Captured
On parting with his comrade on the road to Cortenaeken, Rollo rode at a
great pace towards his goal. He was to a certain extent fortunate in
finding people at the various branch roads to give him directions; and
in less than an hour from the time of parting company with Kenneth he
was in sight of the hamlet where he hoped to meet Major Foveneau.
The place seemed deserted. Perhaps, he thought, the Belgian troops
were entrenched on the other side of the slightly rising ground. At a
great distance off he could hear the rumble of guns in action.
Evidently there were two separate battles in progress. From the
direction of one cannonade it seemed as if the rival forces were
engaged in the district through which he had so recently ridden, yet he
could have sworn that he had not seen either a single Belgian or German
soldier.
Suddenly, as he glanced to the left, Rollo's heart gave a tremendous
thump. He had already ridden more than half-way past the rear of a
masked German battery. There were perhaps a dozen guns placed in
position behind a ridge. The weapons were trained for high-angle
firing, while, to render them invisible from Belgian aircraft, they
were screened by branches of trees. By the side of each field-piece
was an armoured ammunition cart. The body of the vehicle was upturned
to a perpendicular position, the shells being kept in place by a
"pigeon-hole" arrangement. The gunners were "standing easy", while,
from the tip of a neighbouring haystack, a number of officers were
observing the Belgian position through their field-glasses.
Hearing the sound of the motor-cycle, several of the men turned and
looked at the dispatch-rider, but they made no attempt to stop him.
Evidently they thought he was one of their cyclists, for Rollo's
uniform was smothered in grey dust, so that there was no perceptible
difference between him and a motor-cyclist attached to the invading
army.
Fortunately Rollo kept his head. Without slackening his speed he
continued on his way until he was within two hundred yards of the
nearest house in the village. Here he dismounted and began to rack his
brains as to the best course to pursue.
He had fallen into a trap. Cortenaeken had been taken and was now in
the possession of the enemy. He could see that several of the
buildings were damaged by shell-fire. Unknown to himself he had ridden
through the advanced German lines without any suspicion that thousands
of men were concealed in the fields and thickets on either side of the
road. The German left flank had been thrown forward a considerable
distance, and their motor-scouts had been constantly in touch with the
centre. Thus, by a pure fluke, Rollo had ridden through with a German
motor-cyclist ten minutes ahead of him and another five minutes behind.
"I'll destroy the dispatch at once," decided the lad. "After that I'll
try and ride back by the way I came. So here goes!"
He drew the petrol-soaked paper from the tank, and carried it to a dry
ditch by the side of the road. The dispatch flared as soon as Rollo
struck a match and set light to it. Its destruction was rapid and
complete.
Before he could regain his mount a motor-cyclist dashed up. As he
approached he slackened speed, gripped the exhaust-lifter, and took
advantage of the consequent reduction of sound to shout something in
German. Rollo shook his head; his knowledge of German was too
elementary for him to reply, but he gathered that the man was asking
whether he required any assistance.
Then, to the lad's consternation, the German dispatch-rider stopped,
dismounted, and walked towards him.
"There's only one thing I can do---I must pretend I'm deaf and
dumb--temporary effect of the concussion of a shell, although I can't
show a wound," thought Rollo. "It wouldn't be cricket to shoot the
chap, especially as he stopped in all good faith. Well, here goes!"
Opening his mouth and working his chin like a gasping cod-fish, the lad
awaited with considerable misgivings the result of his experiment.
The German was a round-faced, fair-haired fellow of about twenty--a
student fresh from college. He looked quite sympathetic, and when
Rollo explained by means of signs that there was something wrong with
the electric ignition of his cycle, his face lighted up. Strolling up
to the British lad's mount, he proceeded in quite a natural way to
examine the sparking-plug, and, for the benefit of the supposed
distressed rider, he made a pantomimic display of rubbing it with
emery-cloth.
This done, he walked across to the spot where he had left his own
cycle, still holding the plug in his hand.
"He's going to clean the blessed thing for me," thought Rollo, "and
it's in perfect order, too."
But the next moment his amusement was changed to consternation, for,
leaping into his saddle, the German made off at full speed, leaving
Rollo with a motor-cycle that was now out of action with a vengeance.
Rollo was not left long in doubt as to the fellow's intentions. Soon
he reappeared from the village accompanied by a patrol of Uhlans. The
British-made motor-cycle had aroused his suspicions, and a closer
inspection of Rollo's dust-covered uniform had confirmed them.
"The brute!" ejaculated Rollo. "At all events those fellows won't make
use of my cycle."
With a quick movement he unscrewed the cap of the petrol tank, and
threw his highly-prized mount on its side. Then, striking a match and
deliberately waiting till it was well alight, he threw it into the
escaping spirit. With a flash and a roar the petrol caught, and in an
instant the cycle was enveloped in flames.
Rollo did not wait to see the end of his act of destruction. Taking to
his heels he ran towards a wood about a couple of furlongs from the
road. The hoarse shouts of the pursuing Uhlans rang in his ears as he
fled, while a bullet, missing him handsomely, whizzed ten feet above
his head.
Another shot followed with no better result. It was not the rifles of
the pursuing horsemen that he feared; it was their obvious superiority
in speed.
He could hear the thud of the horses' hoofs in the soft ground growing
momentarily louder and louder. Only twenty yards more, and the Uhlans
would be balked by the dense foliage. Ahead was a ditch, six feet in
width, with a fairly high bank on the opposite side. In his heated
imagination the fugitive could almost feel the points of those ugly
lances thrust into his back.
With a stupendous effort he leapt, alighting on the other side of the
ditch on his hands and knees. The Germans, fearing to risk the jump,
began to rein in their horses. For the time being he had won.
Rollo staggered to his feet and clambered up the bank, when to his
horror he found himself confronted by a dozen levelled rifles. It was
a case of "out of the frying-pan into the fire" with a vengeance.
Had there been a ghost of a chance to break away Rollo would have
seized it, but there was none. He raised both hands above his head.
The next instant he was held by two powerful soldiers, while others,
with a dexterity acquired by much practice, searched him. Not only was
he stripped, and the lining of his coat ripped open, but his boots were
removed and the soles cut through, in case a hidden dispatch might be
found. They even forced open his mouth to make certain he was not
swallowing any document; and they took good care to retain the letters
he had received from home.
Finding nothing of the nature they suspected, the sergeant in charge of
the men gruffly ordered him in very imperfect French to dress. Then,
escorted by four men, and followed by the patrol of Uhlans and the
motor-cyclist who had raised the alarm, Rollo was taken into the
village and brought before a group of officers.
"Ah, Englishman! We have caught you, then," exclaimed one of the
Prussian officers.
Rollo looked straight at him. The German was in the uniform of the
line. His head was swathed in surgical bandages, but there was enough
of his face left exposed to give the British lad a clue to the identity
of the speaker. He was the major who had treacherously attempted to
shoot the Belgian officer by whom he had been given quarter, on the
occasion of the night attack upon Fort de Barchon. On the fall of the
Liege fortresses the Prussian had been released by his comrades, and in
spite of his wound was once more at the front.
For the next ten minutes Rollo was closely questioned. He replied only
when he felt fairly certain that there was no harm in so doing; but,
when pressed to give information respecting the Belgian forces, he
resolutely refused.
The German officers swore, and threatened him.
"You cannot make me disclose information," declared Rollo. "It is
against the rules of war to coerce a prisoner."
A chorus of loud jeering laughter greeted this statement.
"My young friend," quoth the Major when the mirth had subsided, "you do
not understand. When Germany makes war she makes war: there are no
half-measures. Why should we, the greatest nation upon earth, be bound
by rules and regulations laid down by a self-constituted peace
party--the Geneva Convention?"
"But Germany was a party to it."
"Because at the time it suited her purpose. It is no use arguing,
young Englishman. The point is, do you answer all our questions, or
must we exercise pressure? Bear in mind that if you give false
information, which we are certain to find out, you will be shot."
Rollo felt far from comfortable. His faith in the traditions of war,
in which he had been versed by his father, was ruthlessly destroyed by
the cold-blooded declaration of his captor. It was as well that he was
given to pondering rather than to forming a hasty and impulsive
resolution, otherwise he might have told the German major to do his
worst. Under similar circumstances the impetuous Kenneth might have
sealed his own death-warrant; but Rollo remembered that a still tongue
makes a wise head.
Fortunately at this juncture an orderly knocked at the door. In
response to an ungracious permission to enter he strode stiffly into
the room, clicked his heels, and saluted.
"What is it?" demanded the Major.
The soldier handed his officer a sealed dispatch. The German broke the
flap of the envelope with a violent movement of his thick fingers. It
was characteristic of him and his profession: the use of brute force,
even when dealing with the frailest thing that balked him.
His brows darkened. With an oath he tossed the document to his brother
officers. They, too, swore. The news was not at all reassuring.
"Sergeant!" roared the Major. "Tell one of your men to have the
swiftest motor-car he can find brought here at once. Those Belgian
brutes have been causing trouble near Tirlemont. Then pick out a
reliable patrol to escort this prisoner to Tirlemont, where I will deal
with him in due course."
The sergeant saluted, and ran as hard as he could to execute his
superior's commands. Rollo was removed in charge of the guards, until
the arrival of the Uhlans detailed to act as his escort. Then, having
made arrangements with his brother officers for the hurrying up of the
regiment to repel the new phase of the Belgian offensive, the Major
entered the waiting car and was whirled off along the Tirlemont road.
Rollo smiled grimly as he noted the numbers of the Uhlan escort.
"Seven of them: they are not going to take much risk of my giving them
the slip," he thought. "All the same I'll keep my eyes well open, and
if there is the faintest possible chance I'll take it. Anything is
better than being threatened by that brute of a Prussian major. I wish
I had knocked him over the head that night."
After traversing about two miles of the road the Uhlans relaxed their
vigilance. No longer did they carry their lances across the
saddle-bow, ready to transfix their prisoner at the first sign of
trouble. Out came their pipes, and, under the soothing influence of
the tobacco, the Uhlans attempted a conversation in broken French with
their youthful charge. It was not a pleasant subject, for, with grim
vividness, they impressed upon the lad the fact that they had already
seen more than twenty summary executions, and judging by the manner in
which the prisoners met their fate, the process was sharp and
practically painless. But they could not understand why Herr Major had
gone to the trouble to have the prisoner sent after him to Tirlemont,
instead of having him put out of the way without further delay.
A mounted scout came galloping along the dusty road. The corporal in
charge of the Uhlans stopped him to ask whether there were any Belgian
troops in the district. Receiving a negative reply, the Uhlan grunted
that it was just as well, as he had no desire to be shot at by those
troublesome rascals.
"It is as safe as in the Unter den Linden," added the scout. "There is
not an armed Belgian within ten miles of you. Our 43rd and 62nd Line
Regiments have just gone forward. You might almost see the rear-guard;
so keep up a brave heart, comrade."
The corporal growled at this joking advice, yet in his own mind he felt
greatly relieved. After all there was no hurry to reach Tirlemont. If
the patrol arrived before sunset, it was more than likely they would be
ordered to perform another and more hazardous service.
"We'll halt at that farm-house," he said to his men. "There may be
something worth finding. Two of you will be sufficient to keep an eye
on the prisoner. He doesn't seem as if he will give trouble."