In British Uniforms
Shells were intermittently dropping upon the houses and in the streets
as Kenneth and Rollo entered the apparently deserted city of Liege.
The majority of the inhabitants, their numbers augmented by hundreds of
terrified refugees from the surrounding villages, had taken refuge in
cellars, while crowds, under the mistaken belief in the immunity of the
churches from shell-fire, had sought doubtful shelter in the sacred
edifices. Others, again, fearful at the threat of von Emmich to begin
a general bombardment upon the city unless the forts surrendered--a
threat that the gallant General Leman treated with contempt--were
boarding the last trains to leave Liege.
The day was excessively hot and close. The wind that had blown
strongly during the preceding night had dropped. Several of the houses
had taken fire, and the pungent smell of smoke filled the air.
Frequently, before the dispatch-riders reached their destination, they
were compelled to slacken pace, owing to the clouds of smoke that
drifted slowly across the almost deserted streets.
They found the commandant, with several of his staff, calmly engaged in
his work, and heedless of the fact that several shells had already
burst in front of the Palace of Justice in which he had taken up his
quarters.
Commandant Fleurus was a short, stocky man of about fifty, and rather
inclined to corpulence. His head was as bald as an egg, with the
exception of a ring of jet-black hair like a monkish tonsure. His eyes
were small, resembling black beads, and rapid in their movements.
He was writing when Kenneth was shown in. Without moving his head,
which was slightly inclined, he fixed the dispatch-rider with his
piercing stare.
"Message, sir, from Major le Tourneur."
The commandant took the letter and, with a swift movement, tore open
the flap of the envelope.
"This is marked 7.15 a.m.!" he exclaimed. "It's now a quarter to nine.
Why this delay?"
"We--that is, my comrade--crippled a Taube, sir."
"Crippled a Taube? What, pray, has a dispatch-rider to do with
Taubes?" demanded Commandante Fleurus sternly. "Do you know that it is
your duty to deliver messages at all costs, and in the least possible
time, regardless of Taubes, Zeppelins, and the German Emperor himself?"
Kenneth did not reply. The fiery nature of the little Belgian
literally consumed him. He had, however, the good sense to see that
the rebuke was merited.
"Well, sir, what have you to say?"
"It was an error of judgment, sir, which I regret," said Kenneth. "We
crippled the Taube as it was on the point of rising. Otherwise----"
"Were there no troops available?"
"Some lancers arrived while the Taube was burning."
The commandant turned and took hold of a telephone that stood on the
table at his side.
"Send Captain Planchenoit to me," he ordered; then, leaning back in his
chair, he again fixed the British lad with his beady eyes.
It was quite two minutes before the captain appeared, and the time
seemed like two hours to the crestfallen Kenneth. He had yet to learn
the lesson that cast-iron discipline demands, and it seemed galling
that his part in crippling one of the aerial spies should be
practically ignored by the man who ought to have gone into ecstasies
over the news.
Presently Captain Planchenoit entered, clicked his heels and saluted,
then waited his superior officer's pleasure. The captain was a
smart-looking man of more than average height, with a pleasant, open
countenance. He was on the intelligence staff, attached to the brigade
that had been hurriedly brought up from Diest.
"Any information respecting the destruction of one of the enemy's
aeroplanes?" demanded the commandant.
"Yes, mon commandant. It descended near the village of Jupille.
Before our lancers could approach it took fire. Our men found both
pilot and observer wounded and brought them back. The captain of the
troop reported that the Taube was set on fire by the pistol-shots of
two dispatch-riders."
"At any risk to themselves?"
"I know not, sir."
"At any risk?" repeated Commandant Fleurus, shifting his glance from
Captain Planchenoit to Kenneth.
In reply the lad removed his Belgian military cap and pointed to the
double hole made by the German observer's bullet.
To Kenneth's surprise the commandant leant back in his chair and gave
vent to a hearty laugh. Then he stood up and grasped the hand of the
astonished youth.
"Go, bring in your compatriot," he exclaimed.
"What's the game, old man?" asked Rollo, who was cooling his heels in
the corridor.
"Goodness knows! I can't make the little commandant out. He's an
enigma. I've had a gruelling. Come along."
Kenneth jerked out his sentences awkwardly, then, catching hold of his
chum's arm, led him into the commandant's presence.
"Captain Planchenoit," said the latter, after returning Rollo's salute.
"You applied for two additional dispatch-riders, I believe?"
"That is so, mon commandant," replied the captain.
"Good! Now listen to this, you brave Englishmen. This is the dispatch
you brought. It is from Major Resimont: 'In reply to your request for
dispatch-riders I send you two English motor-cyclists, MM. Kenneth
Everest and Rollo Barrington. From what I already know of them they
are courageous and resolute, and their services are likely to be of
more use in the operations before Brussels than within the fortress of
Barchon. More so in view of the possible early appearance of the
English forces who are to co-operate with the Belgian armies in the
field.'"
"It is very good of Major Resimont to speak so well of us," said
Kenneth. "Of course we must go where we are ordered, and that
willingly; but we should be sorry to part from Major Resimont and the
9th Regiment of the Line."
"It does not necessarily mean severing your connection with your old
regiment--if old I might term it," declared the commandant. "In strict
confidence I may tell you--I know that English gentlemen are always
honourable--that perhaps before to-morrow we must abandon the city to
the invaders. Our numbers are insufficient to hold the trenches
linking the chain of forts. We must concentrate our armies to the west
of Liege, leaving the forts to hold out until the English and French
armies arrive. It is a sad thing to have to abandon such a city as
this to the ruthless Germans, but sacrifices must be made for the
honour of our country. Captain Planchenoit will give you instruction
where to proceed."
Just at that moment an orderly-sergeant entered the room, his face
purple with excitement.
"Sir," he announced, "four English officers are without. They have
arrived from Ostend by motor-car and desire to see the General Leman."
Commandant Fleurus took the pieces of pasteboard the sergeant held in
his hand, and passed them on first to Kenneth and then to Rollo.
"See if you know any of these gentlemen," he said.
"Yes," replied Rollo. "I know Major Athol Duncan-Dean of the Duke of
Cornwall's Light Infantry. Hello! What's the meaning of this?" he
added in his native tongue.
"Jolly rummy, anyhow," commented Kenneth, for in the word "Cornwall's"
the apostrophe was after the "s".
"And Major Duncan-Dean is too mighty particular to pass a mistake on
his visiting-card like that," added Rollo.
"Perhaps he lost his own and had them printed in Belgium, and didn't
notice the mistake until it was too late."
"I'll mention it to the commandant. It's fishy."
"Since you know the officer, Monsieur Barrington," said the commandant,
when Kenneth had explained the nature of the error, "perhaps you will
go with this sergeant. Present my compliments, and say that the
General Leman is at Fort de Loncin, and that I, Commandant Fleurus,
will be pleased to receive the English officers in his absence. But,
listen; if by any chance the Major Duncan-Dean is not the one you know,
say that the General will receive presently, ask them to wait, and
return immediately to me."
Escorted by the sergeant, Rollo was taken to a room where four
officers, correctly dressed in British field-service uniform, were
seated. One glance was sufficient. None of them bore any resemblance
to the Major Duncan-Dean whom the lad knew well. There was only one
major of that name in the Duke of Cornwall's Light Infantry, and he was
a fairly frequent visitor at Colonel Barrington's house, especially
during the shooting season.
Rollo delivered the commandant's message in English, explaining that he
was British but attached to the Belgian army, and that he was a son of
Colonel Barrington of Holmfrith, near Truro.
There was no sign of recognition on the part of the supposed Major
Duncan-Dean; instead, an awkward silence prevailed. None of the four
officers seemed at all anxious to reply. They all looked disappointed
and embarrassed.
"Our message is of great importance and for only the ears of General
Leman," said one of them at last. "We will not trouble the commandant
except to give us permits to enter Fort Loncin and to telephone to the
General that we are about to arrive."
Suddenly a hand grasped Rollo's shoulder in a vice-like grip, and the
muzzle of a revolver was clapped against his temple.
"One sound and you are dead!" exclaimed a stern voice.
The lad was already convinced that the so-called British army officers
were Germans in disguise. Not only was he sure that the pseudo Major
Duncan-Dean was an impostor; the peculiar phraseology of the man who
had replied to the commandant's message confirmed his conclusions. To
crown everything, there was the conviction carried by the muzzle of
that revolver.
Rollo spent a nasty minute. His mind was working furiously, weighing
up the factors of the situation. To raise the alarm meant death to
himself; to fail to do so might result in the cold-blooded massacre of
Commandant Fleurus and several of the staff; while, with the
head-quarters telephone at their disposal, the four Germans might play
havoc with the plans of the Belgian Commander-in-Chief.
The Germans were talking rapidly in a low tone. The one who held Rollo
prisoner still kept the revolver against the lad's temple; the rest had
each drawn an automatic pistol, and were evidently about to force their
way into the presence of the commandant.
"I'll wait till those fellows go out into the corridor," thought the
lad, "then I'll try the effect of a sudden blow in this gentleman's
wind. It may do the trick; if not, my number's up. Anyway, it's
better than being snuffed out without making an attempt to fight for
it."
Although he kept as quiet as he possibly could, Rollo could feel his
heart thumping violently, while his temples throbbed until the muzzle
of the German's revolver seemed to be beating a tattoo.
"Keep steady!" hissed his captor. "This pistol has hair-trigger.
Might go off if you shake."
It was on the tip of Rollo's tongue to reply that he was not shaking by
reason of fear; but realizing that such a statement might put the
German additionally upon his guard, the lad kept silent.
Presently one of the conspirators replaced his revolver, and with his
free hand grasped the handle of the door. The other two stood behind,
ready to sally forth on their murderous and treacherous work.
Rollo mentally pulled himself together. Another ten or twenty seconds
would decide the fate of his plan--and of himself.
Suddenly the subdued daylight of the room was pierced by a dozen
simultaneous flashes. The rattle of musketry sounded like the
discharge of a twenty-one-inch howitzer. The place was filled with the
haze of smokeless powder.
Instinctively the lad ducked. There was a tremendous crash above his
head. A thousand lights danced before his eyes, and he lost
consciousness.