[Illustration: "Who goes there!"]
WHO GOES THERE!
BY
ROBERT W. CHAMBERS
[Illustration]
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
A. I. KELLER
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK AND LONDON
1915
COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY
ROBERT W. CHAMBERS
Printed in the United States of America
_To_
_J. HAMBLEN SEARS_
_Joseph! I've known you now for many years;
You are the Hero of this pretty story;
In him your every virtue reappears
Lighting his way along the road to glory.
All you possess adorns this Hero gay,
Your fatal beauty, curly hair, and so forth;
Like you he's always ready, night or day,
To pack his doggy clothes and ties and go forth.
No winsome maid beneath a summer sky,
Innured to prudence, modesty, and duty
Would dare demur or hesitate to fly
With such a manly specimen of beauty.
Accept, my friend, this tribute to your worth
As publisher, explorer, lover, fighter,
For men like you were destined from their birth
To make a millionaire of any writer._
_R. W. C._
_WHO GOES THERE!_
_Not with indifferent or with flippant hand
Draw the curtain's corner to disclose
A rose, a leaf, a path through this sad land
Untrampled yet by foes.
Out of the Past--the Heart's last Hermitage--
A wistful Phantom glides to me again
Here where I pace that solitary cage
They call, The World of Men.
In vain she mirrors me the Golden Age;
Vain is her Voice of Spring in wood and glen;
The winter sunlight falls across my page
Gilding a broken pen.
Withered the magic gardens which were mine;
Eden, in embers, blackens in the sun;
Rooting amid crushed roses the Wild Swine
Still root, and spare not one.
Village and spire and scented forest path,
Pastures and brooks, meadows and hills and fens
Heard not the secret whispering in Gath
There where the Gray Boar dens,
Till burst his dreadful clamour on the Rhine
And all the World shrank deafened by the roar
Aghast before the out-rush of Wild Swine
Led by the great Gray Boar._
_Fallen the cloud-capped castles which were mine;
Cities in ashes whiten in the sun;
Rending the ruined shrines, the Rhenish Swine
Still rend, and spare not one._
PREFACE
The Crown Prince is partly right; the majority in the world is against
him and what he stands for; but not against Germany and the Germans.
He professes surprise at the attitude of the United States. That
attitude is the natural result of various causes among which are the
following:
Distrust of any aggressor by a nation inclined toward peace.
Disgust at the "scrap of paper" episode.
Resentment at the invasion of Belgium.
Contempt for the Imperial Government which is industriously screwing the
last penny of "indemnity" out of a ruined nation, which the people of
the United States are taxing their private means to keep from
starvation.
Further back there are other reasons.
For thirty years the press of Germany has seldom missed an opportunity
to express its contempt for Americans. Any American who has ever lived
in Germany or who has read German newspapers during the last thirty
years is aware of the tone of the German press concerning America and
Americans. No innuendoes have been too vulgar, no sneers too brutal for
the editors of these papers, and, presumably for the readers.
Also Americans do not forget the attitude of the Imperial Government
during the Spanish war. The bad manners of a German Admiral are bearing
fruit.
Imperialism we Americans do not understand, but it need not make us
unfriendly to empires.
But we do understand when manners are bad, or when a military caste,
which maintains its traditions of personal honour by violence, becomes
arrogant to the point of brutality.
A false notion of personal honour is alone enough to prevent a
sympathetic understanding between two peoples.
America is not an enemy to Germany, only is it inexorably opposed to any
Government which breaks faith; and which enthrones above all other gods
the god of violence.
For the German soldiers who are dying in this Hohenzollern-Hapsburg war
we have only sympathy and pity. We know they are as brave as any
soldiers; that cruelty in the German Army is in no greater proportion
than it is in any army.
But also we know that the cause of Imperial Germany is wrong; her
civilization is founded on propositions impossible for any American to
accept; her aims, ambitions, and ideals antagonistic to the progress to
communal and individual liberty as we understand the terms. And that
settles the matter for us.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. IN THE MIST 1
II. THE MAN IN GREY 9
III. TIPPERARY 26
IV. BAD DREAMS 37
V. KAREN 46
VI. MR. AND MRS 62
VII. THE SATCHEL 83
VIII. AT SEA 91
IX. H. M. S. WYVERN 106
X. FORCE 115
XI. STRATEGY 136
XII. IN THE RAIN 150
XIII. THE DAY OF WRATH 170
XIV. HER ENEMY 174
XV. IN CONFIDENCE 176
XVI. THE FOREST LISTENS 196
XVII. HER FIRST CAMPAIGN 217
XVIII. LESSE FOREST 226
XIX. THE LIAR 248
XX. BEFORE DINNER 257
XXI. SNIPERS 271
XXII. DRIVEN GAME 288
XXIII. CANDLE LIGHT 299
XXIV. A PERSONAL AFFAIR 315
XXV. WHO GOES THERE! 326
XXVI. AMICUS DEI 338
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING
PAGE
"Who goes there!" _Frontispiece_
"'If you'll say you'll do it, ... I'll not have those
men shot'" 20
"There came a light, soft touch on his ring-finger" 52
"The chauffeur hit him ... two heavy, merciless
blows, hurling him senseless across the stairs" 68
"'Kervyn! Kervyn--Think what you are doing!--'" 120
"Standing so beside the pool, breathing the incense of
the roses, she thought of the dream" 276
"The Pulpit resounded with the rifle-fire of its little
garrison" 296
"The impact hurled von Reiter against the table" 318
"And last of all came Karen with Guild on foot beside
her" 336
WHO GOES THERE!
CHAPTER I
IN THE MIST
They had selected for their business the outer face of an old garden
wall. There were red tiles on the coping; dusty roadside vines half
covered the base. Where plaster had peeled off a few weather-beaten
bricks showed. Bees hummed in the trampled herbage.
Against this wall they backed the first six men. One, a mere boy, was
crying, wiping his frightened eyes on his shirt-sleeve.
The dry crash of the volley ended the matter; all the men against the
wall collapsed. Presently one of them, the boy who had been crying,
moved his arm in the grass. A rifle spoke instantly, and he moved no
more.
There came a low-spoken word of command, the firing squad shouldered
rifles, wheeled, and moved off; and out of the sea-grey masses of
infantry another squad of execution came marching up, smartly.
A dozen men, some in sabots, trousers, and dirty collarless shirts, some
in well-cut business suits and straw hats, and all with their wrists
tied behind them, stood silently awaiting their turns. One among them, a
young man wearing a golf-cap, knickerbockers, heather-spats, and an
absolutely colourless face, stood staring at the tumbled heaps of
clothing along the foot of the wall as though stupified.
Six peasants went first; the men more smartly attired were to wait a
little longer it appeared.
The emotionless and methodical preparations, the brisk precision of the
operation, the cheerful celerity of the firing squad made it the more
terrifying, stunning the victims to immobility.
The young man in the golf-cap and knickerbockers clenched his tied
hands. Not an atom of colour remained in cheeks or lips, and he stood
with face averted while the squad of execution was busy with its
business.
There seemed to be some slight disorder along the wall--a defiant voice
was raised hoarsely cursing all Germans; another, thin and hysterical,
cheered for Belgium and the young King. Also this firing squad must have
aimed badly, for bayonet and rifle-butt were used afterward and some
delay occurred; and an officer, revolver swinging, prowled along the
foot of the wall, kicking inquiringly at the dead heaps of heavy flesh
that had collapsed there.
Houses lining the single village street began to leak smoke; smoke
writhed and curled behind closed window-panes. Here and there a mounted
Uhlan forced his big horse up on the sidewalk and drove his lance butt
through the window glass.
Already the street was swimming in thin strata of smoke; the sea-grey
uniforms of the German infantry seemed part of the haze; only the faces
of the soldiery were visible--faces without bodies, thousands of flat,
detached faces, thousands of little pig eyes set in a blank and foggy
void. And over everything in the close, heavy air brooded the sour
stench of a sweat-soaked, unwashed army.
A third squad of execution came swinging up, apparently out of nowhere,
their heavy half-boots clumping in unison on the stony street.
The young man in the golf-cap and knickerbockers heard them coming and
bit his bloodless lip.
After a moment the rhythm of the heavy boots ceased. The street became
very silent, save where window glass continually fell tinkling to the
sidewalk and the feathery whisper of flames became more audible from
within the row of empty houses.
The young man lifted his eyes to the sombre and sunless sky. High up
there above the mist and heavy bands of smoke he saw the feathery tops
of tall trees, motionless.
Presently through the silence came the clatter of hoofs; Uhlans cantered
past, pennons whipping from lance heads; then a soft two-toned
bugle-call announced an automobile; and presently it loomed up, huge,
through the parted ranks of the infantry, a great grey, low-purring
bulk, slowing, halting, still purring.
A grey-clad general officer sat in the tonneau, a grey-uniformed hussar
was seated beside the grey-liveried chauffeur.
As the car stopped several officers were already beside the
running-board, halted stiffly at attention. The general officer, his
cigar between his gloved fingers, leaned over the edge of the tonneau
and said something in a very quiet voice.
Instantly a slim, stiff infantry captain saluted, wheeled sharply, and
walked straight to the little file of prisoners who stood with their
wrists tied behind their backs, looking vacantly at the automobile.
"Which is the prisoner-hostage who says he is American?" he snapped out
in his nasal Prussian voice.
The young man who wore a golf-cap took a short step forward, hesitated.
"You?"
"Yes."
"Fall in again!"
The officer nodded to a sergeant of infantry, and a squad of men shoved
the prisoners into single file, facing not the fatal wall, but westward,
along the street.
"March!" said somebody. And the next moment again: "Halt!" rang out with
the snapping brevity of a cracked whip. The general officer leaned from
the grey tonneau and looked steadily along the file of hostages until
his glance fell upon the young man in the golf-cap.
"What is your name?" he asked quietly in English.
"My name is Guild."
"The rest?"
"Kervyn Guild."
"You say you are American?"
"Yes."
The general officer looked at him for a moment longer, then said
something to the hussar aide-de-camp.
The aide threw open the car door and jumped out. A lieutenant took
command of the escort. The hussar whispered instructions, turned and
came to attention beside the running-board, then, at a nod from the
general officer, jumped up beside the chauffeur. There came the
soft-toned, mellow warning of the bugle; the grey machine glided off
into the mist; the prisoners and escort followed it, marching briskly.
As they passed the end of the street two houses on their right suddenly
roared up in one vast, smoke-shot tower of flame, and a brassy glare
lighted up the mist around them.
Somewhere near by a woman began to scream; farther down the street, more
windows and doors were being beaten in. From farther away, still, came
the strains of military music, resonant, full, magnificent. A detail
passed with spades to bury the dead who lay under the wall. All was
order, precision, and cheerful despatch. The infantry column, along the
halted flanks of which the prisoners were now being marched, came to
attention. Company after company marked time, heavily; shouldered
rifles. Uhlans in file came spurring through the centre of the street; a
cyclist followed, rifle slung across his back, sitting at ease on his
machine and gazing curiously about.
Out of the end of the village street marched the prisoners and their
escort, but presently halted again.
Directly in front of them stood the grey automobile drawn up by the
roadside before a pair of iron gates. The gates swung from high stucco
walls. On top of the walls were soldiers sitting, rifle on knee; a
machine gun commanded the drive, and across the gravel more soldiers
were digging a trench, setting posts, and stringing barbed wire which
they unwound from great wooden reels.
Through the gates escort and prisoners threaded their way, across a lawn
already trampled by cavalry, and straight on toward a pleasant looking
and somewhat old-fashioned house set amid older trees and shrubbery,
badly broken.
Half a dozen grey-clad staff officers were eating and drinking on the
low stone terrace; their horses picketed on the lawn, nibbled the
crushed shrubbery. Sentries pacing the terrace and on guard at the door
came to attention as the lieutenant in charge of the escort marched his
prisoners in.
At a word from him an infantryman went from prisoner to prisoner untying
the cords that bound their wrists behind them. Then they were marched
into an old-fashioned drawing-room on the left, sentries were placed,
the remainder of the escort sat down on the floor with their loaded
rifles on their laps and their backs against the wall. Their officer,
the lieutenant, walked across the hallway to the room on the left, where
the sentry admitted him, then closed the door and resumed his heavy
pacing of the black-tiled hall.
The sergeant in charge of the escort lifted his helmet with its
grey-cloth covering, scratched his bullet head, yawned. Then he said,
jerking a huge thumb toward the drawing-room: "There's a good wall in
the garden behind the house. They'll make the fruit grow all the
better--these Belgians."
The lieutenant, coming out of the room opposite, overheard him.
"What your crops need," he said in a mincing Berlin voice, "is plenty of
good English filth to spade under. See that you bring in a few
cart-loads."
And he went into the drawing-room where the prisoners stood by the
windows looking out silently at a great pall of smoke which was hanging
over the village through which they had just been marched.
"Which of you is the alleged American?" said the lieutenant in
hesitating but correct English.
The young man in knickerbockers rose from a brocaded armchair.
"Follow me. General von Reiter does you the honour to question you."
The young man looked the lieutenant straight in the eye and smiled,
stiffly perhaps, because his face was still pallid and the breath of
death still chilled it.
"The honour," he said in an agreeably modulated voice, "is General von
Reiter's. But I fear he won't realize it."
"What's that!" said the lieutenant sharply.
But young Guild shrugged his shoulders. "You wouldn't understand either.
Besides you are too talkative for an underling. Do your duty--if you
know how."
"Swine of a Yankee," said the lieutenant, speaking slowly and with
painful precision, "do you suppose you are in your own sty of a
Republic? Silence! A Prussian officer commands you! March!"
Guild dropped his hands into the pockets of his belted jacket. "You
little shrimp," he said good humouredly, and followed the officer, who
had now drawn his sword.
Out into the hall they filed, across it to the closed door. The sentry
on duty there opened it; the lieutenant, very red in the face, delivered
his prisoner, then, at a nod from the grey-clad officer who was sitting
behind a writing desk, saluted, faced about, and marched out. The door
closed sharply behind him.