuaig. With a swift sidestep and a swifter swoop of his long arm, he reached for the corporal, who once more found safety in swift disappearance.
Then he began tying his paddles to the canoe thwarts in preparation for packing it across the portage. As he was tying on the second paddle, Duff's eye fell on him. "What's up, McCuaig?" he said. "Aren't you going up to the Post?" "No, I guess I ain't goin' up no more," replied McCuaig slowly. "What do you mean? You aren't going back home?" "No.
"What," exclaimed McCuaig, "the British soldiers goin' back! Runnin' away from them Germans!" "Well, the Germans are only about ten to one, not only in men but in guns, and in this war it's guns that count. Guns can wipe out an army of heroes as easily as an army of cowards," said Duff. "And them women and children," said McCuaig. "Are they killing them still?"
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