The Dispatch-Riders: The Adventures of Two British Motor-cyclists in the Great War

by Percy F. Westerman

  CHAPTER XIX

  Arrested as Spies

  "We're safe for the present," remarked Kenneth, after the two fugitiveshad placed a distance of at least four miles between them and theoutlying German post. "I didn't mention it before, but the belt isslipping horribly. The strain has stretched it a lot; so we may aswell shorten the rubber."

  "By Jove, it is slack!" exclaimed Rollo, testing the "give" of thebelt. "It's a wonder it didn't let us down badly. It's a funny thing,old man, but I've often noticed that if we expect a lot of trouble weget through without hardly any bother. The last lap, when we rushedthe German lines, was as easy as ABC."

  "Yes," assented his companion. "I've noticed that too. It's theunexpected trifle that often leads to greater difficulties. Got yourknife handy? Oh, I suppose the Germans took a fancy to that too. Canyou get mine from my pocket? That's right, cut the belt through at aninch from the end."

  The motor-cyclists had halted in the midst of a war-devastated area.Farm houses and buildings were numerous, but in almost every case theyhad suffered severely from shell-fire. Not a living creature, besidesthemselves, was in sight. Here and there were corpses of the gallantdefenders of Belgium, some in uniforms, some in civilian attire. Thesemen, shot whilst in the act of retiring under a terrific artilleryfire, had been left where they fell, showing how heavy had been theGerman attack; for in most cases the plucky Belgians contrived to carryoff those of their comrades who had died for their country.

  Close to the spot where Kenneth and his companion had stopped was alarge farm wagon piled high with furniture. Yoked to it were thebodies of two oxen, while a short distance away lay a dead peasant--anold man. The wagon, on which the refugee had been attempting to removehis goods and chattels from his threatened homestead, had fallen aneasy target to the German guns.

  A gnawing hunger compelled the British lads to examine theshell-riddled contents of the wagon in the hope of finding food. Butin this they were disappointed. Not so much as a scrap of anything toeat was to be found.

  Both lads were parched, Kenneth especially so. Even Rollo had almostforgotten the refreshing taste of the water given him by the Germanprivate. Yet, even in the pangs of a burning thirst, they could notbring themselves to drink of the stagnant water in the ditches by theroadside.

  The repair completed, the motor-cyclists remounted. They were mosteager to push on, even for the sake of obtaining drink, food, and rest.It could only be a matter of a few short, easy miles before they wouldbe safe for the time being in the country still held by their friends,the Belgian troops.

  "She's pulling splendidly now," announced Kenneth, referring to thetransmission of power from the engine to the driving-wheel. Both ladshad now discarded the bandages over their bogus wounds, andconversation was a fairly easy matter.

  Hardly were the words out of his mouth when the motor began to falter.Then it "picked up", ran for about a quarter of a minute and sloweddown again, finally coming to a dead-stop.

  "No petrol," announced Rollo ruefully. "The tank is empty."

  "Rot!" ejaculated his companion incredulously. "It was full when westarted, and I'll swear we've done nothing like sixty miles on it yet."

  Kenneth examined the gauge, then turned to his chum.

  "Sorry, old man," he said. "I'm wrong. The stuff's all gone."

  Further examination revealed the unpleasant fact that there was a smallleak between the piping and the carburettor. Unnoticed, a quantity ofthe petrol had run to waste.

  "It's a case of push," continued Kenneth. "How's your foot? Fit for atramp? If not, you may as well get on the saddle and I'll run youalong."

  Although young Barrington's ankle was paining considerably, he sturdilyrefused to take advantage of his companion's offer. From experience heknew that pushing a motor was no light task. Kenneth might be capableof giving him a lift, but Rollo would not trespass upon his friend'sgenerous conduct to that extent.

  On and on they plodded, Rollo resting one hand on the saddle andstriving to conceal his limp. Presently a practically ruined villagecame in sight. Not only had it been heavily bombarded, but subsequentfires had increased the work of destruction. Thick columns of smokewere rising high into the sultry air, while above the roar of theflames could be heard the excited tones of human voices.

  "The villagers are trying to save the little that remains of theirhomes," said Kenneth. "They'll be able to give us some information asto where we can pick up the Belgian troops. Perhaps, though I doubtit, we may be also able to procure petrol."

  Suddenly a peasant, who was standing about a hundred yards in front ofthe nearest house, took to his heels and ran, shouting as he went.Before he gained the village, spurts of dull flame burst from behind aheap of debris piled across the road, and half a dozen bullets _zipped_past the two lads.

  "Lie down!" exclaimed Kenneth, stopping only to place his preciousmotor-cycle behind a tree by the side of a ditch, before he followedthe prompt example of his companion. "Those fellows have mistaken usfor Uhlans. I don't wonder at it, now I come to think about it."

  Although sheltered by a mound by the side of the ditch, their place ofconcealment was known to the peasants. The latter kept up quite a hotfire from antiquated muskets and sporting-guns. Shots whizzedoverhead, and showers of pellets fell all around the two lads.

  "Can't blame them," said Rollo. "Let's hoist the white flag; it's nodisgrace in this case."

  Kenneth produced a very discoloured pocket-handkerchief. At one timeit had been a white one, but owing to the various uses to which it hadbeen put its colour resembled that tint which the French, with areason, call "isabelle". For want of a staff he was obliged to hold itby his uplifted arm. In return he received a couple of pellets from a"twelve-bore", which, fortunately, only inflicted two punctured woundsin his skin.

  "I'm not a rabbit," muttered Kenneth, and he continued to wave the"white flag".

  Presently the firing ceased, and a swarm of men, accompanied by severalshrieking women, bore down upon the two supposed Uhlans.

  "We're friends!" shouted Kenneth. "We're English. We've escaped fromthe Prussians."

  He might just as well have attempted to stem a torrent with a feather.The villagers saw only the hated uniforms of their mercilessoppressors. They had no cause to grant quarter to Uhlans, for Uhlanswere brutal and murderous to all with whom they came in contact when ontheir dreaded raids.

  "A mort! A bas!" rose from the mob like the growling of a pack ofhalf-famished animals. The two British lads were in dire peril ofbeing torn limb from limb.

  "A bas les Prussiens! Nous sommes Anglais," shouted Kenneth again,folding his arms and trying his level best to appear calm.

  A stick, hurled by a woman's hand, missed his head and struck himheavily upon the shoulder. At almost the same time Rollo was hit by abroken brick, the missile striking him in the ribs.

  "Tenez!" thundered an authoritative voice. "Let us show these vileUhlans that Belgians are civilized. We will give them a fair trial,and shoot them afterwards."

  "Anything for a respite," thought Kenneth. Even in this moment ofperil the Belgian speaker's idea of a fair trial tickled his sense ofhumour.

  The man who had intervened was a short, thickset fellow, with loweringeyebrows and a crop of closely-cut hair. He was dressed in black,while round his waist was a shawl, evidently intended for a badge ofoffice. He had donned it in such a hurry that the loops of the bowshad come undone and were trailing in the dust.

  Grasped by a dozen toil-hardened hands, and surrounded by the rest ofthe survivors of the justly exasperated inhabitants, the two lads werehurried towards the village.

  "I wish we had kept on our uniforms under these, old man," said Rollo."We've nothing to prove our identity."

  "They're speaking in German. That proves their guilt," announced oneof their captors.

  Neither Kenneth nor Rollo attempted to deny the statement--somewhatunwisely, for their unsophisticated guards took silence as
anexpression of assent to the accusation.

  The military passes provided by the Belgian Government had beendestroyed--Rollo's, when captured at Cortenaeken; Kenneth's, when thelads made their hitherto beneficial exchange of uniforms. As Rollo hadremarked, they possessed nothing that they could produce to prove theiridentity.

  Happening to look over his shoulder, Kenneth saw a peasant kicking hismotor-cycle. Unable to wheel it, since its owner had slipped in theclutch previous to placing it under cover, the Belgian was venting hisannoyance upon the machine.

  "Stop!" shouted Kenneth. "That's an English motor-cycle. Would you doharm to anything made by your friends the English?"

  He used the word "English" advisedly, for experience had taught himthat the term "British" is hardly known to the peasantry of Belgium.Even the educated classes make use of the expression "English" morefrequently than "British".

  "Aye; do not injure it, Henri," called out the man who evidently heldthe office of Mayor. "When the English soldiers arrive to help us todrive back the Bosches it may be useful to them. Parbleu! It isuseless to us."

  In front of the ruined church the villagers held a most informal trialupon their captives. From the Belgians' point of view the evidence wasabsolutely conclusive against the prisoners. They were in Germanuniforms.

  In vain the lads mentioned the names of Major Resimont, CaptainPlanchenoit, and other officers of the 9th Regiment of the Line. Thepeasants knew nothing of them; besides, they declared, it was an easymatter to invent names. Again, the prisoners spoke French with aforeign accent; they had been caught whilst coming from the directionof the German lines. They were, no doubt, scouts of the Uhlan patrol,bent upon completing the work of massacre and destruction that the gunshad begun against the unresisting village.

  "Hang them: powder is too good to waste upon canaille such as these,"suggested one of the peasants.

  "Yes, hang them," agreed another. "I'll do the job. 'Twill be but aslight revenge for my murdered wife and children. Let the Uhlans see,when next they come, that we, too, can be terrible."

  The Major nodded his head approvingly. A man shuffled forward with acoil of rope.

  "One moment," exclaimed Kenneth, who even in this moment of peril didnot lose his head. "If we are to die, cannot we have the service of apriest?"

  It was a faint chance. A representative of the Church wouldundoubtedly have great influence with his flock. He would, more thanlikely, listen impartially to the story of the two condemned prisoners.

  "A priest?" echoed one of the peasants mockingly. "Is it likely thatGermans who have purposely shattered God's house can hope forabsolution from a priest?"

  "Besides, we have not a priest," added another. "Monsieur le cure waswounded early in the day. He was taken to Louvain."

  "Hurry with the execution, camarades," said the Mayor. "Time isprecious. At any moment a strong body of these Uhlans may be upon us.Prepared, we may bring down a few and sell our lives dearly--but thisis not being prepared."

  Kenneth shivered when he felt the contact of the rope round his neck.He glanced at his companion. Rollo's face was red with suppressedfury. He looked as if he were on the point of breaking loose andmaking a desperate bid for freedom. It was the injustice of the wholebusiness, not the fear of death, that agitated him.

  "Let's have a slap at them," said Rollo in a low tone. "If we get adose of lead it will be better than a rope. Quickly, before they beginto tie our hands. Ready?"

  "Aye," replied Kenneth calmly.

  "One moment! You mark time with that fellow with the scar over hiseye. We'll keep together as long as we can. I hardly feel myankle----"

  He stopped. His ready ear detected the clatter of horses' hoofs. Thepeasants heard it too. In evident alarm they gripped their antiquatedfire-arms. The fellow with the rope let the noose fall from his handsand made a rush for his musket.

  "It is well, camarades," shouted the Mayor. "They are our soldiers."

  Down the main street of the ruined village rode a troop of Belgianlancers, followed by a motor-car on which was mounted an automatic gun.Seeing two men in Uhlan uniforms surrounded by a mob of angry peasants,the officer in charge ordered his men to halt, and rode up to ascertainthe cause of the commotion.

  As he did so, Kenneth recognized him as one of the officers who tookpart in trapping the Uhlans after their raid on Tongres.

  "A nous, mon capitaine!" he said in a loud, clear voice.

  "What have we here?" exclaimed the officer in astonishment; thenrecalling Kenneth's features he continued: "The English soldier inUhlan uniform! What is the meaning of it all?"

  In as few words as possible Kenneth related the circumstances that ledto their present condition.

  When he had finished, the captain turned to the leading villager.

  "Monsieur le maire," he said. "I will be answerable for these twoEnglishmen. Believe me, in your zeal for your country's good you haveslightly overstepped the bounds. Fortunately there is no real harmdone, and messieurs les Anglais will no doubt forgive an unintentionalinjury."

  The Mayor, who had meanwhile readjusted his sash, saluted the lancercaptain, then held out his hand to Kenneth.

  "Pardon, camarade," he said.

  Now that the danger was over, both lads felt able to accept the deepapologies of the peasants. The latter had been labouring under agenuine grievance, and their somewhat high-handed action would admit ofan excuse. They were quaking in their shoes lest their formerprisoners should take steps to secure their punishment; but findingthemselves magnanimously treated, they responded with three hurrahs forEngland and the two men who had come from that country to aid strickenBelgium in her troubles.

  "Now what do you propose doing?" asked the Captain. "As for us, wemust push on. We have an important reconnaissance to make."

  "We want to rejoin our regiment--the 9th of the Line, sir," repliedKenneth.

  The officer smiled grimly.

  "I regret, messieurs, that I cannot help you in that direction," hesaid. "Perhaps the best thing you can do is to make your way toBrussels, and there await news of your regiment. Should anyonequestion you, say that I--Captain Doublebois--have instructed you. Isthere anything else?"

  "We've run short of petrol, sir," announced Rollo, pointing in thedirection of the motor-cycle, the handlebars of which were just visibleabove the edge of the ditch.

  "Parbleu! Petrol is now as precious as one's life-blood.Nevertheless, I think we may be able to spare you a litre. CorporalFougette," he shouted, addressing the non-commissioned officer incharge of the motor machine-gun, "measure out a litre of petrol forthese messieurs--good measure, not a drop more or less."

  The Captain stood by while Kenneth brought up the cycle and had thepetrol poured into the tank.

  "Now, messieurs," he continued, "this will suffice to take you as faras our nearest depot. After that, proceed to Brussels. I'll warrantyou'll be in need of a rest, but there will be plenty to occupy yourminds, or my name is not Captain Raoul Doublebois. But take my advice,messieurs, and get rid of those accursed uniforms!"