IRONIA INVADED
The Austrian cavalry regiment, which had ridden out of Tisza shortly
before midnight, with Crane in the van, struck the Bhura River a mile
below the point where the first tributary branched off. The night was
so dark that it was impossible to see very far ahead even with the
assistance of the torches that a few of the troopers had attached to
the ends of their lances. The roads were so muddy that but slow
progress was made. Evidences of the floods farther up the river had
already been encountered at points where the road ran close to the
river banks.
Crane reined in his horse and turned to the officer who rode beside him.
"A small stream runs south from the Bhura a mile ahead and it is there
we should cross," he said in German, "but I am doubtful if it will be
possible to get over. See, the water is rising higher all the time.
There is a bridge not a hundred yards ahead of us--unless the rising
water has already swept it away. I propose that we cross there. It
may be impossible higher up."
"It is well advised what you suggest," replied the officer. "I am
worried, however, about the possibilities of the return trip. Suppose
the floods rise so rapidly that it will be impossible to recross the
river? We should be trapped on Russian soil!"
Crane shrugged his shoulders.
"Our orders cover only the advance," he said. "After we have carried
out that which has been entrusted to us--the return is strictly our
business. For the mission on which we are bound, it might be better if
none of us returned. Austrian and Ironian troops massacred on Russian
soil would surely bring about war."
"I don't fear to die," said the officer. "But I would prefer to fall
in open battle and not in an obscure border affray. But, as you say,
we have our orders to follow. Nothing else need count. God! it is
dark! A horrible night for our purpose, Neviloff!"
"An admirable night," said Crane. "We can carry out our raid under the
cover of this darkness and get safely back across the border without
loss. If the floods let us, that is."
"Hein! we are into the water now," ejaculated the officer, reining in
his horse.
"The road is low here and the water has come up over it," said Crane,
peering intently ahead. "But the gods are with us. I can see the
bridge ahead; it is still holding. We had better get across while we
may."
The troop clattered across the bridge at a smart gallop and turned up a
road on the Ironian side of the Bhura which was still quite dry. Ten
minutes brought them to the first stream. It was swollen with the
rising water, but, being only a narrow creek, was still fordable.
"Across there is Russia," said Crane, pointing over the stream. "My
troops are crossing some miles below and will join us near the first
village. We must lose no time. Every minute now lessens our chances
of getting back over the Bhura alive."
"It's strange," said the officer. "I didn't think we were so close to
the Russian frontier. Are there not two streams branching south from
the Bhura?"
"Yes," replied Crane hastily, "there is another stream behind us. We
passed it some time before we reached the flooded section."
Orders were passed along the line of troops and the work of crossing
the turgid stream began. The horses balked at the brink and had to be
beaten and spurred into the swirling flood; so that the passage of the
regiment was a noisy one with much shouting and cursing and snapping of
whips.
On the other side the troops formed up and followed Crane along a
narrow lane that led back on a slowly ascending scale toward the
foot-hills.
Almost before they knew it, the regiment had ridden into a small
hamlet. Darkened houses lined each side of the road, and just ahead of
them loomed the spire of a church. The noise of the galloping horses
aroused no signs of life, and this made Crane feel certain that they
had reached the appointed place. It had been arranged that Larescu was
to warn the villagers to make good their escape.
The troops set about their work with eagerness, even with noisy gusto.
They broke in doors and windows and set fire to the houses. Soon one
end of the village was in flames, and in the bright light that suffused
the whole, the fact that the village was deserted became apparent.
The officer in command, plainly uneasy, rode up to Crane, who had kept
in the van with his eyes open for a chance to make good his escape.
The Austrian was clearly suspicious.
"Not a soul in the place," he said. "Why not? Someone carried word of
our plans ahead of us; that must be it. What's this?"
The rattle of musketry broke out ahead of them. Some of the men,
getting in advance of the line, had been fired on from the bush in
which the long, single street of the village terminated. As if by
magic, though no one knew whence it came, the word passed down the
ranks: "Ironian troops are firing on us." And, as a natural corollary,
the most discerning saw and voiced what had happened.
"We have burned an Ironian village," said the officer who rode by Crane.
The latter sensed trouble.
"No you don't," came sharply from the Austrian, as Crane put spurs into
his horse.
But the Englishman was putting yards and more yards between him and the
officer. He did not hesitate now. He knew that his safety depended
upon his ability to get away at once. Kicking the steel into his
horse's flanks, he started into a wild gallop. Guttural but loud
shouts behind him warned him of impending retribution--if they could
shoot straight. Instinctively he dropped flat over his horse's neck.
Shots rang out and one bullet ploughed through his hair, touching and
grazing his forehead in its passage. The blood trickled down over his
brow and filtered over his eyes. He brushed it away and found he had
not been badly hurt. But a moment later another shot apparently hit
his horse, for the animal screamed, stumbled, and lunged forward on its
knees.
Crane hurtled over its head and came down with a thud on the rough
muddy road.