Kitabı oku: «The Day of Wrath: A Story of 1914», sayfa 11
CHAPTER XI
A TRAMP ACROSS BELGIUM
The stranger, a Monsieur Jules Pochard, proved a most useful friend. In the first instance, he was a cool-headed person, who did not allow imagination to run riot. “No,” he said, when questioned as to the chance of reaching Namur by a forced march along country lanes, “every road in that section of the province is closed by cavalry patrols. You cannot avoid them, monsieur. Come with me to Huy, and you’ll be reasonably safe.”
“Why safer in Huy than here, or anywhere else where these brutes may be?”
“Huy has been occupied by the Germans since the 12th, and is their temporary headquarters. From what I gather, they usually spare such towns. That is why we never dreamed of Andenne being sacked.”
Dalroy remembered the aged curé’s exposition of Kultur as a policy. “Is this sort of thing going on generally, then?” he asked.
Monsieur Pochard was a Frenchman. He raised his eyebrows. “Where can you have been, monsieur, not to know what has happened at Liège, Visé, Flemelle Grande, Blagny Trembleur, and a score of other places?”
“Visé!” broke in the cracked, piping voice of Joos. “What’s that about Visé?”
“It is burnt to the ground, and nearly all the inhabitants killed.”
“Is anything said of a fat major named Busch, whom Henri Joos the miller stuck with a fork?”
“A Prussian, do you mean?”
“Ay. One of the same breed – a Westphalian.”
“I haven’t heard.”
“He tried to assault my daughter, so I got him. The second one, a Uhlan, killed my wife, and I got him too. I cut his throat down there in the main street. It’s easy to kill Germans. They’re soft, like pigs.”
Though Joos’s half-demented boasting was highly injudicious, Dalroy did not interfere. He was in a mood to let matters drift. They could not well be worse. He had tried to control the course of events in so far as they affected his own and Irene Beresford’s fortunes, but had failed lamentably. Now, fate must take charge.
Pochard’s comment was to the point, at any rate. “I congratulate you, monsieur,” he said. “I’ll do a bit in that line myself when this little one is lodged with his aunt in Huy. If every Belgian accounts for two Prussians, you’ll hold them till the French and English join up.”
“Do you know for certain where the English are?” put in Dalroy eagerly.
“Yes, at Charleroi. The French are in Namur. Come with me to Huy. A few days, and the sales Alboches will be pelting back to the Rhine.”
For the second time Dalroy heard a slang epithet new to him applied to the Germans. He little guessed how familiar the abbreviated French form of the word would become in his ears. Briton, Frenchman, Slav, and Italian have cordially adopted “Boche” as a suitable term for the common enemy. It has no meaning, yet conveys a sense of contemptuous dislike. Stricken France had no heart for humour in 1870. The merciless foe was then a “Prussian”; in 1914 he became a “Boche,” and the change held a comforting significance.
Dalroy, of course, did not share the Frenchman’s opinion as to the speedy discomfiture of the invader; but night was falling, the offer of shelter was too good to be refused. Nevertheless, he was careful to reveal a real difficulty. “Unfortunately, we have a dead woman in the cart,” he said. “Madame Stauwaert, too, is ill, but she has recovered from a fainting fit, I see.”
“Ah, poor Stauwaert!” murmured the other. “A decent fellow. I saw them kill him. And that’s his wife, of course. I didn’t recognise her before.”
Dalroy was relieved to find that the Frenchman and the bereaved woman were friends. He had not forgotten the priest’s statement that there would be a spy in every group in that part of Belgium. Later he ascertained that Monsieur Pochard was a well-to-do leather merchant in Andenne, who, like many others, refused to abandon a long-established business for fear of the Germans; doubtless he was destined to pay a heavy price for his tenacity ere the war ended. He behaved now as a true Samaritan, urging an immediate move, and promising even to arrange for Madame Joos’s burial. Dalroy helped him to carry the child, a three-year-old boy, who was very sleepy and peevish, and did not understand why he should not be at home and in bed.
Joos suffered them to lead him where they listed. He walked by the side of the cart, and told “Lise” how he had dealt with the Uhlan. Léontine sobbed afresh, and tried to stop him, but he grew quite angry.
“Why shouldn’t she know?” he snapped. “It is her affair, and mine. You screamed, and turned away, but I hacked at him till his wind-pipe hissed.”
Monsieur Pochard brought them to Huy by a rough road among the hills.
It was a dreadful journey in the gloaming of a perfect summer’s evening. The old man’s ghoulish jabbering, the sobs of the women, the panting of two exhausted dogs, and the wailing of the child, who wanted his father’s arms round him rather than a stranger’s, supplied a tragic chorus which ill beguiled that Via Dolorosa along the heights of the Meuse.
Irene insisted on taking the boy for a time, and the youngster ceased his plaint at once.
“That’s a blessed relief,” she confided to Dalroy. “I’m not afflicted with nerves, but this poor little chap’s crying was more than I could bear.”
“He is too heavy that you should carry him far,” he protested.
“You’re very much of a man, Arthur,” she said quietly. “You don’t realise, I suppose, that nature gives us women strong arms for this very purpose.”
“I hadn’t thought of that. The fact is, I’m worried. I have a doubt at the back of my head that we ought to be going the other way.”
“Which other way?”
“In precisely the opposite direction.”
“But what can we do? At what stage in our wanderings up to this very moment could we have parted company with our friends? Do you know, I have a horrible feeling that we have brought a good deal of avoidable misery on their heads? If we hadn’t gone to the mill – ”
“They would probably all have been dead by this time, and certainly both homeless and friendless,” he interrupted. Then he began telling her the fate of Visé, but was brought up short by an imperative whisper from Pochard. They were talking English, without realising it, and Huy was near.
“And why carry that sword?” added the Frenchman. “It is useless, and most dangerous. Thrust it into a ditch.”
Dalroy obeyed promptly. He had thoughtlessly disregarded the sinister outcome if a patrol found him with such a weapon in his hand.
They came to Huy by a winding road through a suburb, meeting plenty of soldiers strolling to and from billets. Luck befriended them at this ticklish moment. None saw a little party turning into a lane which led to the back of the villa tenanted by Monsieur Pochard’s married sister. This lady proved both sympathetic and helpful. The cart, with its sad freight, was housed in a wood-shed at the bottom of the garden, and the dogs were stabled in the gardener’s potting-shed.
“The ladies can share my bedroom and my daughter’s,” she said. “You men must sleep in the greenhouse, as every remaining room is filled with Uhlans. Their supper is ready now, but there is plenty. Come and eat before they arrive. They left on patrol duty early this morning.”
And that is where the fugitives experienced a stroke of amazing good fortune. That particular batch of Uhlans never returned. It was supposed that they were cut off while scouting along the Tirlemont road. Apparently their absence only contributed to an evening of quiet talk and a night of undisturbed rest. In reality, it saved the lives of the whole party, including the hostess and her family.
Early next morning Monsieur Pochard interviewed an undertaker, and Madame Joos was laid to rest in the nearest cemetery. Maertz, Madame Stauwaert, and Léontine attended the funeral. Joos showed signs of collapse. His mind wandered. He thought his wife was living, and in Verviers. They encouraged the delirium, and dosed him with a narcotic.
Irene helped in the kitchen, and Dalroy dug the garden. Thus, the confederacy remained split up during the morning, and was not noticed by an officer who came to inquire about the missing Uhlans.
About noon Monsieur Pochard drew Dalroy aside. “Monsieur,” he said, and his face wore anxious lines, “last night the old man implied that he was Henri Joos, of Visé. No, please listen. I don’t want to be told. I can only give you certain facts, and leave you to draw your own conclusions. Active inquiries are being made by the authorities for Henri Joos, Elisabeth Joos, Léontine Joos, their daughter, and Jan Maertz, all of Visé. With them are an Englishwoman aged twenty, and an English officer named Dalroy, both dressed as Belgian peasants. The appended descriptions seem to be remarkably accurate, and a reward of one thousand marks is offered for their capture.”
“They may be willing to pay double the price for freedom,” said Dalroy.
The Frenchman was not offended. He realised that this was not a suggestion of a personal bribe.
“You have not heard all,” he continued. “These people were traced to Verviers, but the trail was lost after Maertz bought a cart and a dog-team in that town three days ago. Unfortunately, some Uhlans, passing through Andenne last night, have reported the presence of just such a party on the main road. Other soldiers believe they saw a similar lot entering Huy after dark, and the burgomaster is warned that the strictest search must be made among refugees at Huy. To make sure, a German escort will assist. It is estimated that Joos and the others will be caught, because they will probably depend on a laisser passer issued in Argenteau under false names, which are known. Joos figures as Wilhelm Schultz, for instance. Don’t look so surprised, monsieur. The burgomaster is my brother-in-law’s partner. He will not reach this quarter of Huy till half-past three or four o’clock.”
“But there is the record of Madame Joos’s burial,” put in Dalroy instantly.
“No. The poor creature remains a ‘woman unknown, found dead.’ The Germans don’t worry about such trifles. But, by a strange coincidence, Madame Stauwaert practically takes her place for identification purposes. By the mercy of Providence, no German soldier was in this house last night, or he would now be the richer by a thousand marks. The notice is placarded at the Kommandantur, and is being read by the multitude.”
“We shall not bring further trouble on a family which has already run grave risk in our behalf,” vowed Dalroy warmly. “We must scatter at once, and, if caught, suffer individually.”
“I was sure you would say that, monsieur; but sworn allies carry friendship to greater lengths. Now, let us take counsel. Madame Stauwaert can remain here. Fifty people in Huy will answer for her. My sister can hire a servant, Léontine. If Joos is tractable he can lodge in safety with some cottagers I know. Maertz wishes to join the Belgian army, and you the British; while that charming young lady will want to get to England. Well, we may be able to contrive all these things. I happen to be a bit of an antiquary, and Huy owns more ruined castles and monasteries than any other town of similar size in Belgium, or in the world, I imagine. Follow my instructions to the letter, and you will cheat the Germans yet. They are animals of habit and cast-iron rule. When searching for six people they will never look for one or two. Yet it would be folly if you and mademoiselle wandered off by yourselves in a strange country. Then, indeed, even German official obtuseness might show a spark of real intelligence; whereas, by gaining a few days, who knows whether your armies may not come to you, rather than you go to them?”
The good-hearted Frenchman’s scheme worked without a hitch. The cart was broken up for firewood, the harness burnt, and the dogs taken a mile into the country by Maertz, who sold them for a couple of francs, and came back to a certain ruined priory by a roundabout road.
Irene and Dalroy had gone there already. The place lay deep in trees and brushwood, and was approachable by a dozen hidden ways. Although given over to bats and owls, its tumbledown walls contained one complete room, situated some twenty feet above the ground level, and reached by a winding staircase of stone slabs, which looked most precarious, but proved quite sound if used by a sure-footed climber.
Here, then, the three dwelt eleven weary days. During daylight their only diversion was the flight of hosts of aeroplanes toward the French frontier. Twice they saw Zeppelins. For warmth at night they depended on horse-rugs and bundles of a species of bracken which throve among the piles of stones. They were well supplied with food, deposited at dusk in a fosse, and obtained when the opening bars of “La Brabançonne” were whistled at a distance. The air itself was a guarantee that no German was near, because the Belgian national anthem is not pleasing to Hun ears.
A typed note in the basket formed their sole link with the outer world. And what momentous issues were conveyed in the briefest of sentences!
“Namur has fallen after a day’s bombardment by a new and terrible cannon.”
“Brussels has capitulated without resistance.”
“After a fierce battle, the French and English have retired from Charleroi and Mons.”
“The retreat continues. France is invaded. Valenciennes has fallen.”
On the eleventh morning Dalroy hid among the bushes until the daily basket was brought. Monsieur Pochard himself was the go-between. He feared lest Léontine would contrive to meet Maertz, so the girl did not know where her lover was hidden.
The Frenchman started visibly when Dalroy’s voice reached him; but the latter spoke in a tone which would not carry far. “I’m sorry to seem ungrateful,” he said, “but we are growing desperate. Do us one last favour, monsieur, and we impose no more on your goodness. Tell me where and when we can cross the Meuse, and the best route to take subsequently. Sink or swim, I, at any rate, must endeavour to reach England, and mademoiselle is equally resolved to make the attempt.”
“I don’t blame you,” came the sorrowful reply. “This is going to be a long war. Twenty years of deadly preparation are bearing fruit. I am sick with anxiety. But I dare not loiter in this neighbourhood, so, as to your affair, my advice is that you cross the Meuse to-morrow in broad daylight. The bridge is repaired, and no very strict watch is kept. Make for Nivelles, Enghien, and Oudenarde. The Belgians hold the Antwerp-Gand-Roulers line, but are being driven back daily. I have been thinking of you. If you delay longer you will – at the best – be imprisoned in Belgium for many months. Are you determined?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want money?”
“We have plenty.”
“Farewell, then, and may God protect you!”
“Is there no chance of nearing the British force?” was Dalroy’s final and almost despairing question.
“Not the least. You would be following on the heels of a quick-moving and victorious army. Progress is slower toward the coast. You have a fighting chance that way, none the other. Good-bye, monsieur.”
“Good-bye, best of friends!”
The sudden collapse of Namur, and the consequent failure of the Anglo-French army’s initial scheme, had served to alter this shrewd man’s opinion completely. His confidence was gone, his nerve shaken. The pressure of the jack-boot was heavy upon him. Dalroy was certain that he walked away with a furtive haste, being in mortal fear lest the people he had helped so greatly might put forth some additional request which he dared not grant.
Next morning they left the priory grounds separately, and strolled into the town, keeping some fifty yards apart. It was only after a struggle that Jan Maertz relinquished the notion of trying to see Léontine before going from Huy, but the others convinced him that he might imperil both the girl and their benefactors. As matters stood, her greatest danger must have nearly vanished by this time; it would be a lamentable thing if her lover were arrested, and it became known that he had visited the villa.
They crossed the river on pontoons. The Germans were already rebuilding the stone bridge. They seemed to have men to spare for everything. That the bridge was being actually rebuilt, and not made practicable by timber-work only, impressed Dalroy more forcibly than any other fact gleaned during his Odyssey in a Belgium under German rule. There was no thought of relinquishing the occupied territory, no hint of doubt that it might be wrested from their clutch in the near future. He noticed that the post-office, the railway station, the parcels vans, even the street names, were Germanised. He learnt subsequently that the schools had been taken over by German teachers, while the mere sound of French in a shop or public place was scowled at if not absolutely forbidden.
There were not many troops on the roads, but crowded troop-trains passed on both sides of the Meuse, and ever in the same direction. Two long hospital trains came from the south-west, and Dalroy knew what that meant. Another long train of closed wagons, heavily laden, as a panting engine testified, perplexed him, however. He spoke of it to Maertz, the three being on the road in company as they climbed the hill to Heron, and the carter promptly sought information from a farmer.
The man eyed them carefully. “Where are you from?” he demanded in true Flemish.
“What has that to do with it?” grinned Maertz, in the same patois.
The questioner was satisfied. He jerked a thumb toward the French frontier. “Dead uns!” he said. “They’re killing Germans like flies down yonder. They can’t bury them – haven’t time – so they tie the corpses together, slinging four on a pole for easy handling, ship them to Germany, and chuck them into furnaces.”
“So,” guffawed Maertz, “the swine know where they are going then!”
To Dalroy’s secret amazement, Irene, who understood each word, laughed with the others. Campaigning had not coarsened, but it had undeniably hardened her nature. A month ago she would have shuddered at sight of these dun trucks, with their ghastly freight. Now, so long as they only contained Germans, she surveyed them with interest.
“Allowing forty bodies to one wagon,” she said, “there are over a thousand dead men in that train alone.”
The farmer spat approval. “I’ve been busy, and have missed some; but that’s the tenth lot which has gone east this morning,” he remarked cheerfully.
“Is the road to Nivelles fairly open?” Dalroy ventured to inquire.
“One never knows. Anyhow, always give the next village as your destination. If doubtful, travel by night.”
This counsel was well meant. In the silent bitterness of hours yet to come, Dalroy recalled it, and wished he had profited by it.
Roughly speaking, they had set out on a fifty miles’ tramp, which the men could have tackled in two days, or less. But the presence of Irene lowered the scale, and Dalroy apportioned matters so that twelve miles daily formed their programme, with, as the entrepreneurs say, power to increase or curtail. Thus, that first afternoon, the date being September 2nd, they pulled up at Gembloux, quite a small place, finding supper and beds in a farm beyond the village.
Next day they pushed ahead through Nivelles, and entered the forest of Soignies, that undulating woodland on which Wellington depended for the protection of a dangerous flank during the unavoidable retreat to the coast if Napoleon had beaten the British army at Waterloo.
Dalroy explained the Iron Duke’s strategy to Irene as they paced a road which provides an ideal walking tour.
“That a General was not worth his salt who did not secure the track of his army if defeated was one of his fixed principles,” he said. “He would never depart from it, and his dispositions at Waterloo were based on it. In fact, his solicitude in that respect nearly caused a row between him and Blücher.”
“Let me see,” mused the girl aloud. “The Germans have never fought the British in modern times until this war.”
“That is correct.”
“And how far away is Mons?”
Dalroy smiled at the thought which had evidently occurred to her.
“We are now just half-way between Mons and Waterloo. Each is about ten miles distant.”
“We were allied then with the Belgians, Germans, and Russians against the French. Now we have joined the Belgians, French, and Russians against the Germans. It sounds like counting in a game of cribbage. A hundred years from to-day our combination may be with the Belgians, Germans, and French against the Russians.”
“You mustn’t even hint treason against our present Allies,” he laughed.
“What are Allies? Of what avail are treaties? You men have mismanaged things woefully. It is high time women took a lead in governing.”
“Awful! I do verily believe you are a suffragette.”
“I am. During what periods has England been greatest? In the reigns of Elizabeth and Victoria.”
“Why leave out poor Queen Anne?”
“She was a very excellent woman. As soon as she came to the throne she declared her resolution ‘not to follow the example of her predecessors in making use of a few of her subjects to oppress the rest.’ The common people don’t err in their estimate of rulers, and they knew what they were about in christening her ‘Good Queen Anne.’”
“Now I’m sure.”
“Sure of what?”
“You have never told me what you were doing in Berlin.”
“You haven’t asked me,” she broke in.
“Did it matter? I – ”
Irene’s intuition warned her that this harmless chatter had swung round with lightning rapidity to a personal issue. Sad to relate, she had not washed her face or hands for eleven days, so a blush told no tales; but she interrupted again rather nervously, “What is it you are sure of?”
“You must have been a governess-companion in some German family of position. I can foresee a trying future. I must brush up my dates, or lose caste forever. Isn’t there a doggerel jingle beginning:
“In fifty-five and fifty-four
Came Cæsar o’er to Britain’s shore?
“If I learn it, it may save me many a trip.”
“Here, you two,” growled Jan Maertz, “talk a language a fellow can understand.”
The road was deserted save for themselves, and the others had unconsciously spoken English. Dalroy turned to apologise to their rough but trusty friend, and thus missed the quizzical and affectionate glance which Irene darted at him. She was still smiling when next he caught her eye.
“What is it now?” he asked.
“I was thinking how difficult it is to see a wood for the trees,” she replied.
Maertz took her literally.
“I’ll be glad when we’re in the open country again, mademoiselle,” he said. “I don’t like this forest. One can’t guess what may be hiding round the corner.”
Yet they stopped that night at Brainé le Comte, and crossed Enghien next day without incident. It is a pity that such a glorious ramble should be described so baldly. In happier times, when Robert Louis Stevenson took that blithe journey through the Cevennes with a donkey, a similar excursion produced a book which will be read when the German madness has long been relegated to a detested oblivion. But Uhlan pickets and “square-head” sentries supply wretched sign-posts in a land of romance, and the wanderers were now in a region where each kilomètre had to be surveyed with caution.
Maertz owned an aunt in every village, and careful inquiry had, of course, located one of these numerous relatives in Lierde, a hamlet on the Grammont-Gand road. Oudenarde was strongly held by the enemy, but the roads leading to Gand were the scene of magnificent exploits by the armoured cars of the Belgian army. Certain Belgian motorists had become national heroes during the past fortnight. An innkeeper in Grammont told with bated breath how one famous driver, helped by a machine-gun crew, was accounting for scores of marauding cavalrymen. “The English and French are beaten, but our fellows are holding them,” he said with a fine air. “When you boys get through you’ll enjoy life. My nephew, who used to be a great chasseur, says there is no sport like chasing mounted Boches.”
This frank recognition of Dalroy as one of the innumerable young Belgians then engaged in crossing the enemy’s lines in order to serve with their brothers was an unwitting compliment to a student who had picked up the colloquial phrases and Walloon words in Maertz’s uncouth speech. A man who looked like an unkempt peasant should speak like one, and Dalroy was an apt scholar. He never trod on doubtful ground. Strangers regarded him as a taciturn person, solely because of this linguistic restraint. Maertz made nearly all inquiries, and never erred in selecting an informant. The truth was that German spies were rare in this district. They were common as crows in the cities, and on the frontiers of Belgium and France, but rural Brabant harboured few, and that simple fact accounts for the comparatively slow progress of the invaders as they neared the coast.
It was at a place called Oombergen, midway between Oudenarde and Alost, that the fugitives met the Death’s-Head Hussars. And with that ill-omened crew came the great adventure.
