Kitabı oku: «At the Sign of the Sword: A Story of Love and War in Belgium», sayfa 11
Chapter Eighteen.
The Gulf of Shadows
“We must fly for our lives, Aimée!” her lover whispered. “Follow me!”
“Bien! I am ready!” she answered, quite cool in that moment of their supreme peril. The terrors of that day had not unnerved her, because of Edmond’s presence.
She thought only of him.
Between where they stood there, half concealed by the low bushes and the dark shadow of the copse before them, was a distance of some ten yards, or so. To escape, they must make a dash across that small open space.
The German sentry repeated his challenge loudly.
Not an instant was now to be lost. It was a matter of life or death.
“Now, darling!” cried Edmond, and together they held their breath and together sped towards the copse.
Next instant a rifle flashed, and there was a loud report, followed, a second later, by another sharp shot, and then another, and yet another.
The alarm had been given, and, in a moment, the whole line of the enemy’s sentries were on the alert.
Aimée heard the bullets scream past her as she ran.
She heard, too, Edmond gasp and ejaculate an expression of surprise. But until they were safe in the copse, speeding along together as fast as their feet could carry them, she was unaware that her lover’s right arm was hanging limp and useless – that he had received an ugly wound through the shoulder.
“Why?” she gasped in dismay, pulling up suddenly. “You are hurt – dearest! You are wounded!” la the darkness she felt some warm sticky fluid upon her hand.
“It’s nothing, really, Aimée. Just a graze – that’s all,” he declared. “Come, for Heaven’s sake. Let us get on, or we may yet be caught! Our own outposts must be somewhere close by. Let us hope they are beyond this copse. Come – let us hurry —hurry!”
Those final words of his were uttered because he felt his strength giving way, and before he fell exhausted, as he must do, he meant still to strive with his last effort to place his beloved in safety.
She, noticing that his voice had somehow changed, and knowing that the blood was streaming from his shoulder, took his left arm and assisted him stealthily along.
Suddenly, by a mere chance, they struck a narrow path in the darkness, and this led them to the further end of the copse.
Scarcely, however, had they come out into the open, when another voice challenged them loudly —in French!
Those words, startling them for a second, caused them next moment to gasp with relief.
Edmond answered the challenge cheerily, and they walked forward to where stood the friendly Belgian outpost. In a few quick words Valentin explained to the cavalryman how they had passed through the German lines, but being suspicious of spies, the man, quite rightly, called up four of his comrades, and then both fugitives were conducted along a high road for a considerable distance to the Belgian camp.
Before General Thalmann, commanding the Sixth Brigade, seated in his tent, Edmond Valentin quickly established the fact that he was no spy, and, indeed, he was able to give some very valuable information regarding the disposition of the enemy, and related for the first time, the terrible story of the sack and destruction of Dinant.
The grey-moustached General, having complimented him upon his gallant conduct and his wonderful escape, ordered him to at once have his wound dressed. Then, rising from his camp-chair, he bowed politely to Aimée, saying:
“I also wish to offer my heartiest congratulations to you, Mademoiselle, upon your providential escape from Dinant. I allow you to accompany Sous-officier Valentin to the Base Hospital. Captain Dulac, he added, turning to one of his officers present, please sign the necessary order. And note that I bestow the highest praise upon Sous-officier Valentin, of the Eighth Chasseurs, for penetrating into the enemy’s lines and obtaining much valuable intelligence.”
“I may add, General, that I discovered, in Dinant, the Brussels financier, Arnaud Rigaux, dressed as a German Major, and, having myself proved that he was a spy, shot him?”
“You shot Arnaud Rigaux!” exclaimed the General, staring at him. “Is that true?”
“Yes, m’sieur.”
“You are quite certain of this?”
“Quite certain. Mademoiselle was present.”
“Then please make a note of that also, Captain Dulac,” the commander said. “Only yesterday I received word from headquarters that he was to be captured, and wherever found, sent for trial by court-martial at Antwerp. So you, Valentin, it seems, have put a sudden end to this man’s dastardly career – eh?” and the well-set-up, grey-moustached man – one of Belgium’s bravest generals – grinned with satisfaction. “Well, I congratulate you, and you may rest assured that your distinguished services will not go unrewarded. Bon soir, Mademoiselle – Bon soir, Valentin.”
And the pair were then led forth from the tent, away to that of the medical service, where a doctor quickly investigated Edmond’s wound.
Aimée, fortunately perhaps, remained outside, for scarcely had her lover entered the tent, than he fell fainting. Restoratives were quickly administered, and the bullet was extracted under an anaesthetic, while she waited in patience outside. Edmond’s wound was, alas! of a far more serious character than the gallant soldier of Belgium had at first believed. In consequence of medical advice he was sent, next day, by train to the military hospital in Antwerp, Aimée, by order of the general, being allowed to accompany him in the military train.
From Antwerp Aimée was able to communicate with both her mother and father, and a fortnight after her arrival there she received, with intense satisfaction, the joyful news that they had both met at Ostend, and had gone to London, Brussels being, of course, in the hands of the enemy.
The Baroness wrote several times, urging her daughter to come to London – to the Langham Hotel, where they had taken up their temporary quarters – but the girl replied that she would not leave Edmond’s side, she having volunteered as a Red Cross nurse at the St. Elizabeth Hospital.
For over a month Edmond Valentin, eager to return to the front and to still bear his part in the fighting, lay in his narrow bed in the long ward now filled to overflowing with wounded. His shoulder had been shattered, and more than one medical consultation had been held regarding it.
Aimée, in her neat uniform as nurse, with the big scarlet cross upon the breast of her white apron, had learned the sad truth – that, in all probability, Edmond might never be able to use his right arm again, though no one had told him the painful fact.
As he lay there he was ever dreaming of going back to again work that innocent-looking little machine-gun of his, which had sent to their deaths so many of the Huns of the Kaiser.
The bitter truth was, however, told to him one day. The enemy, under General von Bäseler, were advancing upon Antwerp. They had destroyed Malines, and were almost at the gates of Belgium’s principal port. It was the third day in October, and British troops had now arrived to assist in the defence of Antwerp. All the wounded who could walk were ordered to leave.
And so it happened that Edmond Valentin, accompanied by Aimée, resolved at last to escape to London, where the girl could rejoin her parents.
With a huge crowd of refugees of all classes, the pair, ever faithful to each other – yet, be it said, greatly to Edmond’s regret – crossed one grey wintry afternoon to Dover, where, on the pier, the pair woe met by the Baron and Baroness, and carried with delight to that haven of the stricken – that sanctuary of the war – London.
The gallant conduct of the Sous-officier of Belgian Chasseurs, in a shabby blue military great-coat, worn and torn, and with the right arm bandaged across his chest, had reached England through the Press long before. In the papers there had been brief accounts of his fearless penetration into the enemy’s lines, and the gallant rescue of the woman he so dearly loved. King Albert had bestowed upon him the Cross of the Order of Leopold, and his photograph – together with that of Aimée – had been published in many of the newspapers.
Little wonder was it, therefore, that a little over a month later – on that well-remembered day in November when the British monitors from the sea assisted the Belgians and our own troops in the splendid defence of the Straits of Dover – newspaper reporters and photographers stood so eagerly upon that long flight of stone steps which lead up to the entrance of St. Martin’s Church, in Trafalgar Square, where a wedding of Belgian refugees was to take place.
The happy couple emerged from the church at last man and wife, and Edmond Valentin, still in his shabby dark-blue great-coat, and with his arm bandaged, did not escape the ubiquitous photographers any more than did Aimée de Neuville – now little Madame Valentin.
But both were modest in the happy dénouement of the great human drama, preferring to remain blissful in each other’s love, rather than to court any further publicity.
True, most of the newspapers next day, – and especially the illustrated ones, – reported that the wedding had taken place, but there was only the vaguest hint of the real and actual romance which I have – perhaps somewhat indiscreetly – attempted to describe in the foregoing pages – the romance of those terribly dramatic happenings at the Sign of the Sword.
