Little Comrade (Munsey's Magazine)/Chapter 11
CHAPTER XI
The Night Attack
A savage voice behind them shouted “Halt!” A bullet sang past, and a rifle exploded with a noise like a cannon—or so it seemed to Stewart; then another and another. It was the sentry, of course, pumping bullets after them. Stewart's flesh crept at the thought that any instant now might bring a volley, which would sweep the track with a storm of lead. If he could only look back, if he only knew—
Suddenly the girl pulled him to the right, and he saw that there was a cleft in the steep bank. Even as they sprang into it the volley came, then a second and a third, and then the sound of shouting voices and running feet.
Savagely the fugitives fought their way upward, over rocks, through briers—scratched, torn, bleeding, panting for breath. Even in the daytime it would have been a desperate scramble; now it soon became a sort of horrid nightmare, which might end at any instant at the bottom of a cliff. More than once Stewart told himself that he could not go on, that his heart would burst if he took another step—and yet he did go on, up and up, close behind his comrade, who seemed borne on superhuman wings.
At last she stopped and pressed close against him. He could feel how her heart was thumping.
“Wait!” she panted. “Listen!”
Not a sound broke the stillness of the wood.
“I think we are safe,” she said. “Let us rest a while.”
They sat down side by side on a great rock. Gradually their gasping breath slackened, and the pounding of their hearts grew quieter.
“I must have dropped my cap in that scramble,” she said at last.
Stewart put his hand to his head and found that his hat was also missing.
“I feel as if I had been flayed alive,” he said. “Those briers were pretty bad. It was lucky we didn't break a leg—or stop a bullet,” he added.
“We must not run such risks again,” his companion said. “We had better keep clear of roads—the Germans seem to be everywhere. Let us keep on until we reach the crest of this hill, and then we can rest till daylight.”
“All right,” agreed Stewart. “Whither thou goest, I will go!”
The ground grew less rough as they proceeded, and at last they came to the end of the wood. Overhead a full moon was sinking toward the west—a moon which lighted the rolling meadow before them, and which seemed, after the darkness of the woods and valleys, as brilliant as the sun.
“We must be nearly at the top,” said the girl. “These hills almost all have meadows on their summits, where the peasants pasture their flocks.”
And so it proved, for beyond the meadow there was another narrow strip of woodland; and as they came to its farther edge the fugitives stopped with a gasp of astonishment.
Below them stretched a broad valley; and as far as the eye could reach it was dotted with flaring fires.
“The German army!” said the girl.
The two stood staring. Evidently a countless host lay camped below them, but no sound reached them, save the occasional rumble of a train along some distant track. The Kaiser's legions were sleeping until the dawn should give the signal for the advance—an advance which would be as the sweep of an avalanche, hideous, irresistible, remorseless, crushing everything in its path.
“Oh, look, look!” cried the girl, and caught him by the arm.
To the west, not far away, a flash of flame gleamed against the sky, then another and another and another. In a moment there drifted to their ears a savage rumble as of distant thunder.
“What is it?” asked Stewart, staring at the ever-increasing bursts of flame. “Not a battle, surely!”
“It is the forts at Liège!” cried the girl hoarsely. “The Germans are attacking them, and they resist. Oh, brave little Belgium!”
The firing grew more furious. A dozen search-lights began to play over the hillside before the nearest fort, and they could dimly see its outline on the hilltop—strangely like a dreadnough, with its wireless mast and its armored turrets vomiting flame. Above it, from time to time, a shell from the German batteries burst like a greenish-white rocket; but it was evident that the assailants had not yet got their guns up in any number.
Then, suddenly, below the thunder of the cannon, there surged a vicious undercurrent of sound which Stewart knew must be the reports of machine guns, or perhaps of rifles; and all along the slope below the fort innumerable little flashes stabbed upward toward the summit. Surely infantry would never attack such a position, Stewart told himself; and then he held his breath, for, full in the glare of the search-lights, he could see what seemed to be a tidal wave sweeping up the hill.
A very fury of firing came from the Belgian guns, yet still the wave swept on. As it neared the fort, what seemed to be another wave swept down to meet it. The firing slackened, almost stopped, and Stewart, his blood pounding in his temples, knew that the struggle was hand to hand, breast to breast. It lasted but a minute; then the attacking tide flowed back down the hill, and again the machine guns of the fort took up that deadly chorus.
“They have been driven back!” gasped the girl. “The Germans have been driven back!”
How many, Stewart wondered, were lying out there dead on the hillside? How many homes had been rendered fatherless in those few desperate moments? And this was but the first of a thousand such charges—the first of a thousand such moments!
There, before his eyes, men had killed one another—for what? There was no doubt that the men in the forts were defending their fatherland from invasion— they were fighting for liberty and independence. That was understandable—it was even admirable.
But those others—the men in the spiked helmets—what were they fighting for? To destroy liberty? To wrest independence from a proud little people?
Again the big guns in the armored turrets were bellowing forth their wrath; and then the search-lights stabbed suddenly up into the sky, sweeping this way and that.
“They fear an air-ship attack,” breathed the girl, and she and Stewart stood staring out into the night.
Shells from the German guns began again to burst about the fort, but its own guns were silent, and it lay there crouching as if in terror. Only its search-lights swept back and forth.
Suddenly a gun spoke—they could see the flash of its discharge, seemingly straight up into the air; then a second and a third; and then the search-lights caught the great bulk of a Zeppelin and held it clearly outlined as it swept across the sky. There was a furious burst of firing, but the ship sped on unharmed, passed beyond the range of the search-lights, blotted out the setting moon for an instant, and was gone.
“It did not dare pass over the fort,” said the girl. “It was flying too low. Perhaps it will come back at a greater altitude. I have seen them at the maneuvers in Alsace—frightful things, moving like the wind.”
This way and that the search-lights swept in great arcs across the heavens, in frenzied search for this monster of the air; but it did not return. Perhaps it had been damaged by the gun-fire—or perhaps, Stewart told himself with a shiver, it was speeding onward toward Paris, to rain terror from the August sky.
Gradually the firing ceased; but the more distant forts were using their search-lights, too. Seeing them all aroused and vigilant, the Germans did not attack again. Their surprise had failed; now they must wait for their heavy guns.
“Well,” asked Stewart at last, “what now?”
“I think it would be well to stay here till morning; then we can see how the army is placed and how best to get past it. Evidently we can't go on to-night.”
“I'm deadly tired,” said Stewart, looking about him into the darkness, “but I should like a softer bed than the bare ground.”
“Let us go to the edge of this meadow,” the girl suggested. “Perhaps we shall find another field of grain.”
But luck was against them. Beyond the meadow the woods began again.
“The meadow is better than the woods,” said Stewart. “At least it has some grass on it—the woods have nothing but rocks!”
“Let us stay in the shelter of the hedge. Then, if a patrol stumbles into the field before we are awake, it will not see us. Perhaps they will attempt a pursuit in the morning. They will guess that we headed for the west.”
“1 don't think there's much danger. It would be like hunting for a needle in a haystack—in a dozen haystacks! But won't you be cold?”
“Oh, no,” she protested quickly; “the night is quite warm. Good night, my friend.”
“Good night,” Stewart answered.
He withdrew a few steps, and made himself as comfortable as he could. There were irritating bumps in the ground, which seemed to come exactly in the wrong place; but he finally adjusted himself, and lay and looked up at the stars, and wondered what the morrow would bring forth.
He was growing a little weary of the whole adventure. He was growing weary of the restraint which the situation imposed upon him. He was aching to take this girl in his arms, and hold her close, and whisper a certain secret into her rosy ear; but to do that now, to do it until they were in safety, until she had no further need of him, would be a cowardly thing—a cowardly thing—a cowardly—
He was awakened by a touch on the arm. He opened his eyes, to find the sun shining high in the heavens and his comrade looking down at him with face almost equally radiant.
“I hated to wake you,” she said, “but it is getting late.”
Stewart sat up, rubbed his eyes, and looked at her again. Her hair was neatly combed, her face was fresh and shining, her hands showed some ugly scratches, but were scrupulously clean. Even her clothing, though torn here and there, had evidently been carefully brushed.
“What astounds me,” said Stewart deliberately, “is how you do it. You spend the first half of the night scrambling over rocks and through briers, and the second half sleeping on the ground, and you emerge in the morning as fresh and radiant as if you had just stepped from your boudoir. I wish I knew the secret!”
“Come and I will show you,” she said, laughing gaily.
She led him away into the wood. Presently he heard the sound of falling water, and his guide brought him triumphantly to a brook gurgling over mossy rocks, at whose foot was a shallow basin.
“There is my boudoir,” she said. “The secret of beauty is in the bath. I will reconnoiter the neighborhood while you try it for yourself.”
Stewart flung off his clothes, splashed joyously into the cold, clear water, and had perhaps the most delicious bath of his life. There was no soap, to be sure, but much may be done by persistent rubbing; and there were no towels, but the warm wind of the morning made them a!most unnecessary. He got back into his clothes again with a sense of astonishing well-being—except for a most persistent gnawing at his stomach.
“I wonder where we shall breakfast to-day,” he mused, as he laced his shoes. “Nowhere, most probably. Oh, well, if that dear girl can stand it, I oughtn't to complain!”
And he fell to thinking of her, of her grace, of the curve of her red lips—
“Confound it!” he said. “I can't stand it much longer. Friendship is all very well, and the big brother act may do for a while, but I can't keep it up forever, and what's more, I won't!”
And then he heard her calling, in the clear, high voice he had grown to love.
“All right!” he shouted. “Come along!”
Presently she appeared between the trees, and he watched her with beating heart—so straight, so supple, so perfect in every line!
“Did the magic work?” she inquired gaily.
“Partly: but it takes more than water to remove a two days' growth of beard.” Stewart ran a rueful finger over his stubbly chin. “But can it be only two days since you burst into my room at the Kölner Hof and threw your arms around my neck and kissed me?”
“Please don't speak of it,” she pleaded with crimson cheeks. “It was not an easy thing for a girl to do; but that spy was watching, so I nerved myself, and—”
“You did it very well indeed,” he said reminiscently. “And to think that not once since then—”
“Once was quite enough.”
“Oh, I don't blame you; I know I'm not an attractive object. People will be taking us for beauty and the beast.”
“Neither the one nor the other!” she corrected.
“Well, I take back the beast, but not the beauty!”
“There were to be no compliments until we were out of Germany,” she protested lightly.
“We are out of Germany,” he said, and got slowly to his feet, his eyes on fire.
“No, no!” she protested, backing hastily away from him. “This is German ground—let me show you!” She ran before him out into the meadow. “Look down yonder!”
Looking down, Stewart saw the mighty army which had been mustered to crush France.
As far as the eye could reach, and from side to side of the broad valley, it stretched—masses of men and horses and wagons and artillery—masses and masses—thousands upon thousands—mile upon mile. A broad highway ran along either side of the river, and along each road a compact host moved steadily westward toward Liège.
Suddenly, from the west, there came the thunder of heavy guns, and Stewart knew that the attack had commenced again. Again men were being driven forward to death, as they would be driven day after day, until the end, whatever that might be. And whatever it was, not a single dead man could be brought to life again; not a single maimed man made whole; not a single dollar of the treasure which was being poured out like a flood could be recovered. It was all lost, wasted, worse than wasted, since it was being used to destroy, not to create.
Incredible—impossible—it could not be! Even with that mighty army beneath his eves, Stewart told himself for the hundredth time that it could not be!
The voice of his comrade broke in upon his thoughts.
“We must work our way westward along the hills until we come to the Meuse,” she said. “This is the valley of the Vesdre, which flows into the Meuse, so we have only to follow it.”
“Can't you prevail upon your fairy godmother to provide breakfast first?” asked Stewart. “I'm sure you have only to suggest it, and the table would appear laden with an iced melon, bacon and eggs, crisp rolls, yellow butter, and a pot of coffee—I think I can smell the coffee!” He closed his eyes and sniffed. “How perfect it would be to sit here and eat that breakfast and watch the Germans! Oh, well,” he added, as she turned away, “if not here, then somewhere else. Wait! Isn't that a house over yonder?”
It was indeed a tiny house whose gable just showed above the trees, and they made their way cautiously toward it. It stood at the side of a small garden, with two or three outbuildings about it, and it was shielded on one side by an orchard. No smoke rose from the chimney, nor was there any sign of life.
Stewart, who had been crouching behind the hedge beside his companion, looking at all this, rose suddenly to his feet and started forward.
“Come on,” he cried; “the Germans haven't been this way—there's a chicken.”
He pointed to where a plump hen was scratching industriously under the hedge.
“There is another sign,” said the girl, as they crossed the garden and pointed to the ground. “The potatoes and turnips have not been dug.”
“It must be here we're going to have that breakfast,” cried Stewart.
He knocked triumphantly at the door. There was no response, and he knocked again. Then he tried the door, but it was locked.
There was another door at the rear of the house, but it also was locked. There were also three windows, but they were all tightly closed with wooden shutters.
“We've got to have something to eat, that's certain,” said Stewart doggedly. “We shall have to break in,” and he looked about for a weapon with which to attack the door.
“No, no,” protested the girl quickly. “That would be too like the Uhlans. Let us see if there is not some other way!”
“What other way can there be?”
“Perhaps there is none,” she answered. “If there is not, we will go on our way, and leave the house undamaged. You, too, seem to have been poisoned by this virus of war!”
“I only know I'm hungry,” said Stewart. “If I've been poisoned by anything, it's by the virus of appetite!”
“If you were in your own country, and found yourself hungry, would you break into the first house you came to in order to get food?” she asked. “Certainly not—you would do without food before you would do that. Is it not so?”
“Yes,” said Stewart in a low tone. “That is so. You were right.”
He stared out into the road and reflected how easy—how inevitable, almost—it was to become a robber among thieves, a murderer among cutthroats. He understood how it happens that in war even the kindliest man may become bloodthirsty, even the most honest a looter of defenseless homes.
“See what I have found!” cried a voice.
He turned to see the girl running toward him with hands outstretched. In each hand she held three eggs.
“Very well for a beginning,” he commented. “Now for the melon, the bacon, the rolls, the butter, and the coffee!”
“I fear that those must wait,” she said. “Here is your breakfast.”
She handed him three of the eggs. Stewart looked at them rather blankly.
“Thanks!” he said. “But I don't quite see—”
“Then watch.”
Sitting down on the door-step, she cracked one of her eggs gently, picked away the loosened bit of shell at its end, and put the egg to her lips.
“Oh!” he said. “So that's it!”
Sitting down beside her, he followed her example. He had heard of sucking eggs, but he had never before tried it, and he found it rather difficult and not particularly pleasant. But the first egg undoubtedly did assuage the pangs of hunger; the second assuaged them still more, and the third quite extinguished them. In fact, he felt a little surfeited.
“And now,” she said, “for the dessert.”
“Dessert!” protested Stewart. “Is there dessert? Why didn't you tell me? I never heard of dessert for breakfast, and I'm afraid I haven't room for it.”
“It will keep,” she assured him.
Leading him around the larger of the outbuildings, she showed him a tree hanging thick with ruddy apples.
“There are our supplies for the campaign,” she announced.
“My compliments!” he said. “You would make a great general.”
They ate one or two apples and then filled their pockets. From one of hers the girl drew a pipe and pouch of tobacco.
“Wouldn't you like to smoke?” she asked. “I've heard that a pipe is a great comfort in times of stress.”
Calling down blessings upon her head, Stewart filled up. Never had tobacco tasted so good, never had that old pipe seemed so sweet as when he blew out the first puff upon the morning air.
“Salvation Yeo was right,” he said. “As a hungry man's food, a sad man's cordial, a chilly man's fire, there's nothing like it under the canopy of heaven! I only wish you could enjoy it, too!”
“I can enjoy your enjoyment!” she laughed.
They set happily off together. At the corner of the wood Stewart turned for a last look at the house.
“How glad I am I didn't break in!” he said.