THE FUGITIVE
AT two o'clock on a bleak morning four men sat upon the trunk of a
fallen tree in the deep recesses of Tongby Woods. Rain was
descending in torrents, accompanied by a howling gale. The tree-tops
bent and groaned, and, although close to the ground the numerous
trunks formed a barrier to the furious wind, there was little
protection from the downpour, as the saturated state of the men's
clothes gave evidence to their respective wearers.
"We are now ten miles from Stresdale Camp," remarked one, speaking
in German. "Now we must separate."
"No, no, Otto," protested another. "Let us keep together. Without
you we are as good as lost."
Von Loringhoven shrugged his shoulders, cursing under his breath as
the movement resulted in a rivulet of rain-water trickling down his
neck.
"And with you I am as good as lost," he muttered _sotto voce_. "No,
Hans; a bargain is a bargain. Have I not arranged everything for you
three? You have civilian clothes, English money, food, maps, and
each an address of a good German who will give you shelter and
provide for your safety. It stands to reason that four men will
arouse suspicion. Singly they have excellent chances."
"That is so," agreed a third. "Only it so happens that we cannot
speak English so well as you, Otto. But we must trust to luck. When
I broke out of Heavyshaw Camp, eleven months ago, I covered nearly
two hundred kilometres before they took me. Then it was my own
fault. I ought not to have made for the East Coast."
"You will be quite safe when you arrive at Manchester," declared von
Loringhoven. "A large city is a splendid hiding-place. Müller makes
for London, _hein_? Don't get blown to bits by a Gotha, Müller; that
would be a cruel fate for a good German flying-officer. Koenig, you
are making for Bradford: another excellent town to escape
observation. And, Hans, you are for Leeds. These English know we are
homing birds, and conclude that we have gone east, but for the
present our course lies west."
"And you, Otto?" inquired Müller. "What are your plans?"
"I make for Liverpool," replied von Loringhoven. "A tried and
trusted friend of mine lives at Bootle, which is a suburb. I will
give you the address. After a fortnight you can write to me
there, under the name of Smith. The address is easy to remember, so
do not commit it to paper. Meanwhile I will make arrangements for
the four of us to get across to Ireland. Rest easy; within a month
we will be in the Fatherland once more."
"Cannot we keep together till dawn?" inquired the nervous Hans.
"No; we separate," replied von Loringhoven in a tone that brooked no
denial. "Now remember, Müller: if you should be spoken to, shake
your head and point to your ear. You remember the English sentence I
taught you?"
"'Sorry, mate; I'm deaf,'" replied Müller with parrot-like fidelity.
"That is quite passable English," said the kapitan-leutnant
approvingly. "It will be an efficient passport. Now, comrades, I
will leave you."
Solemnly shaking hands with his stolid and rain-soaked compatriots,
von Loringhoven set off on his solitary bid for freedom.
Before he left the shelter of the wood he stopped and drew a small
packet from the inside of one of his socks. From it he produced a
folded paper, which he carefully placed in the breast-pocket of his
jacket, a silver badge--the emblem of an honourably discharged
British soldier--and two gold stripes which he deftly sewed to the
sleeve of his overcoat.
"It is as well not to take others into your confidence," he
soliloquised grimly. "So now for Birmingham, Gloucester, and
Bristol."
The mention of Liverpool was a "blind" on his part. Von
Loringhoven's consummate trust in himself was sure to go a long way
towards his attempt to get clear of the country; but he had little
or no faith in his brother-officer prisoners. Unintentionally,
perhaps, they would have betrayed his plans had he given them
genuine information as to the direction in which he intended to go.
Following a lane, von Loringhoven at length emerged into a broad
highway running in a south-westerly direction. He followed it
boldly. There was little chance of meeting any one on that inclement
night, while the absence of the four Huns was not likely to be
discovered until the morning roll-call. He had thus five hours
before the prisoners' escape was noticed--and much might be done in
that time.
Several villages, all shrouded in utter darkness, he walked through
without meeting a single living creature; small towns he skirted,
deeming it unwise to be seen by a policeman on his nocturnal beat.
The first blush of dawn found him within sight of an isolated farm
close to the side of the road. The house stood at some distance
back, but a walled-in yard, with two ranges of out-buildings,
suggested possibilities of a few hours' rest. The storm was on the
point of clearing, although a rosy tint in the eastern sky betokened
a recurrence of the rain.
Without alarming any dogs or poultry the fugitive scaled the wall.
On his right was a barn, the door being secured merely by a hasp and
pin. Inside, the place was almost filled with trusses of hay and
piles of oil-cake. Overhead was a loft, which would furnish suitable
accommodation for the fatigued man.
Von Loringhoven meant to take no undue risks. He ascended the loft,
to find that there was plenty of loose hay. In the gable end
overlooking the road was a door bolted on the inside. By slipping
back the bolt and leaving the door ajar he could command a fairly
comprehensive survey of the road, while if occasion necessitated he
could drop down outside the farmhouse without running the danger of
having to scale the outside wall. As an additional precaution he
drew the ladder up into the loft, thus preventing any one from
gaining his place of concealment until another ladder could be
procured.
Hardly had von Loringhoven made these preparations when on taking a
cautious survey of the road he noticed a cyclist approaching from
the direction he himself had come, The man was frequently peering to
right and left, while occasionally he would glance behind, as if
expecting somebody.
"It is to be hoped that the camp authorities are not on our track
already," soliloquised the fugitive, a wave of apprehension sweeping
across his mind. It was extremely disconcerting to know that he was
being pursued before he was twenty miles from Stresdale Prison
Laager.
Through a minute chink between the slightly open door of the loft
and the jamb von Loringhoven watched the approaching cyclist with
the greatest attention. He became aware that the man's face wore a
furtive look, as if he, too, was apprehensive of trouble, In spite
of the inclement morning he wore no overcoat, his tweed jacket was
buttoned up to his neck, his hands were unprotected by gloves.
Across the handlebar of the bicycle was a folded sack secured by two
pieces of string, while fastened to a carrier over the driving-wheel
was a small basket.
Von Loringhoven scrutinised the man's features intently, in case the
cyclist were a fellow-prisoner who had contrived to escape; but he
failed to recognise him as a compatriot.
The Hun's fears returned when the cyclist dismounted almost
immediately underneath the gable-end of the loft, and propped the
machine against the wall.
Giving another glance up and down the road and across the fields on
the other side of the highway, the man unfastened the sack from the
handle-bars and, keeping close to the wall, passed out of von
Loringhoven's sight.
The ober-leutnant abandoned his now useless observation post and
tiptoed to a dormer window commanding a view of the farm-yard.
Before he had waited thirty seconds, his newly formed surmises were
confirmed by the appearance of the man's head and shoulders above
the wall.
Satisfying himself that, as far as he knew, he was unobserved the
man clambered astride the wall and dropped lightly upon a heap of
rubbish that lay conveniently placed in a corner of the yard. Then,
moving quickly and silently, he made his way to what was evidently a
poultry-house, For a little while he fumbled with the lock, using a
skeleton key. His efforts in that direction successful, he passed
from the Hun's view.
"Ho! ho!" chuckled von Loringhoven softly. "So that is the
Englishman's game? Robbing a farmer's fowl-house. It remains for a
good German to turn the tables on the thief."
Retracing his way to the door the fugitive Hun threw it open. The
road was quite deserted. Noiselessly, yet unhesitatingly, von
Loringhoven dropped to the ground and made his way to the cycle, The
next minute he was pedalling rapidly down the incline, thanking his
good fortune for the gift of a speedy means of locomotion.
The bicycle was a sound one, for on dismounting von Loringhoven
found that the tyres were in excellent condition and the chain
almost new, while the bearings gave no indications of undue
"play." Unstrapping the basket from the carrier and finding that it
was empty, he hurled the somewhat distinctive appendage over a
hedge.
Remounting, von Loringhoven rode hard for nearly two hours, until
muscular cramp warned him that he was very much out of practice.
He was now within a mile of a large town. Already there were signs
of activity in the manufacturing district. Men with food tied up in
red handkerchiefs, or carried in wicket baskets, were trooping to
work, but to the Hun's intense satisfaction his presence called for
no suspicious comments on the part of the passers-by.
"Not much time to be lost," decided the ober-leutnant. "They are now
calling the roll-call at Stresdale, and I am still within fifty
miles of that hideous spot."
Taking advantage of a lull in the traffic von Loringhoven deftly
loosened the valve of the back tyre, The tyre deflated, he tightened
the nut again, and resumed his trudge towards the town.
"Hard luck, mate," was the greeting from a sympathetic Tommy,
apparently on leave from the front. "Puncture, eh? Got far to go?"
"Only a matter of five miles," replied the mendacious Hun.
"I'll give you a hand at repairing it," offered the soldier. "I used
to be in the cycle trade before I was called up."
"No, thanks," replied von Loringhoven. "The tyre's rotten. It will
only puncture again before I could ride a few hundred yards. I'll
get a train home."
"So you've done your bit, chum," continued the Tommy, pointing to
the gold stripe on von Loringhoven's coat. "What's your regiment?"
The German had already noted the letters on the shoulder strap of
his questioner. He belonged to a Lincolnshire battalion.
"The North Devons, Second Battalion," replied von Loringhoven
promptly, trusting that the information would satisfy the man.
"Blimy, that so?" persisted the Tommy. "Then your crush relieved us
at Armentières. D'ye happen to know---- Hullo, mate, what's up now?"
"Touch of the old trouble," replied von Loringhoven, imitating an
asthmatic wheeze to perfection. "Sooner I get home the better.
S'long, chum."
Arriving at the railway station the ober-leutnant found that he had
twenty minutes to wait. When the booking-office opened he took a
ticket for himself and one for the machine to Birmingham, the
supposedly punctured wheel supplying a plausible explanation that an
active man with the wind behind him should elect to go by train
rather than by road. His thoroughness in purchasing an address label
to affix to the machine showed that he was quite up to the
requirements of the Railway Company.
He had gone into the question of the retention of the cycle, and had
decided that it was quite safe to do so. The poultry thief would not
dare to report his loss. On the other hand, he would be too
panic-stricken to take any steps to recover it. Here again luck was
with the crafty Hun, for, save in circumstances like the present, a
bicycle could not be stolen without the fact being telegraphed far
and wide within an hour of the discovery of the loss.
It was nearly noon when the fugitive alighted at Birmingham. In that
vast city he was comparatively free from danger, especially as he
had so carefully covered his tracks. Ordering a meal at a restaurant
von Loringhoven ate at his ease, scanning the columns of a midday
paper to ascertain whether there was any news of the escape from
Stresdale. There was none; apparently the authorities had not
thought fit to take the Press into their confidence.
Leaving his cycle in a lock-up, the ober-leutnant spent the
afternoon in wandering about the streets until four o'clock. He had
no intention of going farther that night; Birmingham as a refuge
suited him admirably.
While having tea he bought an early evening edition of a paper. In
it he found a small paragraph briefly reporting that four German
naval officers had broken out of Stresdale Camp, but neither names
nor descriptions were given.
The meal over, von Loringhoven claimed his cycle and walked to the
south-western suburbs, engaging a bed at a modest hotel in Selly
Oak. If questioned he had decided to tell a plausible tale that he
was on his way to take up a job on a farm near Hereford, but to his
satisfaction he was merely asked to perform the perfunctory task of
filling in a registration form, the particulars on which were
received without comment.
The fugitive spent the evening in the commercial room in the company
of three "knights of the road." He was too dead beat to go out,
while he could not retire to bed so early without the risk of
causing undue attention.
Presently the boots brought in a late special, which one of the
commercials promptly appropriated.
"I see they've collared three of those Huns who broke out of
Stresdale," he remarked suddenly.
Von Loringhoven pricked up his ears, but maintained silence.
"That's good news," rejoined another commercial. "Any details?"
"Only a few," was the answer. "An interview with a special constable
who arrested one of them reads rather funny. He challenged a
suspicious-looking character, who replied, 'Morry, sate, I deaf am,'
which gave the special sufficient justification for arresting the
man."
"Just the foolish thing Müller would do," mused von Loringhoven.
"And after all the pains I took to knock the simple phrase into his
thick Bavarian skull. I should not wonder if he's tried his level
best to give me away--unthinkingly, of course."
"And the fourth?" inquired one of the company.
"A U-boat pirate, Otto von Loringhoven by name," announced the
possessor of the newspaper. "He speaks English fluently. Here's his
description."
"It might apply to any of us," remarked another. "Fancy you, Wilson,
being run in just as you were fixing up an order with the Parabola
Company."
The eyes of the speaker roamed from one to another until they were
fixed upon the uncomfortable Hun. The others followed the gaze of
their brother-commercial. The ober-leutnant found the mental strain
intolerable. He felt compelled to break the silence.
"And would you be astonished to learn, gentlemen," he exclaimed,
"that you are in the presence of Otto von Loringhoven?"