FORTUNE FROWNS
ONE look at that disfigured countenance imprinted it indelibly on
Stewart’s memory--the blue eyes staring horribly upward from under the
shattered forehead, the hair matted with blood, the sprawling body,
the gleaming knife caught up in what moment of desperation! Shaking
with horror, he seized his companion’s hand and led her away out of
the desecrated house, out of the silent yard, out into the narrow lane
where they could breathe freely.
“The Uhlans have passed this way,” said the girl, staring up and down
the road.
“But,” stammered Stewart, wiping his wet forehead, “but I don’t
understand. Germany is a civilized nation--war is no longer the brutal
thing it once was.”
“War is always brutal, I fear,” said the girl, sadly; “and of course,
among a million men, there are certain to be some--like that! I am no
longer hungry. Let us press on.”
Stewart, nodding, followed along beside her, across fields, over little
streams, up and down stretches of rocky hillside, always westward. But
he saw nothing; his mind was full of other things--of the gray-clad
thousands singing as they marched; of the radiant face of the Crown
Prince; of that poor murdered woman, who had risen happily this Sunday
morning, glad of a day of rest, and looked up to see strange faces at
the door----
And this was war. A thousand other women would suffer the same fate;
thousands and thousands more would be thrown stripped and defenseless
on the world, to live or die as chance might will; a hundred thousand
children would be fatherless; a hundred thousand girls, now ripening
into womanhood, would be denied their rightful destiny of marriage and
children of their own----
Stewart shook the thought away. The picture his imagination painted was
too horrible; it could never come true--not all the emperors on earth
could make it come true!
He looked about him at the mellow landscape. Nowhere was there a sign
of life. The yellow wheat stood ripe for the harvest. The pastures
stretched lush and green--and empty. Here and there above the trees
he caught a glimpse of farmhouse chimneys, but no reassuring
smoke floated above them. A peaceful land, truly, so he told
himself--peaceful as death!
Gradually the country grew rougher and more broken, and ahead of them
they could see steep and rocky hillsides, cleft by deep valleys and
covered by a thick growth of pine.
“We must find a road,” said Stewart at last; “we can’t climb up and
down those hills. And we must find out where we are. There is a certain
risk, but we must take it. It is foolish to stumble forward blindly.”
“You are right,” his companion agreed, and when presently, far below
them at the bottom of a valley, they saw a white road winding, they
made their way down to it. Almost at once they came to a house, in
whose door stood a buxom, fair-haired woman, with a child clinging to
her skirts.
The woman watched them curiously as they approached, and her face
seemed to Stewart distinctly friendly.
“Good-morning,” he said, stopping before the door-step and lifting his
hat--an unaccustomed salutation at which the woman stared. “We seem to
have lost our way. Can you tell us----”
The woman shook her head.
“My brother and I have lost our way,” said his companion, in rapid
French. “We have been tramping the hills all morning. How far is it to
the nearest village?”
“The nearest village is Battice,” answered the woman in the same
language. “It is three kilometers from here.”
“Has it a railway station?”
“But certainly. How is it you do not know?”
“We come from the other direction.”
“From Germany?”
“Yes,” answered the girl, after an instant’s scrutiny of the woman’s
face.
“Then you are fugitives? Ah, do not fear to tell me,” she added, as the
girl hesitated. “I have no love for the Germans. I have lived near them
too long!”
There could be no doubting the sincerity of the words, nor the grimace
of disgust which accompanied them.
“Yes,” assented the girl, “we are fugitives. We are trying to get to
Liège. Have the Germans been this way?”
“No; I have seen nothing of them, but I have heard that a great army
has passed along the road through Verviers.”
“Where is your man?”
“He has joined the army, as have all the men in this neighborhood.”
“The German army?”
“Oh, no; the Belgian army. It is doing what it can to hold back the
Germans.”
The girl’s face lighted with enthusiasm.
“Oh, how splendid!” she cried. “How splendid for your brave little
country to defy the invader! Bravo, Belgium!”
The woman smiled at her enthusiasm, but shook her head doubtfully.
“I do not know,” she said, simply. “I do not understand these things.
I only know that my man has gone, and that I must harvest our grain
and cut our winter wood by myself. But will you not enter and rest
yourselves?”
“Thank you. And we are very hungry. We have money to pay for food, if
you can let us have some.”
“Certainly, certainly,” and the good wife bustled before them into the
house.
An hour later, rested, refreshed, with a supply of sandwiches in their
pockets, and armed with a rough map drawn from the directions of their
hostess, they were ready to set out westward again. She was of the
opinion that they could pass safely through Battice, which was off the
main road of the German advance, and that they might even secure there
a vehicle of some sort to take them onward. The trains, she understood,
were no longer running. Finally they thanked her for the twentieth time
and bade her good-by. She wished them Godspeed, and stood watching them
from the door until they disappeared from view.
They pushed forward briskly, and presently, huddled in the valley below
them, caught sight of the gabled roofs of the village. A bell was
ringing vigorously, and they could see the people--women and children
for the most part--gathering in toward the little church, crowned
by its gilded cross. Evidently nothing had occurred to disturb the
serenity of Battice.
Reassured, the two were about to push on down the road, when suddenly,
topping the opposite slope, they saw a squadron of horsemen, perhaps
fifty strong. They were clad in greenish-gray, and each of them bore
upright at his right elbow a long lance.
“Uhlans!” cried the girl, and the fugitives stopped short, watching
with bated breath.
The troop swung down the road toward the village at a sharp trot, and
presently Stewart could distinguish their queer, flat-topped helmets,
reminding him of the mortar-board of his university days. Right at
the edge of the village, in the shadow of some trees, the horsemen
drew rein and waited until the bell ceased ringing and the last of the
congregation had entered the church; then, at the word of command, they
touched spur to flank and swept through the empty street.
A boy saw them first and raised a shout of alarm; then a woman,
hurrying toward the church, heard the clatter of hoofs, cast one glance
behind her, and ran on, screaming wildly. The screams penetrated the
church, and in a moment the congregation came pouring out, only to find
themselves hemmed in by a semicircle of lowered lances.
The lieutenant shouted a command, and four of his men threw themselves
from the saddle and disappeared into the church. They were back in a
moment, dragging between them a white-haired priest clad in stole and
surplice, and a rosy-faced old man, who, even in this trying situation,
managed to retain his dignity.
The two were placed before the officer, and a short conference
followed, with the townspeople pressing anxiously around, listening
to every word. Suddenly there was an outburst of protest and despair,
which the priest quieted with a motion of his hand, and the conference
was resumed.
“What is it the fellow wants?” asked Stewart.
“Money and supplies, I suppose.”
“Money and supplies? But that’s robbery!”
“Oh, no; it is a part of the plan of the German General Staff. How
many times have I heard Prussian officers boast that a war would cost
Germany nothing--that her enemies would be made to bear the whole
burden! It has all been arranged--the indemnity which each village,
even the smallest, must pay--the amount of supplies which each must
furnish, the ransom which will be assessed on each individual. This
lieutenant of Uhlans is merely carrying out his instructions!”
“Who is the old man?”
“The burgomaster, doubtless. He and the priest are always the most
influential men in a village.”
The conference was waxing warmer, the lieutenant was talking in a loud
voice, and once he shook his fist menacingly; again there was a wail of
protest from the crowd--women were wringing their hands----
“He is demanding more than the village can supply,” remarked the girl.
“That is not surprising,” she added, with a bitter smile. “They will
always demand more than can be supplied. But come; we must be getting
on.”
Stewart would have liked to see the end of the drama, but he followed
his companion over the wall at the side of the road, and then around
the village and along the rough hillside. Suddenly from the houses
below arose a hideous tumult--shouts, curses, the smashing of
glass--and in a moment, a flood of people, wailing, screaming, shaking
their fists in the air, burst from the town and swept along the road in
the direction of Herve.
“They would better have given all that was demanded,” said the girl,
looking down at them. “Now they will be made to serve as an example to
other villages--they will lose everything--even their houses--see!”
Following the direction of her pointing finger, Stewart saw a black
cloud of smoke bulging up from one end of the village.
“But surely,” he gasped, “they’re not burning it! They wouldn’t dare do
that!”
“Why not?”
“Isn’t looting prohibited by the rules of war?”
“Certainly--looting and the destruction of property of non-combatants.”
“Well, then----”
But he stopped, staring helplessly. The cloud of smoke grew in volume,
and below it could be seen red tongues of flame. There before him was
the hideous reality--and he suddenly realized how futile it was to make
laws for anything so essentially lawless as war, or to expect niceties
of conduct from men thrown back into a state of barbarism.
“What do the rules of war matter to a nation which considers treaties
mere scraps of paper?” asked the girl, in a hard voice. “Their very
presence here in Belgium is a violation of the rules of war. Besides,
it is the German theory that war should be ruthless--that the enemy
must be intimidated, ravaged, despoiled in every possible way. They say
that the more merciless it is, the briefer it will be. It is possible
that they are not altogether wrong.”
“True,” muttered Stewart. “But it is a heartless theory.”
“War is a heartless thing,” commented his companion, turning away. “It
is best not to think too much about it. Come--we must be going on.”
They pushed forward again, keeping the road, with its rabble of
frenzied fugitives, at their right. It was a wild and beautiful
country, and under other circumstances, Stewart would have gazed in
admiring wonder at its rugged cliffs, its deep precipitous valleys,
its thickly-wooded hillsides; but now these appeared to him only as so
many obstacles between him and safety.
At last the valley opened out, and below them they saw the clustered
roofs of another village, which could only be Herve. Around it were
broad pastures and fields of yellow grain, and suddenly the girl caught
Stewart by the arm.
“Look!” she said, and pointed to the field lying nearest them.
A number of old men, women, and children were cutting the grain,
tying it into sheaves, and piling the sheaves into stacks, under the
supervision of four men. Those four men were clothed in greenish-gray
and carried rifles in their hands! The invaders were stripping the
grain from the fields in order to feed their army!
As he contemplated this scene, Stewart felt, mixed with his horror
and detestation, a sort of unwilling admiration. Evidently, as his
companion had said, when Germany made war, she made war. She was
ruthlessly thorough. She allowed no sentiment, no feeling of pity, no
weakening compassion, to interfere between her and her goal. She went
to war with but one purpose: to win; and she was determined to win, no
matter what the cost! Stewart shivered at the thought. Whether she won
or lost, how awful that cost must be!
The fugitives went on again at last, working their way around the
village, keeping always in the shelter of the woods along the
hillsides, and after a weary journey, came out on the other side above
the line of the railroad. A sentry, with fixed bayonet, stood guard
over a solitary engine; except for him, the road seemed quite deserted.
For half a mile they toiled along over the rough hillside above it
without seeing anyone else.
“We can’t keep this up,” said Stewart, flinging himself upon the
ground. “We shall have to take to the road if we are to make any
progress. Do you think we’d better risk it?”
“Let us watch it for a while,” the girl suggested, so they sat and
watched it and munched their sandwiches, and talked in broken snatches.
Ten minutes passed, but no one came in sight.
“It seems quite safe,” she said at last, and together they made their
way down to it.
“The next village is Fléron,” said Stewart, consulting his rough map.
“It is apparently about four miles from here. Liège is about ten miles
further. Can we make it to-night?”
“We must!” said the girl, fiercely. “Come!”
The road descended steadily along the valley of a pretty river, closed
in on either side by densely-wooded hills. Here and there among the
trees, they caught glimpses of white villas; below them, along the
river, there was an occasional cluster of houses; but they saw few
people. Either the inhabitants of this land had fled before the enemy,
or were keeping carefully indoors out of his way.
Once the fugitives had an alarm, for a hand-car, manned by a squad of
German soldiers, came spinning past; but fortunately Stewart heard it
singing along the rails in time to pull his companion into a clump of
underbrush. A little later, along the highway by the river, they saw a
patrol of Uhlans riding, and then they came to Fléron and took to the
hills to pass around it. Here, too, clouds of black smoke hung heavy
above certain of the houses, which, for some reason, had been made the
marks of German reprisals; and once, above the trees to their right,
they saw a column of smoke drifting upward, marking the destruction of
some isolated dwelling.
The sun was sinking toward the west by the time they again reached
the railroad, and they were both desperately weary; but neither had
any thought of rest. The shadows deepened rapidly among the hills,
but the darkness was welcome, for it meant added safety. By the time
they reached Bois de Breux, night had come in earnest, so they made
only a short detour, and were soon back on the railroad again, with
scarcely five miles to go. For an hour longer they plodded on through
the darkness, snatching a few minutes’ rest once or twice; too weary to
talk, or to look to right or left.
Then, as they turned a bend in the road, they drew back in alarm; for
just ahead of them, close beside the track, a bright fire was burning,
lighting up the black entrance of a tunnel, before which stood a sentry
leaning on his rifle. Five or six other soldiers, wearing flat fatigue
caps, were lolling about the fire, smoking and talking in low tones.
Stewart surveyed them curiously. They were big, good-humored-looking
fellows, fathers of families doubtless--honest men with kindly hearts.
It seemed absurd to suppose that such men as these would loot villages
and burn houses and outrage women; it seemed absurd that anyone should
fear them or hide from them. Stewart, with a feeling that all this
threat of war was a chimera, had an impulse to go forward boldly and
join them beside the fire. He was sure they would welcome him, make a
place for him----
“_Wer da?_” called, sharply, a voice behind him, and he spun around to
find himself facing a leveled rifle, behind which he could see dimly
the face of a man wearing a spiked helmet--a patrol, no doubt, who had
seen them as they stood carelessly outlined against the fire, and who
had crept upon them unheard.
“We are friends,” Stewart answered, hastily.
The soldier motioned them forward to the fire. The men there had caught
up their rifles at the sound of the challenge, and stood peering
anxiously out into the darkness. But when the two captives came within
the circle of light cast by the fire, they stacked their guns and sat
down again. Evidently they saw nothing threatening in the appearance of
either Stewart or his companion.
Their captor added his gun to the stack and motioned them to sit down.
Then he doffed his heavy helmet with evident relief and hung it on
his rifle, got out a soft cap like the others’, and finally sat down
opposite his prisoners and looked at them closely.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded in German.
“We are trying to get through to Brussels,” answered Stewart, in the
best German he could muster. “I have not much German. Do you speak
English?”
“No. Are you English?” And the blue eyes glinted with an unfriendly
light which Stewart was at a loss to understand.
“We are Americans,” and Stewart saw with relief that the man’s face
softened perceptibly. On the chance that, if the soldier could not
speak English, neither could he read it, he impressively produced his
passport. “Here is our safe-conduct from our Secretary of State,” he
said. “You will see that it is sealed with the seal of the United
States. My brother and I were passed at Herbesthal, but could find no
conveyance and started to walk. We lost our way, but stumbled upon the
railroad some miles back and decided to follow it until we came to a
village. How far away is the nearest village?”
“I do not know,” said the man, curtly; but he took the passport and
stared at it curiously. Then he passed it around the circle, and it
finally came back to its owner, who placed it in his pocket.
“You find it correct?” Stewart inquired.
“I know nothing about it. You must wait until our officer arrives.”
Stewart felt a sickening sensation at his heart, but he managed to
smile.
“He will not be long, I hope,” he said. “We are very tired and hungry.”
“He will not be long,” answered the other, shortly, and got out a long
pipe, but Stewart stopped him with a gesture.
“Try one of these,” he said, quickly, and brought out his handful of
cigars and passed them around.
The men grinned their thanks, and were soon puffing away with evident
enjoyment. But to Stewart the single cigar he had kept for himself
seemed strangely savorless. He glanced at his companion. She was
sitting hunched up, her arms about her knees, staring thoughtfully at
the fire.
“This man says we must wait here until their officer arrives,” he
explained in English. “My brother does not understand German,” he added
to the men.
“How stupid!” said the girl. “I am so tired and stiff!”
“It is no use to argue with them, I suppose?”
“No. They will refuse to decide anything for themselves. They rely
wholly upon their officers.”
She rose wearily, stretched herself, stamped her foot as if it were
asleep, and then sat down again and closed her eyes. She looked very
young and fragile, and was shivering from head to foot.
“My brother is not strong,” said Stewart to the attentive group. “I
fear all this hardship and exposure will be more than he can bear.”
One of the men, with a gesture of sympathy, rose, unrolled his blanket,
and spread it on the bank behind the fire.
“Let the young man lie down there,” he said.
“Oh, thank you!” cried Stewart. “Come, Tommy,” he added, touching the
girl on the arm. “Suppose you lie down till the officer comes.”
She opened her eyes, saw the blanket, nodded sleepily, and, still
shivering, followed Stewart to it, lay down, permitted him to roll her
in it, and apparently dropped off to sleep on the instant. Stewart
returned to the circle about the fire, nodding his satisfaction. They
all smiled, as men do who have performed a kind action.
But Stewart, though doing his best to keep a placid countenance, was
far from easy in his mind. One thing was certain--they must escape
before the officer arrived. He, no doubt, would be able both to read
and speak English, and the passport would betray them at once. For
without question, a warning had been flashed from headquarters to every
patrol to arrest the holder of that passport, and to send him and his
companion, under close guard, back to Herbesthal. But how to escape!
Stewart glanced carefully about him, cursing the carelessness that had
brought them into this trap, the imbecility which had held them staring
at this outpost, instead of taking instantly to the woods, as they
should have done. They deserved to be captured! Nevertheless----
The sentry was pacing slowly back and forth at the tunnel entrance,
fifteen yards away; the other men were lolling about the fire,
half-asleep. It would be possible, doubtless, to bolt into the darkness
before they could grab their rifles, so there was only the sentry to
fear, and the danger from him would not be very great. But it would be
necessary to keep to the track for some distance, because, where it
dropped into the tunnel, its sides were precipices impossible to scale
in the darkness. The danger, then, lay in the fact that the men might
have time to snatch up their rifles and empty them along the track
before the fugitives would be able to leave it. But it was a danger
which must be faced--there was no other way. Once in the woods, they
would be safe.
Stewart, musing over the situation with eyes half-closed, recalled dim
memories of daring escapes from Indians and outlaws, described in
detail in the blood-and-thunder reading of his youth. There was always
one ruse which never failed--just as the pursuers were about to fire,
the fugitive would fling himself flat on his face, and the bullets
would fly harmlessly over him; then he would spring to his feet and go
safely on his way. Stewart smiled to remember how religiously he had
believed in that stratagem, and how he had determined to practice it,
if ever need arose! He had never contemplated the possibility of having
to flee from a squad of men armed with magazine rifles, capable of
firing twenty-five shots a minute!
Then he shook these thoughts away; there was no time to be lost. He
must warn his companion, for they must make the dash at the same
instant. He glanced toward where she lay in the shadow of the cliff,
and saw that she was turning restlessly from side to side, as though
fevered. With real anxiety, he hastened to her, knelt beside her, and
placed his hand gently on her forehead. At the touch, she opened her
eyes and stared dazedly up at him.
“Ask for some water,” she said, weakly; and then, in the same tone, “we
must flee at the moment they salute their officer.”
Stewart turned to the soldiers, who were listening with inquiring faces.
“My brother is feverish,” he explained. “He asks for a drink of water.”
One of the men was instantly on his feet, unscrewing his canteen and
holding it to the eager lips while Stewart supported his comrade’s
head. She drank eagerly and then dropped back with a sigh of
satisfaction, and closed her eyes.
“He will go to sleep now,” said Stewart. “Thank you,” and he himself
took a drink from the proffered flask.
He was surprised to find how cool and fresh the water tasted, and when
he looked at the flask more closely, he saw that it was made like a
Thermos bottle, with outer and inner shells. He handed it back to its
owner with a nod of admiration.
“That is very clever,” he said. “Everything seems to have been thought
of.”
“Yes, everything,” agreed the other. “No army is equipped like ours. I
am told that the French are in rags.”
“I don’t know,” said Stewart, cautiously, “I have never seen them.”
“And their army is not organized; we shall be in Paris before they can
mobilize. It will be 1870 over again. The war will be ended in two or
three months. It has been promised us that we shall be home again for
Christmas without fail.”
“I hope you will,” Stewart agreed; and there was a moment’s silence.
“How much longer shall we have to wait?” he asked, at last.
“Our officer should be here at any moment.”
“It is absolutely necessary that we wait for him?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
“We are very hungry,” Stewart explained.
The soldier pondered for a moment, and then rose to his feet.
“I think I can give you food,” he said. “It is permitted to give food,
is it not?” he asked his comrades; and when they nodded, he opened his
knapsack and took out a package of hard, square biscuits and a thick
roll of sausage. He cut the sausage into generous slices, while Stewart
watched with watering mouth, placed a slice on each of the biscuits,
and passed them over.
“Splendid!” cried Stewart. “I don’t know how to thank you. But at least
I can pay you,” and he dove into his pocket and produced a ten-mark
piece--his last. The soldier shook his head. “It is for the whole
squad,” added Stewart, persuasively. “You will be needing tobacco some
day, and this will come in handy!”
The soldier smiled, took the little coin, and placed it carefully in
his pocket.
“You are right about the tobacco,” he said. “I thank you.”
He sat down again before the fire, while Stewart hastened to his
companion and dropped to his knees beside her.
“See what I’ve got!” he cried. “Food!”
She opened her eyes, struggled to a sitting posture, and held out an
eager hand. A moment later, they were both munching the sausage and
biscuits as though they had never tasted anything so delicious--as,
indeed, they never had!
“Oh, how good that was!” she said, when the last crumb was swallowed,
and she waved her thanks to the watching group about the fire.
“Remember,” she added, in a lower tone, as she sank back upon her
elbow, “the instant----”
She stopped, staring toward the tunnel, one hand grasping the blanket.
Stewart, following her look, saw the sentry stiffen, turn on his heel,
and hold his rifle rigidly in front of him, as a tall figure, clad in
a long gray coat and carrying an electric torch, stepped out of the
darkness of the tunnel. At the same instant, the men about the fire
sprang to their feet.
“Now!” cried the girl, and threw back the blanket.
In an instant, hand in hand, they had glided into the darkness.