Courts of Idleness

by Dornford Yates

  “Where?” said Ewing.

  “On top of the hill in the wood. Not this one. We’re just about half way. Hullo!”

  The thud of a big gun sounded in the distance. For the first time Librand shifted in his place on the foot-board.

  “Having another smack at Lence,” said Ewing. “Or was it behind us?”

  Courtier shook his head.

  “No. It was Lence way all right. Listen.”

  Two more thuds followed each other in quick succession. There was no doubt about the direction this time. The attack upon Lence had been renewed.

  And now they were out of the wood and taking the hill with a rush. Half way up, Courtier slipped into third, and the van roared out of the moonlight and into the next wood grandly. The land lay exactly as he had said. As they rounded the corner, Librand shifted again and peered into the darkness beyond the scudding beam of the head-lights. He was looking a little towards the left.

  “What is it, sergeant?” said Ewing, speaking in French. “You’re the wrong side for the Germans, you know.”

  “Ah! My lieutenant will forgive me. I was not thinking of the enemy. There is somewhere here a sudden gap in the wood. In daylight one stands there and looks away down into the valley. There one can see a little farm. I have seen it so very often, but not now for thirty-seven years. It is the farm where I was born, my lieutenant,” he added naïvely, as if everyone was born at some farm or other.

  “Thirty-seven years, and now it’s too dark,” said Ewing. “What a shame! You must look out for it on the way back.” And he pointed to the grey look in the sky over towards the east.

  “But no, my lieutenant,” said the Frenchman. “It will be too dark still. Besides, I shall be on the other side then. It does not matter at all. I shall see it again one day. Two fortune-tellers have said this. I am to die there, where I was born. It is a good thing to know,” he added contentedly.

  For a moment there was silence. Then:

  “So?” said Courtier. “Thanks very much. I know you’re not superstitious, Tag, but I rather think we look out for this precious wood on the way home.”

  “I hope you will,” said Ewing. “That corner’s just the place for a nasty skid.”

  The van fled on over the broad highway. Here, for a quarter of a mile, tall silent poplars lined it on either side, their shadows ribbing the pale road with darkness; and here low, thick-growing bushes marked the edge of a stream that ran by their side for a while, and then curled capriciously off under their feet, so that the way rose and fell to suffer its passage. Now they swept through a village, whitewashed houses – deserted – on either side. In the short street the steady mutter of the engine swelled into a snarl, that shore through the silence fiercely. By rights, dogs should have bayed the matter furiously… And so again out into open country. Under the still moonlight the landscape slumbered very peacefully – untroubled slumber that even the dull thunder ahead could not ruffle.

  Five miles later they slowed down for the Lence outposts.

  As they ran into the town:

  “Twenty-one minutes to the tick,” said Ewing, looking at his watch. “And not a sight of a German all the way. If we don’t strike the blighters on the way home, I shall ask for my money back.”

  By the time the van had been laden with its grim cargo, cock-crow had come and gone. A faint grey light had stolen into the sky, spoiling the moon of her splendour, lending to ways and buildings a look of dull reality in place of the illusive livery of black and silver they had worn before. Men and things were invested with a stern workmanlike air. Which was as it should be, for there was vital work to be done, and done quickly.

  Smoking easily, Courtier and Ewing stood talking with three French officers, the better for the hot café-au-lait with which they had just been served. On the other side of the van, Librand was exchanging experiences with two or three comrades-in-arms. From time to time he applied a can of hot coffee to his lips with evident relish. Under the supervision of a sergeant, French soldiers were putting the finishing touches to their bestowal of the explosive. It was not the sort of stuff to have slipping and sliding about at every bend of the road.

  At length the packing was over, two soldiers scrambled out of the van, and the sergeant closed and fastened the high back doors, lifting the crossbar into its place and thrusting the pin through the staple. The Clement was ready for the run of her life.

  “The carriage waits,” said Courtier, throwing away his cigarette. “Come along, brother, or we shall miss the curtain-raiser.”

  He spoke in French, and the three officers laughed wonderingly.

  “You are brave fellows,” said one of them. “It is not everyone who would escort Madame Nitro-Glycerine to the theatre.”

  “She is no worse than other women,” said Courtier. “You take a girl to the theatre. If she does not like the play, she blows you up.”

  The next minute he had started the engine.

  As he was settling himself at the wheel:

  “Better let me have your revolver,” said Ewing. “You wouldn’t be able to use it any way.”

  With a sigh the other handed over the weapon.

  “Now I really feel like a chauffeur,” he said disgustedly. “Is the sergeant all right?

  “Yes.”

  Crying their good wishes, the French officers stepped back from the van. Courtier let in the clutch, and she began to move.

  “Au revoir. Bon voyage,” called the Frenchmen.

  “Au revoir. So long,” came the reply.

  Then they swung out of the sentried yard into the cobbled street.

  The firing had slackened a little. At one time, whilst they were waiting at Lence, it had been very heavy. The town’s reply seemed to have silenced one of the enemy’s guns, but, beyond a shattered searchlight, the defenders had suffered little or no damage.

  “What’s the time?” said Courtier suddenly.

  “Five-and-twenty to five,” said Ewing. “I didn’t think the loading would have taken so long.”

  “Nor did I. However.” They turned out of the market-place on to the Otto road. “S’pose I mustn’t go all out now,” he added gloomily. “Not with this soothing syrup on board.”

  “As long as you’ve got her in hand,” said Ewing. Then: “Did you mark where the culverts came?”

  The other nodded.

  “Three, weren’t there?” he said.

  “Yes. I’ll tell you when to stand by.”

  Two minutes later they were clear of the outposts. Like the little town behind them, the road and the countryside had taken on a look of soberness. With the grey light of dawn, the shadows had fled. Fantasy, with all her shining train, was gone westward. The brave show the moonlight had made was over. The world about them seemed to be cleared for action.

  As before, the sergeant sat on the foot-board at Ewing’s feet. After a while he plucked a great revolver from under his coat, and held it ready for use in his right hand. With the left he laid hold of the strap that should keep him in. Above him Ewing sat motionless, his hands deep as ever in the great pockets of his coat, his eyes never lifting from the pale road tapering into the distance. Courtier leaned comfortably against the short back of the seat, his chin lifted a little, smiling easily into the rush of the air that swept over the lower half of the wind-screen steadily, like a long, cold wave. He might have been driving up from Newmarket after a good day.

  So presently they came to the silent village, and the stream flowing beyond it, and the long ranks of poplars lining the way.

  As they dropped into the wood, Ewing made as though he would draw his hands out of his pockets. Then he changed his mind suddenly, and let them stay where they were. A smile at his own impulse flickered over his face. But Courtier had seen the movement with the tail of his eye and laughed outright.

  “‘Just the place for a nasty skid,’” he quoted amusedly, taking out the clutch.

  And it would have been, if the road had been at all greasy. All the s
ame, they rounded the corner carefully – to see the German uniforms seventy paces away.

  Infantry, about a hundred strong, marching towards them in a dense mass: all on the slope of the steep hill midway between the upper and the lower wood.

  At one and the same moment they saw and were seen. For a fraction of a second they stared – the one at the other. Then, with a cry, Courtier let in the clutch and pressed the accelerator right down…

  It was their only chance, and slight as a hair at that. Death in front of them, death swaying behind them… Put an odd bullet into the body of the van and all in Lence and Otto alike would know the fate of their nitro-glycerine.

  The Clement leaped forward like a thing gone mad. The grey mass had halted, and an officer was shouting and fumbling at his holster. Ewing fired with his left hand, resting his wrist on the wind-screen; his right arm lay across Courtier’s shoulder. He would cover him on that side if he could. The sergeant was on his feet firing.

  As the officer fell, the mass shivered and broke – too late. Into and over the grey uniforms – that was the way of the van. Literally she ploughed her way through, heaving, rocking, leaping, hurling herself along, hoarse screams of agony and terror ringing her round. Courtier clung to the wheel desperately, helping her all he could. Ewing had lost his balance and lay on his side on the seat, his right arm stretched behind Courtier, blazing away over the Stepney wheel. The sergeant was leaning out at the side, wielding his empty revolver, roaring like one possessed, roaring, roaring… Then a German officer fired full in his face, and he pitched forward heavily on to the broad highway.

  It was the only shot the enemy fired. The miracle had happened, and they had come through – they and the death swaying behind them.

  “Is she all right?” said Ewing, meaning the van.

  The other nodded.

  “I think so. Don’t ask me why? Thank God, it was foot,” he added jerkily. “I couldn’t have done it to horses to save my life.”

  “Bet there are more behind,” said Ewing laconically, trying desperately to reload. The pace was against him. “Those chaps had come from Very.”

  “And turned at the cross roads?”

  “Exactly.”

  “We’ll be there in a second now. If the others aren’t up—”

  “We can go as we please for the rest of the way to Otto. If they are…”

  “She’ll never stand it again,” said Courtier. “The steering’ll go. Besides – That’s done it,” be added quietly.

  They were out of the lower wood by now, and there, at the foot of the rise, was the head of a German column wheeling out of the road on the left-hand side – the road to Very. Only the head of a column, a bare handful of men – so far. But behind, beyond, blocking the road to Otto, utterly cutting them off, was drawn up a squadron of Uhlans, waiting to see the infantry over the cross roads.

  “Straight at ’em,” said Ewing. “And when we’re well in, if they haven’t plugged the nitro stuff, I’ll do it mys – No!” he roared suddenly. “No! Take the road on the right, Bill. Take the road on the right.”

  “I’ll try,” yelled Courtier. “She’ll break in half, but I’ll try.”

  It is a cool-headed fellow who will stand fast and take deliberate aim, full in the path of an onrushing car. Had they but known of the death that lay in the van, so easy to loose, it might have been otherwise. The few men that had wheeled stared and shrank back dazedly. Others, unseeing, came on out of the Very road, treading upon the heels of those in front. In a moment all was confusion. Some of them turned to fly, one tripped and fell in the road. And, behind, the front rank of the Uhlans shouted and raved impotently.

  The Clement tore down the slope desperately. If she could take the corner, her way was fairly clear. The stumbling, shouting, frantic mass of men was writhing on the very cross of the roads. On two sides their comrades and the Uhlans blocked their chance of safety. A few had started to rush down the road on the right.

  As they reached the cross roads, Courtier jammed on the foot-brake and wrenched the wheel round. With a rending noise of tires, the great body swung over, pivoting, as it were, on the front wheels and tilting terribly. Half way about, her side met the jam of men like a wall, flying. She just shuddered and swung on, sweeping the broken bodies against the whole behind, and then breaking them in turn… Somebody fired.

  It was all the work of a moment, for in the midst of her swing, Courtier straightened her up and let her go. As she leaped forward like a slipped hound, an officer, screaming in German, thrust out his left hand and fired point-blank over the near-side wing.

  Courtier shook the blood out of his eyes and glanced at the seat by his side. Ewing was still there.

  “My aunt!” he said. Then: “I thought you were gone that time. I held myself in by the wheel.”

  “Put her along,” said Ewing thickly.

  Then the road curled, and they pelted into the shelter of a belt of trees. They were through.

  Nevertheless, they fled along swiftly, watching and waiting for an odd road on the left. So they should come to Otto, or on to the Otto road…

  The level-crossing they struck after about seven kilometres came as a glad surprise. No trains running, they had forgotten the line. And now it was only a matter of raising the tall bar – there was the windlass at hand – and pounding along the railway track to Otto. They were as good as home.

  Courtier slowed down wearily, for the fiftieth time brushing the trickle of blood away from his eyebrows. A bullet had whipped across his forehead, just cutting the skin.

  As the van came to a standstill:

  “Oh, Tag,” he said, merriment trying to struggle into his voice, “what a life!”

  As if by way of answer, Ewing slid round sideways, with his chin on his chest. Just in time to catch him, Courtier realized with a shock why the screaming officer’s bullet had not exploded the nitro-glycerine…

  He got him out and made him as comfortable as he could in the grass by the wayside. After a little he died quietly, as he had lived.

  He spoke for a moment or two, just at the end – queer muttering words, with no brain behind them.

  “Doll…” The other started ever so slightly. “Dolly girl… always… Love her long lashes and…on the fifth, Doll. So we’ll be at Yait together, and then… I promise. Not even Bill, till the…” He sighed contentedly. Then, “A marriage has been arran—”

  The poor voice faded. There was a sharp struggle for breath, blood fighting with air in the lungs desperately. Courtier raised him a little, and the blood sank back beaten. But the effort had been too much. A moment later he sighed very wearily, settled his head in the crook of the other’s arm, and just slipped out.

  Fifty minutes later the Clement, her head-lights smashed and bloody, her wings stained and buckled, blood and hair on her steps and wheels and dumb irons, slowed down between the low platforms of Otto’s railway station. And Courtier sat at her wheel listlessly, a dirty handkerchief bound about his forehead, and an old and stricken look in his strong young face. Behind him, the body of Ewing, which had shifted helplessly with every jolt of the van, came to rest easily, with its white face pressed against the packing of the carefully stowed explosive.

  Book Two

  How Others Left the Courts Only to Return

  1: A Bébé in Arms

  “It’s going to be priceless,” said Daphne, her white arms stretched along the back of the sofa.

  From the opposite side of the fireplace her husband regarded her. Then he turned to me.

  “D’you hear that?” he said.

  “I know,” said I. “I can’t help it.”

  “But she’s actually looking forward. She finds pleasure in anticipation.”

  “I know,” said I. “It’s painful.”

  “Painful?” said Berry. “It’s indecent. I’m not sure I oughtn’t to forbid the banns.”

  “I wish you would,” said I. “I don’t want to be best man. If it goes on as it’s beg
un, I shall be about thirty pounds down before we’ve finished. That’s tips and taxis alone.”

  “And then there’s the blackmail.”

  “I know,” I said gloomily.

  Daphne picked up an evening paper. Then:

  “Listen to this,” she said. “‘One of the prettiest weddings of the year will take place on Thursday the 29th, when Mr Peter Lileigh will wed Lady Daffodil Malmorey at St James’s, Piccadilly. The bride-to-be is the youngest of the three beautiful daughters of–’”

  “That decides me,” said Berry. “Next Sunday I shall forbid the banns in clear, bell-like tones. Let the Press be informed.”

  “Why shouldn’t they be married?” said Jill, from her perch on the sofa’s broad arm. “I think it’s sweet of them.”

  “There you are,” said Berry. “Thinks it sweet. She’ll be wanting to do it next. So much for the force of example.” He turned to the grey-eyed maiden. “My dear, I warn you that, if any man has the audacity to ask me for your little hand, I shall push his face.”

  Jill knitted her brows.

  “I hope you won’t,” she said. “But then ” – with a quick smile – “he might forget to ask you, mightn’t he?”

  “Rude child!” said my brother-in-law. “Now you shan’t have the mechanical frog in your bath tonight. Is that nurse calling?”

  “I think I’m going to have a cold,” said Daphne.

  Berry turned to me.

  “Ring up Harley Street,” he said, “And tell William to have some straw put down outside the house the first thing in the morning.”

  “Any time tomorrow will do,” said his wife. “I’ve got to be at the dressmaker’s at eleven, and I promised to lunch with Helena Rush.”

  “Jade!” said Berry. “Behold the horrid result of matrimony. A woman mocks her lord.” Here a footman entered with the drinks. “Ah, well. For me there is always the schnapps (Low German). I will immerse my misery in alcoholism (Pekingese).” He rose. “Beverage, Jonah?”