Punch heard the voices too, and he reached out and felt for his
comrade's hand.
"What is it?" he whispered. "Have they won? Not going to shoot me, are
they?"
"No, no," said Pen, "but"--and he dropped his voice--"I think we are all
going on."
He was quite right, and all through that night the slow business of
setting a division on the march was under way, and the long, long train
of baggage wagons drawn by the little wiry mules of the country began to
move.
The ambulance train followed, with its terrible burden heavily increased
with the results of the late engagement, while as before--thanks to the
service he had been able to render--Pen was able to accompany the
heavily laden wagon in which Punch lay.
"So we were beaten," said the boy sadly--as the wheels of the lumbering
vehicle creaked loudly, for the route was rough and stony--and Pen
nodded.
"Beaten. Yes," And his voice was graver than before at the thought of
what he had seen since they had been prisoners.
On, on, on, through the dark hours, with Punch falling off every now and
again into a fitful sleep--a sleep broken by sudden intervals of
half-consciousness, when Pen's heart was wrung by the broken words
uttered by his companion: "Not going to shoot me, are they? Don't let
them do that, comrade." While, as the weary procession continued its
way on to the next village, where they were about to halt, Pen had
another distraction, for as he trudged painfully on by the side of the
creaking wagon a hand was suddenly placed on his arm.
He turned sharply.
"Eh, what?" he cried.
"Well?" said a half-familiar voice, and in the dim light he recognised
the features of the young French captain who had listened to his appeal
to save the bugler's life.
"Rough work, sir," said Pen.
"Yes. Your fellows played a bold game in trying to dislodge us. Nearly
succeeded, _ma foi_! But we drove them back."
"Yes," said Pen.
"How's your friend?" asked the captain.
"Better."
"That's well. And now tell me, where did you learn to speak French so
well?"
"From my tutor," answered Pen.
"Your tutor! And you a simple soldier! Well, well! You English are
full of surprises."
Pen laughed.
"I suppose so," he said; "but we are not alone in that."
The French captain chatted a little longer, and then once more Pen was
alone--alone but for the strange accompaniment of sounds incident to the
night march: the neighing of horses, the scraps of quick talking which
fell on his ear, along with that never-ceasing creak, rumble, and jolt
of the wagons, a creaking and jolting which seemed to the tired brain as
though they would go on for ever and ever.
He was aroused out of a strange waking dream, in which the past and the
present were weirdly blended, by a voice which called him by name, and
he tried to shake himself free from the tangle of confused thought which
hemmed him in.
"Aren't you there?" came the voice again.
"Yes, Punch, yes. What is it?"
"Ah, that's all right! I wanted to tell you that I feel such a lot
better."
"Glad to hear it, Punch."
"Yes, I feel as if I could get out of this now."
"You had better not try," said Pen with a forced laugh. "I think--I
think--" And then the confusion came again.
"What do you think?" said Punch.
"Think?" cried the other. "I--what do you mean?"
In the darkness of the heavy vehicle, Punch's face betrayed a feeling of
alarm, and he tried to figure it out. Something in Pen's voice
frightened him.
"He is not the same," he muttered; and his impression was substantiated
when a halt was called just about the time of dawn, for Pen dropped like
a log by the wagon-side; and when Punch, with great pain to himself,
struggled into a sitting position, and then clambered down to his
comrade, he found to his horror that his worst fears were realised.
Pen's forehead was burning, and the poor lad was muttering incoherently,
and not in a condition to pay heed to the words of his companion.
"Gray, Gray! Can't you hear? What's wrong?"
The village which was the new headquarters was higher up in the
mountains; and whether it was the fresher air operating beneficially, or
whether the period of natural recovery had arrived, certain it was that
Punch found himself able to move about again; and during the days and
weeks that followed he it was who took the post of nurse and attended to
the wants of Pen--wants, alas! too few, for the sufferer was a victim to
something worse than a mere shot-wound susceptible to efficient
dressing, for the most dangerous, perhaps, of all fevers had laid him
low.
The period passed as in a long dream, and the thought of rejoining the
British column had for a time ceased to animate Punch's brain.
But youth and a strong constitution rose superior in Pen's case to all
the evils of circumstance and environment, and one afternoon the old
clear look came back to his eyes.
"Ah, Punch," he said, "better?"
"Better?" said the boy. "I--I am well; but you--how are you now?"
"I--have I been ill?"
"Ill!" cried Punch, and he turned and looked at an orderly who was
hurrying past. "He asks if he has been ill!--Why, Pen, you have had a
fever which has lasted for weeks."
Pen tried to sit up, and he would have dismally failed in the attempt
had not Punch encircled him with his arm.
"Why--why," he said faintly, "I am as weak as weak!"
"Yes, that you are."
"But, Punch, what has been happening?"
"I don't know. I can't understand what all these people say; but they
let me fetch water for them and attend to you; and to-day there has been
a lot going on--troops marching past."
"Yes," said Pen; "that means there has been another fight."
"No, I don't think so."
"Why not?"
"Because I have heard no firing. But hadn't you better go to sleep
again?"
Pen smiled, but he took the advice and lay back.
"Perhaps I had," he said faintly; and as Punch watched him he fell into
a restful doze.
So it was during the days that followed, each one bringing back more
strength to the invalid, and likewise each day a further contingent of
the wounded in the battle of a month before being passed as fit for
service again and drafted to the front; while each day, too, Pen found
that the strength that used to be his was returning little by little,
and he listened eagerly one night when Punch bent over him and whispered
something in his ear.
"You know I have been talking about it to you," said the boy, "for
several nights past; and when I wasn't talking about it I was thinking
of it. But now--now I think the time has come."
"To escape?" cried Pen eagerly. "You mean it?"
"Yes; I have been watching what has gone on. We are almost alone here,
with only wounded and surgeons. The rest have gone; and--and behind
this village there is a forest of those scrubby-barked oak-trees."
"Cork-trees," said Pen.
"Oh, that's it!" And the boy drew himself up. "But do you think you
are strong enough yet?"
"Strong enough? Of course." And Pen rose, to stand at his companion's
side. "Do you know the way?"
"Yes," And Punch felt for and took his companion's hand, trying to see
his face in the pitchy darkness. "It is to the right of the camp."
"Then let's go."
"Wait," said Punch, and he glided off into the blackness, leaving Pen
standing there alone.
But it was not for long. In a minute or two the boy was back once more,
and this time he held something in his arms.
"Ready?" he asked in a whisper.
"Yes. What for?"
"Stoop.--That's it. I watched, and took them--not English ones, but
they will shoot, I expect," And softly he slipped the sling of a musket
over Pen's shoulders, following that by handing him a cartouche-box and
belt. "I have got a gun for myself too. Better than a bugle. There!"
And in the darkness there was the sound of a belt being tightly drawn
through a buckle. "Are you ready?"
"Yes," said Pen.
"Where's your hand?"
"Here."
"Right!" And the younger lad gripped his friend's extended palm. "Now,
it's this way. I planned it all when you were so ill, and said to
myself that it would be the way when you got better. Come along."
Softly and silently the two slipped off in the darkness, making for the
belt of forest where the gloomy leafage made only a slight blur against
the black velvet sky.