CHAPTER XXI
MARKED DOWN
About four o'clock on the following afternoon, an old French peasant waswalking along a road some fifteen miles to the west of the village inand around which the Rutlands were billeted. His lean form was bent,wisps of white hair straggled from beneath his broad soft hat, his legsdragged themselves along. There was no one else upon the road, whichwas remote from the main highways that had been for nine months streamsof traffic; but the old man glanced continually right and left, beforeand behind, as if searching for something with his shrewd bright eyes.
He came to a wood abutting on the road, and, after another look round,disappeared among the trees. A few minutes later he halted, then took afew slow careful steps forward, and stopped again, looking down with acurious eagerness. There, stretched on the fresh springing grass of aglade spangled with bright spots of sunlight, lay a man asleep. He wasclad in the uniform of a British soldier, without a belt. His cap hadfallen off, his arms were thrown out, his face was half turned to theground. Perhaps the Frenchman noticed that the regimental badge wasmissing from his cap, the regimental letters from his shoulders.
After standing for a few moments contemplating the prostrate form, hebent down and touched the man's shoulder. The soldier started upinstantly; the expression of his eyes might have betokened anxiety orfear; but it changed when he saw that his disturber was just a simpleold Frenchman, with mildness written all over his brown ruddy face,withered like an apple long laid by.
"Bon soir, monsieur," said the Frenchman. "It is a hot sun, to be sure,but monsieur l'Anglais will catch a chill if he remains here asleep."
"Ah yes, I must be going," said the soldier, in French surprisingly goodfor an English private. "I have lost my regiment. I fell lame anddropped behind. Can you get me anything to eat?"
"Why yes, if you will be content with simple fare. These are hardtimes, monsieur. But who would not suffer for France? Come to mycottage hard by; I can at least give you a crust and a mouthful of wine.We French and you English are comrades, to be sure."
"Is your cottage far?"
"A few steps only; it is quite by itself. You would get better food inthe village, but that is two miles away."
"I'll get a good meal when I rejoin my regiment. All I want now is alittle to help me on my way."
"Yes, yes, I understand. Come then; it is only a few steps."
He set off through the wood, the soldier limping by his side, crossedthe road, and came within a few minutes to a little timber cabin. Therethe soldier, sitting on a low stool, ate ravenously the bread and strongcheese given him, and drank deep draughts of the thin red wine. The oldman watched him benignantly, thinking perhaps that he ate as thoughseeing no near prospect of a full meal.
"You haven't seen my regiment, I suppose?" said the soldier.
"How can I tell?" replied the Frenchman, lifting his hands. "I haveseen many regiments; whether yours was among them I do not know."
The soldier noticed a glance towards his shoulders.
"I gave my badges away to the French girls," he said lightly. "Theyclamoured for souvenirs.... There's no chance of my running into theGermans?"
"God forbid!" said the old man. "They are a little nearer, it is said;they are using poisonous gas against our brave men. But we do not loseheart. They will never beat us, never. When I look at the mists onyonder hills every evening----"
"Mists, are there?"
"Why yes: they creep over the hills at sunset; one can hardly see adozen metres ahead. They say the Germans crept up a night or two ago inthe mist, and took an English trench."
"Ah! well now, my regiment was marching to Violaines; you can put me inthe way? I must find them before night."
"To be sure."
He went with him to the door, and pointed out the direction. Thesoldier offered to pay for his food, but the old man, with manygestures, refused to accept a sou. He bade his guest good-bye, returnedto his cabin and shut the door. In his eyes was a look of satisfactionmingled with a strange eagerness. He hurried to the little window facingthe road, and looked out from behind the curtain. The soldier waslimping along in the direction his host had indicated. But presently hestopped and threw a furtive glance backward towards the cabin, anotherup and down the road, then walked on again. His lameness had beensuddenly cured; his gait was even and agile. And instead of continuingin the way shown him, he turned off abruptly and re-entered the wood.Beyond it lay those hills which night clothed with mist.
The old man waited a little, then issued from his cabin, trotted to theroad, and, he also, re-entered the wood. In a few minutes he was backagain, and set off at the best speed of his aged legs for the villagetwo miles away. Arriving there, he went straight to the mairie, andpeered through the wire frame on the door, within which a notice inlarge handwriting was posted. It was headed in big letters,
SOLDAT ANGLAIS,
and beneath was a methodical description, in numbered sentences, of thedeserter for whose discovery a reward was offered. The old man tickedoff the details one by one; then, his bright little eyes gleaming, heknocked at the door.
It was a small and unimportant village. The maire was of scarcely highersocial standing than his visitor. He had no gendarmes at his disposal:all the able-bodied men were in the ranks.
"He is a big man, Jacquou?" he said.
"He! Big, brawny, a regular beef-eater."
"Then we will telegraph. The English must arrest him. For us it wouldbe dangerous. But what if they delay, and he escapes? There would gothat fine reward, Jacquou, like the maid's chickens."
"Ah! Trust me for that, monsieur le maire, trust me for that," said theold man as he hobbled away.
Something less than two hours later the soldier emerged from hishiding-place in the wood, at a point at some little distance from theroad. He came out slowly, nervously, glancing around and behind him.There was in his eyes that look of anxiety and fear which had appearedin them at the moment of his being roused by the old man. It was likethe look of a hunted animal. He gazed towards the hills. Their ridgeswere sharp and clear against the sky. He looked up, and behind. Shaftsof sunlight were still piercing the foliage. He glanced at the watch onhis wrist, appeared to make a mental comparison between the timeindicated and the position of the sun, made restless movements, thenwent a few steps back among the trees. From his pocket he took a map,and spreading it on a trunk, in a sunbeam, he studied it anxiously.
Just as he was folding it up, he heard a low throbbing hum far away tothe south. Hurriedly replacing the map in his pocket, he went to theedge of the wood, and peered into the southern sky. The sound wasfaint; no speck dotted the cloudless blue. But the hum was drawingnearer. He dropped his eyes, and scanned as much of the road as hecould see. Nothing was in sight. His mouth worked; a furrow betweenhis eyes deepened; he rubbed his hand across his brow, and shuddered tosee how damp it was. Again he looked along the road. That humming madehim impatient: was it really growing louder, or were his nervesredoubling the sound in his ears?
At length, with the suddenness of one tired of waiting, he turned hisback on the sound, and plunged into the depths of the wood northward.He had gone but a hundred yards when he stopped with a start, chilled tothe marrow. Somebody was there, close by. He stared; his breath cameand went in pants; but after a moment he went on with a smothered laughthat was like a groan. It was only a peasant boy whittling a stick.The boy looked up as he passed, idly, vacantly. The solitary Britishsoldier apparently did not interest him. He dropped his eyes again,fell again to his whittling, and softly hummed the air of "Au clair dela lune."
The soldier went on among the trees. He was not startled when he caughtsight of another boy collecting twigs blown down by the gales of earlyspring. He had even so far recovered as to throw a pleasant "Bon soir!"to the boy as he passed. The boy looked up; he gave no response, not somuch as a
smile. Were the boys hereabouts deaf, or silly, or what? Theman looked back; the boy, on one knee, an arm stretched out as witharrested movement, was watching him.
On again. Insensibly his pace was quickening. At the sight of a thirdboy away to his left, apparently doing nothing, he felt unreasonablyangry. Was the wood full of boys? Why had he not seen them before? Whywere they so quiet? Himmel! Was he being watched? He would soon stopthat. He turned about, glowering, to scare away these disturbers of hispeace of mind. They had vanished. Relieved, almost amused at hisnervousness, he strode on, glancing up at the waning sunlight throughthe trees to make sure of his direction.
Suddenly, a little ahead on his right, he saw the flicker of a boy'swhite blouse amid the undergrowth. With a muttered execration heslanted towards it, but was checked by a slight rustle on his left.Swinging round, he caught a glimpse of a small figure flitting among thetrees. He stopped. His limbs were shaking; streams of perspirationtrickled down his face. Now at last he knew the meaning of thesestealthy movements, this sinister silence. The boys had been set to doghim. The certainty appeared to paralyse him. He stood swaying on hisfeet, glancing around for a means of escape from the toils that he feltclosing about him. Mechanically he raised his hand and dashed from hisface the rolling beads.
The spell was broken by the sound of a motor cycle and shouts behind.As though galvanised, he made a sudden break at full speed ahead, in aline between the two boys he had last seen. Looking neither to rightnor to left he pounded on until he was breathless. Then he paused tolisten. Had he shaken off the trackers? The whirr had ceased, theshouts were fainter; he was beginning to think that he had gained a fewminutes when a small figure scurried through the undergrowth in front ofhim. He started again, bearing to the left. A glint of white amid thegreen intensified his terror. He lost command of himself. No longerdid he take the dying sunlight as his guide. Blindly, desperately hestruggled on, every moment changing his course. The sounds had ceased;there was not even a rustle to warn him.
Presently he stopped, aghast. Before him was the patch of grass whichhis weight had flattened. He had been moving in a circle. Then a gleamof hope lit the darkness of his despair. He was now near the road;perhaps his pursuers had penetrated far into the wood. He pushed on,staggering, came to a sunken track, and, supporting himself against atree trunk, looked fearfully around. There, to the left, at the side ofthe track, were two motor bicycles. The old Frenchman was keepingguard. No one else was in sight. Gathering his strength, he rushedheadlong towards his last hope.
The old man heard his footsteps, looked up, and raised his feeble voicein a quavering shout. There was no time for a second. The soldierhurled himself upon the aged peasant, felled him with one blow, sprangto one of the bicycles, started the engine, ran the machine a few yardsand leapt into the saddle. With every jolt as the bicycle gained speedon the rough track his heart grew more elate. Whither the track led heneither knew nor cared; his whole soul was in the present.
Right and left of him were the trees. He had ridden perhaps thirtyyards when, from the right, a khaki-clad figure dashed into the trackjust ahead. The fugitive increased his speed and rode straight on. Ifthe man stood in his way, so much the worse for him. Then, in a moment,Atropos cut the thread. As the bicycle was whizzing by, the man flunghimself bodily upon it. There was a crash, a thud, then silence.
A few minutes later, Kenneth and Harry came hurrying to the scene.
"Is he killed?" asked the latter, as Kenneth stooped over the body lyingon the machine.
"No, he's alive," replied Kenneth, after thrusting his hand into theman's tunic.
He unscrewed the stopper of his flask, and poured weak spirit into theunconscious man's mouth. Not until Ginger had recovered consciousnessdid they turn their attention to the other man, whose case, indeed, theyhad recognised at the first glance as hopeless. When he was hurled fromthe machine, his head had struck a tree trunk on the opposite side ofthe track. Stoneway was dead.
Yet he had survived his partners. Perhaps half-an-hour before, Obernaiand the rest of the gang, after a drumhead court-martial, had paid thelast penalty. Spying, at the best, is ignoble work; and when it isaccompanied, as in Obernai's case, with the treacherous abuse ofhospitality and the betrayal of trusting folk, the spy's doom awakens nosympathy.
CHAPTER XXII
"RECOMMENDED"
"A fig for reasons!" exclaimed Madame Bonnard. "We women can do withoutthem. Monsieur Amory will bear me witness; I said that wretch Obernaiwas a villain."
"Pardon, mon amie," said her good man, mildly: "you said you did notlike his voice."
"Well, was not that enough? I did not like his voice: therefore he wasa villain. It is plain."
"The Kaiser is said to have a very pleasant voice," remarked Kenneth,slily.
He was sitting in the Bonnards' kitchen, awaiting the return of hiscomrades for supper.
"I should like to ask his wife what she thinks of it," said MadameBonnard. "Poor woman! what a terrible thing it will be for her when shegoes with him into banishment, and she has to listen to him all daylong!"
"Think you they will banish him, monsieur?" asked Bonnard.
"Who can tell?" Kenneth replied. "We have got to catch him first."
"Ah!" sighed Madame. "It is terrible. The end is so far off. Every dayI dread to hear bad news of my poor boys. And to think that there aremillions of poor women whose hearts are bleeding through that wickedman! What punishment is great enough for him? I should like to thinkof him worn and hungry, roaming the world like the Wandering Jew, withno rest for his feet, always seeing with his mind's eye the burningcottages, the maimed children, the weeping mothers, the poor lads he hasmassacred."
"Is it fair to put it all down to the Kaiser?" said Kenneth.
"Yes, it is fair," cried the good woman, vehemently. "Poor people copytheir betters. His soldiers do what they know will please him. Has hesaid one word of blame for all the dreadful things they have done? Likemaster, like man."
"I say, old man, here's the post," shouted Harry, bursting in at thedoor. "Two letters and a thumping parcel for you; nothing but anewspaper for me.... Good heavens!"
"What is it?"
"The curs have sunk the Lusitania.... Oh! this is too awful. That gasthey are using--the poor fellows die in agony. It is sheer murder."
Kenneth read the paragraphs Harry indicated. The Bonnards had left theroom.
"We must just stick it," said Kenneth, handing the paper back. "Nothingbut a thorough thrashing will bring them to their senses. And there aresilly stay-at-home people who talk of not humiliating them! The Germansare doing their best to show that the world would gain if the whole racewere wiped out."
"Are there no decent people among them at all?"
"Of course there are, and they'll be horrified when they learn thetruth. There's my partner, Finkelstein, as good-hearted a man as everbreathed. He'd never believe the brutes capable of the crimes they arecommitting. But the people are being fed with lies. I can't but thinka lot of them will sicken with disgust by and by."
"I only wish we could hurry it up.... Hullo, here's Ginger! I didn'texpect to see you, old man."
"I'm going home, boys!" cried Ginger, with a smiling face. His arm wasin a sling. "Doctor says I'll be no good for three months. Shoulderdislocated! My word! he did give me beans when he jerked it into place.But I'm going home, home! Fancy how the missus and kids will jump! Notbut what I'm sorry to leave you."
"I don't grudge you a rest, old chap," said Harry, "but we shall wantyou back again. Listen to this."
He read parts of the newspaper paragraphs. Ginger swore.
"I tell you what," he cried. "I'm not going home to do nothing. I'mgoing recruiting. That's what I am. I've spouted a lot of rot in mytime; they'll hear some hard sense now. By George! and if I don't haveat least a score of recruities to my name, call me a Dutchman. Bu
t I'vegot some news for you--better than those horrible things in the paper."
"What's that?" asked Kenneth.
"Well, you see, Colonel sent for me, and we had a talk, man to man;Colonel's a white man, that's what he is. As a matter of fact, I'vedone a bit of spouting this evening. But the chaps didn't want muchtalking to; they're all right. Verdict unanimous this time. To cut itshort, that promise of yours is off. The chaps say they're quitesatisfied with their job. Not one of 'em wants to go back to the worksuntil they've seen the Kaiser get his deserts. And Colonel is writinghome to say he wants commissions for you in the Rutlands."
"You mean it, Ginger?"
"That's just what I do mean. When I come back, you'll be officers.There's just one thing. If I should happen at first to forget tosalute----"
"Oh, rot, man!" cried Harry. "You're a good sort."
"You'll thank them all for us?" said Kenneth. "I'm afraid we shan't beallowed to stay with the Rutlands, though. Army rules are against it.But we'll see. Now, come and have some supper. Bonnard will give ussomething to celebrate the occasion."
"Can't," said Ginger. "I'm under orders to start in half an hour.Going back with a batch of crocks. It's good-bye. But I hope I'll seeyou again."
He shook hands with them warmly. They were all moved. Each felt thatin the chances of war they might never meet again. But, in the Britishway, they hid their feelings. Only as Ginger went out he turned in thedoorway and said:
"Mind you keep your heads down in the trenches."
Kenneth and Harry were silent for a while as they ate their supper.
"Well, old boy?" said Harry presently.
"Yes. It's good, isn't it?"
"The governor will be happy.... I say, Ken!"
"Well!"
"I can't make you out. You remember when I met you at Kishimaru's.Well, you seemed jolly casual--not a bit keen. Yet it was you who setthe ball rolling at the works, and you've been keen enough since."
"Oh well!" was Kenneth's indefinite response.
"Really, I couldn't help thinking you were hanging back. It was becauseyou'd been seedy, I suppose."
"Perhaps."
"What was wrong with you? German measles?"
"Not so unpatriotic, my son. A trifle run down, that's all."
"Wanted a holiday, I suppose. The war scrapped holidays for mostpeople."
"I daresay."
"Hang it all! What's the mystery? What do you mean by 'daresay' and'perhaps' and so on and so forth? What had you been doing?"
"You're a persistent wretch, Randy. Well, I don't mind telling you now.I was in Cologne when war was declared, and I had a pretty strenuoustime for a fortnight."
And he proceeded to outline the adventures which the present writer hasrelated elsewhere.
"Well I'm jiggered!" exclaimed Harry. "Why on earth didn't you tell me?"
"Well, you see, you as good as told me I was slacking."
"What's that to do with it? All the more reason to open up."
"Give me a cigarette, old chap; it's all right now."
A bugle called them to their feet. They flung on their equipment andhurried out. The battalion was assembling in the market place.
"The trenches again?" asked Kenneth of a sergeant.
"No. We're ordered north."
"Advancing at last?"
"Let's hope so. Fall in!"
THE END
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED, BRUNSWICK ST., STAMFORD ST., S.E., AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.
* * * * * * * *
HERBERT STRANG'S WAR STORIES
A HERO OF LIEGE: A STORY OF THE GREAT WAR.
SULTAN JIM: A STORY OF GERMAN AGGRESSION.
THE AIR SCOUT: A STORY OF HOME DEFENCE.
THE AIR PATROL: A STORY OF THE NORTH-WEST FRONTIER.
ROB THE RANGER: A STORY OF THE GREAT FIGHT FOR CANADA.
ONE OF CLIVE'S HEROES: A STORY OF THE GREAT FIGHT FOR INDIA.
BARCLAY OF THE GUIDES: A STORY OF THE INDIAN MUTINY.
THE ADVENTURES OF HARRY ROCHESTER: A STORY OF MARLBOROUGH'S CAMPAIGNS.
BOYS OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE: A STORY OF THE PENINSULAR WAR.
KOBO: A STORY OF THE RUSSO-JAPANESE WAR.
BROWN OF MOUKDEN: A STORY OF THE RUSSO-JAPANESE WAR.
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends