CHAPTER XIII
Separated
Major Resimont's sentiments were shared by the majority of hisdeep-thinking compatriots. The great faith in the prompt action ofGreat Britain in sending a strong Expeditionary Force to Belgium hadreceived a severe set-back. Even yet the promised aid might beforthcoming--but it would be too late to spare the greater portion ofthe country, including the capital, from invasion.
When the Major stated that the Belgians had "certain hopes" in theFrench, he spoke with a justifiable sense of caution. He realized thatthe object of throwing French troops into Belgium was not to stay thethreatened occupation of Brussels, but to avoid, if possible, thedisastrous results of the presence of a German army on French soil. Inshort, Belgium was once more to be made the battle-ground betweenFrench and German troops, provided the fortresses on the borders ofAlsace-Lorraine were strong enough to hold back the invaders in thisquarter.
Unfortunately, in spite of the utmost efforts of the War Office, backedby the whole-hearted support of a united Parliament, Great Britain wasjust four days too late in the dispatch of her Expeditionary Force.Yet the brave Belgians did not repine, nor did they relax for oneinstant their opposition to the enormous and relentless masses ofGermans who were now pouring in through the strategic railways betweenAix-la-Chapelle and Liege.
But the sacrifice of Belgium was not in vain. By the heroic resistanceof General Leman the clockwork regularity of the German time-table hadbeen thrown hopelessly out of gear. The stubborn defence of Liege haddelayed the Teuton advance to such an extent that France and Englandwere able to complete their respective mobilizations, and to thwart theGerman Emperor's hopes of "rushing" Paris and thus forcing France toconclude a humiliating and disastrous peace.
"Corporal Everest!"
"Sir?"
"You are to take this dispatch to Major Foveneau, who is holding thevillage of Cortenaeken. Your compatriot may accompany you. Exerciseparticular care, for there are numerous Uhlan patrols in theneighbourhood of Diest."
It was on the second day after the British dispatch-riders' return withthe mail-escort. Captain Planchenoit, who had already fully recognizedthe intrepidity and common sense of the two lads, had been instructedby his Colonel to communicate with the isolated post of Cortenaeken,and he could decide upon no fitter messengers than Kenneth Everest andhis friend Rollo Barrington.
"You will observe that the dispatch is at present unsealed," continuedCaptain Planchenoit. "You must commit the text to memory. Should yoube in danger of capture, destroy the dispatch at all costs. It is fartoo important to risk being hidden, yet Major Foveneau must have, ifhumanly possible, written orders."
"Very good, sir," replied Kenneth, saluting.
He then went off to find his chum, whom he found cleaning his mount.Kenneth had given up cleaning his motor-cycle days ago; beyondsatisfying himself that it had plenty of oil and was in good runningorder, he troubled nothing about its appearance. Both lads had,moreover, wrapped the handle-bars in strips of brown linen, while theremaining bright parts had been covered with dull-grey paint.
"It's Cortenaeken this time," announced Kenneth. "Goodness knows howwe get to the place, for there doesn't seem to be a vestige of a roadleading to it, according to the map. Here's the dispatch--soundsimportant, doesn't it? We have to commit the words to memory, in casewe have to destroy the paper."
"The best thing we can do is to ride for Tirlemont and make enquiriesthere," suggested Rollo, handing the dispatch back to his chum. "Asregards concealing the paper, we must place it somewhere where we canget at it easily. I have it: we'll stow it in your petrol tank; thestuff won't injure the paper or interfere with the writing, and ifthings came to the worst, you can whip it out and set fire to it."
Accordingly the dispatch, cleverly rolled, was placed inside the gauzestrainer to the patrol tank, and the metal cap replaced. Five minuteslater the two motor-cyclists were buzzing along the congested road at amodest twenty miles an hour, dodging between the lumbering transportwagons and the military vehicles with an agility that surprisedthemselves.
Presently, as they struck towards the rear of the long lines of troops,the road became less encumbered and speed was materially increased.Soon the pace reached nearly forty miles an hour, for the highway wasfairly broad, and ran as straight as a Roman road as far as the eyecould reach.
"Puncture!" shouted Kenneth, as the front wheel of his cycle began toslither and bump upon the _pave_, the machine running nearly fiftyyards before he brought up and dismounted.
A hasty examination showed that a rusty iron nail, quite six inches inlength, had penetrated the tread of the tyre, while to make mattersworse its point had worked out close to the rim. The offending pieceof metal, catching against the front forks, had already enlarged thehole in the tread till it became a slit nearly half an inch in length.
"Don't wait," he continued, as he unscrewed the cap of the petrol tankand produced the dispatch. "Take this, and hurry on. I'll patch thisup and follow. If you can, wait for me at Cortenaeken till twoo'clock."
"Right-o!" assented Rollo. "You can manage all right?"
"I can't ask you to bear a hand if I don't," replied Kenneth. "I'llmake a job of it somehow. Good luck!"
Rollo was off. Kenneth stood beside his crippled steed and watched hisfriend's receding figure out of sight; then taking out his repairoutfit he began his task. It was a long job. The cover, beingpractically a new one, was an obstinate one to remove. It had to bepatched with canvas, while the double puncture in the inner tube took aconsiderable time to clean and prepare.
While he was waiting for the solution to get "tacky", a peculiarbuzzing sound greeted his ears.
"Aeroplanes!" he muttered. "Whose, I wonder?"
He looked upwards. The sun shining in a cloudless sky dazzled hisvision. He put on his tinted goggles, which during the repairoperations he had removed. Then he saw, perhaps three thousand feetabove him, a large Zeppelin moving in a westerly direction. He watchedit with a sort of contemptuous interest.
"The vaunted German terror of the air--perhaps!" he soliloquized. "Iwouldn't give much for its chances if even half a dozen aeroplanestackled it. Ah! Thinking better of it?"
This last remark was uttered as the gigantic airship began to turn,pitching as it did so like a lively ship in a sea-way.
Bringing his binoculars to bear upon the Zeppelin, Kenneth watched itsundignified progress. Apparently it had encountered a strongair-current that tended to drive it in a westerly direction. By theaid of the glasses Kenneth could see that the immense fabric showed, inspite of its supposed rigidity, a decided tendency to "whip" as itswung broadside on to the direction of the wind. Then, steadyingitself on a course in exactly the opposite direction to that which ithad previously been following, the Zeppelin forged ahead, stillsee-sawing ominously.
Suddenly the bow portion dipped, then with ever-increasing velocity thehuge airship plunged earthwards. Its propeller ceased to revolve; fromthe cars, ballast--not loose sand, but solid material--was thrown outin the hope of checking the now terrific descent. Then it disappearedfrom the motor-cyclist's view, beyond a slight ridge of hills aboutfive miles off.
"That's done for it, thank goodness!" ejaculated Kenneth, as hereplaced his binoculars and reapplied himself to the repairs to thetyre; "if it were not for this rotten puncture I'd slip over and have alook at the remains. I hope the thing's fallen within the Belgianlines. It will cheer the plucky beggars up a bit."
It took him quite another half-hour to patch the torn canvas and coaxthe stubborn cover back into its rim. Then, with a feeling ofgratification that he had overcome difficulties, he began to inflatethe tyre.
"Almost hard enough," he said to himself, ceasing his efforts to prodthe rubber with his thumb. "I'll give it another dozen strokes just toshow there's no ill-feeling."
Bang! With a report like the discharge of a small field-piece the tyrecollapsed. A portion of the inner tube had been nipped,
with theresult that a gash four inches in length was demanding attention.
"Confound it!" exclaimed Kenneth angrily.
With the perspiration pouring off him, he again tackled the obstinatecover with savage energy. This time the repair was a complicated one.Three times the patch failed to hold, but finally, at the end of anhour and a half's hard work, the tedious task was accomplished.
At Tirlemont Kenneth made enquiries, and was given such minutedirections that before he had gone another five miles he was hopelesslybefogged. The roads were little better than narrow lanes; there wereno direction posts, and he had long forgotten whether he had to takethe first turning to the left and the third to the right, or the thirdto the left and the first to the right. There were several isolatedcottages, but their inhabitants had fled. The whole district seemeddepopulated, for the great exodus to Brussels had begun. There wasplenty of evidence of the hurried flight of the civil population.Articles of domestic use, found to be too heavy to carry far, had beenjettisoned by the roadside. Here and there was an abandoned cart,still laden with the household goods of some unfortunate Belgian family.
At length Kenneth found that the lane he was following came upon asmall stream. Here a bridge had recently been destroyed. Furtherprogress in that direction was impossible, unless he decided to abandonhis cycle and swim across the fifteen feet of water to the oppositebank. Following the stream was a rough path, badly cut up by thetracks of cattle. It was the only possible way unless he retraced hisroute.
Producing his military map Kenneth attempted to fix his position. Hecould only come to the conclusion that the stream was the River Velp,on which the hamlet of Cortenaeken stands. He was, he decided, aboutten miles from the village, which ought to be reached by following thepath he had struck.
It was bad going. The deep ruts made riding a nerve-racking ordeal.Here and there the path had slipped bodily into the reed-grown mud thatfringed the stream. Dismounts were frequent; speed was out of thequestion.
After a mile or so of this unsatisfactory mode of progression the pathended abruptly, but here the stream was crossed by a narrow plankbridge. On the opposite side, at about two hundred yards from thebank, was a cottage, and--thanks be!--from the chimney a wreath offaint blue smoke was rising.
Kenneth dismounted, set his motor-cycle on its stand, and proceeded toexamine the apparently frail bridge. It sagged considerably under hisweight; what would it do with the additional weight of his mount? Inaddition there was the transport problem. He could not carry the heavycycle; the plank was too narrow for him to attempt to ride across. Yethe did not feel at all inclined to go back along that rutty path.
"I'll give a few toots on the horn," he declared. "Perhaps the peoplein the house will come out and bear a hand. Hullo! There's a puntover there in the rushes. With assistance I could get my bike acrossin that."
The raucous blasts on the horn disturbed the quietude of the sylvanscene, but without the desired result. He tried again, still withoutsuccess.
"Perhaps these people have also cleared out in a hurry and left a fireburning," he soliloquized. "Otherwise they must have heard theexplosions of the engine as I rode up. Well, here goes!"
Crossing the stream he took his way to the spot where the punt was madefast. Here, again, his hopes were dashed to the ground, for not onlywas the flat-bottomed craft chained and padlocked to a massive post,but it had a gaping hole at one end and was half-full of water.
"It's only waste of time tramping across to that cottage," he said tohimself. "I'll have a shot at getting the bike across first, and makeenquiries later."
With that he retraced his steps to where his cycle was standing on thewrong side of the tantalizing stream. Throwing out the clutch andstanding astride the saddle, Kenneth walked his motor-cycle towards theplank bridge; then shuffling very cautiously, he began the hazardouscrossing.
At every step the soles of his boots were almost at the very edge ofthe worn plank. As he approached the centre it creaked ominously,while, to add to his difficulties, the motion of the water as it flowedunderneath tended to make him giddy. He dared not look up unless hestopped, and that he was loath to do. One false step would sendhimself and his motor-cycle into six or seven feet of mud and water.
At length, safe and sound, Kenneth found himself on the farther bank.Here a road, very little better than the one he had recently traversed,led away from the house, the only visible approach to which was bymeans of a stone stile and a footpath.
Again leaving his cycle, the lad leapt over the low wall and hastenedtowards the building.
The door was wide open. Across the threshold lay the body of an oldman, with a ghastly wound in his head. Kenneth recoiled in horror;then, thinking perhaps that the unfortunate farmer--for such hewas--might still be living, he again approached.
Even in the attempt to move the man, he heard the sound of a heavysnore, while, as if in answer to the noise, a horse began to neigh.
"Germans!" ejaculated Kenneth. Once more he began to back, when,recollecting that even the sound of his motor had not disturbed thebrutal slumberer, he drew his revolver and stepped across the threshold.
Coming in from the brilliant sunshine the place seemed almostpitch-dark, but in a few seconds the dispatch-rider's eyes grewaccustomed to the gloom. He found himself in what was at one time theliving-room of the farm. There was no hall or passage; the outer dooropened straight into it.
The whole place was in a state of almost indescribable confusion. Thetable had been overthrown, the chairs smashed--and smasheddeliberately, for no ordinary struggle would have resulted in suchcomplete demolition of the furniture. On the walls were a few cheap,highly-coloured prints, slashed by a keen instrument, while the glasswas shattered to fragments. On the floor were the remains of brokenbottles and crockery. The cupboards had been ransacked, and theircontents hurled all over the room. Even the hearthstone had beenforced up; the despoilers had evidently thought that the thrifty farmerhad hidden a store of money beneath it.
The rest of the rooms on the ground floor were in a similar state ofconfusion. Kenneth set his jaw tightly. He no longer had anyinclination to beat a retreat. The sight of the foully-murderedBelgian and his devastated home filled him with rage.
Holding his revolver ready for instant action, the lad began to ascendthe stairs. They creaked horribly under his weight, but still thesounds of drunken slumber continued.
At the head of the stairs four rooms opened on to a fairly spaciouslanding. Three of these were unoccupied by any living creature. Inone was a huddled-up form.
"Brutes!" muttered the British lad. "No quarter!"
He pushed open the door of the remaining bedroom, whence the porcinegrunts proceeded. Here were four men in the uniform of the dreadedUhlans. Three, fully dressed and wearing their heavy boots, weresprawling in drunken slumber on the bed. They were nursingpartly-consumed wine bottles, while the bed-clothes and floor werestained with the spilt liquid.
The fourth Uhlan was sitting in a chair, with his head resting on hischest. Across his forehead and over both ears was a blood-stainedbandage. The wound had but recently been inflicted, so the Belgianfarmer had apparently made a brave but unavailing stand in defence ofhis home. On the floor by the Uhlan's side lay his sword; his carbinewas propped up against the arm of the chair.
"The brutes!" ejaculated Kenneth again. "Hang it, I can't shoot thesefellows while they are asleep!"
Just at that moment the wounded Uhlan opened his eyes and raised hishead. His brain had not been dulled by drink, for with a swiftmovement he seized his carbine, at the same time shouting to hiscomrades that the Belgians were upon them.
The Dispatch-Riders: The Adventures of Two British Motor-cyclists in the Great War Page 13