division," as Roscoe said, they followed the ragged edge of the woods
where it thinned out to the north, verging around with it until they
were headed in a southerly direction.
"There's a house on that path," said Roscoe, "and we ought to be able to
see a light there pretty soon."
"There's a little piece of woods ahead of us," said Tom; "when we get
past that we'll see it, I guess. We'll cut through there, hey?"
"Wait a minute," said Roscoe, pausing and peering about in the half
darkness. "I'm all twisted. There's the house now."
He pointed to a dim light in the opposite direction to that which they
had taken.
"That's north," said Tom in his usual dull manner.
"You're mistaken, my boy. What makes you think it's north?"
"I didn't say I thought so," said Tom. "I said it _is_."
Roscoe laughed. "Same old Tom," he said. "But how do you know it's
north?"
"You remember that mountain up in the Catskills?" Tom said. "The first
time I ever went to the top of that mountain was in the middle of the
night. I never make that kind of mistakes. I know because I just know."
Roscoe laughed again and looked rather dubiously at the light in the
distance. Then he shook his head, unconvinced.
"We've been winding in and out along the edge of this woods," said Tom,
"so that you're kind of mixed up, that's all. It's always those little
turns that throw people out, just like it's a choppy sea that upsets a
boat; it ain't the big waves. I used to get rattled like that myself,
but I don't any more."
Roscoe drew his lips tight and shook his head skeptically. "I can't
understand about that light," he said.
"I always told you you made a mistake not to be a scout when you were
younger," said Tom in that impassive tone which seemed utterly free of
the spirit of criticism and which always amused Roscoe, "'cause then you
wouldn't bother about the light but you'd look at the stars. Those are
sure."
Roscoe looked up at the sky and back at Tom, and perhaps he found a kind
of reassurance in that stolid face. "All right, Tommy," said he, "what
you say, goes. Come ahead."
"That light is probably on the road the Germans retreated across," said
Tom, as they picked their way along. His unerring instinct left him
entirely free from the doubts which Roscoe could not altogether dismiss.
"I don't say there ain't a light on the path you're talking about, but
if we followed this one we'd probably get captured. I was seven months
in a German prison. I don't know how you'd like it, but I didn't."
Roscoe laughed silently at Tom's dry way of putting it. "All right,
Tommy, boy," he said. "Have it your own way."
"You ought to be satisfied the way you can shoot," said Tom, by way of
reconciling Roscoe to his leadership.
"All right, Tommy. Maybe you've got the bump of locality. When we get
past that little arm of the woods just ahead we ought to see the right
light then, huh?"
"_Spur_ is the right name for it, not _arm_," said Tom. "You might as
well say it right."
"The pleasure is mine," laughed Roscoe; "Tommy, you're as good as a
circus."
They made their way in a southeasterly direction, following the edge of
the woods, with the open country to the north and east of them.
Presently they reached the "spur," as Tom called it, which seemed to
consist of a little "cape" of woods, as one might say, sticking out
eastward. They could shorten their path a trifle by cutting through
here, and this they did, Roscoe (notwithstanding Tom's stolid
self-confidence) watching anxiously for the light which this spur had
probably concealed, and which would assure them that they were heading
southward toward the path which led into Cantigny village.
Once, twice, in their passage through this little clump of woods Tom
paused, examining the trees and ground, picking up small branches and
looking at their ends, and throwing them away again.
"Funny how those branches got broken off," he said.
Roscoe answered with a touch of annoyance, the first he had shown since
their meeting in the woods.
"I'm not worrying about those twigs," he said; "I don't see that light
and I think we're headed wrong."
"They're not twigs," said Tom literally; "they're branches, and they're
broken off."
"Any fool could tell the reason for that," said Roscoe, rather
scornfully. "It's the artillery fire."
Tom said nothing, but he did not accept Roscoe's theory. He believed
that some one had been through here before them and that the branches
had been broken off by human hands; and but for the fact that Roscoe had
let him have his own way in the matter of direction he would have
suggested that they make a detour around this woody spur. However, he
contented himself by saying in his impassive way, "I know when branches
are broken off."
"Well, what are we going to do now?" Roscoe demanded, stopping short and
speaking with undisguised impatience. "You can see far beyond those
trees now and you can see there's no light. They'll have us nailed upon
a couple of crosses to-morrow. I don't intend to be tortured on account
of the Boy Scouts of America."
He used the name as being synonymous with bungling and silly notions and
star-gazing, and it hit Tom in a dangerous spot. He answered with a kind
of proud independence which he seldom showed.
"I didn't say there'd be a light. Just because there's a house it
doesn't mean there's got to be a light. I said the light we saw was in
the north, and it's got nothing to do with the Boy Scouts. You wouldn't
let me point your rifle for you, would you? They sent me to this sector
'cause I don't get lost and I don't get rattled. You said that about the
Scouts just because you're mad. I'm not hunting for any light. I'm going
back to Cantigny and I know where I'm at. You can come if you want to or
you can go and get caught by the Germans if you want to. I went a
hundred miles through Germany and they didn't catch _me_--'cause I
always know where I'm at."
He went on for a few steps, Roscoe, after the first shock of surprise,
following silently behind him. He saw Tom stumble, struggle to regain
his balance, heard a crunching sound, and then, to his consternation,
saw him sink down and disappear before his very eyes.
In the same instant he was aware of a figure which was not Tom's
scrambling up out of the dark, leaf-covered hollow and of the muzzle of
a rifle pointed straight at him.
Evidently Tom Slade had not known "where he was at" at all.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
PRISONERS
Apparently some of the enemy had not yet withdrawn to the north, for in
less than five seconds Roscoe was surrounded by a group of German
soldiers, among whom towered a huge officer with an eye so fierce and
piercing that it was apparent even in the half darkness. He sported a
moustache more aggressively terrible than that of Kaiser Bill himself
and his demeanor was such as to make that of a roaring lion seem like a
docile lamb by comparison. An Iron Cross depended from a heavy chain
about his bull neck and his portly breast was so covered with the junk
of rank and commemoration that it seemed like one of those boards from
which street hawkers sell badges at a public celebration.
Poor Tom, who had been hauled out of the hole, stood dogged and sullen
in the clutch of a Boche soldier, and Roscoe, even in his surprise at
this singular turn of affairs, bestowed a look of withering scorn upon
him.
"I knew those branches were _broken_ off," Tom muttered, as if in
answer. "They're using them for camouflage. It's got nothing to do with
the other thing about which way we were going."
But Roscoe only looked at him with a sneer.
Wherever the wrong and right lay as to their direction, they had run
plunk into a machine-gun nest and Roscoe Bent, with all his diabolical
skill of aim, could not afford his fine indulgence of sneering, for as
an active combatant, which Tom was not, he should have known that these
nests were more likely to be found at the wood's edge than anywhere
else, where they could command the open country. The little spur of
woods afforded, indeed, an ideal spot for secreting a machine gun,
whence a clear range might be had both north and south.
If Tom had not been a little afraid of Roscoe he would have acted on the
good scout warning of the broken branches and made a detour in time to
escape this dreadful plight. And the vain regret that he had not done so
rankled in his breast now. The pit was completely surrounded and almost
covered with branches, so that no part of the guns and their tripods
which rose out of it was discoverable, at least to Roscoe.
"Vell, you go home, huh?" the officer demanded, with a grim touch of
humor.
Roscoe was about to answer, but Tom took the words out of his mouth.
"We got lost and we got rattled," he said, with a frank confession which
surprised Roscoe; "we thought we were headed south."
The sniper bestowed another angrily contemptuous look upon him, but Tom
appeared not to notice it.
"Vell, we rattle you some more--vat?" the officer said, without very
much meaning. His voice was enough to rattle any captive, but Tom was
not easily disconcerted, and instead of cowering under this martial
ferocity and the scorning looks of his friend, he glanced about him in
his frowning, lowering way as if the surroundings interested him more
than his captors. But he said nothing.
"You English--no?" the officer demanded.
"We're Americans," said Roscoe, regaining his self-possession.
"Ach! Diss iss good for you. If you are English, ve kill you! You have
kamerads--vere?"
"There's only the two of us," said Roscoe. Tom seemed willing enough to
let his companion do the talking, and indeed Roscoe, now that he had
recovered his poise, seemed altogether the fitter of the two to be the
spokesman. "We got rattled, as this kid says." "If we'd followed that
light we wouldn't have happened in on you. We hope we don't intrude," he
added sarcastically.
The officer glanced at the tiny light in the distance, then at one of
the soldiers, then at another, then poured forth a gutteral torrent at
them all. Then he peered suspiciously into the darkness.
"For treachery, ve kill," he said.
"I told you there are only two of us," said Roscoe simply.
"Ach, two! Two millions, you mean! Vat? Ach!" he added, with a
deprecating wave of his hands. "Vy not _billions_, huh?"
Roscoe gathered that he was sneering skeptically about the number of
Americans reported to be in France.
"Ve know just how many," the officer added; "vell, vat you got, huh?"
At this two of the Boches proceeded to search the captives, neither of
whom had anything of value or importance about them, and handed the
booty to the officer.
"Vat is diss, huh?" he said, looking at a small object in his hand.
Tom's answer nearly knocked Roscoe off his feet.
"It's a compass," said he.
So Tom had had a compass with him all the time they had been discussing
which was the right direction to take! Why he had not brought it out to
prove the accuracy of his own contention Roscoe could not comprehend.
"A compass, huh. Vy you not use it?"
"Because I was sure I was right," said Tom.
"Always sure you are right, you Yankees! Vat?"
"Nothing," said Tom.
The officer examined the trifling haul as well as he could in the
darkness, then began talking in German to one of his men. And meanwhile
Tom watched him in evident suspense, and Roscoe, unmollified, cast at
Tom a look of sneering disgust for his bungling error--a look which
seemed to include the whole brotherhood of scouts.
Finally the officer turned upon Roscoe with his characteristic martial
ferocity.
"How long you in France?" he demanded.
"Oh, about a year or so."
"Vat ship you come on?"
"I don't know the name of it."
"You come to Havre, vat?"
"I didn't notice the port."
"Huh! You are not so--vide-avake, huh?"
"Absent-minded, yes," said Roscoe.
The officer paused, glaring at Roscoe, and Tom could not help envying
his friend's easy and self-possessed air.
"You know the _Texas Pioneer_?" the officer shot out in that short,
imperious tone of demand which is the only way in which a German knows
how to ask a question.
"Never met him," said Roscoe.
"A ship!" thundered the officer.
"Oh, a ship. No, I've never been introduced."
"She come to Havre--vat?"
"That'll be nice," said Roscoe.
"You never hear of dis ship, huh?"
"No, there are so many, you know."
"To bring billions, yes!" the officer said ironically.
"That's the idea."
Pause.
"You hear about more doctors coming--no? Soon?"
"Sorry I can't oblige you," said Roscoe.
The officer paused a moment, glaring at him and Tom felt very
unimportant and insignificant.
"Vell, anyway, you haf good muscle, huh?" the officer finally observed;
then, turning to his subordinates, he held forth in German until it
appeared to Tom that he and Roscoe were to carry the machine gun to the
enemy line.
To Tom, under whose sullen, lowering manner, was a keenness of
observation sometimes almost uncanny, it seemed that these men were not
the regular crew which had been stationed here, but had themselves
somehow chanced upon the deserted nest in the course of their withdrawal
from the village.
For one thing, it seemed to him that this imperious officer was a
personage of high rank, who would not ordinarily have been stationed in
one of these machine gun pits. And for another thing, there was
something (he could not tell exactly what) about the general demeanor of
their captors, their way of removing the gun and their apparent
unfamiliarity with the spot, which made him think that they had stumbled
into it in the course of their wanderings just as he and Roscoe had
done. They talked in German and he could not understand them, but he
noticed particularly; that the two who went into the pit to gather the
more valuable portion of the paraphernalia appeared not to be familiar
with the place, and he thought that the officer inquired of them whether
there were two or more guns.
When he lifted his share of the burden, Roscoe noticed how he watched
the officer with a kind of apprehension, almost terror, in his furtive
glance, and kept his eyes upon him as they started away in the darkness.
Roscoe was in a mood to think ill of Tom, whom he considered the
bungling, stubborn author of their predicament. It pleased him now to
believe that Tom was afraid and losing his nerve. He remembered that he
had said they would be crucified as a result of Tom's pin-headed error.
And he was rather glad to believe that Tom was thinking of that now.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
SHADES OF ARCHIBALD ARCHER
After a minute the officer paused and consulted with one of his men;
then another was summoned to the confab, the three of them reminding Tom
of a newspaper picture he had seen of the Kaiser standing in a field
with two officers and gazing fiercely at a map.
One of the soldiers waved a hand toward the distance, while Tom watched
sharply. And Roscoe, who accepted their predicament with a kind of
reckless bravado, sneered slightly at Tom's evident apprehension.
Then the officer produced something, holding it in his hand while the
others peered over his shoulder. And Tom watched them with lowering
brows, breathing hurriedly. No one knew it, but in that little pause Tom
Slade lived a whole life of nervous suspense. It was not, however, the
nervousness and suspense which his friend thought.
Then, as if unable to control his impulse, he moved slightly as though
to start in the direction which he and Roscoe had been following. It was
only a slight movement, made in obedience to an overwhelming desire, and
as if he would incline his captors' thoughts in that direction. Roscoe,
who held his burden jointly with Tom, felt this impatient impulse
communicated to him and he took it as a confession from Tom that he had
made the fatal error of mistaking their way before. And he moved a
trifle, too, in the direction where he knew the German lines had been
established, muttering scornfully at Tom, "You know where you're headed
for now, all right. It's what I said right along."
"I admit I know," said Tom dully.
No doubt it was the compass which was the main agent in deciding the
officer as to their route, but he and his men moved, even as Tom did, as
if to make an end of needless parleying.
As they tramped along, following the edge of the wood, a tiny light
appeared ahead of them, far in the distance, like a volunteer beacon,
and Roscoe, turning, a trifle puzzled, tried to discover the other
light, which had now diminished to a mere speck. Now and again the
officer paused and glanced at that trifling prize of war, Tom's little
glassless, tin-encased compass. But Tom Slade of Temple Camp, Scout of
the Circle and the Five Points, winner of the Acorn and the Indianhead,
looked up from time to time at the quiet, trustful stars.
So they made their way along, following a fairly straight course, and
verging away from the wood's edge, heading toward the distant light. Two
of the Germans went ahead with fixed bayonets, scouring the underbrush,
and the others escorted Tom and Roscoe, who carried all of the burden.
The officer strode midway between the advance guard and the escorting
party, pausing now and again as if to make sure of his ground and
occasionally consulting the compass. Once he looked up at the sky and
then Tom fairly trembled. He might have saved himself this worry,
however, for Herr Officer recognized no friends nor allies in that
peaceful, gold-studded heaven.
"It was an unlucky day for me I ran into you over here," Roscoe
muttered, yielding to his very worst mood.
Tom said nothing.
"We won't even have the satisfaction of dying in action now."
No answer.
"After almost a year of watching my step I come to this just because I
took _your_ word. Believe _me_, I deserve to hang. I don't even get on
the casualty list, on account of you. You see what we're both up against
now, through that bump of locality you're so proud of. Edwards' Grove[1]
is where _you_ belong. I'm not blaming you, though--I'm blaming myself
for listening to a dispatch kid!"
The Germans, not understanding, paid no attention, and Roscoe went on,
reminding Tom of the old, flippant, cheaply cynical Roscoe, who had
stolen his employer's time to smoke cigarettes in the Temple Camp
office, trying to arouse the stenographer's mirth by ridiculing the Boy
Scouts.
"I'm not thinking about what you're saying," he said bluntly, after a few
minutes. "I'm remembering how you saved my life and named your gun after
me."
"Hey, Fritzie, have they got any Boy Scouts in Germany?" Roscoe asked,
ignoring Tom, but speaking apparently at him. The nearest Boche gave a
glowering look at the word _Fritzie_, but otherwise paid no attention.
"We were on our way to German headquarters, anyway," Roscoe added,
addressing himself indifferently to the soldiers, "but we're glad of
your company. The more, the merrier. Young Daniel Boone here was leading
the way."
The Germans, of course, did not understand, but Tom felt ashamed of his
companion's cynical bravado. The insults to himself he did not mind. His
thoughts were fixed on something else.
On they went, into a marshy area where Tom looked more apprehensively at
the officer than before, as if he feared the character of the ground
might arouse the suspicion of his captors. But they passed through here
without pause or question and soon were near enough to the flickering
light to see that it burned in a house.
Again Roscoe looked perplexedly behind him, but the light there was not
visible at all now. Again the officer stopped and, as Tom watched him
fearfully, he glanced about and then looked again at the compass.
For one brief moment the huge figure stood there, outlined in the
darkness as if doubting. And Tom, looking impassive and dogged, held his
breath in an agony of suspense.
It was nothing and they moved on again, Roscoe, in complete repudiation
of his better self, indulging his sullen anger and making Tom and the
Scouts (as if they had anything to do with it) the victims of his
cutting shafts.
And still again the big, medal-bespangled officer paused to look at the
compass, glanced, suspiciously, Tom thought, at the faint shadow of a
road ahead of them, and moved on, his medals clanging and chinking in
unison with his martial stride.
And Tom Slade of Temple Camp, Scout of the Circle and the Five Points,
winner of the Acorn and the Indianhead, glanced up from time to time at
the quiet, trustful stars.
If he thought of any human being then, it was not of Roscoe Bent (not
_this_ Roscoe Bent, in any event), but of a certain young friend far
away, he did not know where. And he thanked Archibald Archer, vandal
though he was, for, one idle, foolish thing that he had done.
[1] The woods near Bridgeboro, in America, where Tom and the Scouts had
hiked and camped.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE BIG COUP
No one knew, no one ever would know, of the anxiety and suspense which
Tom Slade experienced in that fateful march through the country above
Cantigny. Every uncertain pause of that huge officer, and every half
inquiring turn of his head sent a shock of chill misgiving through poor
Tom and he trudged along under the weight of his burden, hearing the
flippant and bitter jibes of Roscoe as if in a trance.
At last, having crossed a large field, they fell into a well-worn path,
and here Tom experienced his moment of keenest anxiety, for the officer
paused as if in momentary recognition of the spot. For a second he
seemed a bit perplexed, then strode on. Still again he paused within a
few yards of the little house where the light had appeared.
But it was too late. About this house a dozen or more figures moved in
the darkness. Their style of dress was not distinguishable, but Tom
Slade called aloud to them, "Here's some prisoners we brought you
back."
In an instant they were surrounded by Americans and Tom thought that his
native tongue had never sounded so good before.
"Hello, Snipy," some one said.
But Roscoe Bent was too astonished to answer. In a kind of trance he saw
the big Prussian officer start back, heard him utter some terrific
German expletive, beheld the others of the party herded together, and
was aware of the young American captain giving orders. In a daze he
looked at Tom's stolid face, then at the Prussian officer, who seemed
too stunned to say anything after his first startled outburst. He saw
two boys in khaki approaching with lanterns and in the dim light of
these he could distinguish a dozen or so khaki-clad figures perched
along a fence.
"Where are we at, anyway?" he finally managed to ask.
"Just inside the village," one of the Americans answered.
"What village?"
"Coney Island on the subway," one of the boys on the fence called.
"Cantigny," some one nearer to him said. "You made a good haul."
"Well--I'll--be----" Roscoe began.
Tom Slade said nothing. Like a trusty pilot leaving his ship he strolled
over and vaulted up on the fence beside the boys who, having taken the
village, were now making themselves comfortable in it. His first
question showed his thoughtfulness.
"Is the brook water all right?"
"Sure. Thirsty?"
"No, I only wanted to make sure it was all right. There were some big
hogsheads of poison up in the woods where the brook starts and the other
feller killed three Germans who tried to empty them in the stream. By
mistake he shot a hole in one of the hogsheads and I thought maybe some
of the stuff got into the water. But I guess it didn't."
It was characteristic of Tom that he did not mention his own part in the
business.
"I drank about a quart of it around noontime," said a young sergeant,
"and I'm here yet."
"It's good and cool," observed another.
"What's the matter with Snipy, anyway?" a private asked, laughing.
"Somebody been spinning him around?"
"He just got mixed up, kind of, that's all," Tom said.
_That was all._
There was much excitement in and about the little cottage on the edge of
the village. Up the narrow path, from headquarters below, came other
Americans, officers as Tom could see, who disappeared inside the house.
Presently, the German prisoners, all except the big officer, came out,
sullen in captivity, poor losers as Germans always are, and marched away
toward the centre of the village, under escort.
"They thought they were taking us to the German lines," said Tom simply.
Roscoe, having recovered somewhat from his surprise and feeling deeply
chagrined, walked over and stood in front of Tom.
"Why didn't you show me that compass, Tom?" he asked.