dispatch-bearer, had always regarded the villages he rushed through with
a kind of patronizing condescension. His business had always been
between some headquarters or other and some point of destination, and
between these points he had no interest. He and _Uncle Sam_ had a
little pride in these matters. French children with clattering wooden
shoes had clustered about him when he paused, old wives had called,
"_Vive l'Amerique!_" from windows and, like the post-boy of old, he had
enjoyed the prestige which was his. Should he, Tom Slade, surrender or
ask for help in one of these mere incidental places along his line of
travel?
_What you got to do, you do_, he had said, and you cannot do it by going
half way and then letting some one else do the rest. He had read the
_Message to Garcia_ (as what scout has not), and did that bully
messenger--whatever his name was--turn back because the Cuban jungle was
too much for him? _He delivered the message to Garcia_, that was the
point. There were swamps, and dank, tangled, poisonous vines, and
venomous snakes, and the sickening breath of fever. _But he delivered
the message to Garcia._
It was sixty miles, Tom knew, from Aumale to Dieppe by the road. And he
must reach Dieppe not later than five o'clock. The road was a good road,
if it held nothing unexpected. The map showed it to be a good road, and
as far west as this there was small danger from shell holes.
Fifty miles, and one hour!
Swiftly along the dark road sped the dispatch-rider who had come from
the far-off blue hills of Alsace across the war-scorched area of
northern France into the din and fire and stenching suffocation and
red-running streams of Picardy _for service as required_. Past St. Prey
he rushed; past Thiueloy, and into Mortemer, and on to the hilly region
where the Eualine flows between its hilly banks. He was in and out of La
Tois in half a minute.
When he passed through Neufchatel several poilus, lounging at the
station, hailed him cheerily in French, but he paid no heed, and they
stood gaping, seeing his bent form and head thrust forward with its
shock of tow hair flying all about.
Twenty miles, and half an hour!
Through St. Authon he sped, raising a cloud of dust, his keen eyes
rivetted upon the road ahead, and down into the valley where a tributary
of the Bethune winds its troubled way--past Le Farge, past tiny,
picturesque Loix, into an area of 'lowland where an isolated cottage
seemed like a lonely spectre of the night as he passed, on through
Mernoy to the crossing at Chabris, and then----
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
"UNCLE SAM"
Tom Slade stood looking with consternation at the scene before him. His
trusty motorcycle which had borne him so far stood beside him, and as he
steadied it, it seemed as if this mute companion and co-patriot which he
had come to love, were sharing his utter dismay. Almost at his very feet
rushed a boisterous torrent, melting the packed earth of the road like
wax in a tropic sunshine, and carrying its devastating work of erosion
to the very spot where he stood.
In a kind of cold despair, he stooped, reached for a board which lay
near, and retreating a little, stood upon it, watching the surging water
in its heedless career. This one board was all that was left of the
bridge over which Tom Slade and _Uncle Sam_ were to have rushed in their
race with the dawn. Already the first glimmering of gray was discernible
in the sky behind him, and Tom looked at _Uncle Sam_ as if for council
in his dilemma. The dawn would not require any bridge to get across.
"We're checked in our grand drive, kind of," he said, with a pathetic
disappointment which his odd way of putting it did not disguise. "We're
checked, that's all, just like the Germans were--kind of."
He knelt and let down the rest of his machine so that it might stand
unaided, as if he would be considerate of those mud-covered, weary
wheels.
And meanwhile the minutes passed.
"Anyway, you did _your_ part," he muttered. And then, "If you only could
swim."
It was evident that the recent rains had swollen the stream which
ordinarily flowed in the narrow bed between slanting shores so that the
rushing water filled the whole space between the declivities and was
even flooding the two ends of road which had been connected by a bridge.
An old ramshackle house, which Tom thought might once have been a
boathouse, stood near, the water lapping its underpinning. Close by it
was a buoyed mooring float six or eight feet square, bobbing in the
rushing water. One of the four air-tight barrels which supported it had
caught in the mud and kept the buoyant, raft-like platform from being
carried downstream in the rush of water.
Holding his flashlight to his watch Tom saw that it was nearly fifteen
minutes past four and he believed that about forty miles of road lay
ahead of him. Slowly, silently, the first pale tint of gray in the sky
behind him took on a more substantial hue, revealing the gaunt, black
outlines of trees and painting the sun-dried, ragged shingles on the
little house a dull silvery color.
"Anyway, you stood by me and it ain't your fault," Tom muttered
disconsolately. He turned the handle bar this way and that, so that
_Uncle Sam's_ one big eye peered uncannily across the flooded stream and
flickered up the road upon the other side, which wound up the hillside
and away into the country beyond. The big, peering eye seemed to look
longingly upon that road.
Then Tom was seized with a kind of frantic rebellion against fate--the
same futile passion which causes a convict to wrench madly at the bars
of his cell. The glimpse of that illuminated stretch of road across the
flooded stream drove him to distraction. Baffled, powerless, his wonted
stolidness left him, and he cast his eyes here and there with a sort of
challenge born of despair and desperation.
Slowly, gently, the hazy dawn stole over the sky and the roof of dried
and ragged shingles seemed as if it were covered with gray dust.
Presently the light would flicker upon those black, mad waters and laugh
at Tom from the other side.
And meanwhile the minutes passed.
He believed that he could swim the torrent and make a landing even
though the rush of water carried him somewhat downstream. But what about
_Uncle Sam_? He turned off the searchlight and still _Uncle Sam_ was
clearly visible now, standing, waiting. He could count the spokes in the
wheels.
The spokes in the wheels--_the spokes_. With a sudden inspiration born
of despair, Tom looked at that low, shingled roof. He could see it
fairly well now. The gray dawn had almost caught up with him.
And meanwhile the minutes passed!
In a frantic burst of energy he took a running jump, caught the edge of
the roof and swung himself upon it. In the thin haze his form was
outlined there, his shock of light hair jerking this way and that, as
he tore off one shingle after another, and threw them to the ground. He
was racing now, as he had not raced before, and there was upon his
square, homely face that look of uncompromising resolution which the
soldier wears as he goes over the top with his bayonet fixed.
Leaping to the ground again he gathered up some half a dozen shingles,
selecting them with as much care as his desperate haste would permit.
Then he hurriedly opened the leather tool case on his machine and
tumbled the contents about until he found the roll of insulated wire
which he always carried.
His next work was to split one of the shingles over his knee so that he
had a strip of wood about two inches wide. It took him but so many
seconds to jab four or five holes through this, and adjusting it between
two slopes of the power wheel so that it stood crossways and was
re-enforced by the spokes themselves, he proceeded to bind it in place
with the wire. Then he moved the wheel gently around, and found that the
projecting edge of wooden strip knocked against the mud-guard.
Hesitating not a second he pulled and bent and twisted the mud-guard,
wrenching it off. The wheel revolved freely now. The spokes were
beginning to shine in the brightening light.
And meanwhile the seconds passed!
It was the work of hardly a minute to bind three other narrow strips of
shingle among the spokes so that they stood more or less crossways.
There was no time to place and fasten more, but these, at equal
intervals, forming a sort of cross within the wheel, were quite
sufficient, Tom thought, for his purpose. It was necessary to shave the
edges of the shingles somewhat, after they were in place, so that they
would not chafe against the axle-bars. But this was also the hurried
work of a few seconds, and then Tom moved his machine to the old mooring
float and lifted it upon the bobbing platform.
He must work with the feverish speed of desperation for the float was
held by no better anchor than one of its supporting barrels embedded in
the mud. If he placed his weight or that of _Uncle Sam_ upon the side of
the float already in the water the weight would probably release the
mud-held barrel and the float, with himself and _Uncle Sam_ upon it,
would be carried willy-nilly upon the impetuous waters.
And meanwhile---- How plainly he could distinguish the trees now, and
the pale stars stealing away into the obscurity of the brightening
heavens.
With all the strength that he could muster he wrenched a board from the
centre of the platform, and moving his arm about in the opening felt the
rushing water beneath.
The buoyancy of the air-tight barrels, one of which was lodged under
each corner of the float, was such that with Tom and his machine upon
the planks the whole platform would float six or eight inches free of
the water. To pole or row this unwieldy raft in such a flood would have
been quite out of the question, and even in carrying out the plan which
Tom now thought furnished his only hope, he knew that the sole chance of
success lay in starting right. If the float, through premature or
unskilful starting, should get headed downstream, there would be no hope
of counteracting its impetus.
Lifting his machine, he lowered it carefully into the opening left by
the torn-off plank, until the pedals rested upon the planks on either
side and the power wheel was partially submerged. So far, so good.
In less than a minute now he would either succeed or fail. It was
necessary first to alter the position of the float slightly so that the
opening left by the plank pointed across and slightly upstream. He had
often noticed how the pilot of a ferryboat directs his craft above or
below the point of landing to counteract the rising or ebbing tide, and
this was his intention now; but to neutralize the force of the water
with another force not subject to direction or adjustment involved a
rather nice calculation.
Very cautiously he waded out upon the precipitous, submerged bank and
brought the float into position. This done, he acted with lightning
rapidity. Leaping upon the freed float before it had time to swing
around, he raised his machine, started it, and lowering the power wheel
into the opening, steadied the machine as best he could. It was not
possible to let it hang upon its pedals for he must hold it at a steep
angle, and it required all his strength to manage its clumsy, furiously
vibrating bulk.
But the effects of his makeshift paddle-wheel were pronounced and
instantaneous. His own weight and that of the machine sufficiently
submerged the racing power wheel so that the rough paddles plowed the
water, sending the float diagonally across the flooded stream with
tremendous force. He was even able, by inclining the upper end of the
machine to right or left, to guide his clumsy craft, which responded to
this live rudder with surprising promptness.
In the rapid crossing this rough ferryboat lost rather more than Tom had
thought it would lose from the rush of water and it brought him close to
the opposite shore at a point some fifty feet beyond the road, but he
had been able to maintain its direction at least to the extent of
heading shoreward and preventing the buoyant float from fatal swirling,
which would have meant loss of control altogether.
Perhaps it was better that his point of landing was some distance below
the road, where he was able to grasp at an overhanging tree with one
hand while shutting his power off and holding fast to his machine with
the other. A landing would have been difficult anywhere else.
Even now he was in the precarious position of sitting upon a limb in a
rather complicated network of small branches and foliage, hanging onto
his motorcycle for dear life, while the buoyant float went swirling and
bobbing down the flood.
It had taken him perhaps five minutes to prepare for his crossing and
about thirty seconds to cross. But his strategic position was far from
satisfactory. And already the more substantial light of the morning
revealed the gray road winding ribbon-like away into the distance, the
first glints of sunlight falling upon its bordering rocks and trees as
if to taunt and mock him.
And meanwhile the minutes passed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
UP A TREE
In military parlance, Tom had advanced only to be caught in a pocket.
There he sat, astride a large limb, hanging onto the heavy machine,
which depended below him just free of the water. He had, with
difficulty, moved his painful grip upon a part of the machine's
mechanism and succeeded in clutching the edge of the forward wheel. This
did not cut his hands so much, but the weight was unbearable in his
embarrassed attitude.
Indeed, it was not so much his strength, which was remarkable, that
enabled him to keep his hold upon this depending dead weight, as it was
sheer desperation. It seemed to be pulling his arms out of their
sockets, and his shoulders ached incessantly. At the risk of losing his
balance altogether he sought relief by the continual shifting of his
position but he knew that the strain was too great for him and that he
must let go presently.
It seemed like a mockery that he should have gained the shore only to be
caught in this predicament, and to see his trusty machine go tumbling
into the water beyond all hope of present recovery, simply because he
could not hang on to it.
Well, then, he _would_ hang on to it. He would hang on to it though
every muscle of his body throbbed, though his arms were dragged out, and
though he collapsed and fell from that limb himself in the last anguish
of the aching strain. He and _Uncle Sam_, having failed, would go down
together.
And meanwhile the minutes passed and _Uncle Sam_ and Tom were reflected,
inverted, in the water where the spreading light was now flickering. How
strange and grotesque they looked, upside down and clinging to each
other for dear life and wriggling in the ripples of rushing water.
_Uncle Sam_ seemed to be holding _him_ up. It was all the same--they
were partners.
He noticed in the water something which he had not noticed before--the
reflection of a short, thick, broken branch projecting from the heavy
limb he was straddling. He glanced about and found that it was behind
him. His stooping attitude, necessitated by the tremendous drag on his
arms, prevented him even from looking freely behind him, and in trying
to do so he nearly fell. The strain he was suffering was so great that
the least move caused him pain.
But by looking into the water he was able to see that this little stub
of a limb might serve as a hook on which the machine might be hung if he
could clear away the leafy twigs which grew from it, and if he could
succeed in raising the cycle and slipping the wheel over it. That would
not end his predicament but it would save the machine, relieve him for a
few moments, and give him time to think.
_For a few moments!_ They were fleeting by--the moments.
There is a strength born of desperation--a strength of will which is
conjured into physical power in the last extremity. It is when the
frantic, baffled spirit calls aloud to rally every failing muscle and
weakening nerve. It is then that the lips tighten and the eyes become as
steel, as the last reserves waiting in the entrenchments of the soul are
summoned up to re-enforce the losing cause.
And there in that tree, on the brink of the heedless, rushing waters
which crossed the highroad to Dieppe was going to be fought out one of
the most desperate battles of the whole war. There, in the mocking light
of the paling dawn, Tom Slade, his big mouth set like a vice, and with
every last reserve he could command, was going to make his last cast of
the dice--let go, give up--or, _hold on_.
_Let go!_ Of all the inglorious forms of defeat or surrender! _To let
go!_ To be struck down, to be taken prisoner, to be----
But to _let go_! The bulldog, the snapping turtle, seemed like very
heroes now.
"He always said I had a good muscle--he liked to feel it," he muttered.
"And besides, _she_ said she guessed I was strong."
He was thinking of Margaret Ellison, away back in America, and of Roscoe
Bent, as he had known him there. When he muttered again there was a
beseeching pathos in his voice which would have pierced the heart of
anyone who could have seen him struggling still against fate, in this
all but hopeless predicament.
But no one saw him except the sun who was raising his head above the
horizon as a soldier steals a cautious look over the trench parapet.
There would be no report of this affair.
He lowered his chest to the limb, wound his legs around it and for a
second lay there while he tightened and set his legs, as one will
tighten a belt against some impending strain. Not another fraction of an
inch could he have tightened those encircling legs.
And now the fateful second was come. It had to come quickly for his
strength was ebbing. There is a pretty dependable rule that if you can
just manage to lift a weight with both hands, you can just about _budge_
it with one hand. Tom had tried this at Temple Camp with a visiting
scout's baggage chest. With both hands he had been barely able to lift
it by its strap. With one hand he had been able to _budge_ it for the
fraction of a second. But there had been no overmastering incentive--and
no reserves called up out of the depths of his soul.
He could feel his breast palpitating against the limb, drawn tight
against it by the dead weight. Yet he could not put his desperate
purpose to the test.
And so a second--two, three, seconds--were wasted.
"I won't let go," he muttered through his teeth. "I wish I could wipe
the sweat off my hand." Then, as if his dogged resolution were not
enough, he added, almost appealingly, "Don't _you_ drop and--and go back
on me."
_Uncle Sam_ only swung a little in the breeze and wriggled like an eel
in the watery mirror.
Slowly Tom loosened his perspiring left hand, not daring to withdraw it.
The act seemed to communicate an extra strain to every part of his body.
Of all the fateful moments of his life, this seemed to be the most
tense. Then, in an impulse of desperation, he drew his left hand away.
"I won't--let--go," he muttered.
The muscles on his taut right arm stood out like cords. His forearm
throbbed with an indescribable, pulling pain. There was a feeling of
dull soreness in his shoulder blade. His perspiring hand closed tighter
around the wheel's rim and he could feel his pulse pounding. His fingers
tingled as if they had been asleep. Then his hand slipped a little.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
"TO HIM THAT OVERCOMETH"
Whether merely from the change of an eighth of an inch or so in its hold
upon the rim, or because his palm fitted better around the slight
alteration of curve, Tom was conscious of the slightest measure of
relief.
As quickly as he dared (for he knew that any sudden move would be
fatal), he reached behind him with his left arm and, groping for the
stub of limb, tore away from it the twigs which he knew would form an
obstacle to placing the wheel rim with its network of spokes over this
short projection.
The dead soreness of his straining shoulder blade ran down his arm,
which throbbed painfully. His twitching, struggling fingers, straining
against the weight which was forcing them open, clutched the rim. They
were burning and yet seemed numb. Oh, if he could only wipe his palm and
that rim with a dry handkerchief! He tightened his slipping fingers
again and again. The muscles of his arm smarted as from a blow. He
tightened his lips--and that seemed to help.
Carefully, though his aching breast pounded against the limb, he brought
back his left hand, cautiously rubbed it against his khaki shirt, then
encircled it about the rim. For a moment the weight seemed manageably
light in the quick relief he felt.
Availing himself of the slight measure of refreshment he raised the
machine a trifle, a trifle more, squirmed about to get in better
position, bent, strained, got the bulky thing past his clutching legs,
exerted every muscle of chest and abdomen, which now could assume some
share of the strain, and by a superhuman effort of litheness and
dexterity and all the overwhelming power of physical strength and
frenzied resolution, he succeeded in slipping the wheel rim over the
stubby projection behind him.
If he had been running for ten miles he could not have been more
exhausted. His breast heaved with every spasmodic breath he drew. His
shoulder blades throbbed like an aching tooth. His dripping palm was
utterly numb. For a few brief, precious seconds he sat upon the limb
with a sense of unutterable relief, and mopped his beaded forehead. And
the sun's full, round face smiled approvingly upon him.
Meanwhile the minutes flew.
Hurrying now, he scrambled down the tree trunk where he had a better and
less discouraging view of the situation. He saw that _Uncle Sam_ hung
about five feet from the brink and just clear of the water. If the bank
on this side was less precipitous than on the other there would be some
prospect of rescuing his machine without serious damage. He could afford
to let it get wet provided the carburetor and magneto were not submerged
and the gas tank----
_The gas tank._ That thought stabbed him. Could the gasoline have flowed
out of the tank while the machine was hanging up and down? That would
bring the supply hole, with its perforated screw-cover, underneath.
He waded cautiously into the water and found to his infinite relief that
the submerged bank formed a gentle slope. He could not go far enough to
lift his machine, but he could reach to wiggle it off its hook and then
guide it, in some measure, enough to ease its fall and keep its
damageable parts clear of the water. At least he believed he could. In
any event, he had no alternative choice and time was flying. After what
he had already done he felt he could do anything. Success, however
wearying and exhausting, gives one a certain working capital of
strength, and having succeeded so far he would not now fail. His success
in crossing had given him that working capital of resolution and
incentive whence came his superhuman strength and overmastering resolve
in that lonely tree. And he would not fail now.
Yet he could not bring himself to look at his watch. He was willing to
venture a guess, from the sun, as to what time it was, but he could not
clinch the knowledge by a look at the cruel, uncompromising little
glass-faced autocrat in his pocket. He preferred to work in the less
disheartening element of uncertainty. He did not want to know the hard,
cold truth--not till he was moving.
Here now was the need of nice calculating, and Tom eyed the shore and
the tree and the machine with the appraising glance of a wrestler eyeing
his opponent. He broke several branches from the tree, laying them so as
to form a kind of springy, leafy mound close to the brink. Then
standing knee-deep he wiggled the wheel's rim very cautiously out to the
end of its hanger, so that it just balanced there.
One more grand drive, one more effort of unyielding strength and
accurate dexterity and--_he would be upon the road_.
The thought acted as a stimulant. Lodging one hand under the seat of the
machine and the other upon a stout bar of the mechanism which he thought
would afford him just the play and swing he needed, he joggled the wheel
off its hanger, and with a wide sweep, in which he skillfully minimized
the heavy weight, he swung the machine onto the springy bed which he had
made to receive it.
Then, as the comrade of a wounded soldier may bend over him, he knelt
down beside his companion upon the makeshift, leafy couch.
"Are you all right?" he asked in the agitation of his triumphant effort.
_Uncle Sam_ did not answer.