“Certainly, go on, read it,” said the major.
Cameron read the message, and on his face there appeared a grave and anxious look.
“It's from the casualty clearing station, sir. One of our chaps from Edmonton is there dangerously wounded, and wants to see me. I'd like to go, sir, if I might.”
“Oh, certainly. I'll make it all right with the O. C. Get a horse from the transport. Which casualty clearing station is it?”
“Menin Mill! By gad, I thought it was Brandthoek, but Menin Mill, good Lord, that's a different proposition. That's way beyond Ypres, you know. Right up on the line. You can't take a horse there. Do you think you ought to go up at all?”
“I think I should like to go, sir,” replied Cameron. “I know the chap well. Went to school and college with him.”
“Then,” said the major, “you had better hurry up and attach yourself to one of the transports going in. You will barely be in time.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Cameron, and left the room.
Barry went out with him. “Who is it, Cameron?” he said. “Do I know him?”
“I don't know, sir, whether you do or not. It's young McPherson of Edmonton, an awfully decent chap, and my very best friend.”
“May I go up with you, Duncan? I know Colonel Tait and Captain Gregg, who are at the Mill, I understand.”
“I would be awfully glad if you would, but I hardly liked to ask you. It hasn't the reputation of being a very healthy place, I hear.”
“All right, Cameron. I'm going up,” said Barry.
Upon enquiry they found that they were too late for the transports, and again the question arose as to whether, in view of the major's order, they should make the attempt by themselves.
“It was not really an order, I think, sir,” said Cameron. “It was more in the way of a suggestion. I think I'll go. The note said, 'dangerously wounded,' and he sent for me.”
“All right,” said Barry, “we'll go on, and we'll almost certainly pick up some one who will be able to direct us to the Mill.”
Their road, which took them to Vlammertinghe, led through level fields, lying waste and desolate with rank, overgrowing weeds. As they approached that historic village, they saw on every hand the cruel marks of war. On either side of the road were roofless and shattered cottages, grown around with nettles and briars. Among these ruins, as they found on a later day, were the old garden flowers, pansies and daisies, bravely trying to hold their own. Among the rank weeds was to be seen the half-hidden debris of broken farm gear. Here and there stood the ruins of what had been a thrifty homestead, with its stone-flagged courtyard, around which clustered its stables. Now nettles and briars grew around the broken walls and shattered, staring windows. At rare intervals, a great house appeared, with pretentious gateway, and grass-grown drive winding up between stately and mutilated trees. Over the whole countryside hung a melancholy and weird desolation, cottages, homesteads, fields, the very trees crying aloud to high heaven for pity and vengeance.