cigarette over in his fingers.
"Made in Cairo, monsieur?" he said.
"Yes, it is a privilege of us airmen to levy upon the enemy. Refugees
have no need to smoke. With the airman it is a necessity--it steadies
the nerves."
"True. And they make good cigarettes in Cairo." He lit the cigarette
from an automatic lighter. "The Englishman looks frightened."
"He expects to be killed, I suppose, not knowing our German humanity.
But you will excuse me, monsieur, if I examine the English aeroplane.
It will come in useful."
Burton returned to the machine, and, after feigning to examine it,
proceeded to plaster the crack with nervous haste. The Turk had
followed him, and, remaining in the saddle, watched his operations with
much interest.
"It was this injury that caused the Englishmen to descend," Burton
explained. "German bullets never fail."
"An English bullet was more successful, however," said the officer,
glancing at the dead pilot.
"Not more successful, surely, monsieur. We have scores of good pilots,
we can replace every man that falls; but the English cannot afford to
lose a single machine. And do not our German newspapers tell us that
they have hardly any left? The earth is the Kaiser's; the sea is his;
the air is his also. Turkey will flourish again in German air."
Having filled up the crack, Burton proceeded to pour petrol into the
tank.
"This fellow-countryman of mine?" he said.
"He will be here soon, no doubt. He is a trifle stout, and a poor
horseman. Consequently he travels slowly. When he saw the aeroplanes
descending he insisted on our pushing on to render assistance to his
fellow-countrymen. He cannot miss the track, there is only one. But he
should be in sight."
The Turk looked backward over the track, then saying, "Excuse me," he
wheeled his horse and began to trot towards the knoll. Burton had by no
means completed the replenishment of the tank. He felt that something
must be done.
"Monsieur le capitaine!" he shouted.
The Turk pulled up. Burton went towards him with an air of mystery.
"Your men are at fault, monsieur," he said. "It would be a pity to let
the Englishman escape, and you have no time to waste. Perhaps if I show
the way!"
He walked on up the knoll, the Turk riding by his side.
"There, monsieur, you see that big tree on the far side of the bay? If
you do not find the fugitive thereabout you won't find him anywhere."
The Turk hesitated. Perhaps he was considering whether it comported
with an elderly captain's dignity to take a personal part in the search.
Burton eyed him anxiously, hoping that he would go, meet the approaching
German, and take him with him. The pause was brief. The temptation to
catch a live Englishman overbore all considerations of dignity. With a
word of thanks to Burton the Turk cantered on towards the big tree.
Burton breathed again. He hurried back to the seaplane.
"Slip the knots, Dick," he said, "but don't get up. I'll give you the
word. I hope I've got rid of the Turk for a while."
He was in the act of pouring petrol into the tank when a figure appeared
from round the western base of the knoll. It was a big
Sancho-Panza-like person, mounted on a mule.
"Great Scott!" murmured Burton.
Dropping the empty tin, he hastened to the aviatik for another.
"I say, Dick, do you recognise that fellow?" he asked.
"Christopoulos!" Hunter whispered.
"As large as life! What on earth are we to do? He will recognise us
directly, even if he hasn't done so already."
"Shoot him and scoot!"
"I haven't enough petrol yet. The tank still leaks, though not so
badly, and if we shoot, the Turks will swarm up before I can fill up and
get away. I think I had better go on with the job, let him come up, and
trust to luck."
Keeping his back to the pseudo-Greek, Burton carried another tin to the
seaplane. Before he had emptied it into the tank the spy came within
hailing distance and let out a jovial greeting in German. No doubt he
had recognised the German airman's cap, and, without misgiving, hailed
his supposed compatriot.
"Good-morning, my friend," he shouted. "I congratulate you. Another
German victory!"
Burton, his back still towards the spy, finished pouring out the petrol,
and placed the tin on the ground. As he straightened himself he
discreetly drew his revolver and suddenly turned round. The spy was now
within half a dozen paces of him.
"Thank you, Mr. Christopoulos," he said. "Another victory--but not a
German victory. We shall presently see who is to be congratulated.
Meanwhile, you will dismount."
The German, who had reined up at the first glance at Burton's face,
turned a sickly colour and half-opened his mouth as if to shout.
"Silence!" cried Burton peremptorily. "If you make the slightest sound I
will shoot you on the spot."
He held his revolver carelessly in his left hand, not pointing it at the
German lest any of the Turks should come within view. The spy showed
more alacrity than skill in dismounting. He clumsily clambered from his
saddle, without daring to turn his head in the direction of the Turks,
who could now be heard calling to one another beyond the knoll. Burton
went up to him.
[Illustration: NONPLUSSED]
"Hand over your revolver," he said.
"I haven't got----" the spy was beginning. Burton cut him short.
"No nonsense! Hand it over. Quick. At the word 'three' I fire.
One--two----"
With an agonised look the German made a dive for his revolver. Burton
took it with his right hand before it was released from the spy's tight
pocket. From a distance they might have appeared to be shaking hands.
Burton had been rapidly casting about for a means of disposing of the
German. He could not shoot him in cold blood; there might perhaps be
time to tie him up, but he would then still be able to convey to the
Turkish headquarters the information he had gathered at Tenedos. That
must certainly be prevented. There was only one thing to be done: they
must take him with them.
Just as Burton had reached this conclusion, a Turk appeared on the
knoll.
"Come with me," said Burton sternly.
The German accompanied him to the seaplane. He might be supposed to be
indulging his curiosity. Standing between him and the knoll, Burton
said--
"You are interested in aviation. Seat yourself on the right-hand
float."
The spy made as if to turn round. Burton lifted his revolver.
"Don't waste time," he said.
With a groan the spy sat on the spot indicated.
Burton seized the strap that bound him to his seat, and rapidly tied the
German to the upright connecting the float with the body of the
seaplane, calling to Hunter--who, still lying on the ground, had watched
these proceedings with excitement--to cover the spy with his revolver.
The prisoner had hardly been secured when the Turkish captain cantered
over the knoll, followed by two or three men.
"Now, Dick!" cried Burton.
Hunter sprang up and rushed to his place.
"Not there!" said Burton. "Get on to the left-hand float to balance the
machine."
Meanwhile he had started the engine, in desperate anxiety lest it should
not have gathered momentum before the Turks came up. The spy had heard
the thudding of their horses' hoofs as they, seeing the supposed English
prisoner spring up, galloped down the knoll. Turning his head, he let
out a frenzied shout. But it was too late. Burton had vaulted into his
seat, and, just three seconds before the amazed and furious Turks
reached the brink of the water, the seaplane was skimming the surface.
The spy was now filling the air with his frantic cries. Burton
afterwards said it was like the booming of a buzzard. The Turks
dismounted, and from the edge of the lake fired at the fast-receding
machine. One or two shots pierced the planes, and from a shrill cry of
terror from the German, Burton supposed that he had been hit. But he was
too busy to think of him. Forcing the engine to the utmost he was
already manipulating the elevator. The machine rose steadily. At the
first possible moment Burton swung it round to the west. In a minute or
two he crossed the Maritza. Climbing ever higher, he shifted his course
a point or two to the south, and within twenty minutes the machine
swooped down beside the cruiser, a few miles out in the bay, and a
number of laughing bluejackets hastened to assist two dripping objects
to climb on board.
[Illustration: A discomfited spy]
IV
The cruiser made all speed back to Tenedos. There the spy, a forlorn,
chapfallen individual, was taken ashore under an escort of marines.
Within a short time a drum-head court-martial was constituted. Papers
found on the prisoner left no doubt of his occupation; his protest that
he was a subject of King Constantine availed him nothing. When the
sentence had been pronounced, he recovered his courage and confessed
himself a German, and it was as a German soldier that he paid the final
penalty.
Burton's exploit was reported to the Admiralty, and some weeks later,
when he returned one evening from reconnoitring the Turkish trenches
after the landing on the Gallipoli peninsula had been so magnificently
accomplished, he was welcomed with the news that he had been awarded the
Distinguished Service Medal by the King.
[Illustration: Chapter IV Heading]
THE WATCH TOWER
I
A rough, lumbering ox-cart was crawling slowly up a steep winding
hill-track in Southern Macedonia. The breath of the two panting oxen
formed steam-clouds in the frosty air; slighter wreaths of vapour clung
about the heads of the two persons who trudged along beside them. One
was an old man, tall, broad, and vigorous, his hair straggling beneath
his fur cap, his long white beard stiff with the ice of his congealed
breath. The other was a boy, whose face, ruddy with health and cold,
showed scantly under a similar cap much too large for him, and above a
conglomeration of warm wrappings reaching to his feet and giving him the
appearance of a moving bundle, thick and shapeless.
"I am tired, grandfather," murmured the boy, pausing at the foot of a
steep ascent.
"Tchk!" the old man ejaculated, emitting a puff of white breath which
the north-east wind from behind carried over the head of the nearest ox.
"Put your shoulder to the wheel, Marco. Show yourself worthy of your
name."
The boy obediently went round the cart and set his shoulder to the heavy
wooden wheel on the off side. His grandfather shoving at the other,
they helped the labouring oxen to drag the vehicle up the ascent, and
then stopped to rest.
"That was well done, little son," said a woman of some thirty years,
sitting in the forepart of the cart. She handed the boy a cake. Behind
her the cart was piled high with bits of furniture and bundles of
household gear. The boy seated himself on a rock and nibbled his cake.
The oxen moved their heads about as if in search of provender.
Straightening his tall form, the old man turned his back, and in the
full blast of the bitter wind scanned the country to the north-east. A
faint boom sounded far away in that direction. The woman started.
"Do you see anything, Father?" she asked, anxiously.
"Nothing, Nuta. But we must on. It will be two hours or more before we
can call ourselves safe."
Smacking the heaving flank of the near-side ox, he set the beasts in
motion, and the cart creaked and jolted on over the rough track. This
was lightly covered with snow, which showed traces of those other
travellers who in this December of 1915 had journeyed over the same
route. Snow lay deeper in the hollows on either side, and on the
heights in the distance. It was a bleak and desolate landscape, its
rugged features somewhat softened, however, by the blanket of snow. Here
and there dark patches stood out in the surrounding white, representing
bushes or trees; but there was no house or cottage, no sign of life.
Old Marco, a small Serbian landed proprietor, had postponed his flight
from before the invading Bulgars until all the other inhabitants of his
village had departed. To the last he had hoped that the French and
British forces would arrive in time to save him. His son was away
fighting, as were all the men from the little estate. Having loaded all
his portable possessions on to the cart, he waited with his
daughter-in-law and grandson until the ever-approaching boom of guns
warned him that further delay would mean ruin, and then set off
southwards, to gain, if possible, protection from the Allied forces that
were said to be retreating on Salonika.
The old man's pride was wounded. He traced his descent from that Marco
Kralevich who, towards the end of the fourteenth century, struggled to
maintain the independence of Serbia against the Turks, and whose name
and knightly prowess live to-day in song and story. He had never tired
of relating to young Marco the heroic deeds of his great ancestor, and
it cut him to the heart that he was compelled, in the wreck of his
country's fortunes, to abandon the homestead where he had kept alive the
traditions of Serbian valour. Even now, old as he was, he would have
borne a part in the national struggle but for the claims of his dear
ones upon his protection.
The cart lumbered slowly on. From time to time the old man glanced
anxiously behind, appealing to the boy--did he see anything moving
there, or there? On one such occasion, when they stopped to rest
themselves and the oxen, and the old man was looking to the rear, young
Marco suddenly pricked up his ears, and stood intently listening.
"A strange sound, Grandfather," he said. "Where?"
The boy nodded towards the east. "What is it?"
"Like the hum of a bee far away."
The old man came to the boy's side and listened.
"I cannot hear it," he said after a few moments, adding impatiently,
"Tchk! This is not the time of bees."
"But I hear it still," persisted Marco. "It is louder."
He looked around, puzzled to account for the unaccustomed sound.
"I hear nothing," said his mother.
"Look!" he cried, pointing excitedly into the grey sky.
The eyes of his elders followed his outstretched hand, but they saw
nothing.
"It has gone," sighed the boy after a little. "But I did see something.
Perhaps it was an eagle. I think it flew just behind the hills there."
His eyes ranged the horizon, where the rugged line of white indented the
sky. A spot of blue appeared in the pale vault, and a ray of sunlight
trickled through.
"Look!" cried Marco again, stretching out his hand this time to the
north. "There is something moving on the snow."
The old man gazed northward, rubbed his eyes, shook his head.
"Can you see anything, Nuta?" he asked.
"Dark specks, miles and miles away--yes, Father, they are moving. There
are more of them. They are like ants."
"The Bulgars!" muttered the old man. "Come, we must haste."
Returning to the cart, he whipped up the oxen, and the patient beasts,
heaving their load out of the drift into which its wheels had settled,
hauled it, creaking and groaning, towards the brightening south.
II
Meanwhile, in a broad gully not far away, a different scene was being
enacted.
Across the gully lay the tangled ruins of a biplane. From the midst of
the wreckage crawled a long figure, in the overalls, helmet, and goggles
of a member of the Flying Corps. His goggles had been partially
displaced, and lay askew upon his nose. There were spots of blood,
already frozen, upon his cheek. His movements were slow and painful, and
when, having emerged from the shapeless mass of metal and canvas, he
tried to stand erect, he reeled, saved himself from falling by an
effort, and dropping upon an adjacent rock, rubbed his eyes, groaned,
and sat as one dazed.
His immobility lasted only a few moments. Staggering to his feet, his
features twisted with pain, he walked unsteadily to the ruins of the
aeroplane.
"Enderby, old chap," he called, bending down.
There was no answer.
Swiftly he pulled away the broken wires and fragments of the shattered
framework, beneath which the form of his companion was pinned, then
knelt and laid his finger on the wrist of the unconscious man.
"Thank Heaven!" he murmured.
Taking a flask from his pocket he poured a few drops of liquid between
the half-open lips, then lifted the man carefully out of the wreckage
and laid him down on the slope. Upon his brow he placed a little snow;
he repeated his medicinal dose, and watched anxiously. It was some
minutes before the eyelids opened, only to close again as a spasm of
pain distorted the injured man's features.
"Where is it, old man?" asked Burton.
"My leg."
The answer came faintly.
"It doesn't hurt you to breathe?"
Enderby shook his head.
"Arms all right?"
And when Enderby had lifted them one after the other, Burton placed the
flask in his comrade's right hand.
"Take another pull at that while I have a look at you," he said.
Removing the puttees and cutting away the stocking beneath, Burton saw
that his friend's right leg was broken. He felt him all over, causing
him to wince now and then as he touched a bruise. There was no other
serious injury.
"Your leg's badly crocked, old man; but I'm jolly glad it's no worse.
When that shell winged us I made sure our number was up."
"What about you?"
"I'm just one compound ache--must be bruised from top to toe. Our
luck's out to-day. Just clench your teeth while I see what I can do in
first aid. The machine's smashed to smithereens. How I'm to get you
back to the M.O. beats me."
"Whereabouts are we?"
"Somewhere in Macedonia! In a gully, with hills all round, not a living
thing in sight. I hoped we'd be able to flutter back to our lines, but
it wasn't to be. Our troops must be miles away, and getting farther
every minute, worse luck! What fate dogs us, that we must always be
retreating? Ah! that made you squirm; sorry, old man, but you'll be
easier now."
He had bound up the leg, and now brushed away the beads of sweat which
the exertion, in his own sorry state, had brought out upon his brow.
"Now, look here, Enderby," he said, "the best thing I can do is to
trudge off after our men and get a machine to bring you in. And the
sooner I start, the better. You ought to be safe enough here. You're
well hidden; the Bulgars' advance won't bring them past this spot,
there's no road. But if I lose any time they'll be somewhere in the
neighbourhood before a machine could arrive, and then it'll be hopeless.
I'll rummage out some food from our wreck, and leave you that and my
flask----"
"You'd better take it; you've a long tramp before you, and may come
across some advance patrols of the Bulgars for all you know.
Besides----"
He paused. Both men pricked up their ears simultaneously. Each looked
an anxious inquiry at the other. From somewhere not far away came a
rhythmic sound--a succession of strident, scraping sounds--which in a
moment they recognised as the creaking of a cart.
Neither man spoke. Burton stole down the gully, and round the shoulder
of a hill in the direction of the sound, which grew louder as he went.
Apprehensive that his plans for the rescue of his friend were already
defeated, he peered cautiously round the corner of rock. He beheld a
rough hill-track winding upwards from right to left across his front.
Some distance to the right another track ran into the first, skirting a
spur from a north-westerly direction. Nothing was visible on either
track, but the regular monotonous creaking of the cart was drawing
nearer.
Burton drew back behind a rock and waited. Presently, from round one of
the innumerable bends and twists in the main track, appeared the great
heads of two oxen yoked together; then a woman's form came into view,
perched on the forepart of a heavily laden cart; last of all, tramping
in the rear, a tall old man, and, by his side, a boy whose head reached
scarcely higher than his elbow.
The watcher breathed more freely. It was only a typical refugee party;
he had already seen hundreds like it toiling along the southward roads
to Salonika. There was nothing to fear here; on the contrary, it
suggested a means by which Captain Enderby might be at once removed,
without the delay that would be caused by his own going and coming.
The cart was creeping laboriously up towards him. When it was nearly
opposite, Burton stepped forth from his hiding-place. His sudden
appearance drew signs of momentary alarm. The woman stiffened; the old
man whipped out a revolver; the boy ran round in front of the cart, and
with a fierce expression, comical on his young face, stood before his
mother, drawing from his belt a knife.
Burton threw out his hands and called out that he was an Englishman.
But even before he spoke the attitude of hostility had relaxed, the
woman had addressed a few words to the old man, and he had already
replaced his weapon. They had recognised that the stranger was neither
a Bulgar nor a German. Only the boy remained suspicious and alert,
stoutly gripping his knife.
The cart had stopped. Burton walked towards it. He had picked up a few
words of Greek during the eleven months he had spent in the East, and he
explained in that language that he was a friend and an Englishman.
Rather to his surprise the old man replied in French.
"Does monsieur speak French?"
The wall of nationality was down, and in the language of their common
ally the Serbian and the Englishman held a rapid colloquy. Presently
the old man turned to the boy.
"You were right, Marco," he said in his own tongue. "That thing you
heard humming like a bee, that thing you saw moving like an eagle, was
an English aeroplane. It has come to the ground and broken, struck by a
Bulgar's shell."
"Oh! let me see it," cried the boy, eagerly, forgetting all else in the
new object of excitement, slipping the knife back into his belt, and
moving away from the cart.
"Wait!" said his grandfather, peremptorily. He resumed his conversation
with Burton. There was anxiety, hesitancy in his air. He appeared to
be struggling with himself. "The enemy is not far behind," he said.
"We have far to go; every minute is precious." He looked nervously
along the track behind him, then seemed to question his daughter with
his eyes. She nodded. "Tchk!" he ejaculated. "I will do it. No true
Serb, monsieur, much less a descendant of Marco Kralevich, can refuse to
succour an ally of his nation. Show me the way."
Young Marco, to his disappointment, was left to guard the cart and to
keep a lookout. The old man hastened with Burton to the spot where
Captain Enderby lay beside the wreck of the aeroplane. As they went,
Burton caught sight of a square tower on a hill-top far away to the
south.
"What is that?" he asked.
"An old watch-tower," replied the Serb. "There are many such on high
points in different parts of the country."
Burton paused a moment to scan the solitary tower through his field
glasses, then resumed his course. On reaching the fallen man, the old
Serb at once set about placing the injured limb in splints formed out of
the wreckage, preparatory to carrying him back to the cart. He was
still thus engaged when Marco came running up the gully.
"Grandfather," he said, breathlessly, "a party of horsemen are coming up
the side track."
"How many are they, boy?"
"Ten or twelve. They are far away."
"I must go back," said the old man. "You will still be safe here."
"I will go with you," said Burton. "My glasses may be useful."
They followed the boy, who ran ahead, regained the cart, and went beyond
it to the point where the two tracks met. The sky had now cleared, and
the white-clad country glistened in the sunlight. Keeping under cover,
Burton peered through his glasses along the winding track. At first he
saw nobody, but presently a horseman came into sight round a bend,
followed closely by two more riding abreast. After a short interval,
another couple appeared, the first file of a party of ten, riding two by
two. They were still too far distant for Burton to distinguish anything
more than that they were in military uniform.
He told the old man what he had seen.
"Beyond doubt they are Bulgars," the Serb growled, drawing his fingers
through his beard, which the sunlight had thawed.
He stood silent for a little, his eyes fixed in thought, his hands
working nervously.
"They will overtake us," he said at length. "We must move the cart from
the track. Come, monsieur."