Arrested as Spies
"We're safe for the present," remarked Kenneth, after the two fugitives
had placed a distance of at least four miles between them and the
outlying German post. "I didn't mention it before, but the belt is
slipping horribly. The strain has stretched it a lot; so we may as
well shorten the rubber."
"By Jove, it is slack!" exclaimed Rollo, testing the "give" of the
belt. "It's a wonder it didn't let us down badly. It's a funny thing,
old man, but I've often noticed that if we expect a lot of trouble we
get through without hardly any bother. The last lap, when we rushed
the German lines, was as easy as ABC."
"Yes," assented his companion. "I've noticed that too. It's the
unexpected trifle that often leads to greater difficulties. Got your
knife handy? Oh, I suppose the Germans took a fancy to that too. Can
you get mine from my pocket? That's right, cut the belt through at an
inch from the end."
The motor-cyclists had halted in the midst of a war-devastated area.
Farm houses and buildings were numerous, but in almost every case they
had suffered severely from shell-fire. Not a living creature, besides
themselves, was in sight. Here and there were corpses of the gallant
defenders of Belgium, some in uniforms, some in civilian attire. These
men, shot whilst in the act of retiring under a terrific artillery
fire, had been left where they fell, showing how heavy had been the
German attack; for in most cases the plucky Belgians contrived to carry
off those of their comrades who had died for their country.
Close to the spot where Kenneth and his companion had stopped was a
large farm wagon piled high with furniture. Yoked to it were the
bodies of two oxen, while a short distance away lay a dead peasant--an
old man. The wagon, on which the refugee had been attempting to remove
his goods and chattels from his threatened homestead, had fallen an
easy target to the German guns.
A gnawing hunger compelled the British lads to examine the
shell-riddled contents of the wagon in the hope of finding food. But
in this they were disappointed. Not so much as a scrap of anything to
eat was to be found.
Both lads were parched, Kenneth especially so. Even Rollo had almost
forgotten the refreshing taste of the water given him by the German
private. Yet, even in the pangs of a burning thirst, they could not
bring themselves to drink of the stagnant water in the ditches by the
roadside.
The repair completed, the motor-cyclists remounted. They were most
eager to push on, even for the sake of obtaining drink, food, and rest.
It could only be a matter of a few short, easy miles before they would
be safe for the time being in the country still held by their friends,
the Belgian troops.
"She's pulling splendidly now," announced Kenneth, referring to the
transmission of power from the engine to the driving-wheel. Both lads
had now discarded the bandages over their bogus wounds, and
conversation was a fairly easy matter.
Hardly were the words out of his mouth when the motor began to falter.
Then it "picked up", ran for about a quarter of a minute and slowed
down again, finally coming to a dead-stop.
"No petrol," announced Rollo ruefully. "The tank is empty."
"Rot!" ejaculated his companion incredulously. "It was full when we
started, and I'll swear we've done nothing like sixty miles on it yet."
Kenneth examined the gauge, then turned to his chum.
"Sorry, old man," he said. "I'm wrong. The stuff's all gone."
Further examination revealed the unpleasant fact that there was a small
leak between the piping and the carburettor. Unnoticed, a quantity of
the petrol had run to waste.
"It's a case of push," continued Kenneth. "How's your foot? Fit for a
tramp? If not, you may as well get on the saddle and I'll run you
along."
Although young Barrington's ankle was paining considerably, he sturdily
refused to take advantage of his companion's offer. From experience he
knew that pushing a motor was no light task. Kenneth might be capable
of giving him a lift, but Rollo would not trespass upon his friend's
generous conduct to that extent.
On and on they plodded, Rollo resting one hand on the saddle and
striving to conceal his limp. Presently a practically ruined village
came in sight. Not only had it been heavily bombarded, but subsequent
fires had increased the work of destruction. Thick columns of smoke
were rising high into the sultry air, while above the roar of the
flames could be heard the excited tones of human voices.
"The villagers are trying to save the little that remains of their
homes," said Kenneth. "They'll be able to give us some information as
to where we can pick up the Belgian troops. Perhaps, though I doubt
it, we may be also able to procure petrol."
Suddenly a peasant, who was standing about a hundred yards in front of
the nearest house, took to his heels and ran, shouting as he went.
Before he gained the village, spurts of dull flame burst from behind a
heap of debris piled across the road, and half a dozen bullets _zipped_
past the two lads.
"Lie down!" exclaimed Kenneth, stopping only to place his precious
motor-cycle behind a tree by the side of a ditch, before he followed
the prompt example of his companion. "Those fellows have mistaken us
for Uhlans. I don't wonder at it, now I come to think about it."
Although sheltered by a mound by the side of the ditch, their place of
concealment was known to the peasants. The latter kept up quite a hot
fire from antiquated muskets and sporting-guns. Shots whizzed
overhead, and showers of pellets fell all around the two lads.
"Can't blame them," said Rollo. "Let's hoist the white flag; it's no
disgrace in this case."
Kenneth produced a very discoloured pocket-handkerchief. At one time
it had been a white one, but owing to the various uses to which it had
been put its colour resembled that tint which the French, with a
reason, call "isabelle". For want of a staff he was obliged to hold it
by his uplifted arm. In return he received a couple of pellets from a
"twelve-bore", which, fortunately, only inflicted two punctured wounds
in his skin.
"I'm not a rabbit," muttered Kenneth, and he continued to wave the
"white flag".
Presently the firing ceased, and a swarm of men, accompanied by several
shrieking women, bore down upon the two supposed Uhlans.
"We're friends!" shouted Kenneth. "We're English. We've escaped from
the Prussians."
He might just as well have attempted to stem a torrent with a feather.
The villagers saw only the hated uniforms of their merciless
oppressors. They had no cause to grant quarter to Uhlans, for Uhlans
were brutal and murderous to all with whom they came in contact when on
their dreaded raids.
"A mort! A bas!" rose from the mob like the growling of a pack of
half-famished animals. The two British lads were in dire peril of
being torn limb from limb.
"A bas les Prussiens! Nous sommes Anglais," shouted Kenneth again,
folding his arms and trying his level best to appear calm.
A stick, hurled by a woman's hand, missed his head and struck him
heavily upon the shoulder. At almost the same time Rollo was hit by a
broken brick, the missile striking him in the ribs.
"Tenez!" thundered an authoritative voice. "Let us show these vile
Uhlans that Belgians are civilized. We will give them a fair trial,
and shoot them afterwards."
"Anything for a respite," thought Kenneth. Even in this moment of
peril the Belgian speaker's idea of a fair trial tickled his sense of
humour.
The man who had intervened was a short, thickset fellow, with lowering
eyebrows and a crop of closely-cut hair. He was dressed in black,
while round his waist was a shawl, evidently intended for a badge of
office. He had donned it in such a hurry that the loops of the bows
had come undone and were trailing in the dust.
Grasped by a dozen toil-hardened hands, and surrounded by the rest of
the survivors of the justly exasperated inhabitants, the two lads were
hurried towards the village.
"I wish we had kept on our uniforms under these, old man," said Rollo.
"We've nothing to prove our identity."
"They're speaking in German. That proves their guilt," announced one
of their captors.
Neither Kenneth nor Rollo attempted to deny the statement--somewhat
unwisely, for their unsophisticated guards took silence as an
expression of assent to the accusation.
The military passes provided by the Belgian Government had been
destroyed--Rollo's, when captured at Cortenaeken; Kenneth's, when the
lads made their hitherto beneficial exchange of uniforms. As Rollo had
remarked, they possessed nothing that they could produce to prove their
identity.
Happening to look over his shoulder, Kenneth saw a peasant kicking his
motor-cycle. Unable to wheel it, since its owner had slipped in the
clutch previous to placing it under cover, the Belgian was venting his
annoyance upon the machine.
"Stop!" shouted Kenneth. "That's an English motor-cycle. Would you do
harm to anything made by your friends the English?"
He used the word "English" advisedly, for experience had taught him
that the term "British" is hardly known to the peasantry of Belgium.
Even the educated classes make use of the expression "English" more
frequently than "British".
"Aye; do not injure it, Henri," called out the man who evidently held
the office of Mayor. "When the English soldiers arrive to help us to
drive back the Bosches it may be useful to them. Parbleu! It is
useless to us."
In front of the ruined church the villagers held a most informal trial
upon their captives. From the Belgians' point of view the evidence was
absolutely conclusive against the prisoners. They were in German
uniforms.
In vain the lads mentioned the names of Major Resimont, Captain
Planchenoit, and other officers of the 9th Regiment of the Line. The
peasants knew nothing of them; besides, they declared, it was an easy
matter to invent names. Again, the prisoners spoke French with a
foreign accent; they had been caught whilst coming from the direction
of the German lines. They were, no doubt, scouts of the Uhlan patrol,
bent upon completing the work of massacre and destruction that the guns
had begun against the unresisting village.
"Hang them: powder is too good to waste upon canaille such as these,"
suggested one of the peasants.
"Yes, hang them," agreed another. "I'll do the job. 'Twill be but a
slight revenge for my murdered wife and children. Let the Uhlans see,
when next they come, that we, too, can be terrible."
The Major nodded his head approvingly. A man shuffled forward with a
coil of rope.
"One moment," exclaimed Kenneth, who even in this moment of peril did
not lose his head. "If we are to die, cannot we have the service of a
priest?"
It was a faint chance. A representative of the Church would
undoubtedly have great influence with his flock. He would, more than
likely, listen impartially to the story of the two condemned prisoners.
"A priest?" echoed one of the peasants mockingly. "Is it likely that
Germans who have purposely shattered God's house can hope for
absolution from a priest?"
"Besides, we have not a priest," added another. "Monsieur le cure was
wounded early in the day. He was taken to Louvain."
"Hurry with the execution, camarades," said the Mayor. "Time is
precious. At any moment a strong body of these Uhlans may be upon us.
Prepared, we may bring down a few and sell our lives dearly--but this
is not being prepared."
Kenneth shivered when he felt the contact of the rope round his neck.
He glanced at his companion. Rollo's face was red with suppressed
fury. He looked as if he were on the point of breaking loose and
making a desperate bid for freedom. It was the injustice of the whole
business, not the fear of death, that agitated him.
"Let's have a slap at them," said Rollo in a low tone. "If we get a
dose of lead it will be better than a rope. Quickly, before they begin
to tie our hands. Ready?"
"Aye," replied Kenneth calmly.
"One moment! You mark time with that fellow with the scar over his
eye. We'll keep together as long as we can. I hardly feel my
ankle----"
He stopped. His ready ear detected the clatter of horses' hoofs. The
peasants heard it too. In evident alarm they gripped their antiquated
fire-arms. The fellow with the rope let the noose fall from his hands
and made a rush for his musket.
"It is well, camarades," shouted the Mayor. "They are our soldiers."
Down the main street of the ruined village rode a troop of Belgian
lancers, followed by a motor-car on which was mounted an automatic gun.
Seeing two men in Uhlan uniforms surrounded by a mob of angry peasants,
the officer in charge ordered his men to halt, and rode up to ascertain
the cause of the commotion.
As he did so, Kenneth recognized him as one of the officers who took
part in trapping the Uhlans after their raid on Tongres.
"A nous, mon capitaine!" he said in a loud, clear voice.
"What have we here?" exclaimed the officer in astonishment; then
recalling Kenneth's features he continued: "The English soldier in
Uhlan uniform! What is the meaning of it all?"
In as few words as possible Kenneth related the circumstances that led
to their present condition.
When he had finished, the captain turned to the leading villager.
"Monsieur le maire," he said. "I will be answerable for these two
Englishmen. Believe me, in your zeal for your country's good you have
slightly overstepped the bounds. Fortunately there is no real harm
done, and messieurs les Anglais will no doubt forgive an unintentional
injury."
The Mayor, who had meanwhile readjusted his sash, saluted the lancer
captain, then held out his hand to Kenneth.
"Pardon, camarade," he said.
Now that the danger was over, both lads felt able to accept the deep
apologies of the peasants. The latter had been labouring under a
genuine grievance, and their somewhat high-handed action would admit of
an excuse. They were quaking in their shoes lest their former
prisoners should take steps to secure their punishment; but finding
themselves magnanimously treated, they responded with three hurrahs for
England and the two men who had come from that country to aid stricken
Belgium in her troubles.
"Now what do you propose doing?" asked the Captain. "As for us, we
must push on. We have an important reconnaissance to make."
"We want to rejoin our regiment--the 9th of the Line, sir," replied
Kenneth.
The officer smiled grimly.
"I regret, messieurs, that I cannot help you in that direction," he
said. "Perhaps the best thing you can do is to make your way to
Brussels, and there await news of your regiment. Should anyone
question you, say that I--Captain Doublebois--have instructed you. Is
there anything else?"
"We've run short of petrol, sir," announced Rollo, pointing in the
direction of the motor-cycle, the handlebars of which were just visible
above the edge of the ditch.
"Parbleu! Petrol is now as precious as one's life-blood.
Nevertheless, I think we may be able to spare you a litre. Corporal
Fougette," he shouted, addressing the non-commissioned officer in
charge of the motor machine-gun, "measure out a litre of petrol for
these messieurs--good measure, not a drop more or less."
The Captain stood by while Kenneth brought up the cycle and had the
petrol poured into the tank.
"Now, messieurs," he continued, "this will suffice to take you as far
as our nearest depot. After that, proceed to Brussels. I'll warrant
you'll be in need of a rest, but there will be plenty to occupy your
minds, or my name is not Captain Raoul Doublebois. But take my advice,
messieurs, and get rid of those accursed uniforms!"