WHAT THE LIGHTNING REVEALED
“Sweating machinery! What is it?”
This question rang in Phil’s brain during all the rest of the drive.
Under the play of his stimulated imagination it became a nightmare
transferred into an atmosphere of reality. There was no point in the
progress of the continuous tragic dread where he could say to himself,
even as one might say in his sleep: “Oh, this is only a dream.”
Who was this more-than-ever mysterious man? What was the explanation of
his anomalous position and his tyrannical manner?
That he was a man of power and authority could no longer be doubted.
Phil had at first been inclined to regard this blustering trip-voiced
misfit of a soldier as an unaccountable joke, but he was fully convinced
now that his judgment was decidedly in error in this respect.
On, on they went in a general north-easterly direction. They passed over
a crudely repaired bridge that spanned the River Aisne, though Phil did
not know at the time what stream it was. They dashed along deep rutted
thoroughfares, which engineering crews were trying vainly to keep in
smooth-surfaced repair; they passed miles of truck caravans and marching
soldiers, also numerous supply stations, around which were usually
camped large bodies of soldiers held in reserve to be placed here and
there on the battle front as needed. Before long, however, the long
lines of moving camions ceased to appear, and the boy concluded that
this was an indication that the captured French railroads had been put
back into operation up to this point.
Most of the towns that they passed through were in states of partial or
total ruin. The greater portion of the inhabitants of the entire country
apparently had moved ahead of the boche advance as refugees, or had been
transported into the enemy’s country to labor there, while men, women
and children of bocheland fought or prepared supplies for the fighters.
Much of this, however, Phil saw in the dusk of evening, for they had not
traveled more than two or three hours when the sun began to sink below
the western horizon. On, on, they went, through the gathering gloom,
then through the thickening darkness. Although they passed a number of
military stations where food might have been obtained for the asking,
they did not stop for supper. On, on, on, into the night they continued
their course, how late the prisoner could only conjecture from his own
weariness and hunger.
But at last the journey came to an end, as all journeys do. It had
produced a good many surprises for Phil, nor was the least of these the
one that met him at the finish.
Hardly an area of any considerable size in the course of the drive had
the prisoner observed that did not bear some evidence of battle
devastation. This condition was evident even in the latter part of the
journey, which was in the darkness of the early half of the night. They
passed close to the ruins of many houses and other buildings, and found
it necessary to drive slower after sunset in order to avoid “turning
turtle” in the numerous shell holes of the road, which had been repaired
with great haste and imperfection in those parts of the invaded country
where the railroads remained in operation.
Moreover, an hour or two before they reached the end of their journey,
the sky became heavily clouded and much rain fell. This made it
necessary to drive with even greater care, so that the rate at which
they covered the ground during this dark and rainy period was little
more than a creep, as compared with the speed maintained in the hours of
daylight.
Phil was able to see but little of his surroundings for a time, except
directly in front of the machine, as they neared their place of
destination. The storm had abated somewhat, but the sky had not cleared,
and the darkness was just as intense as ever. Then suddenly the storm
burst anew with a heavier downpour than at any time since the rain began
to fall, and the lightning, which had flashed with indifferent
illumination, blazed forth with great brilliance and frequency.
By the aid of this light, Phil saw that they were entering a drive that
ran through a woods of considerable size. Phil was interested as well as
awed by this new development. The surroundings were not at all cheerful,
especially in view of the circumstances, but the situation was decidedly
impressive nevertheless.
“If I were back in my fairy-story days, I’d imagine that I’m being
carried captive into an ogre’s den,” the boy half-muttered to himself
after they had ridden several minutes along the drive. “Hello!” he
almost exclaimed a minute later. “Here’s the ogre’s castle, all right.”
There was good cause for this play of grewsome imagination. It was
revealed by a specially brilliant flash of lightning that lighted the
surroundings like day. Before them in a comparatively small clearing was
a magnificent structure of mediaeval mass, lines and turrets. To a
tourist it would have been greeted with rapturous recollections of a
romantic past; to Phil it was a picture of apprehension of horror.