D 524 
 .H55 
 Copy 1 
 
 THE 
 
 IMPERIAL 
 
 ONE 
 
 A LONDON WAIF'S 
 WAR DREAM 
 
 Joseph Merlin Hodson 
 
 Bu||fi 
 
THF 
 IMPERIAL ONE 
 
 A LONDON WAIFS 
 ' WAR DREAM 
 
 Joseph merlin hodson 
 
 Published for the 
 
 National War Work Council of 
 
 Young Men's Christian Associations, 
 
 by 
 
 Association Press 
 
 347 Madison Avenue, New York 
 
 1918 
 
 R. W. B. 
 
^%i' 
 
 Copyright, 1918, by 
 
 The International Committee of 
 
 Young Men's Christian Associations 
 
 OtC -2 I, 
 
 ©Cl. A 5 0834 3 
 
The Imperial One 
 
 A London Waif's War Vision 
 
 He pulled off his cap with an impulsive 
 jerk, and bobbed a recognition to the officers 
 of the enlistment bureau. It was a bit of 
 the fag end of humanity who stood cap in 
 hand offering himself, not knowing what 
 he gave, nor to whom he gave it. The men 
 in charge glanced at each other, and turned 
 in their seats with a look of hopeless im- 
 patience. An insignificant runt of a cock- 
 ney was coming forward. To that tha 
 pride of the British army was reduced. 
 But they took him because they had, to 
 have him. They took him for what he 
 measured and what he weighed in the hope 
 that he might do. 
 
 A name was required and other informa- 
 tion, but they could get nothing out of him 
 that was satisfactory. He told them that 
 he had always been called Bill. That was 
 apparently all that he knew about it. Nor 
 was there any record that he ever had been 
 born, or of father or mother. He began' the 
 story of himself as he had it from the 
 women of the East Side, but they stopped 
 
him. It was of no use, so they called him 
 William London, after the city. Thus for 
 the first time he was written down a human 
 being, and began to count for what there 
 might be in him. The driving pressure for 
 men and more men was ringing through 
 the city and its appeal dredged to the bot- 
 tom among those who had been rated as 
 the waste of London. 
 
 The haphazard of what he had to give 
 was a romance of the streets. Coster 
 women who pushed their carts about would 
 willingly stop to tell the story of Bill. They 
 would begin with the day when Roamin' 
 Sail '' 'ad 'im as a lump of a biby." The 
 •tale might very likely run to how for years 
 she had made a living by sitting at Hyde 
 Park Gate and other public places "with a 
 biby in 'er arms when as we all knows 'er 
 never 'ad one." At first apparently it had 
 been by borrowing a baby as she could on 
 shares of what she made. Then you might 
 hear that Bill was a great mystery, for " 'er 
 would never tell." It might be told that 
 she was beautiful to look at — very like the 
 Madonna, and also that she was a great 
 one to look after Bill. Thus the helpless 
 years were passed until he was big enough 
 to fend for himself along with the stray 
 dogs and cats. When she died he didn't 
 
 4 
 
very well know what it meant, but he soon 
 came to be known "as the nipper as was 
 not to be put upon." He disarmed many 
 a blow and got many a bite to eat, and a 
 place to sleep by his "knack of gittin' round 
 any try, as yer may." 
 
 From the bottom he came a mere fag end 
 of vagrancy, but he was soon herded into 
 military order and discipline. There was 
 in him, as in all of us, however, the mighty 
 mystery, and much that was unexpected 
 came out in the hard school of the training 
 camps. With singular endurance he hard- 
 ened into a soldier. From the first he had 
 a way of infecting his company with the 
 spirit of making the best of it. His courage 
 and cockney humor helped to keep the men 
 going in all kinds of weather. Often he 
 would jolly his comrades out of their lone- 
 liness and their discouragement. Very soon 
 the captain discovered the service he was 
 rendering, and counted upon him in keeping 
 the men up to their duty. Promotion was 
 rapid in those hurrying days, but it never 
 came to Bill. He was to the end a leader 
 in the ranks. 
 
 The toll of the war went on, but there 
 were few who foresaw that the time might 
 come when the issue of battles would have 
 to depend in a large degree upon the likes 
 
of Bill. There was no military experience 
 which would set much value upon his kind. 
 But all tradition of the way that war should 
 be waged was being trampled in the mud 
 of retreating armies. It was a time when 
 the raw souls of men were thrust forward 
 for what they could stop, or what they 
 might do. The discard of the race was 
 being trained and rushed to the front. Men 
 who had never known themselves to be men 
 were born in a day. The courage which 
 had been buried out of sight in sordid lives 
 shouldered the rifle and fought with the 
 bravest. 
 
 Thus it came about that Bill got to the 
 trenches long before he was fully made into 
 a soldier after the regulations. And of 
 course it could not be expected that he 
 would so quickly take on much of the con- 
 ventions either of the army or of life in 
 general. He was in a new world — trans- 
 lated. 
 
 There was one very distinctive thing 
 about Bill. He had probably never heard 
 that rather ugly word, "pragmatist," but 
 that is what he really was, by some kind 
 of native genius. Ha thing worked he 
 hung on to it, and never could be shaken 
 out of it. He found that it worked to stick 
 to something that he got from a street 
 
 6 
 
preacher. The man was rather gifted in 
 portrayal, and Bill followed him about in 
 a sort of hypnotic state, until the thing 
 became as real to him as the familiar streets 
 and the people he knew. Somehow in his 
 utter ignorance he gained an ideal, and it 
 worked, so he held to it as animals hold to 
 an instinct. From that time on he was no 
 longer kicked about, for as it came to be 
 said, " 'E 'ad a wy with 'im." 
 
 When at last he got into the trenches 
 he was precisely the same Bill, but with 
 a new development. It wasn't all hell, for 
 it could not quite be that where so much 
 that was hearty and courageous was bound 
 to break through, as the sun through the 
 clouds. 
 
 One day he let himself go for the thing 
 that w^as in him, and which he could no 
 longer hold back. 
 
 "Eh, Pard ! I'm for the King as I 'eard 
 about. 'Im what's 'igh over all." 
 
 "Hush, Bill ! They'll shoot you. Almost 
 anything is treason now, don't you know?" 
 
 "Treason be blowed ! I tells yer what I 
 means. There 'as got to be 'Im. All this 
 is no manner o' use." 
 
 They were up to their knees in mud and 
 water. His pard was a Rhodes scholar, who 
 had won his honors in one of the Canadian 
 
 7 
 
cities of the far Northwest. The swirl of 
 the war found him at Oxford, as he was 
 settling down to make his way through 
 those great halls of learning. Bill was a 
 new kind for him, and he found him amus- 
 ing, as well as startlingly shrewd some- 
 times. That idea of a King he understood 
 quite well, but he couldn't rid himself of 
 the feeling that it was not to be spoken of 
 in that realistic way — it seemed to him a 
 bit irreverent. But they accepted Bill for 
 what he was and liked him. He really 
 was what he called himself — "The Prob- 
 lem." In one of his moods he had once 
 said, ''Who'd a thought they could ever git 
 us 'ere — us problems? But 'ere us is and 
 we gives it to 'em same as any." 
 
 The men were very tolerant of what they 
 called his "fancy," when Bill began to speak, 
 as he often did of the One "as I sees plain." 
 
 But he kept at it until it seemed rather 
 abnormal. In the end some kind of an 
 official inquiry was made as to what he 
 really meant. The idea got about that it 
 was a trench mania bordering on insanity. 
 It wasn't long before he was back in the 
 lines cured of everything but his "fancy." 
 They thought he was cured of that, for 
 during the few days they had him under 
 observation he slept away his excitement 
 
and sank into such a reaction of physical 
 comfort that it submerged. But he still 
 often muttered something about "the new 
 'un." And he insisted that when all saw 
 him, it would be different. 
 
 It is just possible that he was one of 
 those crude agencies serving some such pur- 
 pose in these days as did those ancient 
 prophets who came out of the wilderness. 
 There can be no question but his "fancy" 
 won its way, and the men began to talk 
 about it. They debated it, for the idea 
 itself rather fell in with their feeling of 
 something impending in these uncanny 
 times. 
 
 Then Bill himself won upon them. He 
 was, of course, out of his class with most 
 of the men, but he was such a cheery, hope- 
 ful beggar, and so quick to help a comrade. 
 They all knew that he was terribly under- 
 class, and now and again one would resent 
 it, but that kind of thing never made much 
 headway. Bill had been having to do with 
 the Coster bully from the time he was a 
 babe, and it was a valuable schooling. His 
 sense of humor, or his curiosity, often got 
 him into the front row of a dangerous 
 crowd, that he might see the letting down 
 that he seemed to know the bully was bound 
 to get. Ignorant as he was, he always 
 
 9 
 
knew when anyone was trying to ride him 
 down because of his class. That was the 
 time when he was ready for battle. It was 
 not on record that anyone had ever got 
 the better of him in one of these contests, 
 and he almost never made an enemy of his 
 antagonist. When, as sometimes happened, 
 a man who was in a bad humor would 
 attempt to gratify himself by taking a fall 
 out of Bill on account of what he might 
 at that time call his religious views, the 
 boys were sure to be on hand for the "cir- 
 cus." But these occasions always left them 
 more convinced that he had hold of some- 
 thing whatever it might be. 
 
 A little later there came a night when 
 Bill won distinction. And he won it by 
 those very qualities which had made him a 
 "problem" while hunting a living on the 
 streets of London. That everlasting battle 
 had sharpened him to a keenness which far 
 exceeds all military discipline. He had be- 
 come clever at creeping and dodging. Years 
 of drill never could have trained him into 
 a human ferret, for that is what he really 
 was on this night when but for him the 
 tide of battle might have changed at a 
 critical time. He didn't know where Calais 
 was, nor why the Germans wanted it. And 
 being merely a "problem" he was perhaps 
 
 10 
 
a little deficient as to strictly obeying 
 orders. 
 
 It was a night when the war of the 
 trenches was superseded by the war of the 
 heavens. The storm was so violent that 
 men could only hold their post fighting to 
 endure it. But it was perhaps less to Bill 
 than to others, because his mind worked 
 under just such conditions. All his life he 
 had been learning to fend for himself when 
 the weather was bad. 
 
 Watching his chance, and without orders 
 he slipped from the shelter and began to 
 creep toward the enemy. He had been gone 
 a long time but had not been missed when 
 he tumbled into the trench as if shot from 
 a cannon. Half a dozen bayonets would 
 have quenched his story, had he not made 
 a password of the name by which he was so 
 well known. "The Problem — The Problem 
 — 'E ain't no German." This saved him 
 and stayed the bayonets at his khaki suit. 
 Then he quickly told his story. 
 
 In tw^o minutes they believed him. In 
 another the telephones were busy. While 
 the heavens thundered and crashed the dis- 
 positions were made. When the historic 
 rush came they were ready — terribly, aw- 
 fully ready. 
 
 Bill never knew what happened except 
 
 11 
 
as it was told to him afterward, when he 
 found that he was still alive. 
 
 The fag end did his part, but he lay out 
 on that battle-swept area for two uncon- 
 ceivable days and nights before they could 
 get to him. Then for two weeks he was 
 slowly passed along, the story of what he 
 did and his bravery going with him. In 
 time he was received into a well-ordered 
 hospital with such special mention that he 
 soon found it difficult to understand their 
 kindness and skilful care of him. 
 
 They nursed his poor body back into the 
 best that could be made of it, but when he 
 finally got going, and felt quite at home 
 he became a greater puzzle than he had 
 been in the trenches. That mental picture 
 of which he would talk became a matter 
 of scientific interest. Of course the staff 
 thought they knew, and learned discussion 
 grew out of his case. Some thought it a 
 very interesting case of auto-hypnotism. 
 Others said it was a remarkable gift of 
 visualization. It brought him under special 
 observation. But the general instructions 
 were that he was to be let have his way 
 if he didn't get too excited. "Don't reason 
 with him — quiet him — humor his views 
 whatever they may be — poor fellow, he 
 can't last long in any case." 
 
 12 
 
But his sayings went all about the hos- 
 pital. They were told in whispered con- 
 versations. The younger surgeons who 
 thought they knew smiled when they were 
 repeated, and then joined in the discussion 
 with pretty and demure nurses. These 
 angels of mercy were not so easily satisfied 
 with a theory. They had sat with him, and 
 somehow felt there was something to be 
 explained. Perhaps, too, that quickness of 
 intuition for which we give their sex credit 
 came into play. In a military hospital there 
 may be all moods of gaiety, or tenderness, 
 or passion; but the great realities thrust 
 up and stalk about. It must always be in 
 a sort of half light of what is beyond. Thus 
 for those of the nurses who were most fre- 
 quently near Bill there were many questions. 
 But his queer cockney dialect often had to 
 be translated, and that was not easy. 
 
 He would break out abruptly sometimes 
 with something that seemed merely to con- 
 tinue a sort of vision of his own, which he 
 had made no effort to put into words. "The 
 bloke says as 'ow they all falls down afore 
 Tm. Ain't that it now? All doin' the 
 same. Kings and the like doin' the same as 
 we, 'cause 'E's 'igh over all, then bein' dif- 
 ferent when they knows. Bly me, we needs 
 it, after what I sees out there." 
 
 13 
 
One day his nurse was trying to remove 
 a dressing with very skilful gentleness, and 
 seeing his control of himself smiled with 
 perhaps more of the kindly feeling in her 
 face than she knew. This moved Bill to 
 say, "Us problems ain't worth it." 
 
 "Indeed you are ! You did your part. 
 Ours is only a little, but it is all we can do." 
 
 "That's 'ow as 'E gits 'igh over all now, 
 ain't it?" 
 
 "I don't know, Bill, about that. What 
 makes you think so?" 
 
 "Why, 'E's workin' in yer all the time. 
 That's what." 
 
 "Oh, no ! You must not say things like 
 that. Don't say things like that, please. 
 I'm like you — only a problem." 
 
 Then poor Bill had the nearest to a gen- 
 uine laugh that his broken face would per- 
 mit. There was an undertone in it of some- 
 thing of which he was very sure and that 
 was satisfying. Thus he laughed as many 
 of us would like to laugh if we could only 
 find the way, and continued to laugh until 
 his nurse was curious to know why. 
 
 "You must tell me. Bill." 
 
 "Why I keeps on laughing? Cos yer 
 don't know you'se a hangel. 'E gits yer 
 when yer smiles, an' when yer does for 
 me." 
 
 14 
 
''Oh, you are so patient — and so cheerful 
 all the time." 
 
 "Problems 'as to be cheery. Us don't git 
 much any time, no matter 'ow yer fixes it." 
 
 "But that King. You seem to think you 
 see something, and I know whatever it is it 
 makes things different with you." 
 
 "Sure I sees 'Im. 'E 'elps too. I knows 
 that. Yer don't need ter know 'ow. Seems 
 us can't find out. But yer lets 'Im an' 'E 
 does it. Yer just looks an' sees, an' knows 
 what 'E means. It's like when yer prays. 
 Somethin' comes an' then yer gits up an' 
 goes on an' does it." 
 
 "I wish I knew, Bill, but I don't." 
 
 "It's easy. I got it off a bloke out White- 
 chapel wy. 'E says as 'ow when yer means 
 ter try 'E comes along unsight an' unseen 
 an' makes it so yer can do it. I fancy 'E 
 'elps any — them Boches, too, when they 
 needs 'Im." 
 
 "Oh ! I hate them." 
 
 "Not when they gits 'ere yer don't. 
 They're the same when they needs fixin' up 
 this a-way." 
 
 "That's true, Bill. We do take care of 
 them, and they are very grateful for it, 
 too." 
 
 "Sure ! That's what I means. They're 
 the same. 'E's 'igh over Boches same as 
 
 15 
 
us. Them Blacks, too, from Ingy, I fancy, 
 ain't 'E?" 
 
 "You are funny. Bill. I can't understand 
 how you feel like that about the Germans 
 after what they did to you." 
 
 Again the broken face was distorted as 
 the laugh gurgled in his throat. It was 
 some time before he was able to say, "You 
 does what they needs. That's better'n 
 knowin'." 
 
 "Who wouldn't, poor fellows? They are 
 so pitiful and helpless." 
 
 "That's it ! We all is for 'Im as sees 
 plain what we're doin'. 'E sees us don't 
 know 'ow it looks." 
 
 "We are all a blind lot — fighting the way 
 we are, and all this patching up and suffer- 
 ing." 
 
 Bill was restless. When it came to think- 
 ing, his untaught mind was not equal to it. 
 Besides, his nurse had led him on to a sort 
 of explanation of what he meant, a thing 
 which he had never attempted before so 
 fully. He rarely went beyond a few phrases 
 such as "I sees" or "I knows for sure." 
 
 What he saw was a mystery, but so also 
 is that which a poet sees. It does seem 
 possible, however, to believe there may be 
 a great forgotten law by which some see — 
 even babes — that which is obscured by our 
 
 16 
 
conceit of the sufficiency of wisdom and 
 prudence. Surely some of us have learned 
 in these days that there is much that we 
 do not see. 
 
 His nurse knew that he was suffering, 
 and she kept her cooling hand on such parts 
 of his face as she could find unbandaged. 
 Quite naturally she thought he was suffer- 
 ing the pain of his wounds. Thus she re- 
 mained with him, plying her kindly offices. 
 She gave her smile and her soothing hand 
 in service, and of course did not know how 
 what she did might through Bill be trans- 
 muted and multiplied a thousand fold. 
 
 Presently he opened his eyes and smiled 
 and said, ''This 'ere's 'eaven now. I asks 
 you that?" 
 
 "A sort of heaven, perhaps, but what 
 makes you think so? You know w^e don't 
 often call it that." 
 
 "I knows it's a manner o' speakin', but 
 it's the same. You're doin' fer us now, 
 ain't yer ? Well, what's yer git outen it ? 
 Nothin ! We needs fixin' an' yer does it." 
 
 "Yes, Bill. We are all glad to do it. 
 Thousands of women — and great surgeons 
 too — good and bad, great and humble." 
 
 "Not bad — never when they's doin' like 
 this. I tells yer it's 'eaven when any does 
 what's needed willin'." 
 
 17 
 
"But you know, Bill, we are not good. 
 We don't pretend to be." 
 
 "Pertendin' ain't it. Doin's most. That's 
 what I calls 'eaven." 
 
 "Heaven is where we expect to go when 
 we die, is it not?" 
 
 "That ain't what the bloke says — not by 
 a lot it ain't. 'E says it's what's inside yer 
 when yer does things." 
 
 "But I am not to argue with you, Bill. 
 The doctors told me that." And the smile 
 that went with the caution was the illumina- 
 tion of a quite common young woman, who 
 was by no means beautiful. Nor was she 
 conscious of it, except as one may be con- 
 scious of feeling kindness, and a wish to do 
 just what ought to be done. She was work- 
 ing far beyond her ordinary strength, and 
 yet never giving a reluctant service. Of 
 the fact that her rather dull face could give 
 cheer she had not thought. In her life be- 
 fore taking up this work there had been 
 few smiles. The lines of her face were not 
 those of cheer and good will. But now 
 from cot to cot she went — an unaccustomed 
 soothing in her hand — a considerate light- 
 ness in her step, and a smile often of which 
 she did not know. 
 
 Poor Bill, "the problem," and she had 
 something in common. He had never 
 
 18 
 
counted as a human being. There had never 
 been the chance to feel like one. His best 
 memory was of finding some place from 
 which he would not be driven out. In cold 
 weather he was always cold. There had 
 never been a feast in which he was quite 
 free from hunger after it. The compelling 
 instinct by which anything that is alive tries 
 to live kept him alive. This was how he 
 learned. The lightning flash of the street 
 preacher had given him a picture — life, and 
 perhaps the great artist had filled it out. 
 
 With all his limits he had a gift. When 
 it was said that he was jolly and good- 
 natured it was always felt that more should 
 be said by those who knew him best. Many 
 did try to express it in better terms, but to 
 the end it remained baffling. His nature 
 was apparently simple as a child's, and yet 
 there was a mystery. Busy surgeons lin- 
 gered to speak with him, and it is just 
 possible that his cheer gave them a more 
 supple command of their skill. 
 
 He sometimes called what he had to say, 
 "goin' on." When they told him that he 
 was a good patient his answer was, "There 
 ain't no other way." Then again it was, 
 "What's the good of bein' different?" He 
 had no better thought of the situation than, 
 "making the best of it." This he did so 
 
 19 
 
consistently that few found the courage to 
 make the worst of it, as we are all rather 
 inclined to do sometimes for the indulgence 
 of certain moods. 
 
 One day a nurse said to an eminent sur- 
 geon as they walked away from his cot, 
 "He makes you feel different." The reply 
 was not given quickly. Presently he nodded 
 several times without speaking, and then 
 said, "There is something about him quite 
 unlike what you would expect from a 
 patient of his class." 
 
 Thus as a human entity Bill lived. He 
 who never before had been anything be- 
 came interesting. There had been brought 
 to the surface through his suffering a sort 
 of subconscious refinement. This made him 
 within his limits quite like our ideal of what 
 a gentleman ought to be. But without any 
 well-defined plan to do it, and without any 
 more ability to know how to do it than a 
 child would have, he helped others to vis- 
 ualize the great ideal of the ages. Day 
 after day, and night after night, like a child 
 he made a picture. He was a child. He 
 receded more and more into the simplicity 
 of a child. There he lay — one who had 
 rendered a man's service in his awful hour 
 — now serving as children do, who gently 
 soften the hard outlines of the pictures men 
 
 20 
 
carry home out of the battles of every day. 
 It mattered not on which side of the cot one 
 sat or was standing, for Bill's picture, if it 
 came at all, was formed in the field of one's 
 vision. More or less uniformly it was seen, 
 often not very clearly; but when seen it 
 was of One whose majesty no great master 
 has yet been able to paint to the satisfaction 
 of those who see for themselves. It seems 
 always to have eluded the skill of the can- 
 vas, and of our poor words. From any pic- 
 ture other than one's own the reality of 
 this ideal may forever pass. He who once 
 came to us and gave it form -often passed 
 from the view of the crowd that he might 
 live in their memory, and form in their 
 vision. 
 
 This was now all that Bill had left out of 
 his meager life. But it grew clearer and 
 brighter. It shone for him by some light 
 of its own. 
 
 The story of Bill got about, and traveled 
 far beyond the hospital. An English writer 
 of great distinction came to see him. Her 
 introduction was of such influence that it 
 could not be denied. With that touch of 
 human nature which makes all the world 
 akin she quickly won his heart. She also 
 had the patience and insight to draw him 
 out. 
 
 21 
 
She said, "I heard about you in Paris, 
 and you will let me talk with you, will you 
 not?" 
 
 "Vm willin'. Missis, if you takes me rough 
 and ready." 
 
 "We are all proud of you. So many have 
 heard of what you did." 
 
 "I ain't done nothin', Missis. Not me I 
 ain't. I just went at it same as all. We all 
 done best we could." 
 
 "But you didn't flinch when the time 
 came. That is what we British like to feel. 
 Always to be ready to do our part." 
 
 *'Me ? I 'ad to do it, Lidy. Us didn't see 
 nothin' different." 
 
 "But you gave all you had." 
 
 "Some says that, Missis. 'Ere they says 
 it. But me? I don't git back no way o' 
 thinkin' about it. I fancy I only done same 
 as 'Im." 
 
 "The same as whom?" 
 
 " 'Im as what give 'Isself. That's what 
 'E done, now, ain't it?" 
 
 "I don't think I know quite what you 
 mean." 
 
 "I means 'Im as what I 'card about. A 
 bloke out Whitechapel wy was 'ummin' 
 steady about 'Im what give 'Isself, an 'E 
 did it willin' for all." 
 
 "Surely you mean our Blessed Saviour." 
 
 22 
 
"That's 'Im, Lidy. That's what I means, 
 only that ain't 'ow as 'e said it. It's 'Im as 
 give 'Isself 'cause 'E'd do.' 
 
 "And so you thought you ought to give 
 yourself." 
 
 "Thinkin' ain't it, Lidy. Feelin' an' doin's 
 more like it. At 'ome when I 'eard I git's 
 to feelin'. Then I begins doin' — fer cats 
 an' dogs first — lame ones and hungry when 
 I finds 'em. After that, then, fer kids as 
 needed — any. Soon I likes it better that 
 wy — sort o' 'appy I was like — an' kep' on. 
 Then I 'eard they 'ad to 'ave us problems. 
 Then I gits to feelin' mebbe I'd do same 
 as 'Im." 
 
 "And so that was how you came to en- 
 list." 
 
 "When they says 'give yerself it looks 
 like it was the same. It 'ad to be done fer 
 them as needed." 
 
 "For your country. That is how we all 
 feel. Our country needs us and we will 
 give all we have." 
 
 "Mebbe that's what made me do it. I 
 don't know, Lidy, 'bout them things." 
 
 "Oh, ^Ts ! Your country called and you 
 gave. That was a noble thing to do and 
 we all honor you." 
 
 Bill was restless. Again he was trying 
 to think. His visitor saw that he was un- 
 
 23 
 
easy, and asked if she could do anything 
 for him, or should call his nurse. 
 
 "No, I ain't wantin' anythin'. It ain't 
 what yer thinks wy I went." And he shook 
 his head vigorously, because in that way he 
 could be more sure that he was making it 
 plain that there was something wrong with 
 what he wanted her to understand, "I 
 don't want no 'onors er nothin'. When 'E 
 gits yer, why, yer willin'. All is. Kings an' 
 such would be." 
 
 It was difficult to find a place on the 
 bandaged face where a hand could be laid. 
 And words for even this distinguished lady 
 of words became difficult. She took the 
 exceedingly common hand which lay upon 
 the sheet into both of hers, which were 
 soft and expressive. What it meant for 
 Bill was doubtless very much indeed. But 
 for her it was the confession of her slow- 
 ness and her littleness in realizing some- 
 thing of which she had long lost sight. 
 She, too, now had the feeling of giving 
 herself in a larger way, and with a greater 
 willingness. The message which must for- 
 ever, and for all, far transcend words had 
 come to her clearly. The silence implied 
 humility, of the kind that is our greatest 
 exaltation — and perhaps for her the breath- 
 ing within her of the Spirit Who reveals. 
 
 24 
 
Two souls so differently housed had come 
 together at the elevation where human 
 littleness or greatness may not be measured. 
 Poor Bill could not very clearly tell in 
 words, but he had found a way to reveal 
 to her who was gifted in telling. She was 
 an artist in the use of words. What she 
 received would make its own pictures, and 
 tell with her gifts. It was quite as if the 
 great artist spirit of the ages had found 
 in the simplicity of Bill the least hindrance. 
 That mighty pressure of truth, it may have 
 been, which once seeking lodgment found 
 fishermen, now found this waif — this stray 
 — the most willing among us all. 
 
 She left Bill with few words nor did he 
 need any. Her hands had spoken, and her 
 silence. That was a language he could 
 understand. 
 
 The change which was taking place in 
 him was quite remarkable. His natural 
 traits receded. The commonness percepti- 
 bly fell away. Whatever it was that was 
 in him greater than his poor human limits 
 gained a finer proportion. Something with- 
 in him cast off its shackles and grew more 
 clearly defined. 
 
 As he lingered there were indications 
 from time to time that some sufficient pur- 
 pose was making its way through him. 
 
 25 
 
One day a group of patients was being 
 discharged to make room for others coming 
 in. They passed out carried — or limping 
 in pain — others groping with sightless eyes 
 to find their way through the years. Of 
 course the halo of their great hour would 
 fade. They would come to common days, 
 and to common men and women — these 
 fractions of men, and would have to hold 
 their own with hard conditions. A surgeon 
 who stood looking on was greatly moved 
 and said, "May the Great God who leads 
 some gently, and carries others, take care 
 of these poor boys." Then he added, as if 
 not quite satisfied, "May they find the ten- 
 derness of a people over whom the Great 
 King rules." 
 
 Another surgeon who had been standing 
 beside him asked as they walked away to- 
 gether, "What King, and where does he 
 rule ?" 
 
 The answer came quickly, "Bill's King — 
 Bill, the problem. You know about him — 
 you have heard him go on, as he calls it?" 
 
 "Yes, but I have never thought much 
 about him — too busy. A little wanting 
 here," tapping his forehead, "is he not? I 
 have thought when at all of him as little 
 more than a child." 
 
 "A child in a way. But he was a man 
 
 26 
 
in his loyalty to the call of his country. 
 Then he was a man in courage in the battle 
 lines — almost more than a man in the way 
 that he met pain, and the cheeriest and jolli- 
 est patient among thousands. His imagina- 
 tion gave him pictures we never see. He 
 has a faith that takes hold of something 
 that I should like to find. When he gets 
 to the end I expect he may see something 
 that will carry him through. Does it never 
 occur to you, Edwards, that this human 
 nature of ours is a bit baffling? We don't 
 get into the whole of it with the knife." 
 
 "Ah ! I admit it, and for that matter the 
 whole order of things in these pesky times." 
 
 With that they parted. 
 
 sjs ^ 4c Sj{ >){ 
 
 On a cot within one from Bill lay a young 
 priest of the Roman Catholic Church who 
 had been terribly wounded in his first battle. 
 He was blinded, unable to speak, and for 
 that reason was compelled to write any- 
 thing that he wanted to say. At first he 
 had been unintentionally made to feel a 
 sort of isolation from the fact that he was 
 a priest. While he received every atten- 
 tion needed there was a barrier. The sacred- 
 ness of his office made the nurses a little 
 shy of such a kindly intimacy as had so 
 easily sprung up with Bill. When they 
 
 27 
 
read his little notes they caught in a degree 
 the patriotic spirit which had caused him 
 to lay aside his clerical duties and volunteer 
 for service in the ranks. When he was 
 gone what he had written was gathered up, 
 and some fragments may be permitted to 
 go the way of this story for the message 
 they carry. It seems best that they should 
 be given very much as they came from his 
 pencil. We shall not at our best quite see 
 all that he saw, for our vision is not yet 
 clear of the mists, nor should it be until 
 cleared by that other battle — the battle of 
 life. 
 
 "I have been permitted to hear the one 
 they call Bill very often in what he said to 
 those with whom he spoke. At first I 
 thought he merely repeated what he' had 
 heard in some Protestant Mission. But I 
 soon discovered that he was of no sect or 
 belief. He seems to be an original who 
 can see without doctrine. For that of which 
 he speaks all know; but do not clearly see. 
 He escapes from much by which we are 
 bound as a bird might fly up, and sees the 
 Christ as a King ruling the spirits of all 
 men. It is a beautiful vision. But is it not 
 what the Church teaches, for does not His 
 Holiness also bow in great meekness of 
 spirit before the Supreme One? 
 
 28 
 
What I have come to feel of this man 
 of a very humble station in life is that he 
 arrives at the greatest things without rea- 
 son, and almost without knowledge. For 
 after hearing him now these many weeks I 
 know that he speaks of what we all ack- 
 nowledge and confess as of that which is 
 taking place before his eyes. He does not 
 "vary or change. In all he is consistent. But 
 I have never, even in the holiest of saints, 
 observed that they in the same way have 
 seemed to see the Kingdom of God, as one 
 might say in operation. Is it a gift of 
 vision? Or is it merely the use of a faith 
 so simple that it finds the way of the Holy 
 Apostles ? 
 
 I have no longer much strength. But as 
 bodily weakness comes upon me much that 
 I have not seen before appears as if made 
 bright in the darkness. Can it be that I 
 now see by some aided light ? 
 
 Here in the darkness when they make it 
 so that we may all sleep I hear men whisper 
 the Sacred Name as no other word is spok- 
 en. It is mingled with the names of those 
 at home whom they love. Sometimes in 
 the stress of great pain I hear it as when 
 in desperation one would cry out for a 
 friend long forgotten. Yesterday not many 
 cots away a man in great suffering loudly 
 
 29 
 
uttered the Sacred Name in blasphemy. 
 When a hint was gently given that he was 
 doing this, not only was he subdued; but 
 he asked forgiveness of those about him, 
 and in great humility. He later again 
 spoke of what I believe was true when 
 he said he had not meant to use that name 
 hatefully. 
 
 Is there not everywhere a deep under- 
 current of affection? Is there not in the 
 roughest and most untaught of men a sub- 
 conscious respect which is little less than 
 love, and only comes above the threshold 
 when the deeper feeling is forced up? 
 
 These are the thoughts of the night. The 
 thoughts of the day are more difficult. It is 
 then that I must fly to the simplicity of the 
 faith of Bill. It is then that I cry out to 
 God to know whether this beautiful faith 
 can be found only by the breaking of our 
 idols in this most terrible war." 
 
 One morning Bill wakened and lay for 
 some time without speaking. It was that 
 depressing hour when human vitality sags — 
 the hour of chilling darkness before the 
 dawn of which patient watchers know so 
 well. A nurse who had been with him a 
 great deal was waiting near. She knew 
 that he was awake, but she lingered, hoping 
 
 30 
 
that he would fall asleep again. When he 
 moved as if trying to sit up, she came to 
 him. She thought he might have been 
 dreaming, and asked if anything had dis- 
 turbed him. For a moment he did not 
 reply, as if he were waiting for his mind 
 to clear. Then he smiled and said, ** 'E's 
 gittin' up, ain't 'E?" 
 
 "Not yet, it's not near morning." 
 
 "But 'E is. I sees Tm. There now, you 
 sees Tm, too, don't yer?" 
 
 "Yes, Bill, I see it too." 
 
 He looked at her intently and then 
 laughed as best he could, evidently know- 
 ing that she was humoring him. 
 
 "It ain't no sun as I sees. It's 'Im. 'E's 
 comin' up as the sun of a mornin'. There's 
 mists, too, as of a mornin', but 'E's gittin' 
 above 'em. They'll all see now when 'E 
 shines out." 
 
 'T hope so. Bill." 
 
 "Sure ! They'll all fall down afore 'Im, 
 an' then it'll be different." 
 
 'T hope so. Heaven knows we all need 
 it." 
 
 '' 'E's shinin' in 'ere now, ain't 'E ?" 
 'Tn you. I think He is.' 
 "In all. 'E's gittin' us all the time." 
 "It is different. Since you have come we 
 are all different. There is no doubt about 
 
 31 
 
that. You have made it easier for all of us. 
 We have learned to be a little more patient 
 and willing." 
 
 "They all will be when they sees Tm." 
 ''Oh, Bill, I don't understand. I don't 
 understand at all. But as you say, I'm will- 
 ing. We want to do the best we can, but 
 don't you- see, we are not like you." 
 
 The poor mortal who was hovering on 
 the verge of the great mystery hunched 
 himself up a little on his cot, as if to gain 
 some advantage in what he wanted to say. 
 But when he had done this he settled down 
 again, as if giving up; but his face changed 
 to surprise. He opened his mouth, leaning 
 forward, held between the effect of what he 
 was looking at, and his eagerness to de- 
 scribe it. With mute signs, and then reach- 
 ing out his hand quickly and nervously, he 
 tried to bring the nurse to look with him. 
 Whatever it was that he saw, or from what- 
 ever source the picture may have been 
 formed, it was real to him. His eyes caught 
 some radiance. It held him rapt and com- 
 forted till the morning broke. 
 
 32 
 
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