A TRUST FULFILLED
When Stewart opened his eyes again it was to find himself looking up
into a good-humored face, which he did not at first recognize. It was
brown and dirty, there was a three-days' growth of beard upon cheeks and
chin, and a deep red scratch across the forehead, but the eyes were
bright and the lips smiling, as of a man superior to every fortune--and
then he recognized the little Belgian captain whose troops had defended
the village.
Instantly memory surged back upon him--memory bitter and painful. He
raised his head and looked about him. He was lying under a clump of
trees not far from the bank of a little stream, along which a company of
Belgian soldiers were busy throwing up intrenchments.
"Ah, so you are better!" said the captain, in his clipped French, his
eyes beaming with satisfaction. "That is good! A little more of that
smoke, and it would have been all over with you!" and he gestured toward
the eastern horizon, above which hung a black and threatening cloud.
Stewart pulled himself to a sitting posture and stared for a moment at
the cloud as it billowed in the wind. Then he passed his hand before his
eyes and stared again. And suddenly all his strength seemed to go from
him and he lay quietly down again.
"So bad as that!" said the officer, sympathetically, struck by the
whiteness of his face. "And I have nothing to give you--not a swallow of
wine--not a sip!"
"It will pass," said Stewart, hoarsely. "I shall be all right presently.
But I do not understand French very well. Do you speak English?"
"A lit-tle," answered the other, and spoke thereafter in a mixture of
French and English, which Stewart found intelligible, but which need not
be indicated here.
"Will you tell me what happened?" Stewart asked, at last.
"Ah, we drove them out!" cried the captain, his face gleaming. "My men
behaved splendidly--they are brave boys, as you yourself saw. We made
it--how you say?--too hot for the Germans; but we could not remain. They
were pushing up in force on every side, and they had set fire to the
place. So we took up our wounded and fell back. At the last moment, I
happen to remember that I had seen you dodging along the street in face
of the German fire, so I look for you in this house and in that. At last
I find you in a room full of smoke, lying across a bench, and I bring
you away. Now we wait for another attack. It will come soon--our scouts
have seen the Germans preparing to advance. Then we fight as long as we
can and kill as many as we can, and then give back to a new position.
That, over and over again, will be our part in this war--to hold them
until France has time to strike. But I pity my poor country," and his
face grew dark. "There will be little left of her when those barbarians
have finished. They are astounded that we fight, that we dare oppose
them; they are maddened that we hold them back, for time means
everything to them. They revenge themselves by burning our villages and
killing defenseless people. Ah, well, they shall pay! Tell me, my
friend," he added, in another tone, "why did you risk death in that
reckless fashion? Why did you kneel beside that bench?"
"It was there I left my comrade," Stewart answered, brokenly, his face
convulsed. "She was wounded--she could not walk--I was too exhausted to
carry her--I went to look for a cart--for an ambulance--I had scarcely
taken a step, when the Germans swept over the barricade and into the
town. When I got back to the house where I had left her, she was not
there."
"Ah," said the other, looking down at Stewart, thoughtfully. "It was a
woman, then?"
"Yes."
"Your wife?"
"She had promised to become my wife," and Stewart looked at the other,
steadily.
"You are an American, are you not?"
"Yes--I have my passport."
"And Madame--was she also an American?"
"No--she was a Frenchwoman. She was shot twice in the leg as we ran
toward your barricade--seriously--it was quite impossible for her to
walk. But when I got back to the house, she was not there. What had
happened to her?"
His companion gazed out over the meadows and shook his head.
"You looked in the other rooms?" he asked.
"Everywhere--all through the house--she was not there! Ah, and I
remember now," he added, struggling to a sitting posture, his face more
livid, if possible, than it had been before. "There was a great
bloodstain on the floor that was not there when I left her. How could it
have got there? I cannot understand!"
Again the officer shook his head, his eyes still on the billowing smoke.
"It is very strange," he murmured.
"I must go back!" cried Stewart. "I must search for her!" and he tried
to rise.
The other put out a hand to stop him, but drew it back, seeing it
unnecessary.
"Impossible!" he said. "You see, you cannot even stand!"
"I have had nothing to eat since yesterday," Stewart explained. "Then
only some eggs and apples. If I could get some food----"
He broke off, his chin quivering helplessly, as he realized his
weakness. He was very near to tears.
"Even if you could walk," the other pointed out, "even if you were quite
strong, it would still be impossible. The Germans have burned the
village; they are now on this side of it. If Madame is still alive, she
is safe. Barbarians as they are, they would not kill a wounded woman!"
"Oh, you don't know!" groaned Stewart. "You don't know! They would kill
her without compunction!" and weakness and hunger and despair were too
much for him. He threw himself forward on his face, shaken by great
sobs.
The little officer sat quite still, his face very sad. There was no
glory about war--that was merely a fiction to hold soldiers to their
work; it was all horrible, detestable, inhuman. He had seen brave men
killed, torn, mutilated; he had seen inoffensive people driven from
their homes and left to starve; he had seen women weeping for their
husbands and children for their fathers; he had seen terror stalk across
the quiet countryside--famine, want, despair----
The paroxysm passed, and Stewart gradually regained his self-control.
"You will, of course, do as you think best," said his companion, at
last; "but I could perhaps be of help if I knew more. How do you come to
be in these rags? Why was Madame dressed as a man? Why should the
Germans kill her? These are things that I should like to know--but you
will tell me as much or as little as you please."
Before he was well aware of it, so hungry was he for comfort, Stewart
found himself embarked upon the story. It flowed from his lips so
rapidly, so brokenly, as poignant memory stabbed through him, that more
than once his listener stopped him and asked him to repeat. For the
rest, he sat staring out at the burning village, his eyes bright, his
hands clenched.
And when the story was over, he arose, faced the east, and saluted
stiffly.
"_Madame!_" he said--and so paid her the highest tribute in a soldier's
power.
Then he sat down again, and there was a moment's silence.
"What you have told me," he said, slowly, at last, "moves me beyond
words! Believe me, I would advance this instant, I would risk my whole
command, if I thought there was the slightest chance of rescuing that
intrepid and glorious woman. But there is no chance. That village is
held by at least a regiment."
"What could have happened?" asked Stewart, again. "Where could she have
gone?"
"I cannot imagine. I can only hope that she is safe. Most probably she
has been taken prisoner. Even in that case, there is little danger that
she will ever be recognized."
"But why should they take prisoner a wounded civilian?" Stewart
persisted. "I cannot understand it--unless----"
His voice died in his throat.
"Unless what?" asked the officer, turning on him quickly. "What is it
you fear?"
"Unless she _was_ recognized!" cried Stewart, hoarsely.
But the other shook his head.
"If she had been recognized--which is most improbable--she would not
have been taken prisoner at all. She would have been shot where she
lay."
And then again that dark stain upon the floor flashed before Stewart's
eyes. Perhaps that had really happened. Perhaps that blood was hers!
"It is the suspense!" he groaned. "The damnable suspense!"
"I know," said the other, gently. "It is always the missing who cause
the deepest anguish. One can only wait and hope and pray! That is all
that you can do--that and one other thing."
"What other thing?" Stewart demanded.
"She intrusted you with a mission, did she not?" asked the little
captain, gently. "Living or dead, she would be glad to know that you
fulfilled it, for it was very dear to her. You still have the letters?"
Stewart thrust his hand into his pocket and brought them forth.
"You are right," he said, and rose unsteadily. "Where will I find
General Joffre?"
The other had risen, too, and was supporting him with a strong hand.
"That I do not know," he answered; "somewhere along the French frontier,
no doubt, mustering his forces."
Stewart looked about him uncertainly.
"If I were only stronger," he began.
"Wait," the little officer broke in. "I think I have it--I am expecting
instructions from our headquarters at St. Trond--they should arrive at
any moment--and I can send you back in the car which brings them. At
headquarters they will be able to tell you something definite, and
perhaps to help you." He glanced anxiously toward the east and then cast
an appraising eye over the intrenchments his troops had dug. "We can
hold them back for a time," he added, "but we need reënforcements badly.
Ah, there comes the car!"
A powerful gray motor spun down the road from the west, kicking up a
great cloud of dust, and in a moment the little captain had received his
instructions. He tore the envelope open and read its contents eagerly.
Then he turned to his men, his face shining.
"The Sixty-third will be here in half an hour!" he shouted. "We will
give those fellows a hot dose this time!"
His men cheered the news with waving shakos, then, with a glance
eastward, fell to work again on their trenches, which would have to be
extended to accommodate the reënforcements. Their captain stepped close
to the side of the purring car, made his report to an officer who sat
beside the driver, and then the two carried on for a moment a low-toned
conversation. More than once they glanced at Stewart, and the
conversation ended with a sharp nod from the officer in the car. The
other came hurrying back.
"It is all right," he said. "You will be at St. Trond in half an hour,"
and he helped him to mount into the tonneau.
For an instant Stewart stood there, staring back at the cloud of smoke
above the burning village; then he dropped into the seat and turned to
say good-by to the gallant fellow who had proved so true a friend.
The little soldier was standing with heels together, head thrown back,
hand at the visor of his cap.
"_Monsieur!_" he said, simply, as his eyes met Stewart's, and then the
car started.
Stewart looked back through a mist of tears, and waved his hand to that
martial little figure, so hopeful and indomitable. Should he ever see
that gallant friend again? Chance was all against it. An hour hence, he
might be lying in the road, a bullet through his heart; if not an hour
hence, then to-morrow or next day. And before this war was over, how
many others would be lying so, arms flung wide, eyes staring at the
sky--just as those young Germans had lain back yonder!
He thrust such thoughts away. They were too bitter, too terrible. But as
his vision cleared, he saw on every hand the evidence of war's
desolation.
The road was thronged with fugitives--old men, women, and
children--fleeing westward away from their ruined homes, away from the
plague which was devastating their land. Their faces were vacant with
despair, or wet with silent tears. For whither could they flee? Where
could they hope for food and shelter? How could their journey end, save
at the goal of death?
The car threaded its way slowly among these heart-broken people, passed
through silent and deserted villages, by fields of grain that would
never be harvested, along quiet streams which would soon be red with
blood; and at last it came to St. Trond, and stopped before the
town-hall, from whose beautiful old belfry floated the Belgian flag.
"If you will wait here, sir," said the officer, and jumped to the
pavement and hurried up the steps.
So Stewart waited, an object of much curiosity to the passing crowd.
Other cars dashed up from time to time, officers jumped out with
reports, jumped in again with orders and dashed away. Plainly, Belgium
was not dismayed even in face of this great invasion. She was fighting
coolly, intelligently, with her whole strength.
And then an officer came down the steps, sprang to the footboard of the
machine, and looked at Stewart.
"I am told you have a message," he said.
"Yes."
"I am a member of the French staff. Can you deliver it to me?"
"I was told to deliver it only to General Joffre."
"Ah! in that case----"
The officer caught his lower lip between the thumb and little finger of
his left hand, as if in perplexity. So naturally was it done that for an
instant Stewart did not recognize the sign; then, hastily, he passed his
left hand across his eyes.
The officer looked at him keenly.
"Have we not met before?" he asked.
"In Berlin; on the twenty-second," Stewart answered.
The officer's face cleared, and he stepped over the door into the
tonneau.
"I am at your service, sir," he said. "First you must rest a little, and
have some clean clothes, and a bath and food. I can see that you have
had a hard time. Then we will set out."
An hour later, more comfortable in body than it had seemed possible he
could ever be again, Stewart lay back among the deep cushions of a
high-powered car, which whizzed southward along a pleasant road. He did
not know his destination. He had not inquired, and indeed he did not
care. But had he known Belgium, he would have recognized Landen and
Ramillies; he would have known that those high white cliffs ahead
bordered the Meuse; he would have seen that this pinnacled town they
were approaching was Namur.
The car was stopped at the city gate by a sentry, and taken to the
town-hall, where the chauffeur's papers were examined and verified. Then
they were off again, across the placid river and straight southward,
close beside its western bank. Stewart had never seen a more beautiful
country. The other shore was closed in by towering rugged cliffs, with a
white villa here and there squeezed in between wall and water or perched
on a high ledge. Sometimes the cliffs gave back to make room for a tiny,
red-roofed village; again they were riven by great fissures or pitted
with yawning chasms.
Evening came, and still the car sped southward. There were no evidences
here of war. As the calm stars came out one by one, Stewart could have
fancied that it was all a dream, but for that dull agony of the spirit
which he felt would never leave him--and for that strand of lustrous
hair which now lay warm above his heart--and which, alas! was all he had
of her!
Yes--there were the two letters which rustled under his fingers as he
thrust them into his pocket. He had looked at them more than once during
the afternoon, delighting to handle them because they had been hers,
imagining that he could detect on them the faint aroma of her presence.
He had turned them over and over, had slipped out the sheets of
closely-written paper, and read them through and through, hoping for
some clew to the identity of the woman he had lost. It was an added
anguish that he did not even know her name!
The letters did not help him. They contained nothing but innocent,
careless, light-hearted, impersonal gossip, written apparently by one
young woman to another. "My dear cousin," they were addressed, and
Stewart could have wept at the irony which denied him even her first
name. They were in English--excellent English--a little stiff,
perhaps--just such English as she had spoken--and the envelopes bore the
superscription, "Mrs. Bradford Stewart, Spa, Belgium." But so far as he
could see they had nothing to do with her--they were just a part of the
elaborate plot in which he had been entangled.
But what secret could they contain? A code? If so, it was very perfect,
for nothing could be more simple, more direct, more unaffected than the
letters themselves. A swift doubt swept over him. Perhaps, once in the
presence of the general, he would find that he had played the fool--that
there was nothing in these letters.
And yet a woman had risked her life for them. Face to face with death,
she had made him swear to deliver them. Well, he would keep his oath!
He was still very tired, and at last he lay back among the cushions and
closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
"_Halte là!_" cried a sharp voice.
The brakes squeaked and groaned as they were jammed down. Stewart,
shaken from his nap, sat up and looked about him. Ahead gleamed the
lights of a town; he could hear a train rumbling past along the river
bank.
There was a moment's colloquy between the chauffeur and a man in
uniform; a paper was examined by the light of an electric torch; then
the man stepped to one side and the car started slowly ahead.
The rumbling train came to a stop, and Stewart, rubbing his eyes, saw a
regiment of soldiers leaping from it down to a long, brilliantly-lighted
platform. They wore red trousers and long blue coats folded back in
front--and with a shock, Stewart realized that they were French--that
these were the men who were soon to face those gray-clad legions back
yonder. Then, above the entrance to the station, its name flashed into
view,--"Givet." They had passed the frontier--they were in France.
The car rolled on, crossed the river by a long bridge, and finally came
to a stop before a great, barn-like building, every window of which
blazed with light, and where streams of officers were constantly
arriving and departing.
At once a sentry leaped upon the footboard; again the chauffeur produced
his paper, and an officer was summoned, who glanced at it, and
immediately stepped back and threw open the door of the tonneau.
"This way, sir, if you please," he said to Stewart.
As the latter rose heavily, stiff with long sitting, the officer held
out his arm and helped him to alight.
"You are very tired, is it not so?" he asked, and still supporting him,
led the way up the steps, along a hall, and into a long room where many
persons were sitting on benches against the walls or slowly walking up
and down. "You will wait here," added his guide. "It will not be long,"
and he hurried away.
Stewart dropped upon a bench and looked about him. There were a few
women in the room--and he wondered at their presence there--but most of
its occupants were men, some in uniform, others in civilian dress of the
most diverse kinds, of all grades of society. Stewart was struck at once
by the fact that they were all silent, exchanging not a word, not even a
glance. Each kept his eyes to himself as if it were a point of honor so
to do.
Suddenly Stewart understood. These were agents of the secret service,
waiting to report to their chief or to be assigned to some difficult and
dangerous task. One by one they were summoned, disappeared through the
door, and did not return.
At last it was to Stewart the messenger came.
"This way, sir," he said.
Stewart followed him out into the hall, through a door guarded by two
sentries, and into a little room beyond a deep ante-chamber, where a
white-haired man sat before a great table covered with papers. The
messenger stood aside for Stewart to pass, then went swiftly out and
closed the door.
The man at the table examined his visitor with a long and penetrating
glance, his face cold, impassive, expressionless.
"You are not one of ours," he said, at last, in English.
"No, I am an American."
"So I perceived. And yet you have a message?"
"Yes."
"How came you by it?"
"It was intrusted to me by one of your agents who joined me at
Aix-la-Chapelle."
A sudden flame of excitement blazed into the cold eyes.
"May I ask your name?"
"Bradford Stewart."
The man snatched up a memorandum from the desk and glanced at it. Then
he sprang to his feet.
"Your pardon, Mr. Stewart," he said. "I did not catch your name--or, if
I did, my brain did not supply the connection, as it should have done.
My only excuse is that I have so many things to think of. Pray sit
down," and he drew up a chair. "Where is the person who joined you at
Aix?"
"I fear that she is dead," answered Stewart, in a low voice.
"Dead!" echoed the other, visibly and deeply moved. "Dead! But no, that
cannot be!" He passed his hand feverishly before his eyes. "I will hear
your story presently--first, the message. It is a written one?"
"Yes, in the form of two letters."
"May I see them?"
Stewart hesitated.
"I promised to deliver them only to General Joffre," he explained.
"I understand. But the general is very busy. I must see the letters for
a moment before I ask him for an audience."
Without a word, Stewart passed them over. He saw the flush of excitement
with which the other looked at them; he saw how his hand trembled as he
drew out the sheets, glanced at them, thrust them hastily back, and
touched a button on his desk.
Instantly the door opened and the messenger appeared.
"Inquire of General Joffre if he can see me for a moment on a matter of
the first importance," said the man. The messenger bowed and withdrew.
"Yes, of the first importance," he added, turning to Stewart, with
shining eyes. "Here are the letters--I will not deprive you, sir, of the
pleasure of yourself placing them in our general's hands. And it is to
him you shall tell your story."
The door opened and the messenger appeared.
"The general will be pleased to receive Monsieur at once," he said, and
stood aside for them to pass.
At the end of the hall was a large room crowded with officers. Beyond
this was a smaller room where six men, each with his secretary, sat
around a long table. At its head sat a plump little man, with white hair
and bristling white mustache, which contrasted strongly with a face
darkened and reddened by exposure to wind and rain, and lighted by a
pair of eyes incredibly bright.
He was busy with a memorandum, but looked up as Stewart and his
companion entered.
"Well, Fernande?" he said; but Stewart did not know till afterward that
the man at his side was the famous head of the French Intelligence
Department, the eyes and ears of the French army--captain of an army of
his own, every member of which went daily in peril of a dreadful death.
"General," said Fernande, in a voice whose trembling earnestness caused
every man present suddenly to raise his head, "I have the pleasure of
introducing to you an American, Mr. Bradford Stewart, who, at great
peril to himself, has brought you a message which I believe to be of the
first importance."
General Joffre bowed.
"I am pleased to meet Mr. Stewart," he said. "What is this message?"
"It is in these letters, sir," said Stewart, and placed the envelopes in
his hand.
The general glanced at them, then slowly drew out the enclosures.
"We shall need a candle," said Fernande; "also a flat dish of water."
One of the secretaries hastened away to get them. He was back in a
moment, and Fernande, having lighted the candle, took from his waistcoat
pocket a tiny phial of blue liquid, and dropped three drops into the
dish.
"Now we are ready, gentlemen," he said. "You are about to witness a most
interesting experiment."
He picked up one of the sheets, dipped it into the water, then held it
close to the flame of the candle.
Stewart, watching curiously, saw a multitude of red lines leap out upon
the sheet--lines which zigzagged this way and that, apparently without
meaning.
But to the others in the room they seemed anything but meaningless. As
sheet followed sheet, the whole staff crowded around the head of the
table, snatching them up, holding them to the light, bending close to
decipher minute writing. Their eyes were shining with excitement, their
hands were trembling; they spoke in broken words, in bits of sentences.
"The enceinte----"
"Oh, a new bastion here at the left----"
"I thought so----"
"Three emplacements----"
"But this wall is simply a mask--it would present no difficulties----"
"This position could be flanked----"
It was the general himself who spoke the final word.
"This is the weak spot," he pointed out, his finger upon the last sheet
of all. Then he turned to Stewart, his eyes gleaming. "Monsieur," he
said, "I will not conceal from you that these papers are, as Fernande
guessed, of the very first importance. Will you tell us how they came
into your possession?"
And Stewart, as briefly as might be, told the story--the meeting at Aix,
the arrest at Herbesthal, the flight over the hills, the passage of the
Meuse, the attack on the village--his voice faltering at the end despite
his effort to control it.
At first, the staff had kept on with its examination of the plans, but
first one and then another laid them down and listened.
For a moment after he had finished, they sat silent, regarding him. Then
General Joffre rose slowly to his feet, and the members of his staff
rose with him.
"Monsieur," he said, "I shall not attempt to tell you how your words
have moved me; but on behalf of France I thank you; on her behalf I give
you the highest honor which it is in her power to bestow." His hand went
to his buttonhole and detached a tiny red ribbon. In a moment he had
affixed it to Stewart's coat. "The Legion, monsieur!" he said, and he
stepped back and saluted.
Stewart, a mist of tears before his eyes, his throat suddenly
contracted, looked down at the decoration, gleaming on his lapel like a
spot of blood.
"It is too much," he protested, brokenly. "I do not deserve----"
"It is the proudest order in the world, monsieur," broke in the general,
"but it is not too much. You have done for France a greater thing than
you perhaps imagine. Some day you will know. Not soon, I fear," and his
face hardened. "We have other work to do before we can make use of these
sheets of paper. You saw the German army?"
"Yes, sir; a part of it."
"It is well equipped?"
"It seemed to me irresistible," said Stewart. "I had never imagined such
swarms of men, such tremendous cannon----"
"We have heard something of those cannon," broke in the general. "Are
they really so tremendous?"
"I know nothing about cannon," answered Stewart; "but----" and he
described as well as he could the three monsters he had seen rolling
along the road toward Liège.
His hearers listened closely, asked a question or two----
"I thank you again," said the general, at last. "What you tell us is
most interesting. Is there anything else that I can do for you? If there
is, I pray you to command me."
Stewart felt himself shaken by a sudden convulsive trembling.
"If I could get some news," he murmured, brokenly, "of--of my little
comrade."
General Joffre shot him a quick glance. His face softened, grew tender
with comprehension.
"Fernande," he said.
Fernande bowed.
"Everything possible shall be done, my general," he said. "I promise it.
We shall not be long without tidings."
"Thank you," said Stewart. "That is all, I think."
"And you?"
"I? Oh, what does it matter!" And then he turned, fired by a sudden
remembrance of a great white tent, of loaded ambulances. "Yes--there is
something I might do. I am a surgeon. Will France accept my services?"
"She is honored to do so," said the general, quickly. "I will see that
it is done. Until to-morrow--I will expect you," and he held out his
hand, while the staff came to a stiff salute.
"Until to-morrow," repeated Stewart, and followed Fernande to the door.
As he passed out, he glanced behind him. The members of the staff were
bending above those red-lined sheets, their faces shining with
eagerness----
The officers in the outer room, catching sight of the red ribbon,
saluted as he passed. The sentry in the hall came stiffly to attention.
But Stewart's heart was bitter. Honor! Glory! What were they worth to
him alone and desolate----
"Monsieur!" It was Fernande's voice, low, vibrant with sympathy. "You
will pardon me for what I am about to say--but I think I understand. It
was not alone for France you did this thing--it was for that 'little
comrade,' as you have called her, so brave, so loyal, so indomitable
that my heart is at her feet. Is it not so?"
He came a step nearer and laid a tender hand on Stewart's arm.
"Do not despair, I beg of you, my friend. She is not dead--it is
impossible that she should be dead! Fate could not be so cruel. With her
you shared a few glorious days of peril, of trial, and of ecstasy--then
you were whirled apart. But only for a time. Somewhere, sometime, you
will find her again, awaiting you. I know it! I feel it!"
But it was no longer Fernande that Stewart heard--it was another voice,
subtle, delicate, out of the unknown----
His bosom lifted with a deep, convulsive breath.
"You are right!" he whispered. "I, too, feel it!
Sometime--somewhere----"
And his trembling fingers sought that tress of lustrous hair, warm above
his heart.