The Cataclysm
The second summer since Max Durend had left Hawkesley had come, and for
the second time Max invited his friend Dale to come over to Liege and
spend a few weeks with him. The previous summer they had spent most
pleasantly on a walking-tour through the Ardennes, and they were now
going to do the same thing along the Middle and Upper Rhine. Max had
originally planned a tour in Holland, but M. Schenk recommended the
Rhine valley as much more varied and picturesque, and Max had agreed
readily enough to follow his recommendation.
Behold them then setting out from Bonn railway station, knapsack on back
and walking-stick in hand, full of spirits and go, for a four or five
weeks' tramp, first through the Drachenfels and then on through the
pretty Rhine-side villages, making a detour here and there to visit the
more picturesque and broken country through which the Rhine made its
way. They marched light, their only baggage besides their knapsacks
being a large Gladstone shared between them. This they did not take with
them, but used, merely to replenish their knapsacks occasionally with
clean linen, by sending it along a week or so ahead of them to such
towns as they expected to visit later on.
Their days were full of happiness, peace, and contentment, and the last
days of July, 1914, drew to a close all too rapidly for them. They knew
next to nothing of the fearful storm brewing, until Dale happened,
towards the end of the second week of their holidays, to take up and
glance down the columns of a German newspaper lying on the table of the
hotel at which they were about to dine. His knowledge of German was
small, but was sufficient to enable him to grasp the purport of the
thick headlines with which the journal was plentifully supplied.
"Hullo, Max, look at this," he cried, pointing to the thick type.
"German ultimatum to Russia. Immediate demobilization demanded." "That
looks serious, eh?"
"Phew! It does," cried Max, taking the paper and rapidly scanning the
chief columns. "You may be sure that if Russia is in it France will be
too. My hat! what a war it will be!"
"Yes, and----By the way, this explains why those two Frenchmen we met at
the hotel yesterday were in such a hurry to be off without waiting for
breakfast. They had seen the news and were afraid that, if they didn't
get back at once, they wouldn't get back at all."
"That's it. There's one comfort, anyway, Dale, and that is, that neither
of us is likely to be concerned. There seems no earthly reason why
England or Belgium should come into this."
"No, and a good job too. We have enough troubles of our own all over the
world without butting in on the Continent."
For the next few days Max and his friend were again more or less buried
from the outer world. They had not, however, altogether forgotten the
great events that were taking place, and on reaching Bingen went so far
(for them) as to purchase a paper. Matters, they found, had grown far
more serious. Germany was already at war with Russia and France, and had
demanded of Belgium free passage for her troops to enter and attack
France.
Max was thunderstruck. He had never expected anything like this. That
Belgium, peace-loving Belgium, with her neutrality guaranteed by
practically all the great civilized Powers, should, in spite of it, be
about to be forced into a great European war had seemed unthinkable. Yet
so it was, and it seemed that war was inevitable, for Max did not
believe Belgium would ever allow foreign troops to cross her territory
to attack a country with which she was at peace. With Belgium, then, on
the verge of war, it behoved him to look to his own safety; for it was
obvious he was not safe where he was.
"I think we had better make tracks for home, Dale," he said soberly. "I
dare say I can pass with you as an Englishman, but it won't do to take
risks. Our bag should be at the Central Post Office, so let us get it
and take the first train back to Liege."
"If there are any trains bound for the frontier that are not crammed
with troops," responded Dale somewhat significantly.
"Oh, shut up! Come along and let's see."
They lost not a moment in getting their bag and having it conveyed to
the railway station. Fully alive to the situation, they now kept their
eyes well open and noticed things they would never have noticed before.
For one thing, it struck them that the post office official who handed
their bag over to them seemed decidedly over-curious, and remarked that
he supposed they were going to the railway station. That was
disconcerting enough, but when they arrived at the station, and were
almost immediately accosted by a man whom they both remembered seeing
inside the post office, they felt almost as though they were already
under lock and key.
Not that the man was unfriendly. He was quite the reverse. He seemed
anxious to strike up an acquaintance, wished to know exactly where they
were going, and gave them to understand that there was nothing he
desired more than to be allowed the privilege of making a part of the
journey with them.
Max presently gave Dale a meaning glance. It was all very well for an
Englishman like Dale, he felt, but for him, virtually a Belgian, the
situation was wellnigh desperate.
"I say, Dale," he said casually, "we must have some sandwiches to eat in
the train. Stay here by the bag while I get some--or perhaps this
gentleman wouldn't mind looking after it for a moment?"
The young German hesitated a second, and then nodded. Max and his friend
strolled coolly off, arm in arm, towards the refreshment buffet. Neither
looked back, but their conversation was far from being as airy and
unconcerned as their manner might have seemed to indicate.
"We must leave the bag and get clear at once," cried Max emphatically.
"The fellow has been set to watch us and see that we don't get out of
the country. I think he must believe we are both English, and it
therefore looks as though the Germans think England is on the point of
coming in too. See, now, let us stroll quietly in at this door and slip
out again at the end one. Then into the street and somewhere--no matter
where--so long as it is out of the way of spying eyes."
They did so with an unhurried celerity that might have deceived a
smarter man than the supposed spy. Soon they were clear of the town and
in the open country beyond, and it was not till then that they felt as
though they could talk unrestrainedly together.
"Now what shall we do, Max? Walk to the next station out from Bingen and
see if we can get a train for home?" enquired Dale, not too hopefully.
"No, old man; we must keep clear of railways and railway stations. Let
us make tracks for the frontier as we are, and go all out."
"It will be dark in another hour."
"Never mind. We must foot it all night. We have no time to lose, and we
must not throw away a single hour. In fact, it is hardly safe for us to
be about in daylight anywhere. You look as English as they are made, and
I'm not much better."
"All right! I'm game for an all-night tramp. Come on."
"We have about seven hours of darkness before us, and I reckon we ought
to be able to do four miles an hour. That gives us about thirty miles.
It's less than that to the frontier, and we ought to be able to manage
it, even if we have to leave the road and cut straight across country.
Come along; we'll keep to the road while we can, but if too risky we
must go helter-skelter, plumb for the frontier."
That night march neither of them is ever likely to forget. For an hour
or so they tramped along the road unmolested. Then they began to find
soldiers and policemen very much in evidence, and, fearing to be
questioned, they left the road and took to the fields and open country.
It was desperately rough going in many places, and instead of doing four
miles an hour they could oftentimes do no more than two. But they stuck
gamely to their task, and plodded steadily on all through the night,
realizing more surely with every step they took that it was a plain case
of now or never.
For every time they neared a road they found it alive with soldiers, all
marching steadily in one direction--towards the Belgian frontier. The
still night air resounded with the tramp of innumerable feet, and now
and again they could catch the distant rumble of heavy guns.
When day broke they were still in Germany, but near the frontier, and in
a sparsely peopled district. They were both nearly dead-beat, covered
with mud from head to foot, and with their clothes torn half off their
backs. It seemed a risky business to let themselves be seen anywhere in
that condition, but finally Max chose a lonely farm-house, and, after
cleaning himself up as much as possible, managed to make a purchase of a
good supply of food. They then tramped on for another mile or two, ate a
good meal, hid themselves in a dry ditch, and instantly dropped asleep.
It was ten o'clock when they awoke, and after some discussion they
decided to make the few miles between them and the border at once, and
then to purchase cycles and press for home. This they did exactly as
they planned, and, though often delayed and compelled to make wide
detours to avoid bodies of German cavalry, they managed to reach Liege
safely in the evening of the same day.
The sights that met their gaze on the latter part of their journey made
them doubly eager to get within the safety of the ring of forts
surrounding Liege. Peasants were fleeing from the frontier villages, and
their tales of what the Germans had done to their homes and dear ones
made the blood of Max and his friend alternately freeze with horror and
boil with rage. Their tales were a long catalogue of deeds of ruthless
barbarity, cold-blooded cruelty, lust, and rapine. The smoke of burning
houses seen in the distance gave emphasis to their tales of horror, and
Max and Dale at last felt as though the world must be coming to an end.
Indeed, the world of make-believe German civilization was coming to an
end in a wild outburst of unrestrained cruelty and lust.
But at Liege, they told one another, things would be different. There
the invaders would come against something more than villages peopled
with frightened peasants and trustful countryfolk, and would realize in
their turn something of the terribleness of war.