Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  As the man shrank on his crutches, looking up, the aëroplane swept past overhead — a wounded, wavering, unsteady, unbalanced thing, its right aileron dangling, half stripped, and almost mangled to a skeleton.

  Already it was slanting lower toward the forest like a hard-hit duck, wing-crippled, fighting desperately for flight-power to the very end. Then the inland mist engulfed it.

  And after it hobbled Wayland, painfully, two brace of dead ducks and his slung fowling piece bobbing on his back, his rubber-shod crutches groping and probing among drenched rocks and gullies full of kelp, his left leg in splints hanging heavily.

  He could not go fast; he could not go very far. Further inland, foggy gorse gave place to broom and blighted bracken, all wet, sagging with rain. Then he crossed a swale of brown reeds and tussock set with little pools of water, opaque and grey in the rain.

  Where the outer moors narrowed he turned westward; then a strip of low, thorn-clad cliff confronted him, up which he toiled along a V-shaped cleft choked with ferns.

  The spectral forest of Läis lay just beyond, its wind-tortured branches tossing under a leaden sky.

  East and west lonely moors stretched away into the depths of the mist; southward spread the sea; to the north lay the wide woods of Läis, equally deserted now in this sad and empty land.

  He hobbled to the edge of the forest and stood knee deep in discoloured ferns, listening. The sombre beech-woods spread thick on either hand, a wilderness of crossed limbs and meshed branches to which still clung great clots of dull brown leaves.

  He listened, peering into sinister, grey depths. In the uncertain light nothing stirred except the clashing branches overhead; there was no sound except the wind’s flowing roar and the ghostly noise of his own voice, hallooing through the solitude — a voice in the misty void that seemed to carry less sound than the straining cry of a sleeper in his dreams.

  If the aëroplane had landed, there was no sign here. How far had it struggled on, sheering the tree-tops, before it fell? — if indeed it had fallen somewhere in the wood’s grey depths?

  As long as he had sufficient strength he prowled along the forest, entering it here and there, calling, listening, searching the foggy corridors of trees. The rotting brake crackled underfoot; the tree tops clashed and creaked above him.

  At last, having only enough strength left to take him home, he turned away, limping through the blotched and broken ferns, his crippled leg hanging stiffly in its splints, his gun and the dead ducks bobbing on his back.

  The trodden way was soggy with little pools full of drenched grasses and dead leaves; but at length came rising ground, and the blue-green, glimmering wastes of gorse stretching away before him through the curtained fog.

  A sheep path ran through; and after a little while a few trees loomed shadowy in the mist, and a low stone house took shape, whitewashed, flanked by barn, pigpen, and a stack of rotting seaweed.

  A few wet hens wandered aimlessly by the doorstep; a tiny bed of white clove-pinks and tall white phlox exhaled a homely welcome as the lame man hobbled up the steps, pulled the leather latchstring, and entered.

  In the kitchen an old Breton woman, chopping herbs, looked up at him out of aged eyes, shaking her head under its white coiffe.

  “It is nearly noon,” she said. “You have been out since dawn. Was it wise, for a convalescent, Monsieur Jacques?”

  “Very wise, Marie-Josephine. Because the more exercise I take the sooner I shall be able to go back.”

  “It is too soon to go out in such weather.”

  “Ducks fly inland only in such weather,” he retorted, smiling. “And we like roast widgeon, you and I, Marie-Josephine.”

  And all the while her aged blue eyes were fixed on him, and over her withered cheeks the soft bloom came and faded — that pretty colour which Breton women usually retain until the end.

  “Thou knowest, Monsieur Jacques,” she said, with a curiously quaint mingling of familiarity and respect, “that I do not counsel caution because I love thee and dread for thee again the trenches. But with thy leg hanging there like the broken wing of a vanneau — —”

  He replied good humouredly:

  “Thou dost not know the Legion, Marie-Josephine. Every day in our trenches we break a comrade into pieces and glue him together again, just to make him tougher. Broken bones, once mended, are stronger than before.”

  He was looking down at her where she sat by the hearth, slicing vegetables and herbs, but watching him all the while out of her lovely, faded eyes.

  “I understand, Monsieur Jacques, that you are like your father — God knows he was hardy and without fear — to the last” — she dropped her head— “Mary, glorious — intercede—” she muttered over her bowl of herbs.

  Wayland, resting on his crutches, unslung his ducks, laid them on the table, smoothed their beautiful heads and breasts, then slipped the soaking bandoulière of his gun from his shoulder and placed the dripping piece against the chimney corner.

  “After I have scrubbed myself,” he said, “and have put on dry clothes, I shall come to luncheon; and I shall have something very strange to tell you, Marie-Josephine.”

  He limped away into one of the two remaining rooms — the other was hers — and closed his door.

  Marie-Josephine continued to prepare the soup. There was an egg for him, too; and a slice of cold pork and a brioche and a jug of cider.

  In his room Wayland was whistling “Tipperary.”

  Now and again, pausing in her work, she turned her eyes to his closed door — wonderful eyes that became miracles of tenderness as she listened.

  He came out, presently, dressed in his odd, ill-fitting uniform of the Legion, tunic unbuttoned, collarless of shirt, his bright, thick hair, now of decent length, in boyish disorder.

  Delicious odours of soup and of Breton cider greeted him; he seated himself; Marie-Josephine waited on him, hovered over him, tucked a sack of feathers under his maimed leg, placed his crutches in the corner beside the gun.

  Still eating, leisurely, he began:

  “Marie-Josephine — a strange thing has happened on Quesnel Moors which troubles me.... Listen attentively. It was while waiting for ducks on the Eryx Rocks, that once I thought I heard through the roar of wind and sea the sound of a far cannonading. But I said to myself that it was only the imagination of a haunted mind; that in my ears still thundered the cannonade of Lens.”

  “Was it nevertheless true?” She had turned around from the fire where her own soup simmered in the kettle. As she spoke again she rose and came to the table.

  He said: “It must have been cannon that I heard. Because, not long afterward, out of the fog came a great aëroplane rushing inland from the sea — flying swiftly above me — right over me! — and staggering like a wounded duck — it had one aileron broken — and sheered away into the fog, northward, Marie-Josephine.”

  Her work-worn hands, tightly clenched, rested now on the table and she leaned there, looking down at him.

  “Was it an enemy — this airship, Jacques?”

  “In the mist flying and the ragged clouds I could not tell. It might have been English. It must have been, I think — coming as it came from the sea. But I am troubled, Marie-Josephine. Were the guns at sea an enemy’s guns? Did the aëroplane come to earth in safety? Where? In the Forest of Laïs? I found no trace of it.”

  She said, tremulous perhaps from standing too long motionless and intent:

  “Is it possible that the Boches would come into these solitary moors, where there are no people any more, only the creatures of the Laïs woods, and the curlew and the lapwings which pass at evening?”

  He ate thoughtfully and in silence for a while; then:

  “They go, usually — the Boches — where there is plunder — murder to be done.... Spying to be done.... God knows what purpose animates the Huns.... After all, Lorient is not so far away.... Yet it surely must have been an English aëroplane, beaten off by some enemy ship — a submarine pe
rhaps. God send that the rocks of the Isle des Chouans take care of her — with their teeth!”

  He drank his cider — a sip or two only — then, setting aside the glass:

  “I went from the Rocks of Eryx to Laïs Woods. I called as loudly as I could; the wind whirled my voice back into my throat.... I am not yet very strong....

  “Then I went into the wood as far as my strength permitted. I heard and saw nothing, Marie-Josephine.”

  “Would they be dead?” she asked.

  “They were planing to earth. I don’t know how much control they had, whether they could steer — choose a landing place. There are plenty of safe places on these moors.”

  “If their airship is crippled, what can they do, these English flying men, out there on the moors in the rain and wind? When the coast guard passes we must tell him.”

  “After lunch I shall go out again as far as my strength allows.... If the rain would cease and the mist lift, one might see something — be of some use, perhaps — —”

  “Ought you to go, Monsieur Jacques?”

  “Could I fail to try to find them — Englishmen — and perhaps injured? Surely I should go, Marie-Josephine.”

  “The coast guard — —”

  “He passed the Eryx Rocks at daylight. He is at Sainte-Ylva now. Tonight, when I see his comrade’s lantern, I shall stop him and report. But in the meanwhile I must go out and search.”

  “Spare thyself — for the trenches, Jacques. Remain indoors today.” She began to unpin the coiffe which she always wore ceremoniously at meals when he was present.

  He smiled: “Thou knowest I must go, Marie-Josephine.”

  “And if thou come upon them in the forest and they are Huns?”

  He laughed: “They are English, I tell thee, Marie-Josephine!”

  She nodded; under her breath, staring at the rain-lashed window: “Like thy father, thou must go forth,” she muttered; “go always where thy spirit calls. And once he went. And came no more. And God help us all in Finistère, where all are born to grief.”

  CHAPTER VII

  THE AIRMAN

  She had seated herself on a stool by the hearth. Presently she spread her apron with trembling fingers, took the glazed bowl of soup upon her lap and began to eat, slowly, casting long, unquiet glances at him from time to time where he still at table leaned heavily, looking out into the rain.

  When he caught her eye he smiled, summoning her with a nod of his boyish head. She set aside her bowl obediently, and, rising, brought him his crutches. And at the same moment somebody knocked lightly on the outer door.

  Marie-Josephine had unpinned her coiffe. Now she pinned it on over her bonnet before going to the door, glancing uneasily around at him while she tied her tresses and settled the delicate starched wings of her bonnet.

  “That’s odd,” he said, “that knocking,” staring at the door. “Perhaps it is the lost Englishman.”

  “God send them,” she whispered, going to the door and opening it.

  It certainly seemed to be one of the lost Englishmen — a big, square-shouldered, blond young fellow, tall and powerful, in the leather dress of an aëronaut. His glass mask was lifted like the visor of a tilting helmet, disclosing a red, weather-beaten face, wet with rain. Strength, youth, rugged health was their first impression of this leather-clad man from the clouds.

  He stepped inside the house immediately, halted when he caught sight of Wayland in his undress uniform, glanced involuntarily at his crutches and bandaged leg, cast a quick, penetrating glance right and left; then he spoke pleasantly in his hesitating, imperfect French — so oddly imperfect that Wayland could not understand him at all.

  “Who are you?” he demanded in English.

  The airman seemed astonished for an instant, then a quick smile broke out on his ruddy features:

  “I say, this is lucky! Fancy finding an Englishman here! — wherever this place may be.” He laughed. “Of course I know I’m ‘somewhere in France,’ as the censor has it, but I’m hanged if I know where!”

  “Come in and shut the door,” said Wayland, reassured. Marie-Josephine closed the door. The aëronaut came forward, stood dripping a moment, then took the chair to which Wayland pointed, seating himself as though a trifle tired.

  “Shot down,” he explained, gaily. “An enemy submarine winged us out yonder somewhere. I tramped over these bally moors for hours before I found a sign of any path. A sheepwalk brought me here.”

  “You are lucky. There is only one house on these moors — this! Who are you?” asked Wayland.

  “West — flight-lieutenant, 10th division, Cinque-Ports patrolling squadron.”

  “Good heavens, man! What are you doing in Finistère?”

  “What!”

  “You are in Brittany, province of Finistère. Didn’t you know it?”

  The air-officer seemed astounded. Presently he said: “The dirty weather foxed us. Then that fellow out yonder winged us. I was glad enough to see a coast line.”

  “Did you fall?”

  “No; we controlled our landing pretty well.”

  “Where did you land?”

  There was a second’s hesitation; the airman looked at Wayland, glanced at his crippled leg.

  “Out there near some woods,” he said. “My pilot’s there now trying to patch up.... You are not French, are you?”

  “American.”

  “Oh! A — volunteer, I presume.”

  “Foreign Legion — 2d.”

  “I see. Back from the trenches with a leg.”

  “It’s nearly well. I’ll be back soon.”

  “Can you walk?” asked the airman so abruptly that Wayland, looking at him, hesitated, he did not quite know why.

  “Not very far,” he replied, cautiously. “I can get to the window with my crutches pretty well.”

  And the next moment he felt ashamed of his caution when the airman laughed frankly.

  “I need a guide to some petrol,” he said. “Evidently you can’t go with me.”

  “Haven’t you enough petrol to take you to Lorient?”

  “How far is Lorient?”

  Wayland told him.

  “I don’t know,” said the flight-lieutenant; “I’ll have to try to get somewhere. I suppose it is useless for me to ask,” he added, “but have you, by any chance, a bit of canvas — an old sail or hammock? — I don’t need much. That’s what I came for — and some shellac and wire, and a screwdriver of sorts? We need patching as well as petrol; and we’re a little short of supplies.”

  Wayland’s steady gaze never left him, but his smile was friendly.

  “We’re in a tearing hurry, too,” added the flight-lieutenant, looking out of the window.

  Wayland smiled. “Of course there’s no petrol here. There’s nothing here. I don’t suppose you could have landed in a more deserted region if you had tried. There’s a château in the Laïs woods, but it’s closed; owner and servants are at the war and the family in Paris.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Everybody has cleared out; the war has stripped the country; and there never were any people on these moors, excepting shooting parties and, in the summer, a stray artist or two from Quimperlé.”

  The lieutenant looked at him. “You say there is nobody here — between here and Lorient? No — troops?”

  “There’s nothing to guard. The coast is one vast shoal. Ships pass hull down. Once a day a coast guard patrols along the cliffs — —”

  “When?”

  “He has passed, unfortunately. Otherwise he might signal by relay to Lorient and have them send you out some petrol. By the way — are you hungry?”

  The flight-lieutenant showed all his firm, white teeth under a yellow mustache, which curled somewhat upward. He laughed in a carefree way, as though something had suddenly eased his mind of perplexity — perhaps the certainty that there was no possible chance for petrol. Certainty is said to be more endurable than suspense.

  “I’ll stop for a bite — if you don�
��t mind — while my pilot tinkers out yonder,” he said. “We’re not in such a bad way. It might easily have been worse. Do you think you could find us a bit of sail, or something, to use for patching?”

  Wayland indicated an old high-backed chair of oak, quaintly embellished with ancient leather in faded blue and gold. It had been a royal chair in its day, or the Fleur-de-Lys lied.

  The flight-lieutenant seated himself with a rather stiff bow.

  “If you need canvas” — Wayland hesitated — then, gravely: “There are, in my room, a number of artists’ toiles — old chassis with the blank canvas still untouched.”

  “Exactly what we need!” exclaimed the other. “What luck, now, to meet a painter in such a place as this!”

  “They belonged to my father,” explained Wayland. “We — Marie-Josephine and I — have always kept my father’s old canvases and colours — everything of his.... I’ll be glad to give them to a British soldier.... They’re about all I have that was his — except that oak chair you sit on.”

  He rose on his crutches, spoke briefly in Breton to Marie-Josephine, then limped slowly away to his room.

  When he returned with half a dozen blank canvases the flight-lieutenant, at table, was eating pork and black bread and drinking Breton cider.

  Wayland seated himself, laid both crutches across his knees, picked up one of the chassis, and began to rip from it the dusty canvas. It was like tearing muscles from his own bones. But he smiled and chatted on, casually, with the air-officer, who ate as though half starved.

  “I suppose,” said Wayland, “you’ll start back across the Channel as soon as you secure petrol enough?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “You could go by way of Quimper or by Lorient. There’s petrol to be had at both places for military purposes” — leisurely continuing to rip the big squares of canvas from the frames.

  The airman, still eating, watched him askance at intervals.

  “I’ve brought what’s left of the shellac; it isn’t much use, I fear. But here is his hammer and canvas stretcher, and the remainder of the nails he used for stretching his canvases,” said Wayland, with an effort to speak carelessly.