by Anthology
Gone all dreams of easy victory and speedy promotion. Gone all fondly-cherished visions of splendid triumphs and acclaiming throngs. As the mist wreaths of the morning fade into nothingness under the burning sun, so had they vanished under the bright light of the fact that he must fight desperately to save even a part of his great host. Hardest of all was the thought that but for the disobedience of a subordinate, who by this act hazarded future and even life itself, his case were well-nigh hopeless. And as he paced his room in black bitterness of spirit, St. John acknowledged to himself that his own overweening confidence, self-will, and intolerance of opposition had invited this disaster. But in this overwhelming crashing of his fortunes a grim resolve remained — to die fighting if need be, but at least to fight until he died.
When Hathorn and the prisoner entered, he questioned the latter closely as to the strength of the enemy and satisfied at length that he had drawn out all the information that would be of value to him, he was about to dismiss his mysterious captive when the man asked permission to offer a suggestion. St. John nodded rather impatiently, but as the recital proceeded, his eyes grew brighter.
"You believe you could carry out such a plan?" he asked eagerly when the stranger had ended. "But no — there isn't one chance in a thousand that it would succeed."
"Isn't one chance in a thousand worth taking — now?" returned the other with a grim smile. "If I don't succeed you will be no worse off than you are now, while if I do—"
"But, man," expostulated St. John, "unless by some miracle you manage to carry out your scheme — and probably even if you do — you're going to certain death."
The prisoner's face grew suddenly sombre. "If I did not believe that I was," he replied shortly, "I would have asked you to send some one else."
The General and Hathorn exchanged rapid glances and, moved by a sudden impulse, the former held out his hand to his captive.
"I don't know who in the devil you are," he said, "or what in the devil your motives may be, but I do know that you've tried to save us once and are trying to save us again in spite of ourselves, and by God, sir, if you come through this alive you can depend on me to see that you get all the credit that's due you, if I have to damn myself to do it. I may be a pig-headed old fool sometimes, but no man's ever been able to say I wasn't just."
For the first time the mask seemed to lift from the stranger's face, and as he grasped St. John's outstretched palm, they could see that he was moved.
"Thank you, General," he said; "I'll try to stay alive for the sake of the army."
St. John nodded vigorously and scrawling rapidly on a sheet of paper, signed his name, sealed the letter, and handed it to the stranger.
"If you manage to come through alive," he said, "make for the seacoast. You'll run less risk of capture than if you should try to get back to our lines. I'll notify Admiral Barrows and ask him to have you picked up. You know the country?"
The other placed a finger-tip on the huge map. "I'll be there in two weeks, if I'm still living."
"Good!" St. John noted down the spot which the stranger indicated. "That letter I've just given you will identify you when you meet Barrows. I'll send him an account of what you did for me and he'll find some work for you, never fear. General Hathorn will start you off in proper style and see that you have everything you need. Au revoir — and good luck to you!"
He sat staring thoughtfully at the door for some moments after it had closed behind his Chief-in-Staff and erstwhile prisoner.
"Now who," he repeated, tugging at his heavy moustache, "who the deuce is that man?"
Chapter XI
One Against An Army
THROUGH the early morning hours of the twelfth of March, the Prussians of von Erlen's 2nd division wait, crouching in their shallow, hastily thrown-up trenches, straining their eyes towards the east. A little after half-past three, a crimson star appears against the velvet blackness of the sky. It enlarges rapidly until the red glare lights up the whole eastern heavens and as suddenly dies away again. But even before the signal has vanished, from hundreds of powerful reflectors broad rivers of brilliant light pour over the plain. In the dazzling brightness, the waiting infantrymen can see a dark line rolling towards them like an all-engulfing wave, and from wing to wing the shrill whistle signals wake the trenches into life. With a stunning roar the artillery opens and the great shells scream eastward and burst in splashes of leaping light in the midst of the oncoming flood. In front of the trenches runs a tangled line of barbed wire, heavily charged with electricity, and as the advancing wave rolls over it, blue flashes shoot up into the night sky and the smell of burning flesh mingles with the acrid odour of the powerful explosives. Now the crash of volleys and the rattle of machine-guns join with the deeper note of the artillery. Can anything of flesh and blood live through that hail of death? Yes, for the wave still rolls onward and, as the whistles of the officers shrill again, von Erlen's men lock their long knife-like bayonets to the hot muzzles of their rifles.
Lashed by the storm of steel and lead, blinded by the powerful searchlights, with eyes bloodshot and lips flecked with foam, the yellow men hurl themselves against the steady grey-green line. Uniforms take fire from the point-blank flashes of rifles and pistols. There are laboured gaspings and the groaning of belts straining over taut muscles and a nasty sound of chopping and stabbing. The brown paint on swords and bayonets reddens and peels back as the steel is driven home. Officers snatch rifles from the nerveless, loosening fingers of the dying and send the butts crashing into the faces of their foes. The wounded with agonised screams catch at the trampling feet that grind them into the ground, or throw out helpless hands, vainly trying to ward off the mass of battling men that surges over them and crushes them into silence. Others with lesser hurts wait grimly, clutching sword or rifle. The form of an enemy stumbles on the prostrate body and suddenly pitches forward with a gurgling grunt as the steel stabs swiftly upward. Humanity passes away in that crazing chaos and demons with spouting gashes struggle desperately and then crumple into horrible heaps as life flows out with the crimson tide.
And for the rest, blind hurry and turmoil — gaping mouths, wild eyes, grimacing features streaming with sweat — reelings to and fro — blows struck at random falling on insane figures insensible to pain. No time for thought as to who wins or loses. Strike at your enemy with bayonet or butt. Hurl your empty pistol at his savage face and as his steel slices into your body, grapple with him and drag him down in your fall for the avenging weapon of your comrade.
But now the pressure weakens. In broken masses, like a spent wave, the yellow flood sweeps back across the plain and von Erlen's panting soldiers lean heavily on their smoking weapons or throw themselves on the ground to draw breath for the next attack.
Three times the tide rolls forward before the sun rises over the battlefield, and three times the men of the 20th corps send it surging back again. And all the while the river of wounded flows rearward and the slender stream of reserves trickles forward to fill the gaps in the fighting line.
As morning brightens into noonday, the Japanese bring up more guns. Time is passing swiftly and they must pound the Federation forces into silence before help can reach them. So the great shells shriek through the tortured air and burst in the trenches, burying dead and dying under mounds of earth. And the artillery of the Police replies until the whole world rocks in welter of stunning sound. The trenches grow slimy with blood and the boots of the soldiers slip as they aim. And still the river of wounded flows to the rear and the thin stream of reserves trickles forward to take their places.
Overhead the long war dirigibles manoeuvre clumsily and dart bright flashes against the brilliant rays of the sun. And as the machine-gun bullets rattle like hail on their armoured sides, bloody rain falls horribly on the unconscious combatants below. Slim shells from antiaircraft guns scream all about the long hulls and suddenly a pointed gas-bag buckles in the middle and vanishes in a shattering explosion, and the flaming debr
is hiss downward to the battlefield. In vain the Japanese ships form and advance their sharp rams to the attack. The straight-shooting guns of the Police aircraft tear hulls from supporting gas-bags above, and Police air scouts, circling upward in graceful spirals, dart down deadly kellinite bombs, and hundreds of feet in air, turn savagely and give battle to the 'planes of the enemy flying hastily to intercept them.
Day fades out in darkness. Again the brilliant electric arcs pour their rivers of light over the corpse- strewn plain. But the enemy have had enough and wait sullenly the coming of reinforcements which will enable them to overwhelm that slender, desperate line with the weight of three times the number opposed to them.
All night long the artillery roars and in the pauses of the firing, the exhausted soldiers of von Erlen, crazed with fatigue and lack of sleep, can hear distant and low, but menacing as the note of doom, the dull rumble of the troop trains bringing up the men who on the morrow will sweep them from the earth. And all night long the bearers of the hospital corps move about like shadowy ghosts and the river of wounded, shrunken somewhat in volume but just as steadily as before, still flows rearward. But there are none left now to come forward and fill the gaps in the fighting line.
So the night wears on and when the blackness begins to turn to grey, the wearied infantrymen look at one another with heavy eyes which say, "This is the end."
But hark! Is not the Japanese fire slackening? On the right it dies away into silence and spreading along the battle front, gun after gun becomes mute. And as the light grows stronger, the dark masses of the enemy seem to recede until the plain grows empty and bare except for the silent forms stretched motionless in death. But when two hours later a little group of panting cavalrymen, the advance guard of the 9th corps, ride in from the south on reeking, foaming horses, no cheers are raised to greet them. For prone in the trenches they have defended so well, von Erlen's Prussians lie in a sleep so profound that it is well-nigh impossible to distinguish the living from the dead.
After leaving the quarters of General St. John, General Hathorn and his mysterious companion entered a waiting staff automobile and were driven rapidly eastward until they reached the row of temporary steel sheds which housed the aviation corps. Here the General led the way into a brightly lighted room, where a smart-looking non-commissioned officer rose saluting to his feet, and at Hathorn's brief inquiry for "Lieutenant French," disappeared into an inner apartment, whence issued presently a cleanly-built young officer whose disordered uniform bore witness to the fact that he had been snatching a few moments of much-needed sleep.
As Hathorn concisely outlined the object of his visit, the Lieutenant's eyes brightened with interest, and when the General ended, he could not restrain a low whistle of appreciation.
But he merely answered respectfully, "Very well, sir. You wish us to start at once?"
"Yes. You won't have any too much time before daylight. Have you all the necessary apparatus?"
"Everything, sir," returned the Lieutenant with a short laugh as he struggled into his leathern garments. "Our junk shop's very complete. Now, sir, if you're ready —"
Hathorn shook the stranger's hand warmly and turned away as Lieutenant French opened a door leading into the dim sheds which sheltered the air fleet. With the stranger following close behind him, the aviator walked rapidly through the echoing interiors until at the further end of the long row of buildings, he switched an arc-light into sputtering life, revealing a wide-winged, slate-coloured aeroplane bearing a black number 5 on its dull paint.
At that moment a sergeant appeared, carrying a metal box, the contents of which the Lieutenant examined with close attention and then mounted to his place on the machine, motioning the stranger to the seat beside him. The soldier swung back the big doors and the aeroplane glided smoothly out into the night with a subdued hum of well-oiled machinery. When clear of the shed, the aviator tugged at a lever and the huge man-made bird, sliding upward in graceful spirals towards the star-gemmed sky, headed towards the north.
In silence they raced onward. The Lieutenant watched the solemn stars and mentally visualised a map of the countryside unrolling darkly beneath them, while the stranger remained buried in thought and as he pondered, his face grew hard and grim under its thick mask of hair. Presently they turned eastward and when at length the dim shapes of the mountains lifted against the lighter blackness of the sky, the aeroplane circled slowly downward and finally came to rest in a marshy plain bordered by dense woodland.
"You understand how this stuff7 works?" asked French in a low tone, for the air of early dawn was very still, as he handed his passenger the metal box.
"I've used it before. If your batteries are all right, I'm not worrying about the results."
"They're new Krieders — could turn over my 'plane engine here, if I wanted them to."
"That's more than I'll need. Well — I guess the only thing left to say is good-bye."
"Say au revoir, rather. I hope we'll meet again before this war is over."
"Thank you, Lieutenant. I hope so too. Well, good luck to you!"
"I should be the one to wish you that," returned the young aviator as the propeller blades commenced to revolve. "I say, you know — I — I'd give anything to see this through with you."
"Don't let that worry you. You'll have plenty of opportunity to get killed before the Police leave Manchuria, — but I must say, I'd like your company."
It is doubtful whether Lieutenant French caught the last words, for he was already high above the ground, but he waved his hand encouragingly and soon he and his machine were nothing more than a vague blot in the uncertain light of early morning. The stranger watched the diminishing aeroplane with a curious, wistful expression, but at length rousing himself with a short sigh, set out resolutely towards the south.
All morning he travelled steadily, skirting wide marshlands and pushing through dense, jungle-like forest, without seeming to feel fatigue or want of sleep in spite of the wakeful night he had passed. But as the afternoon wore on, he advanced more cautiously, keeping a wary eye on the watch for chance cavalry patrols, though the nature of the country he was traversing rendered such a precaution almost unnecessary. From time to time he stopped, straining his ears for some expected sound, and at length in one of his pauses he heard far off the laboured puffing of a locomotive, struggling with a steep grade or heavy load. For a few moments he stood listening, as if to assure himself that he was not deceived by the throbbing of an overheated brain, but satisfied at length that he suffered from no delusion, he plunged deeper into the jungle and impatiently awaited the coming of darkness.
When the twilight deepened into night, he emerged from his hiding-place and moving slowly and with every sense on the alert, at the end of two hours reached the embankment of the railroad where it curved around a hill of white marble before plunging under the range through the black portal of a tunnel. Soon his listening ears caught the dull rumble of an approaching train and, sliding hastily down the bank, he crouched low to avoid the brilliance of the powerful electric headlight.
The train was a very heavy one — long strings of steel-framed flat cars which had borne the guns of the artillery, endless rows of empty trucks which had carried westward soldiers or ammunition and supplies, at the rear a dozen box cars filled with wounded on their way to the base hospital. One by one the cars were swallowed up in the mouth of the tunnel and as the last one vanished from sight, the soldiers of the tunnel guard resumed their stations and weariedly took up again their tiresome vigil. They had not seen, as the train rolled by them, the figure of a fur-clad man, clinging at the risk of his life to the brake-rigging of one of the middlemost trucks. Possibly if they had it would have awakened no more than a passing interest, for the country was filled with the riff-raff that always follow in the wake of great armies, and at all events the train would be searched at the next stopping-place for possible spies. But when it again emerged into the starlit night from the eastern entrance of
the tunnel, the place which the man had occupied was vacant.
He had slipped cleverly from between the trucks as they approached the centre of the long bore, and now stands breathing with difficulty in the smoke and vapour-choked interior of the tunnel. But the smoke and vapour are necessary accomplices and serve to shroud the thin pencil of light his electric lantern darts along the rocky walls. Ah! He bends forward, and in the shallow fissure his lantern has revealed, close above the rock-ballasted roadbed, he slips a pointed brass cartridge. To the two poles in the blunt end, he attaches slender wires which he rapidly unwinds from their reel as he hurries towards the eastern portal. Suddenly he stops and throws himself prone between the rails. A bright spark gleams in the thinning smoke as two bright-scraped wire-ends touch. Then the immovable mountain rocks to a shattering roar that seems to wrench it from its everlasting foundations. A throat- gripping, acrid vapour fills the heavy air, mingled with the dust of powdered limestone. Small, jagged rocks rain on the ringing rails and then all other sound is drowned in the deep rumble of huge masses as the bowels of the mountain are torn violently asunder.
As the noise dies away, the stranger rises to his knees and listens. Shouts echo between the tunnel walls and footsteps crunch the close-packed rock of the roadbed. The stranger scrambles to his feet, pauses an instant to whip his long-barrelled pistol from its holster, and starts on a run for the rapidly increasing sounds. A vague shape shows dimly in the dust and vapour before him. A bright flash from his pistol cuts the thick air and something drops to the ground with a groan and thud as he races onward. Again his weapon flashes and this time there is an answering flash and a sudden wind stirs the hair on his temple. A brown bayonet stabs at him uncertainly and rings on the rail as the soldier reels backward under a powerful blow from his clenched fist. He is past them now and running like the wind for the tunnel mouth while behind him, streaks of quick flame tear the blackness and the steel- jacketed bullets whistle through the air and glance from the rocks under his feet. He feels the cool night air on his face and sees the stars above him and turning to the right, plunges boldly into the impenetrable forest. And when at length his wearied limbs can carry him no further, he is many miles from his enemies.