by Mark Hodder
Owing to the noise of a train that had just left the station, the approach of the motor-car had not been heard. As soon as it appeared an officer ran into the road waving his sword, and some of the soldiers hastily shut the gate that protected the level crossing.
“That’s done it!” exclaimed Tinker. “They know who we are. They have had a message!”
“Don’t stop!” bade Lieutenant Drake. “Let her rip! full steam ahead, Rokeby!”
The lad set his teeth, and bent low, his hands glued to the wheel, and his eyes measuring the chances. There was a fleet, dizzy rush, a chorus of shouts, the crack of a rifle. A convulsive leap saved the officer from being pulverised, and the next instant there was a crash that rent the gate to splinters, and hurled fragments of wood and metal in the air. The car did not capsize, nor was it crippled by the impact. It swerved a trifle, but Tinker kept control of it, and sent it scudding over the line up a hilly road beyond. In the rear the rifles spluttered, and a hail of lead was poured after the daring fugitives, not one of whom was so much as grazed by a bullet. They safely topped the rising ground, and dipped down into a valley that was clear of Germans. By reckless, dare-devil courage, at imminent peril of their lives, they had broken from the trap that had been set for them.
“A nasty smack in the eye for the Huns!” chuckled Lieutenant Drake.
“That was well done, my brave fellow!” Colonel Chumleigh said to the lad. “I shall bear you in mind.”
“Thank you, sir,” replied Tinker. “But we are not out of the woods yet,” he added to himself, “and it is about a thousand to one that we don’t get out at all.”
The valley was left behind. The big car topped another crest of high ground and sped down a slope which led to an arched bridge, shaped like the back of a camel, that spanned a deep, swift little river which was some hundreds of yards in width.
“There are wooded hills over yonder,” said the colonel. “Perhaps it would be better for us to take shelter there, instead of—”
“More trouble, sir!” Lieutenant Drake interrupted.
There was a blaze of silver across the bridge, and above the hump of it there rose to view a wall of plunging hoofs and tilted lances, helmets, and grey cloaks, and bronzed faces.
“My word, they’re Uhlans!” said Tinker.
“There will be no getting through them,” said Colonel Chumleigh. “We shall have to—”
“Hold tight, sir!” the lad broke in.
And as he spoke he gave the wheel a twist, and drove slant-wise down a grassy embankment that was at one side of the road. At the bottom of it was a hedge. The car tore a gap in this, and a few seconds later it was rattling along a narrow stretch of hard soil and gravel, with the reedy margin of the river on the left, and on the right a field of uncut corn that had been levelled by the wind.
“Go it, Rokeby!” urged the young subaltern.
The Uhlans had checked their steeds on the bridge, and drawn the revolvers that they carried. They opened fire, and the fugitives heard the whistling of lead, like angry hornets buzzing at their ears, as they went jolting and swaying on for a short distance. They kept ducking their heads, expecting every instant to be hit. Crack!—crack, crack!—crack, crack! A bullet punctured a tyre, and there was a muffled explosion.
“We are done for now!” exclaimed Tinker.
The car jumped, and skidded to the left. It lunged off the hard track, and in the twinkling of an eye it had turned half over amongst the reeds, and pitched the occupants into the water, which was fortunately shallow. In a trice they were on their feet, submerged to the knees.
“Look!” cried the lad. “There’s a chance for us!”
Within a dozen yards, as luck would have it, was a small boat that was tied to a stump, and contained a pair of oars. Tinker and his companions waded to it as fast as they could, and scrambled in. They were still exposed to the fusillade from the bridge. Lieutenant Drake snapped the mooring-rope by a jerk, and the lad, dropping to the middle seat, hastily shipped the oars, and bent to them lustily. A bullet split the blade of one, but by then the little craft had gained some impetus, and was gliding towards the middle of the deep and rapid stream.
“Lie down!” bade the young officer. “Be quick!”
Tinker let go of the other oar, and threw himself flat on the bottom of the boat. Lieutenant Drake did the same, and the colonel was about to follow their example when he felt a burning twinge of pain. He reeled, and tumbled limply on top of his companions.
“Have they hit you, sir?” asked the lad.
There was no reply. For a few moments the shouts of the Uhlans mingled with the crackling of their revolvers. Bullets chipped splinters from the drifting craft, and spat viciously on the surface of the water, tossing up tiny jets of spray. And then, of a sudden, the firing ceased entirely. The swift current had swept the boat around a curve of the river, and a fringe of trees and bushes that lined the one shore concealed it from the view of the Germans on the bridge. The fugitives were safe for the present, floating on towards wooded hills that dropped to both banks of the stream. Rain had begun to pour again, and a grey mist was darkening the air. Tinker and the young subaltern had not been even scratched but Colonel Chumleigh lay motionless, with closed eyes, bleeding from a wound in the shoulder.
PART THREE
THE FIRST CHAPTER
In Pursuit of the Train.
A MOTOR-OMNIBUS FROM London, which had been commandeered for transport purposes, stopped on a road that was at the rear of the British lines along the battlefield of the Aisne.
“Here you are, my lad,” said the driver of the vehicle to a companion who was seated at his side. “This is the place you want.”
A sturdy youth, in a khaki uniform that was torn and soiled, descended slowly and stiffly to the ground. The omnibus rumbled on its way, and as the youth stepped towards a mess-tent, which had been pitched a little to one side of the road, two men emerged from it, smoking cigars. One was Sexton Blake, and the other was a friend of his, Major Wilson by name. At the sight of the slim figure in khaki a glad, joyous light leapt to the detective’s eyes. The word “Tinker” was on the tip of his tongue, but he promptly repressed it, and by a hard effort he concealed his emotion as he hastened to meet the lad, and gripped his hand.
“Rokeby!” he exclaimed in a tremulous voice. “This is a surprise! How are you?”
“All right, sir,” quietly replied Tinker, who was as deeply moved, and was under as severe a strain.
They looked straight at each other for a moment, in silence that was more eloquent than speech. The officer had joined them, and caution was necessary.
“I thought it was all over with you,” said Sexton Blake. “You and Lieutenant Drake have been given up for lost. Has he too escaped?”
“Yes, sir, he has,” the lad answered. “He has gone to report himself. We have had more than one narrow squeak. We have been amongst the Germans, but we got away from them in the end, and we brought Colonel Chumleigh out of the Guards with us. We found him a prisoner at a French chateau.”
“And you rescued him?” Blake cried eagerly. “That is good news!”
“Where is he now?” asked Major Wilson.
“He is in a field-hospital at the village of Santenay, about twenty miles from here,” Tinker replied.
“Is he wounded or ill?”
“He is wounded, sir, but not very seriously. A bullet hit him in the shoulder.”
“You and Lieutenant Drake appear to have had some interesting experiences. Let me hear the whole story.”
Tinker told it, and as modestly as he could, yet with a sparkling in his eyes that marked the elation he could not entirely conceal. He began the narrative with the descent of the crippled aeroplane within the enemy’s lines, and carried it on, describing the burning of the supply-train, and the adventure at the chateau, and the crash through the railway barrier, to the point when he and his companions had escaped in the boat, under a hot fire from the Uhlans on the bridge af
ter the capsizing of their car.
“Colonel Chumleigh was the only one of us who was hit,” he continued. “We soon drifted round a curve of the river, and then we were safe. The current was swift and we floated on for miles and miles, and came in the evening to the lines of the Allies near Santenay. Meanwhile, we had bandaged the colonel’s wound as best we could. He was taken to a field hospital, and he was resting easy when we saw him there this morning. We walked back along the lines part of the way, until we fell in with a motor-’bus that gave us a lift. Lieutenant Drake left me, and I came on to find Mr. Blake. I made inquiries for you, sir,” he added, addressing the detective, “and I was sent here. I thought you would be glad to know that Colonel Chumleigh had been rescued.”
The lad paused, and stood at attention. Sexton Blake and the officer had listened quietly to the thrilling tale, and when it was finished their faces were glowing with admiration. They had heard of the destruction of the German supply-train. A report of it had reached the Allies.
“That was fine work,” was Major Wilson’s comment. “You are a credit to Britain, my brave fellow. Such deeds ought to live in history. Don’t you think so, Blake?”
The detective nodded. He dared not trust himself to speak. So intense was his pride, so deeply had his emotions been stirred that he was strongly tempted to disclose the fact that this young hero was his own boy, the assistant that he had trained from childhood. But he checked the impulse, which might have led to unpleasant consequences. Tinker guessed what was passing in his master’s mind, and a lump welled up in his throat.
“Yes, you have done splendidly,” declared the major.
“Thank you, sir!” the lad murmured.
He made no move to depart, foreseeing what was likely to result from the information he had brought. And he was not to be disappointed. Major Wilson turned to Blake, of whose errand to the front he had full knowledge.
“I am heartily glad that you will have an opportunity of transacting your business with the colonel,” he said. “No doubt you would like to go to him at once.”
“Yes, I should,” Sexton Blake replied. “The sooner the better, for they are fighting near Santenay, and the place may be occupied by the enemy.”
“Very well. I will lend you my car.”
“That is kind of you, Wilson. I will accept the offer.”
“Do you know the way?”
“I can find it, of course. Perhaps it would save time, though, if this young fellow were to—”
“He shall accompany you, Blake, as a guide. There will be no trouble about that. Take him along, by all means.”
The car was in a shed in the vicinity of the mess-tent, and in the space of a few minutes Tinker and the detective were on their way to the distant village, there to get Colonel Chumleigh’s signature to the will. Major Wilson waved his hand as they slid past him. They were together again, and they could talk as freely as they chose.
“My brave boy!” Blake said softly.
Their feelings were at first too deep for many words. For a time they sat in silence, Tinker at the wheel, while they traversed the rear of the vast battle-line; and when at length they had drifted into a flow of conversation they were careful to avoid one subject, each judging that it had better be let alone. For what was to be gained by discussing it? There was now every prospect that the detective’s mission would soon be accomplished, and he would then have to return to London. But he could not take Tinker with him, much as he would need his services at home; nor, on the other hand, would the lad have been willing to go. He was enjoying a soldier’s life, despite its perils and hardships. The only thing that worried him was the position he was in, the deception by which he had gained his heart’s desire. And that was preying also on Sexton Blake’s mind.
“It is a rather ugly affair,” he reflected, “and I am afraid that one of these days there will be an exposure which may have serious consequences. It may come about through the real Rokeby, who is probably somewhere at the front in his assumed name. By holding my tongue I have been an accomplice in the double deception. I wish I had put a stop to it all when I learned the truth from young Rokeby.”
They were fighting at various points along the Aisne. The booming of great guns floated from miles distant, and now and again the faint rattle of musketry was heard. Signs of the conflict grew more and more frequent as Blake and the lad drew near to their destination. There were German prisoners in the market-place of Santenay, and a battery of artillery was moving out to action. Yonder on the hills clouds of smoke were rolling, bluish-grey against the green and brown of the foliage. A staff-officer went galloping towards the front, and a motor-cyclist pedalled furiously to the rear.
“We’ll soon be there,” said Tinker. “Only another mile to go yet, guv’nor.”
The car glided through the village, bore to the left, and stopped by a field-hospital that had been pitched at the side of the road, in a meadow. A man in khaki, bronzed and bearded, emerged from the big tent, and stared in surprise.
“My word, if it isn’t Blake!” he exclaimed.
“Blake it is,” replied the detective, with a smile. “How are you, doctor? I hope you haven’t many patients.”
“Not a great many at present. But I had no idea that you were in this part of the world. Have you come to pay me a friendly visit?”
“No, Crofton, I have come on business.”
Surgeon-Major Crofton, of the Army Medical Corps, was not acquainted with Tinker, but he had known Blake for some years. He offered him a thin, flexible hand that was stained with drugs, and shook his head in answer to a question that the detective put to him.
“You are too late,” he said. “Colonel Chumleigh has departed.”
“He is not dead?” Sexton Blake cried in dismay.
“Not a bit of it,” declared Dr. Crofton. “He isn’t going to die. I extracted the bullet from his shoulder, the wound is as clean as a whistle.”
“And he has been discharged already?”
“No, I have shipped him north. I’ll tell you how it happened. The Germans gained some ground this morning, and threw half a dozen shells into Santenay. There was a probability of their advancing farther, and shelling my field-hospital. I received word that a train was at the station a couple of miles in the rear, under orders to leave for Rouen; so I sent as many of my patients as could be moved over to it, on ambulances, and Colonel Chumleigh was one of the number. It is just as well that I did so, for the enemy are still dangerously close. I hope they will be driven back. I have a score of wounded here who are in a critical condition, and cannot be shifted.”
The surgeon-major paused, and glanced at the lad.
“By the way,” he added, “I observe that you have with you one of the plucky chaps who rescued the colonel from the Germans, and brought him to me last evening. They told me a thrilling story.”
“Yes, they had some lively adventures,” Blake assented. “It was from Rokeby here that I got the information about the colonel. He knew that I had come from London to find him. I want him to attach his signature to an important document.”
“I am sorry you have missed him.”
“So am I, Crofton.”
“What will you do about it?”
“I shall have to go after him, I suppose, if the train has left.”
“It has, Blake. It started something like half an hour ago.”
There was a short interval of silence. The detective was disappointed, but not much concerned. He could easily reach Rouen that night, and get Colonel Chumleigh’s name to the paper. Tinker, in anticipation of a further journey, over-looked the car, and refilled the petrol-tank. From out of the tent floated the sickly smell of iodoform, and within could be seen motionless figures swathed in bandages, and nurses and attendants wearing the badge of the Red Cross. Cannon were roaring and rumbling in the distance. A battalion of infantry swung by, marching at a brisk pace.
“I won’t detain you any longer,” said Sexton Blake. “I shall fo
llow the colonel.”
“I don’t believe you will have to go as far as Rouen,” replied Dr. Crofton.
“Why not?”
“For a couple of reasons. In the first place, the train will travel at a fairly slow rate of speed, and it will make several stops. And the distance is considerably shorter by road then it is by the railway-line.”
“I see your meaning, Crofton.”
“It is simple enough. Wait a moment, and I will show you a—”
The surgeon-major broke off, and disappeared within the hospital. He came out with a small map in his hand, and when he had unfolded it he traced a line on it with a blue pencil.
“Here you are,” he said. “This is the road that you will take. You can’t miss it. And here is the village of Malmon, where your road crosses the railway-line. You should be able to get there ahead of the train, before nightfall, and have it stopped. You can have the map.”
“Thanks very much,” Blake replied. “I will do what you have suggested.”
“But I must warn you that you may run into danger.”
“How is that? Is there a likelihood of encountering any of the enemy?”
“Yes, patrols of Uhlans have been reported to the north. They are venturesome people, those chaps.”
“Well, the risk won’t deter me,” said Sexton Blake. “I’ll chance it. Good-bye, Crofton, and thanks again for your information. We’ll be off now, Rokeby,” he added, as he mounted to the seat and sat down by the lad. “You can drive as fast as you like.”
“Right you are, sir,” said Tinker. “It won’t be my fault if we don’t intercept the train.”
And with that he sent the car rattling forward. It rolled on with increasing speed, and Dr. Crofton and the field-hospital soon faded from view. It was late in the afternoon and the sun was sinking in a cloudless sky. Blake took the map from his pocket, and studied it, comparing the highway with the railway-line.
“The major is quite right,” he said. “It should be a simple matter for us to intercept the train.”