A SURPRISE
HAVING refreshed, the fugitive gathered together a few portable
articles that had belonged to the deceased Baron Eitel von
Stopelfeld, including the portmanteau. Luggage, he decided, must be
suffered in spite of the inconvenience of carrying it in the
snowstorm; the major's sword, too, for experience had taught him
that no swashbuckling, sabre-rattling Prussian officer goes far
without that emblem of authority except when he is a prisoner of
war.
It was a difficult task to regain the road, hampered as he was with
his recently acquired possessions, but at length the pseudo baron
achieved that part of the business. Viewed from the unfenced
mountain pass the derelict motorcar was, as he had expected, almost
hidden by a mantle of white.
Fortunately the wayfarer had the wind at his back, but even then his
progress was laboriously slow. Never less than ankle-deep, often
thigh-deep, the snow was rapidly increasing, until more than once
the Englishman debated whether he should seek shelter until the
storm abated.
"Might be days before it does," he mused, "and it's no joke being
caught out in the mountains. At the first village I strike I'll have
to pitch in a yarn how I, Major Baron Eitel von Stopelfeld, chance
to be servantless and forced to carry my own luggage."
On and on he trudged, sternly resisting the tempting desire to rest.
He knew the danger of halting in the snow when in a semi-torpid
state and falling into a sleep that knows no wakening in this world.
He was grateful, too, for the warmth of the great-coat, realising
that his previously ragged garb would have been totally inadequate
against the intense cold. For the next five kilometres the road was
of a give-and-take order--rugged, undulating, and fully exposed to
the now boisterous wind that howled down the pass; then, on rounding
a right-angled bend the gradient was steeply on the downward path.
Three thousand feet below lay one of the fairest of the Bohemian
valleys, its verdant fields and the tops of graceful trees of the
pine woods bathed in brilliant sunshine.
Not until he was below the snow-line did the traveller halt, partake
sparingly of food and drink, and then set out boldly towards a
wooden hamlet that nestled around a small church with a lofty,
slender spire.
"That must be Ober Gersthof," decided the Englishman, referring to
his map. "No railway within fifteen miles. Well, I reckon that I've
done enough for to-day, so here's for the luxury of a bed. Now the
question is: have I to treat these Bohemian peasantry in the same
way as the Junkers deal with theirs? I suppose so, since
Austro-Hungary, nominally an ally of Prussia, is actually a
dependent and vassal state."
At about a mile from the village the bogus baron came across the
first human being he had seen since the untimely, yet, in a sense,
fortunate demise of Major von Stopelfeld. Ambling along a lane was a
farm hand leading a low cart laden with a late autumn crop of hay.
He was whistling blithely, his full features, tanned with exposure
to wind and sun, and his fleshy arms contrasted forcibly with the
shrunken, bloodless subjects of the German Kaiser.
The Englishman halted, put down his portmanteau, and imperiously
beckoned to the countryman to hasten. This the man did, evidently
out of good humour and a desire to render assistance, but his face
showed no signs of the utter subservience of the menial Hun.
"I have been compelled by the storm to leave my carriage and
servants at Teutelsfeld," announced the make-believe German officer,
naming a village about ten miles away and far to the east of the
pass through which he had come. "I desire to get to the railway at
the nearest station."
"That is at Reichenberg, a good six hours' journey, Herr Offizier,"
replied the man respectfully, yet without any sign of cringing.
"Is there a good inn here?" inquired the Englishman, pointing
towards the village. "A good inn, mind."
"The 'Three Feathers,' mein herr," answered the peasant. "If you
will let me, I will carry your baggage and direct you to the door."
This the peasant did, receiving a mark note for his services, for
the "major" found himself well provided with paper currency in
addition to silver money equivalent to £3 in British coinage.
The landlord accepted the traveller's explanation without demur,
being of a simple open nature, and after a plain but substantial
meal the Englishman went to bed, reflecting that but for the
difference in language and the characteristic Bohemian scenery he
might have been in a rural village in his native land.
Early next morning the pseudo baron hired a conveyance which set him
down at Reichenberg just before noon. At the station were hundreds
of reservists and a fair sprinkling of Austrian officers; and not
without certain feelings of trepidation the Englishman took a
first-class ticket for Vienna.
Arriving at the Austrian capital he had abundant evidence of the war
weariness and social stagnation of the once gay city. Although he
encountered several officers in German uniform none noticed him
beyond exchanging punctilious salutes, compliments that were
indulged in by the Austrian soldiery, but with ill-concealed
reticence, for everywhere the idea was growing that the Dual
Monarchy was being bled white at the behest of Germany.
That same evening the supplanter of the Kaiser's envoy found himself
at Judenburg, a small town in Styria, almost under the shadow of the
lofty Noric Alps. It was not his fault that he had not gone farther,
but a slight landslip had rendered the railway unsafe at a short
distance beyond the town, so perforce he had to remain.
Having secured a room at the chief hotel and signed the register,
the Englishman was preparing for a quiet evening, when the aged
waiter knocked at the door.
"Pardon, Herr Offizier," he exclaimed deferentially. "A gentleman to
see you."
"A mistake," declared the fugitive in a loud voice. "I know no one
here, nor do I want to see strangers."
"But it is a person of rank who would speak with you, mein herr.
Behold his card!" And he tendered a piece of pasteboard on a wooden
tray, for the hotel's silver salver had long since gone to augment
the depleted coffers of the Emperor Karl.
The Englishman took the card. His eyebrows contracted as he read the
name. Major Karl Hoffer, Officer-Commandant of the prison camp of
Ostrovornik.
"I've been and gone and done it now," muttered the bogus baron.
"This is the result of flying high. Fortunately he's a stranger to
the real von Stopelfeld; but it seems as if I'm booked for the
Ostrovornik trip. Another day wasted--hang it!"
"Show him in," he ordered, and snatching up his sword he hastily
buckled his scabbard to the slings of his belt, twirled his waxed
moustache (he had remarked the genuine baron's hirsute adornment,
and his elaborately fitted dressing-case had proved very useful to
its new owner) and adjusted the well-fitting tunic.
The jingle of spurs and the clank of a scabbard trailing a cross the
oaken floor were the sounds that heralded the approach of the
distinguished Austrian. The door was thrown wide open, and the
waiter, in a joint capacity of major-domo, sonorously announced the
name and title of the visitor.
The Austrian officer stepped briskly three paces into the room,
halted, clicked his heels, and saluted, the Englishman likewise
standing smartly to attention and returning the compliment.
"Well, major," said the latter, signing to his guest to take a
chair. "This is a pleasant but unexpected surprise."
"I happened to see your name on the register, baron," replied
Hoffer, "and knowing that you were due to visit my establishment I
anticipated the meeting. I understand that you are relieving me of
the care of a hundred rascally Serbs and Italians. I wish you joy of
them."
For some minutes the two men discussed the merits and demerits of
the various nationalities of the prisoners of war, while the
supposititious baron ordered a couple of bottles of wine.
Under the influence of the juice of the grape Karl Hoffer waxed
injudiciously communicative.
"That is a mightily efficient gas you are manufacturing at
Ostrovornik," remarked the Englishman.
"Yes," replied the Austrian. "Perhaps you are already aware that
this district is practically the only place in Central Europe where
sulphur is found in large quantities. This deposit was only
discovered since the war. The trouble was that the gas was so
efficient that we lost hundreds of prisoners during the experimental
stages--not that it mattered much since they were prisoners, except
that the new drafts had to be instructed: a tedious business, as you
can well imagine. Until we hit upon an effectual antidote we lost
men at the rate of twenty a day. The symptoms? Acute irritation of
the epidermis, quickly followed by paralysis of the limbs. Death
will ensue within twenty minutes. Curiously enough, the gas does not
affect the respiratory organs. It is a remarkably efficacious weapon
to employ against our enemies."
The Austrian leant back in his chair and laughed heartily. The
gruesome details seemed to afford him intense amusement.
"Then you found an antidote?" asked the Englishman, with
well-assumed indifference.
Major Hoffer leant forward and lowered his voice to a husky whisper.
"Like most things: simple when you know, baron," he replied. "We
tried canvas overalls steeped in hyposulphite of soda--no good;
india-rubber solution--equally non-effectual. The gas seemed to eat
its way through with hardly any perceptible delay in its action.
Glass is impervious to it, but a soldier cannot fight in a glass
case."
He paused to watch the effect of his communication, more than half
expecting the "baron" to ask him to continue. Had he done so, the
Austrian might have drawn into his shell and put his questioner on
the wrong scent.
The Englishman offered no remark, but merely refilled his guest's
glass.
"Yes," resumed Major Hoffer, "it is a simple preventative--quite
accidentally discovered, although the English and Americans would be
most glad to know what it is. Hypo-sulphite of soda, alum in
solution, and vaseline, all applied to thin canvas overalls and
masks, the alum being merely to render the textile fabric
non-inflammable."
The conversation was maintained for the best part of an hour, the
Austrian officer doing his level best to impress that he was very
much "in the know"; while the Englishman, by discreet questioning,
obtained a vast store of valuable information.
"Then I will see you to-morrow at eleven," said Hoffer, as he rose
to take his departure. "If I were you, baron, I would recommend that
Italian prisoners only be taken for the work that your Government
proposes to start. They are better than the Serbs, especially the
Sicilians and Neapolitans who have previously been employed in their
native sulphur mines. I suppose it would be too much to ask you to
arrange for the transfer of an English prisoner?"
"An English prisoner?" repeated the supposed German officer. "For
what reason?"
Major Hoffer shrugged his shoulders.
"Personally I do not like the responsibility of him," he explained.
"We Austrians have not nearly so much hatred for England as you
Germans, if you will pardon my saying so. I received the prisoner
very unwillingly. He was landed from one of your U-boats at an
Adriatic port, and he ought, I take it, to be placed in a German
camp. A kapitan-leutnant--Otto von Loringhoven, brother to the
Julius von Loringhoven of Zeppelin fame practically insisted that I
should receive the prisoner for work in the sulphur mines. Why, I
know not."
"What is the prisoner's name?" asked the sham baron.
The Austrian shook his head.
"I cannot say off-hand," he replied. "In fact, I think he appears on
the list of prisoners only as a number."
"Is he tractable?"
"Like a caged bear; but by cutting down his rations we have tamed
him a bit. Starve an Englishman, and you develop the comparatively
mild strain of the Latin and Gallic blood in his veins; feed him,
and the hardy Teutonic, Norse, and Keltic characteristics become
paramount. That's the secret, I fancy, of the mongrel British
nation. A cross-bred dog is invariably hardier than a pure-bred
animal."
"Then there ought to be a future before the Austro-Hungarian
Empire," remarked the Englishman.
"Alas, no," rejoined Major Hoffer. "There seems to be a
hard-and-fast line between the German Austrians and the Magyars.
They are like two large tributaries running into one broad channel,
flowing side by side, but each preserving its characteristics; for
instance, like the swift-flowing Rhone and the sluggish Saône after
their confluence at Lyons."
"I'll see this Englishman," decided the pseudo baron. "If you want
to get rid of him, a little German discipline will work wonders. The
prisoner interests me. So much so that I feel inclined to take him
in hand myself. You can spare two soldiers to guard him?"
"Half a dozen, if you like," replied Major Hoffer, only too glad to
escape the after-consequences of having charge of a British naval
officer, who, according to the rules of war ought to be receiving
honourable treatment. "And you will make a point of writing to von
Loringhoven and explaining matters?"
"Two men will be sufficient," said the Baron, studiously ignoring
the second question, but resolving at some future date to
communicate with the vindictive von Loringhoven.
At the appointed hour the Englishman, arrayed in the full splendour
of his "borrowed" trappings, presented himself at the wicket-gate in
the double-barbed wire fence surrounding the Ostrovornik sulphur
mines. A guard of honour composed of Hungarian reservists turned out
and saluted, the distinguished visitor noting with a certain amount
of satisfaction that the men did not show any great signs of mental
alertness. They were of a type used to being ordered about, and
accustomed to carry out their instructions with stolid acquiescence.
Within the inner fence the baron was met by Commandant Hoffer, who
still bore traces of the bout of hard drinking in which he had
indulged, both in the supposed von Stopelfeld's company and
afterwards.
"I have just received a telegram from my senior lieutenant,"
remarked the "baron." "He is still held up at Lietzen, owing to the
railway being disorganised. You will, I trust, excuse the absence of
my staff?"
"Certainly, baron," hiccoughed the Austrian officer. "You wish to
begin by making an inspection of the gas-producing plant?"
The spurious von Stopelfeld facetiously poked his fingers against
the commandant's ribs.
"We know each other now," he exclaimed. "I'll leave out the actual
inspection--not that I have no faith in your anti-gas protector,
major, but simply because I hate exertion. You might show me the
register of prisoners. Oh, no; I don't want to inspect the men."
"But the Englishman?" inquired Major Hoffer, as he led the way to
the office.
"Oh, I forgot all about him," rejoined the "baron," with
well-feigned indifference. "Is he fairly tractable to-day?"
"You will soon see, baron," replied the Austrian commandant, and
calling to a sergeant he bade him take a file of men and bring
Prisoner No. 445 to the office.
After the lapse of about ten minutes the sergeant knocked at the
door.
"The prisoner, Excellency," he announced.
"Bring him in," growled Major Hoffer.
{Illustration: "'GOOD HEAVENS! IT'S OLD SLOGGER.'" [_p._ 325.}
The next instant a gaunt, jaundiced-featured man was unceremoniously
bundled into the room. In spite of his rags, his bent shoulders, and
emaciated limbs he bore himself proudly, almost disdainfully, ready
to meet whatever the fates doled out with the fortitude of a British
officer.
"Good heavens!" exclaimed the bogus baron, in his unbounded
astonishment completely forgetting his "Kopenick stunt." "It's old
Slogger!"