CHAPTER XVI
EXCHANGE NO ROBBERY
In a small room in one of the houses at the foot of the hill village,bending over a table spread with papers, sat Lieutenant Axel vonSchwank, an officer of a crack Prussian regiment, and a scion of anancient and exalted family.
He had had an excellent dinner, without sparing the wine: what need wasthere to do so when so many cases had been obtained gratis in Champagne?He would have liked to remain with his brother officers, conviviallyemployed in the room on the other side of the passage; but his colonelhad given him some work to do. That was the penalty of being a musician.
For Lieutenant Axel von Schwank was accomplished in music. Hisrendering of the Waldstein sonata was wonderful for an amateur and aPrussian; he sang "The Two Grenadiers" with _eclat_, as his friends usedto say before the authorities ordered the French language to beabolished; and he was renowned for his ability to read the mostdifficult score at sight. With all that he was full of martial spirit:his cheeks were seamed with no fewer than three scars, proud memorialsof his student days.
But it was for his musical skill that the colonel had selected him forthe piece of work on which he was now engaged. It was very elementarywork for a man who could play the Waldstein sonata and read a score byStrauss; any school girl could have done it; but even the greatestphilosopher has at times to perform the simple operation of washing hisface, and the lieutenant need not have felt that he was demeaninghimself by a task so much below his powers. For what Lieutenant Axelvon Schwank was doing was simply to transcribe into musical notation, ona sheet of ruled music paper, the two lines of German with which thecolonel had supplied him.
Surely that is difficult, you say? He has only seven letters, A to G,to employ, representing the seven notes of the scale, and the Germanalphabet has twenty-six. What about the v's, and w's, and z's in whichthe German language is so much superior to the French? But in the firstplace, remember that the German musician calls H the note which the lessaccomplished Englishman calls B, and in the second place that the rangeof most instruments, including the German flute, extends beyond a singleoctave.
So that if the lieutenant writes this
[musical note]]
for A, there is nothing to prevent him writing
[musical note]]
for I, and by means of the sharps and flats he can even arrive at Z,without exceeding the compass of that dulcet instrument.
He was busy with his transcription when he heard a scuffling of feet andthe clank of swords in the opposite room. His fellow officers werehurrying to the street door. The colonel put his head in.
"We are called to the trenches," he said. "Go on with that, and followus when you have done."
The lieutenant had sprung up, turned round and saluted. When hissuperior was gone, he sat down and set to work again. After all, heprobably reflected, music has charms: it would preserve him for a fewminutes more from the bullets of those hateful pigs the English.
The house was in silence.
A little while after the officers had departed, a strange, unshaven,unkempt face peered round the edge of the door, which the colonel hadleft open. It was a lined and somewhat careworn face; the eyes werebright and wild; the hair, very rough and tangled, was red. The facemoved slowly forward; inch by inch a dirty, tattered khaki uniformshowed itself; and the rays of the lamp on the table glinted on theblade of a long carving knife, held in the man's right hand. He wore noboots, and his stockings made no sound as he tiptoed across the room.
THE INTRUDER IN KHAKI]
Lieutenant Axel, bending over the table with his back to the door, wasabsorbed in his occupation. But just as the intruder reached his chairhe seemed to become aware that he was not alone. He turned suddenly,his right hand holding the fountain pen, his left, by some instinct,crushing the papers into his pocket, and found a determined face glaringat him, and a carving knife pointed at his breast. Before he couldcollect himself a sinewy hand clutched him by the throat, and a voicesaid in a hoarse whisper:
"Make a sound and you're a dead 'un."
Whether a knowledge of English was one of Lieutenant Axel'saccomplishments or not, there was no mistaking the hand, the knife, thepurport of the words. He turned pale; his eyes searched the room for achance of escape; he was discreetly silent; and at a significantmovement of the offensive blade he raised his hands above his head. Adrop of ink fell on his nose.
The captor, in whose expression there was eagerness, anxiety, an air oflistening, loosed his grip on the officer's throat.
"Take off your uniform and 'coutrements," he said, with a jerk of theknife.
Lieutenant Axel hesitated for a moment only. The Englishman's face wasnot pleasant. Hurriedly he stripped off tunic, trousers, belt andboots.
"That'll do," said Ginger, in whose eyes the look which the German hadmistaken for fury really indicated that he was at his wits' end to knowhow to effect the change of clothes without putting down the knife andgiving his captive an opportunity to dash for the door.
An idea flashed upon him. Still pointing the knife at the officer, hetook up the lamp with his left hand, placed it on the chimney piececlose by, and stripped the cloth from the table.
"Put it over your head," he whispered fiercely.
Again a movement of the knife abridged the lieutenant's hesitation. Theshrouding table-cloth eclipsed the concentrated fury of his eyes.Ginger wasted not a second. He shoved the officer into a corner of theroom, pulled a sofa across to bar him in, cut a bell-pull with theknife, and drawing the cord over his head, began to tighten it. TheGerman began to struggle; for the first time he spoke.
"You shtrangle me!" came the muffled words.
"Shut up!" growled Ginger, with a premonitory dig of the knife. "Iwon't graze your skin if you don't make a fuss. But----"
Lieutenant Axel may have wondered: this hateful pig was certainly notexpert in frightfulness; he was very soft, like all the English. Butthe struggles ceased; the officer was quiet while Ginger knotted thecord about his neck. And he stood there in the corner, a statue intable-cloth and pants, as Ginger, with a quickness learnt on rawmornings in the barracks at home, endued himself with the well-tailoredhabiliments of a Prussian officer. The boots were a trifle large forhim.
He listened. All was quiet. He threw a dubious look at the rigidofficer.
"Not safe," he muttered.
Hastening to the German, he loosed the cord, pulled off the table-cloth,and looking into the hot face said:
"You've got to be tied up. Make a row and you know what. Join yourhands behind you."
While Ginger was tying his hands, and his feet to a leg of the sofa,Lieutenant Axel von Schwank cursed him in undertones in both English andGerman. Ginger made no reply. But as soon as this part of his work wasfinished, he caught up some papers from the mantelpiece--they werecopies of the Hymn of Hate--twisted them together, and with a suddenmovement thrust them into the German's mouth.
"There! Bite them," he muttered. "Such shocking language!"
He once more threw the table-cloth over the helpless man's head, put thepickel-haube on his own, and quietly left the room. Passing the opendoor opposite he hesitated for the fraction of a second, then went in,gulped a glass of wine, caught up the frame of a chicken from the table,and digging his teeth into it ravenously, hurried back, along thepassage, down a dark flight of steps, and out through the back door intothe garden. He drew quick breaths as he leant against the wall, gnawingthe carcase. From somewhere on his right came low sounds he had learntto recognise as signs of Germans in their trenches. On the left therewas silence. In the distance guns boomed. After a few minutes he threwthe chicken bones upon a neglected garden plot, sighed, drew his handacross his lips, and murmured:
"Blowed if I know!"
The village was a mile or more from his old trench; he knew that. Itwas, he supposed, wholly in possession of the Germans. He would have togo through i
t up the hill, or round it, and pass the enemy's trenchesbefore he could reach his regiment. And at any moment the Germanofficer might be discovered!
"I must skip," he said to himself.
The assuagement of his terrible hunger had seemed a necessity beyond allothers. Now he realised his peril. Choosing the direction that wassilent, he stole from garden to garden, scaling the fences, andpresently found himself in a lane. It was uphill to the right: that washis way. The lane ended in a street. There he turned to the left, buthad taken only a few steps when the tread of feet and the sound ofguttural voices coming towards him sent him back hastily in the oppositedirection. To his dismay, in a few seconds he heard other menapproaching. There was no escape. On one side he was blocked by a highwall, on the other a house dimly lighted. The night was dark; he wore aGerman uniform; unless accosted by a real officer he might pass safely.With shrinking heart but an assured gait he walked boldly on, close tothe wall.
Dark though it was, the soldiers returning from the trenches recognisedthe officer's uniform and went by stiffly at the salute. Ginger wasbringing his hand up smartly when he remembered that he was an officer,eased the movement, and dropped his hand again, quaking lest someterrible blunder in the mode of his return salute should have betrayedhim. But in the darkness it passed muster. No doubt the men were tired.They went on. Ginger, perspiring and limp, leant against the wall for amoment or two.
"Oh crumbs!" he murmured as he braced himself and set off again.
A few steps brought him to a lane that broke the line of houses on hisleft. It was quiet. He turned into it. The ground rose somewhatsteeply.
"Must be going right," he thought.
Soon the houses were left behind. The lane became a track across evenground, with a few trees at the borders. Suddenly the silence wasbroken by the sharp crackle of rifle fire from the upper part of thehill. Ginger threw himself down and crouched behind a stout trunk.There was no reply from the German trenches, which must be somewherebelow him, he thought. He waited patiently until the firing died away,then rose and crept forward.
His heart sank into his boots when he came unawares upon a trench andheard the murmur of guttural voices. Before he had time to retreat, asentinel addressed him in German.
"Sssh!" Ginger hissed, sliding into the trench a few feet from the darkfigure. Further down the trench there were dim lights. It was neck ornothing now. Stepping on to the banquette he began to clamber up to theparapet. The sentry, no doubt believing that the officer was engaged onsome special scouting duty, came towards him, whispering, "Erlauben Sie,Herr Leutnant," and gave him a leg-up.
Ginger scrambled over, fell on hands and knees, and crawled over theground. How far ahead were the British trenches he knew not; the nightwas too dark for him to be seen, but at the least noise he wouldcertainly be taken for a German and become the invisible target for adozen rifles.
While he was slowly wriggling forward he heard a commotion far in hisrear--shouts, the sound of many men on the move. Probably the muffledlieutenant had been discovered; the men in the trenches would be advisedof the outrage, and the no man's land between the hostile forces mightbe swept by a fusillade. Crushing himself flat he dragged himself on.
Now there were sounds in front of him. He stopped, panting, listening.Yes, they were British voices; were they those of his own comrades?What should he do? If he called, he might be riddled with shot. So manyGermans could speak English. The Rutlands would know his voice, but whatif the men in the trenches were not the Rutlands?
For a few moments he lay inert with hopelessness. Then an idea occurredto him. On again, inch by inch, feeling out for barbed wire. There wasnone; the position must have been hurriedly occupied. The voices weremore distinct; his straining cars caught individual words.
"English, I surrender!" he called in a low tone.
The voices were hushed.
"Who goes there?" said a voice.
"Murgatroyd, of the Rutlands," he replied.
"Keep still."
There was a momentary flash of light.
"Don't fire!" called Ginger, instantly realising that his uniform musthave been seen. "I surrender."
"Hands up and come on."
Ginger was just rising when bullets sang over his head from behind. Hedropped down again; his last chance was gone; they would believe he wastricking them. But he heard an officer give an order. There was noanswering fire from the trench in front, no repetition of the volleyfrom the rear. He crawled on, dimly seeing the parapet a few yards away.
"I surrender," he repeated, and crawled on, over the sandbags, wasseized by rough hands, hauled headlong into the trench, and held firmlyby the neck.
"Got him, sir," said a voice.