DISASTER
He was beside her in an instant, his arm around her, raising her. He
scarcely heard the guns; he scarcely heard the whistle of the bullets;
he knew only, as he knelt there in the road, that his little comrade had
been stricken down.
Where was she wounded?
Not in the head, thank God! Not in the throat, so white and delicate.
The breast, perhaps, and with trembling fingers he tore aside the coat.
She opened her eyes and looked dazedly up at him.
"_Qu'y a-t-il?_" she murmured. Then her vision cleared. "What is the
matter?" she asked in a stronger voice.
"You've been hit," he panted. "Do you feel pain?"
She closed her eyes for an instant.
"No," she answered; "but my left leg is numb, as if----"
"Pray heaven it is only in the leg! I must get you somewhere out of
this." He raised his head to look around, and was suddenly conscious of
the banging guns. "Damn these lunatics! Oh, damn them!"
The ridges on either side were rimmed with fire. He cast a glance behind
him and his heart stood still, for a troop of cavalry was deploying into
the road. Forward, then, to the village, since that was the only way.
He stooped to lift her.
"I may hurt you a little," he said.
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to carry you to the village. Here, wave your handkerchief to
show them that we are friends," and he drew it from her pocket and
thrust it into her hand. "Now, your arm about my neck."
She obeyed mutely; then, as he straightened up, she saw, over his
shoulder, the cavalry forming for the charge.
"No, no!" she cried. "Put me down. Here are the letters! See, I am
placing them in your pocket! Now, put me down and save yourself!"
He was picking his way forward over the barbed wire. He dared not lift
his eyes from the road even for a glance at her.
"Be still!" he commanded. "Don't struggle so! I will not put you down!
Wave the handkerchief!"
"There is cavalry down yonder," she protested, wildly. "It will charge
in a moment!"
"I know it! That's one reason I will not put you down!"
He was past the wire; he could look at her for an instant--into her
eyes, so close to his; deep into her eyes, dark with fear and pain.
"Another reason is," he said, deliberately, "that I love you! I am
telling you now because I want you to know, if this should be the end! I
love you, love you, love you!"
He was forced to look away from her, for there were fallen trees in
front, but he felt the arm around his neck tighten.
And then he bent his head and kissed her.
"Like that!" he said, hoarsely. "Only a thousand times more than that--a
million times more than that!"
She pulled herself up until her cheek was pressed to his; and her eyes
were like twin stars.
"And I!" she whispered. "A million times more than that. Oh, my prince,
my lover!"
Stewart's veins ran fire. His fatigue dropped from him. He trod on air.
He threw back his head proudly, for he felt himself invincible. He was
contemptuous of fate--it could not harm him now!
"And yet you wanted me to put you down!" he mocked.
She snuggled against him, warm and womanly; she gave herself to him.
"Oh, hold me close!" she seemed to say. "Hold me close, close! I am
yours now!"
"Wave the handkerchief!" he added. "We're getting near the barricade.
Life is too sweet to end just yet!"
She smiled up into his eyes, and waved the handkerchief at arm's length
above their heads. Stewart, glancing up, saw a row of faces crowned by
queer black shakos peering curiously down from the top of the barricade.
"They have seen us!" he said. "They're not firing! They understand that
we are friends! Courage, little comrade!"
"I am not afraid," she smiled. "And I love that name--little comrade!"
"Here are the last entanglements--and then we're through. What is that
cavalry doing?"
She gave a little cry as she looked back along the road. At the same
instant, Stewart heard the thunder of galloping hoofs.
"They are coming!" she screamed. "Oh, put me down! Put me down!"
"Not I!" gasped Stewart between his teeth, and glanced over his
shoulder.
The Uhlans were charging in solid mass, their lances couched.
There was just one chance of escape--Stewart saw it instantly. Holding
the girl close, he leaped into the ditch beside the road and threw
himself flat against the ground, shielding her with his body.
In an instant the thunder of the charge was upon him. Then, high above
the rattle of guns, rose the shouts of men, the screams of horses, the
savage shock of the encounter. Something rolled upon him,--lay quivering
against him--a wounded man--a dead one, perhaps--in any event, he told
himself, grimly, so much added protection. Pray heaven that a maddened
horse did not tramp them down!
The tumult died, the firing slackened. What was that? A burst of
cheering?
Stewart ventured to raise his head and look about him; then, with a
gasp, he threw off the weight, caught up his companion and staggered to
his feet. Yes; it was a body which had fallen upon him. It rolled slowly
over on its back as he arose, and he saw a ghastly wound between the
eyes.
"They have been repulsed!" he panted. "Wave the handkerchief!" With his
heart straining in his throat, he clambered out of the ditch and
staggered on. "Don't look!" he added, for the road was strewn with
horrors. "Don't look!"
She gazed up at him, smiling calmly.
"I shall look only at you, my lover!" she said, softly, and Stewart
tightened his grip and held her close!
There was the barricade, with cheering men atop it, exposing themselves
with utter recklessness to the bullets which still whistled from right
and left. Stewart felt his knees trembling. Could he reach it? Could he
lift his foot over this entanglement? Could he possibly step across this
body?
Suddenly he felt his burden lifted from him and a strong arm thrown
about his shoulders.
"Friends!" he gasped. "We're friends!"
Then he heard the girl's clear voice speaking in rapid French, and men's
voices answering eagerly. The mist cleared a little from before his
eyes, and he found that the arm about his shoulders belonged to a stocky
Belgian soldier who was leading him past one end of the barricade, close
behind another who bore the girl in his arms.
At the other side an officer stopped them.
"Who are you?" he asked in French. "From where do you come?"
"We are friends," said the girl. "We have fled from Germany. We have
both been wounded."
"Yes," said Stewart, and showed his blood-stained shirt. "Mine is only a
scratch, but my comrade needs attention."
A sudden shout from the top of the barricade told that the Uhlans were
re-forming.
"You must look out for yourselves," said the officer. "I will hear your
story later," and he bounded back to his place beside his men.
The soldier who was carrying the girl dropped her abruptly into
Stewart's arms and followed his captain. In an instant the firing
recommenced.
Stewart looked wildly about him. He was in a village street, with
close-built houses on either side.
"I must find a wagon," he gasped, "or something----"
His breath failed him, but he staggered on. The mist was before his eyes
again, his tongue seemed dry and swollen.
Suddenly the arm about his neck relaxed, the head fell back----
He cast one haggard glance down into the white face, then turned through
the nearest doorway.
Perhaps she was wounded more seriously than he had thought--perhaps she
had not told him. He must see--he must make sure----
He found himself in a tiled passage, opening into a low-ceilinged room
lighted by a single window. For an instant, in the semi-darkness, he
stared blindly; then he saw a low settle against the farther wall, and
upon this he gently laid his burden.
Before he could catch himself, he had fallen heavily to the floor, and
lay there for a moment, too weak to rise. But the weakness passed. With
set teeth, he pulled himself to his knees, got out his knife, found,
with his fingers, the stain of blood above the wound in the leg, and
quickly ripped away the cloth.
The bullet had passed through the thickness of the thigh, leaving a tiny
puncture. With a sob of thankfulness, he realized that the wound was not
dangerous. Blood was still oozing slowly from it--it must be washed and
dressed.
He found a pail of water in the kitchen, snatched a sheet from a bed in
another room, and set to work. The familiar labor steadied him, the
mists cleared, his muscles again obeyed his will, the sense of
exhaustion passed.
"It is only a scratch!" whispered a voice, and he turned sharply to find
her smiling up at him. "It is just a scratch like yours!"
"It is much more than a scratch!" he said, sternly. "You must lie still,
or you will start the bleeding."
"Tyrant!" she retorted, and then she raised her head and looked to see
what he was doing. "Oh! is it there?" she said, in surprise. "I didn't
feel it there!"
"Where did you feel it?" Stewart demanded. "Not in the body? Tell me the
truth!"
"It seemed to me to be somewhere below the knee. But how savage you
are!"
"I'm savage because you are hurt. I can't stand it to see you suffer!"
and with lips compressed, he bandaged the wound with some strips torn
from the sheet. Then he ran his fingers down over the calf, and brought
them away stained with blood. He caught up his knife and ripped the
cloth clear down.
"Really," she protested, "I shall not have any clothing left, if you
keep on like that! I do not see how I am going to appear in public as it
is!"
He grimly washed the blood away without replying. On either side of the
calf, he found a tiny black spot where the second bullet had passed
through.
"These German bullets seem to be about the size of peas," he remarked,
as he bandaged the leg; then he raised his head and listened, as the
firing outside rose to a furious crescendo. "They're at it again!" he
added. "We must be getting out of this!"
She reached up, caught him by the coat, and drew him down to her.
"Listen," she said. "The letters are in your pocket. Should we be
separated----"
"We will not be separated," he broke in, impatiently. "Do you suppose I
would permit anything to separate us now?"
"I know, dear one," she said, softly. "But if we should be, you will
carry the letters to General Joffre? Oh, do not hesitate!" she cried.
"Promise me! They mean so much to me--my life's work--all my
ambitions--all my hopes----"
"Very well," he said. "I promise."
"You have not forgotten the sign and the formula?"
"No."
She passed an arm about his neck and drew him still closer.
"Kiss me!" she whispered.
And Stewart, shaken, transported, deliriously happy, pressed his lips to
hers in a long, close, passionate embrace.
At last she drew her arm away.
"I am very tired," she whispered, smiling dreamily up at him; "and very,
very happy. I do not believe I can go on, dear one."
"I will get a wagon of some kind--a hand-cart, if nothing better. There
must be ambulances somewhere about----"
He paused, listening, for the firing at the barricade had started
furiously again.
"I will be back in a moment," he said, and ran to the street door and
looked out. As he did so, a wounded soldier hobbled past, using his
rifle as a crutch.
"How goes it?" Stewart inquired, in French.
"We hold them off," answered the soldier, smiling cheerfully, though his
face was drawn with pain.
"Will they break through?"
"No. Our reënforcements are coming up," and the little soldier hobbled
away down the street.
"I should have asked him where the ambulances are," thought Stewart. He
glanced again toward the barricade. The firing had slackened; evidently
the assailants had again been repulsed. Yes, there was time, and he
darted down the street after the limping soldier. He was at his side in
a moment. "Where are the ambulances?" he asked.
The soldier, turning to reply, glanced back along the street and his
face went livid.
"Ah, good God!" he groaned. "Look yonder!"
And, looking, Stewart beheld a gray-green flood pouring over the
barricade, beheld the flash of reddened bayonets, beheld the little band
of Belgians swept backward.
With a cry of anguish, he sprang back along the street, but in an
instant the tide was upon him. He fought against it furiously, striking,
cursing, praying----
And suddenly he found himself face to face with the Belgian officer,
blood-stained, demoniac, shouting encouragement to his men. His eyes
flashed with amazement when he saw Stewart.
"Go back! Go back!" he shouted.
"My comrade is back there!" panted Stewart, and tried to pass.
But the officer caught his arm.
"Madman!" he cried. "It is death to go that way!"
"What is that to me?" retorted Stewart, and wrenched his arm away.
The officer watched him for an instant, then turned away with a shrug.
After all, he reflected, it was none of his affair; his task was to hold
the Germans back, and he threw himself into it.
"Steady, men!" he shouted. "Steady! Our reserves are coming!"
And his men cheered and held a firm front, though it cost them dear--so
firm and steady that Stewart found he could not get past it, but was
carried back foot by foot, too exhausted to resist, entangled hopelessly
in the retreat. The Germans pressed forward, filling the street from
side to side, compact, irresistible.
And then the Belgians heard behind them the gallop of horses, the roll
of heavy wheels, and their captain, glancing back, saw that a
quick-firer had swung into position in the middle of the street.
"Steady, men!" he shouted. "We have them now! Steady till I give the
word!" He glanced back again and caught the gun-captain's nod. "Now! To
the side and back!" he screamed.
The men, with a savage cheer, sprang to right and left, into doorways,
close against the walls, and the gun, with a purr of delight, let loose
its lightnings into the advancing horde.
Stewart, who had been swept aside with the others without understanding
what was happening, gasping, rubbing his eyes, staring down the street,
saw the gray line suddenly stop and crumple up. Then, with a savage
yell, it dashed forward and stopped again. He saw an officer raise his
sword to urge them on, then fall crashing to the street; he saw that
instant of indecision which is fatal to any charge; and then stark
terror ran through the ranks, and they turned to flee.
But the pressure from the rear cut off escape in that direction, and the
human flood burst into the houses on either side, swept through them,
out across the fields, and away. And steadily the little gun purred on,
as though reveling in its awful work, until the street was clear.
But the Germans, though they had suffered terribly, were not yet routed.
A remnant of them held together behind the houses at the end of the
street, and still others took up a position behind the barricade and
swept the street with their rifles.
The little officer bit his lip in perplexity as he looked about at his
company, so sadly reduced in numbers. Should he try to retake the
barricade with a rush, or should he wait for reënforcements? He loved
his men--surely, they had more than played their part. Then his eye was
caught by a bent figure which dodged from doorway to doorway.
"That madman again!" he muttered, and watched, expecting every instant
to see him fall.
For Stewart had not waited for the captain's decision. Almost before the
Germans turned to flee, he was creeping low along the wall, taking
advantage of such shelter as there was. The whistle of the machine-gun's
bullets filled the street. One nipped him across the wrist, another
grazed his arm, and then, as the Germans rallied, he saw ahead of him
the vicious flashes of their rifles.
He was not afraid; indeed, he was strangely calm. He was quite certain
that he would not be killed--others might fall, but not he. Others--yes,
here they were; dozens, scores, piled from wall to wall. For here was
where the machine-gun had caught the German advance and smote it down.
They lay piled one upon another, young men, all of them; some lying with
arms flung wide, staring blindly up at the sky; a few moaning feebly,
knowing only that they suffered; two or three trying to pull themselves
from beneath the heap of dead; one coward burrowing deeper into it! He
could hear the thud, thud of the bullets from either end of the street
as they struck the mass of bodies, dead and wounded alike, until there
were no longer any wounded; until even the coward lay still!
Sick and dizzy, he pushed on. Was this the house? The door stood open
and he stepped inside and looked around. No, this was not it.
The next one, perhaps--all these houses looked alike from the street. As
he reached the door, a swirl of acrid smoke beat into his face. He
looked out quickly. The barricade was obscured by smoke; dense masses
rolled out of the houses on either side. The Germans had fired the
village!
Into the next house Stewart staggered--vainly; and into the next. He
could hear the crackling of the flames; the smoke grew thicker----
Into the next!
He knew it the instant he crossed the threshold; yes, this was the
entry, this was the room, there was the settle----
He stopped, staring, gasping----
The settle was empty.
Slowly he stepped forward, gazing about him. Yes, there was the bucket
of water on the floor, just as he had left it; there were the
blood-stained rags; there was the torn sheet.
But the settle was empty.
He threw himself beside it and ran his hands over it, to be sure that
his eyes were not deceiving him.
No; the settle was empty.
He ran into the next room and the next. He ran all through the house
calling, "Comrade! Little comrade!"
But there was no reply. The rooms were empty, one and all.
Half-suffocated, palsied with despair, he reeled back to the room where
he had left her, and stared about it. Could he be mistaken? No; there
was the bucket, the bandages----
But what was that dark stain in the middle of the white, sanded floor.
He drew close and looked at it. It was blood.
Still staring, he backed away. Blood--whose blood? Not hers! Not his
little comrade's!
And suddenly his strength fell from him; he staggered, dropped to his
knees----
This was the end, then--this was the end. There on the settle was where
she had lain; it was there she had drawn him down for that last caress;
and the letters,--ah, they would never be delivered now! But at least he
could die there, with his head where hers had been.
Blinded, choking, he dragged himself forward--here was the place!
"Little comrade!" he murmured. "Little comrade!"
And he fell forward across the settle, his face buried in his arms.