that the place was occupied. The sentry's faculties were numbed by the
cold, or he might have noticed that the even contour of the wall, some
few paces from him to the north, was broken by a dark protuberance which
had not been there in daylight. It might have been a buttress, except
that there were no buttresses on the outside of the wall. Astonished as
he must have been if he had observed it, he would have been still more
amazed had he been tramping his beat before the gate instead of cowering
from the icy blast. For the dark shape moved, imperceptibly, like the
hour hand of a clock, yet surely, and always towards him.
Within two paces of the gateway it suddenly stopped. The line of the
wall was no longer broken. There was nothing now for the sentry to see.
A few minutes passed. The sentry muttered, growled, stamped on the
ground. After all, he could not keep warm. He had sheltered his nose
and ears at the expense of his feet. Only movement could restore the
circulation of those chilled members. He picked up his rifle, came out
through the gateway, swung round to the right, and tramped along close
to the wall.
No sooner was his back turned than the dark shape that had remained
motionless at the foot of the wall glided swiftly up to and into the
gateway. The sentry turned at the end of his beat, and butted with
quick step against the bitter wind, approaching the gateway--and his
doom. He had just passed the opening when a few inches of steel glinted
in the starlight. There was a stifled groan, a sigh. The rightful
owner of the watch was avenged.
Three minutes later Milosh rejoined the little group that was waiting a
couple of hundred yards below.
"Well?" old Marco inquired in a whisper.
"It is well, old friend. The way is clear."
V
During the scout's absence, Burton had become acutely conscious of the
bruises which he had almost forgotten. He dreaded lest his aching body
should not be equal to the strain of a fight against odds. But he
resolutely turned his mind from his own condition, and set himself to
concert a plan of action with old Marco and Captain Enderby.
They decided that while the attack was proceeding Nuta should remain
with the cart. If it succeeded, she would be brought up to the tower;
if it failed, and the enemy made their appearance, the possession of
Captain von Hildenheim should serve as security for the safety of
herself and Enderby. A threat to shoot him would no doubt induce his
party to come to terms. The expression on the woman's face as she took
Enderby's revolver was sufficient guarantee that she would not fail in
the part assigned to her.
Five minutes after the return of Milosh the little party set off on
their adventurous enterprise.
"Good luck, old man!" said Enderby, as Burton took his leave. "Sorry I
can't be with you, but we'll meet again before long."
They stole up the road in single file, Milosh leading, followed by old
Marco, Burton, and the boy in succession. Reaching the wall, they crept
along its shadow to the gateway, noiselessly entered the enclosure, and,
after a swift glance around, sped towards the tower. The clank of
bridles and the pawing of hoofs did not alarm them; Milosh had already
explained that the horses had been placed in the large chamber that
formed the ground floor. To this there was no longer a door, but
through the vacant doorway came a faint glint of light.
At the entrance they halted, and peered in. Ranged along the wall to
the right stood the horses, which, scenting strangers, moved restlessly.
In the left corner the rays of a lamp fell through an open trap-door
above, lighting a rough wooden staircase. From the upper room came the
sound of voices mingled with snores. At the uneasy movements of the
horses the conversation ceased for a moment. A head appeared at the
edge of the trap-door, and a rough voice ordered the animals to be
quiet, as one might tell a dog to "lie down." Another voice from behind
sleepily asked a question. The first man replied, and withdrew from the
opening. Then the low-toned conversation was resumed.
There being but one entrance to the tower, and but one gateway in the
wall, the single sentry whom Milosh had disposed of had no doubt been
considered a sufficient guard; but old Marco had decided, leaving
nothing to chance, to post his grandson at the doorway, to keep watch
outside and give the alarm if any sudden interference should threaten.
The boy grasped manfully the revolver given him, and stood against the
wall out of the ray of light.
The others slipped silently across the room to the staircase. At its
foot they halted a moment, looking up towards the trap-door. The
staircase was clearly a rickety affair. Some of the treads were missing;
the handrail and balusters which had formerly edged it on the outer side
were now wholly removed. Signing to his companions to move carefully,
Milosh began to ascend.
At his first step there was an ominous creak, masked, however, by a
renewed stir among the horses. The old Serb and Burton followed in
turn, treading as lightly as they could. Milosh was half-way up when,
stepping over a gap, his foot came down heavily on the stair above, and
the timber emitted a loud groan. The voices above ceased; then a gruff
voice in the Bulgarian tongue muttered: "What was that?" Milosh hurried
his ascent. A shadow fell on the men below him; something had moved at
the edge of the trap-door. A cry of alarm ended in an inarticulate
gasp; for the second time that night a Serbian knife had taken toll of
the national enemy.
There was a loud shout from behind the fallen man, followed by confused
cries from the awakened sleepers. Regardless now of any noise they
might make the three men sprang up the remaining stairs. A shot rang
out as Milosh flung himself into the room, with Marco close behind him,
and when Burton stood upon the floor, he found himself in the thick of a
furious _melee_ that gave him no time to take in the scene.
Of the men in that upper room, only two had been awake--the Bulgarian
officer and one of the troopers. When their conversation was
interrupted by the sounds from below, the trooper had leant over to see
what was happening. It was he that had fallen to Milosh's knife. The
shot had been fired by the officer, and the other men, aroused by the
noise, had disengaged themselves from the horse rugs beneath which they
had been sleeping, and were now crowding in confusion to repel the
unexpected attack. Only half awake, some of them had not even seized
their arms. Behind them towered the bulky form of the second German
officer who had led them earlier in the day. He alone had his wits
about him. Shouting orders and curses, he threw a swift glance at the
three intruders, then sprang to the lamp hanging from a bracket on the
wall, and dashed it to the floor.
But this move, upon which he had calculated to assist the defence,
giving the men time to collect their sleep-dulled senses and regain the
advantage of numbers, turned in fact to their undoing. The darkness
lasted only an instant. Then Burton whipped out his electric torch.
The lamp had illuminated both parties alike; but now the electric beam
dazzled the eyes of the Bulgarians while leaving their assailants dim
and indistinct.
Burton could never afterwards clearly recall the incidents of the fight.
The hollow tower rang with shots, fierce shouts, and even more
significant cries. His one abiding impression was the Berserker fury of
old Marco. With knife in one hand and revolver in the other, the Serb
flung himself upon the foes, his stalwart form seeming to be everywhere
at once. Even his heroic ancestor could never have disposed of more of
the traditional enemy in equal time. Milosh fought with the fury
generated by his recent wrongs, accompanying every knife-thrust with a
yell of triumph. Some of the Bulgars threw themselves down, and tried
to crawl towards the trap-door. But Burton, holding his ground there,
cut off their escape, and while his torch lit up the scene for his
friends, he assisted them with his revolver whenever he could do so
without risk to them.
Long as it appeared to those engaged in it, the struggle was in reality
a short one. Taken unawares, the Bulgars were no match for their
assailants, nerved by desperate necessity. At the last, when the din
had somewhat diminished, Burton staggered under the impact of a large
form, and saved himself from being hurled down the staircase only by a
stiffening of the muscles and a dexterous back-throw over his thrust-out
knee. He stooped and grappled his fallen assailant.
"I surrender!" gurgled a panting voice in German.
The officer's revolver had slipped from his grasp at the moment when,
tripping over one of the Bulgars, he lurched against Burton. The latter
kicked it down the staircase. There was silence now in the upper room.
Burton flashed his torch around it. Marco and Milosh stood panting
above their prostrate foes. It seemed that of all the party only the
German officer was left alive. But the electric beam fell on one
shivering wretch cowering behind a trestle table in the far corner.
Milosh instantly dashed towards him, and Burton had much ado to persuade
the infuriated Serb that, the officer having surrendered, the fight was
now at an end. Old Marco had sunk to the floor, exhausted by his efforts
and his wounds, unheeded in the heat of the strife. The silence was
broken only by the champing and pawing of the frightened horses below.
Burton was tying up the prisoners, Milosh was collecting the arms of the
slain, when old Marco suddenly exclaimed--
"Monsieur, there are only eight!"
The words were scarcely out of his mouth when a shot rang out below, and
the boy's voice shouted an alarm. Leaving the others to complete his
work, Burton dashed down the staircase to the doorway, just in time to
see two men sprinting along beyond the wall in the direction of the
waiting cart. Young Marco babbled an explanation of their presence
excitedly in his own tongue, but Burton could not wait for explanations;
it was enough that two of the enemy's party had been outside the tower,
probably _en vedette_ to the south, and were now speeding towards the
north and their main body. No doubt they had heard the uproar, guessed
what had happened, and run off to carry the news.
Burton at once dashed after them, anxious about the safety of his
friends at the cart, even more than about the peril of the whole party
if the enemy's march should be hastened. Young Marco flew along at his
heels. But the fugitives had had too long a start. Even the beam of
the torch failed to discover them. Immediately after the torch flashed
there was the report of a revolver, and Burton ran at break-neck pace
down the rugged track. He came to the cart.
"Gone away!" cried Enderby.
"You're not hurt?"
"It was Nuta's revolver. We heard some one coming, but didn't know
whether friend or foe until you flashed your torch. Then I guessed.
But two men were just on us then; they swerved to avoid the cart, and
dashed away beyond us there. The woman was quick, but it was too dark
to aim, and I'm afraid they've both got clear."
"That's a pity. They'll report that we've got the tower, and the
Bulgars may swarm up in an hour or two. We must get you out of harm's
way."
He made signs to Marco that he wished the cart to be driven up at once.
The boy whipped up the oxen, and the vehicle lumbered away with
Hildenheim trudging disconsolately behind. At the gate in the wall they
met old Marco.
"Let the woman and the boy go on with your wounded friend," he said to
Burton. "They cannot help us; why should we endanger them? Moreover,
they would then save the goods in my cart."
"As you please," said Burton. "But you yourself will hold to your
agreement, and help us to check the enemy as long as we can?"
"Assuredly, and Milosh Nikovich will remain with me."
But when the matter was put to Nuta, she resolutely refused to leave the
old man.
"It is well, my daughter," he said, laying his hand on her shoulder.
"We will live or die together."
This being decided, they resolved to utilise the cart in the defence of
the position. The more valuable parts of its load were removed,
together with the British machine-gun, and carried into the tower. The
cart was then drawn across the gateway to block it up, and the oxen were
taken some distance away to the south, and tethered in a bush-covered
dell. Meanwhile Milosh had cleared the upper room, and made some effort
to obliterate the traces of the fray. There the party took up their
quarters. They were all utterly weary. It was perhaps unlikely that
the enemy would arrive before the morning, but Burton and the two Serbs
arranged to take turns at watching through the night. What preparations
could be made to meet an attack must be left until at least a partial
rest had restored their exhausted energies.
VI
There was little conversation during the night. Every member of the
party was so fatigued that, when not on watch, he slept heavily.
Enderby alone was wakeful, from the pain of his wounds, and he addressed
Burton only in occasional whispers, lest Hildenheim should overhear him.
The two German officers conversed in their own tongue, pitching their
voices low; but neither of the Englishmen understood German. At
intervals the distant boom of heavy guns indicated that a night attack
was in progress somewhere to the east.
Before daybreak Burton roused his companions. It was necessary to lay
their plans in readiness for the expected advance of the Bulgarian
troops. In company with old Marco, Burton took stock of their
resources. They had the weapons of their enemies--ten rifles with about
two thousand rounds of ammunition, three revolvers with thirty rounds
apiece, their own machine-gun with three ammunition belts. There was a
plentiful supply of provisions, but little fodder for the horses.
Burton was tempted to make good their escape while there was yet time;
but after a few moments' reflection he reverted to his purpose of
delaying the enemy's advance to the last minute of endurance. The
tower, commanding the narrow track, offered great advantages to the
defence; and guessing that the Bulgars' advance guard would consist of
cavalry unprovided with artillery, he hoped to be able to hold his own
until help arrived.
The first necessity was to inform the British general of the anticipated
flank attack.
"Your grandson can ride a horse?" he asked old Marco.
"Tchk! The boy sat a horse as soon as he could walk," replied the old
man, with a laugh.
"Then I want to send him with a note to our men. Will you instruct
him?"
He wrote in his pocket-book a note explaining that Captain Enderby,
wounded, with himself and two Serbians, both slightly wounded, were
holding a tower in the hills some ten miles south of Strumitza. They
expected to be attacked by a Bulgarian column moving south-west across
the hills to cut the British line of retreat, and would hold out as long
as possible. Their greatest need, if attacked in force, would be
ammunition; and he pointed out that the position would be hopeless
against artillery. Tearing the leaf out, he folded it, addressed it to
"Any British Officer," and gave it to Marco, who tucked it inside his
tunic. As soon as dawn glimmered the boy mounted one of the horses and
set off, disappearing into the mist.
"We had better take the horses out," Burton suggested. "They will only
hamper us here; besides, we may as well keep them alive if we can."
On old Marco agreeing, Milosh led the horses to the dell where the oxen
had been tethered overnight, tied them together, and hobbled them to
heavy fragments of rock. Meanwhile the others strengthened the cart
barricade, blocked up the entrance to the tower with stones, broken
timber, and other rubbish, and placed the machine-gun at a narrow window
commanding the track. Then Burton climbed the ladder leading to the top
of the tower, to examine the country through his glasses; but the heavy
white mist hid everything from view. Guns boomed incessantly; the
sounds were little louder than they had been in the night. It was clear
that the British retirement was being conducted without hurry.
When he came down he found that Nuta had got ready a meal for his party
and the three prisoners. With these latter, since his arrival at the
tower, he had had no conversation. Now, however, Captain von Hildenheim
addressed him.
"Major Schwartzkopf demands to know vat you do," he said. "Ze major
shpeak no English."
Burton glanced at the elder German, who stared at him with mingled
insolence and sullenness.
"Tell him that I hope before the day is out to hand him over to the
British provost-marshal," he said.
Hildenheim translated. The major gurgled out a rapid sentence.
"You mistake," Hildenheim went on. "Major Schwartzkopf vish to know vat
you do here."
"That is my business. If the major has patience he will see."
The Germans talked together, and Burton gathered from their smiles that
they supposed him ignorant of the Bulgarian advance, and flattered
themselves that the tables would soon be turned on him.
When breakfast was finished, Marco asked Burton to accompany him to the
chamber below.
"Twenty years ago," he said, "when I was here, we kept a few prisoners
in a cellar below the floor. Shall we not place our prisoners there
now, for safety's sake?"
"Let us have a look at it," Burton returned.
Scraping away the litter of hay, earth, and fragments of wood from a
corner of the floor, Marco disclosed a trap-door. They lifted this, and
Burton descended a short ladder, Marco following him with an improvised
torch. They found themselves in a shallow cellar, stuffy but dry.
"What is this?" exclaimed Marco, pointing to a number of small wooden
boxes ranged along one wall. "They were not here in my time."
The boxes were thickly covered with dust, and had evidently been long
undisturbed. Burton carefully prised up the lid of one of them.
"It is full of sticks of dynamite!" he said, astonished. "A strange
find, upon my word!"
[Illustration: "'A STRANGE FIND, UPON MY WORD!'"]
"And look!" added Marco. "There is a tunnel--that was not here either."
In one of the walls was an opening about four feet high. Entering this,
the two men groped their way along a straight tunnel just wide enough
for them to pass in single file.
"This must have been made by the Greeks when they held the tower," the
old man continued.
"For what purpose? There's nothing in it."
"But there is the dynamite in the cellar behind. I think the tunnel
must have been intended for a mine."
"To blow up something outside? Let us see in what direction it goes."
A glance at his compass showed him that the tunnel ran towards the
north-east.
"It is plain," said Marco. "Here at the end we may be standing beneath
the track. The Greeks intended to blow it up. I suppose the necessity
passed when the Turks retreated, and the dynamite was left here and
forgotten. Perhaps the Greeks who made the tunnel were killed in the
fighting afterwards."
"Well, this may be a lucky find for us. We must see if it does end
beneath the track."
Measuring his paces as they returned to the cellar, he went up, and
counted an equal number from the doorway of the tower, following the
direction of the tunnel as nearly as he could judge it. The
thirty-second pace brought him to the wall; there were still nine more
to take. At the forty-first he arrived at the centre of the track.
"You were right," he said; "the intention was clearly to have a means of
blowing up the track. As you say, an explosion just there would make it
impassable. This may be a lucky find for us, my friend. We must remove
the dynamite to the end of the tunnel, and make some sort of fuse."
They returned to the tower. It was now half-past nine, the mist was
thinning, and before taking in hand the preparation of the mine, Burton
thought it well to make another survey from the top of the tower. With
Marco he climbed the ladder. Even with the naked eye he was able to
see, winding like a serpent across the white plain, a long column of
troops, its rear merging into the mist. Through his glasses he
distinguished its composition. In advance of the main body of infantry
rode squadrons of cavalry. Here and there appeared files of pack-mules.
He handed the glasses to Marco, whose face gloomed as he watched the
unending stream.
"The mules carry mountain guns," he said. "That's bad. They are coming
on quickly, too. We shall not have time to prepare our mine."
But as they went down again, to make final preparations for meeting the
impending attack, an idea occurred to him. Taking Marco to the lower
floor, he said in English, loud enough to be heard by the prisoners
above--
"A bomb would blow us all to smithereens. I had no idea there was so
much dynamite there."
The Germans instantly rose to the bait. They could be heard in excited
discussion above. Waiting a few minutes to allow his words to produce
their full effect, Burton returned to the upper room. The officers
broke off their conversation and looked at him uneasily.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said Hildenheim at length, hesitatingly. "You
shpeak of dynamite?"
"I did, yes--there is a considerable quantity in the cellar below."
Looking very grave, Hildenheim translated to his companion, whose alarm
found vent in impassioned volubility.
"Major Schwartzkopf protests viz indignation," Hildenheim went on. "Ve
are prisoners--so; but ze law of nations do not permit zat prisoners be
confined in a place of danger."
"Danger, gentlemen! It was you who chose this place. What danger do
you anticipate?"
"Our allies ze Bulgars zis vay come. Not understand? Zey attack zis
place. Ve sit on high explosive below; ze Bulgars shoot high explosive
above; ve are blowed to--vat you call it?--schmiddereens!"
"Surely your allies love you too well; they will not subject you to such
risks."
"I know not so much about zat. Zey love us--yes; but if it is zeir duty
zey blow us up all ze same."
"We shall all be in the same boat, then. But perhaps you have something
to suggest?"
"It is ze law of nations zat you keep us safe."
"You are quite safe so far as we are concerned. Obviously I cannot
remove you. If your friends shell us--well!"
"But you can remove ze dynamite. You can take it out, inter it, shuck
it into--vat you call it?--a gully."
"We haven't time for that. But I have an idea. There is a long tunnel
leading from the cellar. If you and your companions care to carry the
dynamite to the farther end of the tunnel, it will be out of harm's way
so far as the tower is concerned."
"Zat is not ze vork of German officers."
"No; quite so. If I were you I wouldn't do it. But, as you may have
gathered, I intend to hold the tower as long as I can. Your cavalry is
already on the move. It will not be long before they attack. If you
care to remove the dynamite, you may stay in the cellar until--until I
fetch you out. Otherwise you will remain here."
The Germans consulted.
"Ze Herr Major agree, viz protest," said Hildenheim presently.
"Agrees! To what?"
"To move ze dynamite--vat you ask."
"I beg your pardon, I ask nothing. You will do as you please. I said
if I were you----"
"Ach! Ze Herr Major agree all ze same," interrupted Hildenheim,
eagerly.
"Very well."
The Germans struggled to their feet.
"You shall unbind our arms," said Hildenheim.
"When you are in the cellar. Watch your footing as you go down."
He preceded them down the stairs. When the three men were in the cellar
he left them his torch to work by, instructing them to carry the boxes
to the end of the tunnel.
It was necessary to devise a train for exploding the dynamite at the
pinch of necessity. Having no gunpowder this was a difficulty until
Marco hit on a method. He bade Nuta bring some cotton cloths and some
jars of grease that were among their belongings in the cart. The cloths
he asked her to tear up into thin strips, and then to soak thoroughly
with the grease. By knotting these strips together she could make, he
hoped, a match as long as the tunnel.