Baron sat up sharply. Vigers laughed and brought his hand down on Baron’s knee. “You need not worry about that, Dicky,” he cried. “Suicide has never been in my line. That has always seemed to me such an unintelligent way out of a mess. And wasteful too. If there were a good war going now, that would be a different matter. One could go west and feel that one was doing some good by it.”
Baron looked up miserably. “What are we going to do about all this, Roger?” he said.
Vigers shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “I don’t know, Dicky,” he said at last. Then he glanced at his wrist watch and sat up briskly. “Meanwhile we will go to bed. It is long past the hour when youngsters like you and me should be asleep.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I
BARON and Pagan stood in the south transept of the great cathedral. They had gone there to see the famous astronomical clock of Strasbourg strike the hour. But they were not the only visitors who were there for that purpose. At least three hundred people were assembled in the dim prismatic light that filtered through the traceried, stained-glass windows. The throng was congested five deep against the north wall of the transept facing the clock, and whenever the front rank, under pressure from behind, attempted to gain a little more elbow room, it was unceremoniously pushed back by the tall cassocked verger patrolling in front, who performed his duties as efficiently if not as tactfully and good-naturedly as a London policeman.
“I’m fed up with this,” growled Pagan whose chest was tightly wedged against the knobbly rucksack on the back of the German holiday tramper in front of him. “And if that cove in the cassock comes and leans on me again I shall kick him in the stomach.”
“Still another ten minutes to go,” sighed Baron.
“Yes, but I’m not going to wait,” said Pagan. “I vote we clear out and go up the tower.”
“But we have been up there already,” objected Baron.
“Only up to the platform,” retorted Pagan. “I want to go to the top of the spire.”
Baron groaned. “Something like a thousand steps, aren’t there?”
“You stay and see the pretty clock strike,” grinned Pagan. “I will see you later.”
“Right ’o—much later,” agreed Baron. “After this I am going to buy some toys for my kiddie nephews.”
Pagan pushed his way out of the crowd, nodded cheerfully to the scowling verger, and passed out of the transept door into the sunlight. He walked along the pavement to the great west front and bought the necessary ticket at the little doorway at the foot of the south tower. Then the long climb began. The stone staircase, built in the thickness of the wall, wound round and round in semi-darkness except when an occasional narrow window gave him a momentary glimpse of narrow streets and roof tops far below. It was a long and weary climb up the three hundred and fifty odd steps, but at last he reached the top and emerged upon the great platform above the western front.
This was a stone-paved open space, some thirty yards long by fifteen yards broad, a miniature square poised over two hundred feet above the street level. It stretched across the top of the unfinished southern tower and the great west door and rose window. At one end of the platform was a one-storey house in which lived a caretaker and his family, and in which the complicated mechanism which worked the chimes was housed. There was also the caretaker’s little garden and a shop which sold picture postcards and souvenirs. A high stone balustrade surrounded the platform, and from it Pagan looked down upon the tree-bordered river and picturesque Alsatian gables far below.
At the other end of the platform, above the northern tower, rose the steeple, a lofty open, lace-like stone tower, surmounted by an octagonal spire of stone filigree, ending in a rose and pinnacle four hundred and seventy feet above the pavement.
Pagan began the second part of the ascent. The steps wound up around a central column within one of the four open stonework turrets, and so delicate and fine was the filigree tracery of this turret that the staircase seemed to be poised almost unsupported in the air. And as Pagan toiled upwards round and round the giddy stairs he looked now into the long cylindrical interior of the tower, lighted by its eight long, narrow, unglazed windows and now out across the toy-like roofs of Strasbourg to the green open country beyond.
At the top of the tower a narrow balustraded gallery ran round the foot of the tapering spire. Pagan walked slowly round it, pausing a moment on each of the four little spaces above the turrets to enjoy the view, before beginning the final ascent. This took him up eight spiral staircases within the rich open carving of the spire and brought him at last to a narrow space called the lantern, which was barely big enough to hold three people. And there were two people there already. A plump, bare-headed man of German appearance and Clare.
She stood on the other side of the German, furthest from the steps, leaning upon the weather worn stone balustrade. She wore a close fitting little hat, and the red rose which she had bought at the cabaret was pinned on her breast. Her eyes met Pagan’s and she gave him a wistful little smile as though it were the most natural coincidence in the world that they should meet up there nearly five hundred feet above the city. The broad chest of the German leant upon the balustrade between them.
“I left Cecil downstairs examining the machinery which works the chimes,” she said at last. “He was too lazy to climb up here.”
Pagan nodded his head. “Magnificent view,” he said banally after a pause.
The German spoke English and was anxious to display his knowledge. With a long sweep of his pudgy hand he traced for them the course of the Rhine and the long range of the Black Forest behind, and pointed out the high peak of the Feldberg. He showed them the double row of poplars that marked the canal that joins the Rhône and the Rhine, and he named the chief peaks visible in the purple line of the Vosges. They should visit the Vosges, he said. They told him they had done so. He pointed out to them the distant towers of the castle of the Haut-Koenigsburg on its wooded bastion, and told them with much detail the story of its restoration by the ex-Kaiser of Germany. But at last he stopped. He shook hands with both of them, squeezed past Pagan, and disappeared down the steps.
Pagan moved up a little and stood beside Clare. Their arms touched lightly as they rested side by side on the stone balustrade. Neither spoke. A strong wind blew in their faces; beneath them the city and the surrounding country lay spread like a map, but so remote were the tiny crawling specks in the tape-like streets below that they might have been alone in the world.
“When—do you go back?” she asked at last in a low voice.
“To-morrow.”
She did not look at him. She gazed out towards the distant purple line of the Black Forest. “Then—this is good-bye.”
He nodded. They stood in silence for some time, and then she murmured, “I must go.”
She took a little handkerchief from her bag, but the wind tore it from her hand and wrapped it round a projecting piece of carving on the stone filigree beside her. Pagan rescued it, but during the few moments that he reached out across the balustrade and unwrapped it from its perch, his body was pressed close to hers. He was shaken by the warm contact. As he slowly straightened himself, their eyes met. In hers there was a half frightened expression.
He looked down at the morsel of silk in his hand. He raised his eyes to hers pleadingly. “May I keep it?” he asked in a low voice.
She looked at him with a sad wistful little smile. “Is it wise, Charles, dear?” she asked gently.
He gave a helpless little shrug of his shoulders. She took the handkerchief from him gently, and then suddenly unpinned the rose from her breast. She held it out to him with a sad smile. “Good-bye, dear Charles,” she murmured.
He held the rose between his fingers. “Good-bye.”
They gazed mutely at one another for a moment, and then she turned quickly and went down the steps. He did not attempt to follow.
II
Baron was buying a few little presents to b
ring back to his two small nephews. He and Vigers were dawdling at the shops and stalls under the old colonnade that ran down one side of the corn market. The hot afternoon sun beat down upon the pavé roadway, and seen from the shady arcade, the old lime-washed houses on the opposite side of the street formed dazzling panels of light framed by the dark arches of the colonnade.
They wandered slowly along the cool and shady pavement, stopping now and then at a stall or old bow-fronted shop window to debate the competitive claims upon nephewly fancy of such attractions as a jointed wooden serpent that wriggled as though alive and lead replicas of Napoleon’s Old Guard complete with the Emperor himself, bear-skins, band and colour party.
They made their purchases at last and emerged from the shady colonnade into the sunlit square. They sauntered slowly along the hot pavement and came finally to rest at a café near one corner of the square where a short narrow street led out to one of the main roads beyond.
“Too hot to tramp about, anyway,” said Vigers as he dropped into one of the chairs in the shade of the awning. Baron placed his hat at a rakish angle on top of the shrub in the green tub beside him. “Too hot to do anything except loaf,” he commented.
The square was almost deserted; it seemed to doze in the heat. Two small dilapidated stalls, gay with flowers, stood near the statue in the middle, and the two old market women who owned them dozed on their orange boxes side by side. The only movement was provided by three gendarmes who were holding a very animated conversation among themselves and continually turned their heads to dart glances round the square.
“Trade not very brisk this afternoon,” murmured Vigers.
Baron edged round his chair so that his foot came within the shadow of the awning. “No,” he grunted. “Perhaps that’s what the local sleuths are arguing about—which shall keep cave while the other two come in and have a quick one.”
Indeed the half-dozen tables on the pavement outside the café were deserted except for themselves, and there appeared to be nobody indoors either. The little patron himself came out frequently on to the pavement, looked up and down the square and at the gesticulating gendarmes, and then disappeared into the gloom inside again.
“Is he looking for more custom or is that a gentle hint for us to finish this up and have another?” asked Baron as he followed with his eyes the patron’s fourth disappearance into the dark interior.
Vigers pulled out his pipe and grunted. “Perhaps he is trying to keep his fat down,” he suggested.
A youth on a bicycle with low-dropped handlebars pedalled hastily and erratically up the short narrow street that led out of the square. He dropped his cycle with a clatter on the pavé outside the café and disappeared inside. A moment later he was out again and pedalling erratically across the square. He shouted something to the gendarmes who turned to look at him as he passed and then broke into an argument more animated than ever.
The little patron appeared on the pavement. He carried a pole with a hook at the end. With it he proceeded to pull down the wooden roller shutters that protected the café at night.
“Hullo!” exclaimed Baron. “What’s up! Early closing day or something?”
The little patron answered, still heaving on the blind. There was some political trouble, he explained between gasps and heaves. It might come to nothing, but one never knew. Troops had been sent for, but if they did not arrive soon, before the mob got into the square, there might be some nasty incidents; and he was not taking any chances. The shutter dropped into its socket with a bang, and the little patron and his pole disappeared quickly through a side door.
Vigers looked at Baron. Baron grimaced. “Another little rumpus,” he said. “Charles and I ran across one in Colmar. Nothing to worry about. Half a dozen troopers and it was all over in a couple of minutes.”
Vigers nodded and glanced round the square. “All the same,” he said, “if they got into this square and barricaded the side streets, it would take a lot of shooting to get them out of it.”
The sound of a horse’s hoofs came from the far end of the square and a moment later a trumpeter in service blue emerged from a side street and clattered across the square to pull up beside the gendarmes. They all talked animatedly for a moment, and then he turned his horse and trotted back the way he had come.
Baron noticed that the square was now quite deserted and that several of the shops and cafés had their shutters down. The two market women had disappeared, though their shabby stalls, bright flowers and empty orange boxes still stood out there in the sunshine. The little street that led from the square was deserted too; but from it came a vague murmur.
Baron turned his head to listen, and he looked at Vigers. Vigers nodded his head and put away his pipe. “Troops will be too late in another five minutes,” he said.
Suddenly the lingerie display in the shop window that faced them at the far end of the little street leading from the square, was blotted out. The whole end of the narrow street was blocked from pavement to pavement by a solid wall of humanity.
Baron jumped up. “We had better make ourselves scarce, old Roger,” he cried, “or we shall get caught between the troops and the mob.”
A mounted officer had clattered in at the far end of the square, but he was alone. The mob was advancing slowly up the street. It made no sound except the rumbling thud of its feet upon the pavé. The gendarmes separated. They flung themselves prone on the hot pavement outside a deserted café and took cover behind some overturned iron tables. They held pistols in their hands.
Baron glanced anxiously behind him and edged towards the side door through which the little patron had disappeared. “The poilus will be too late,” he jerked out. “There will be a pitched battle in this square in another ten minutes; some of those fellows have rifles. If only the gendarmes could hold them up for a few minutes it might save the situation and prevent a devil of a lot of bloodshed. But they can’t.” He turned quickly towards the open shop next door. “Come on, Roger; let’s get in here out of it.”
Vigers did not move. His keen blue eyes swept round the square. He glanced at the mounted officer and at the still empty street from which he had come, and then he looked back at the advancing mob.
He touched Baron’s arm. “Tell Charles Pagan to be good to Clare,” he cried inexplicably. Then he shouted to the gendarmes, to hold their fire for a few minutes.
He broke into a run, and a moment later was at the head of the street facing the mob. He halted, and Baron saw his hand go to his face and come quickly away. Something fell upon the road and lay there gleaming whitely in the sunshine. It was the mask.
A rumbling murmur broke from the advancing mob. Its leading ranks were violently agitated, like an advancing wave checked by another one flung back from a breakwater. It swayed irregularly along its front, ebbing and flowing with the impetus from behind, but it no longer advanced as a body. The seconds ticked by; the sunshine beat down upon the deserted square. In some belfry a clock leisurely climed the half-hour. Alone in the sunshine in the middle of the street, Vigers’ tall form began to advance slowly and silently towards the mob; and the mob, a seething mass of bobbing heads and struggling bodies, contracted before him.
How long that strange tableau lasted, Baron never knew. In that dumbfounded state of coma into which he had been thrown, time had no meaning for him. But the end came suddenly. Half a dozen shots reverberated deafeningly between the high buildings, two almost simultaneously, the others in a straggling fusillade. Vigers swayed. He stood stock still for a moment, drawn to his full height: then his legs crumpled beneath him, and he dropped in a heap upon the road.
Baron came out of his trance; he broke into a run He was aware that a light tank was rattling swiftly over the pavé behind him. A troop of horse had filed from a side street and was moving in line across the square He reached the crumpled form and dropped beside it. The tank was almost upon him. He sat up on one knee and waved his arms furiously to one side; and the tank turned and swung by with
in a foot of him.
As he bent again over the crumpled form he was conscious that the mob was ebbing in the street like water through a perforated jar. He hooked his arms beneath the doubled figure and dragged the head and shoulders back on to his knee. Then he lowered it gently and rose slowly to his feet. Captain Roger Vigers, V. C., was dead.
THE END
THE LIFE OF WALTER FREDERICK MORRIS
by
David Morris
WALTER Frederick Morris was born on the 31st May 1892 in Norwich. He attended Norwich Grammar School and later went to Saint Catharine’s College, Cambridge where he read History. On graduating in 1914, he was due to take up a post with the colonial office in British East Africa, but instead enlisted in the ranks.
That year he was posted to France with the 8th Battalion of the Norfolk Regiment as an infantryman, but was quickly commissioned as a temporary officer. By the end of the war he had been mentioned in despatches, awarded the Military Cross and risen to the rank of Major, commanding the Cycle Battalion of the XIII Army Corps.
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