THE ENGLISH PRISONER
=AS= Major Greyson spoke, both he and Lucy turned again by a common
impulse to the street, where the German mounted officers had advanced as
far as the square in front of the hospital. Lucy looked at them more
calmly now and for the first time saw ranks of stretcher-bearers and
motor ambulances following in the wake of the companies. The men, too,
who at her first terrified glance had seemed only pitiless visitors,
were not formed into the full strength of companies. They marched in
column of fours, but the columns were short and straggling ones. The
men’s step was slow and heavy, their gray uniforms thickly covered with
mud and dust and more than one bandaged arm or head showed among them.
They crossed the broken pavement of the square with the springless tread
of utter weariness, no light of triumph in their faces as they came to a
halt in front of the old town hall of the recaptured town.
“Huh! Pretty well done for!” ejaculated Major Greyson, a kind of
exultation in his voice as he stepped back from his place by the window.
“Not much of the conquering hero left just now! I must go to the officer
in charge, Lucy. We are likely to have a hundred or so of German wounded
quartered on us.”
With a last reassuring pat on her shoulder he left the room, and Lucy
stayed alone by the window. In a moment the nurse stole in behind her
and, after a glance at Colonel Gordon, joined her in a silent,
fascinated watch for the next move of the invaders. Two officers had
dismounted and gone up the hospital steps. The other four wheeled about
and rode across the square in the direction of the Mayor’s office and
the French hospital. Not a human being except themselves was to be seen
about the place. The remaining townspeople did not come out to act as
audience to the German entrance. Perhaps the conquerors were just as
well pleased that few eyes saw the second half of the column. The
soldiers of the depleted companies at a second order now sprang forward
and began helping to unload the motor-lorries packed with wounded, and
to assist the stretcher-bearers to carry their burdens into the
hospital. Some of the ambulances had turned across the square toward the
other hospital, but long before Lucy stopped counting the wounded men
the nurse beside her had hurried away to hear her part in the tremendous
task.
For a few minutes more Lucy stood there, but she was no longer watching
without purpose. Her fear and horror she had resolutely fought down, not
down for good, but under her control. She saw now clearly the hard,
inevitable facts that Château-Plessis was in German hands, that the
price of safety for the people in the hospital—for her father and the
other wounded soldiers of the Allies—lay in caring for the enemy’s
wounded, and that the task was very great. She was here in the midst of
it, and here she must stay. She was strong and able to help, and in hard
work she saw her only chance for any peace of mind. With a determination
firmly taken she turned from the window and, dropping down beside her
father’s cot, laid her face for a moment against his hand. He stirred a
little, as though about to wake, but she rose cautiously from beside him
and with a last look, as though for courage, at that brave soldier’s
quiet face, went out into the wards.
The hospital was filled with German soldiers carrying in their wounded,
while the American staff did all in their limited power to bring order
out of the confusion. Lucy took but one timid glance among them. She
caught sight of Miss Pearse on one side of the hall kneeling by a
mattress to unfold a blanket. Her face was flushed and weary, and her
eyes bright with troubled emotion, but at Lucy’s approach she looked up
at her to say, “What is it, Lucy? What can I do?”
Lucy chopped down beside her and spoke quickly, knowing how little time
could be spared to listen. “That’s what I came to ask you. What can I
do? May I help in the wards? You _must_ let me do something. I’m strong
and can stand a lot. Don’t say you won’t. I can do more than you think.”
Miss Pearse smiled faintly at the eager rush of words. “Of course I
shan’t refuse,” she answered, and her eyes met Lucy’s with a silent
tribute to that battle for courage she had fought and won. “You can’t
work in the wards—at least not now. But there are, oh, so many things to
do. Come with me to the steward’s room.”
In after days, when Lucy had time to think it over, she dated from that
hour the change in herself from a mere bewildered onlooker at the mighty
struggle to a real sharer instead in the work that must be done. With
that little part assigned to her she began dimly to understand the
secret of the calm determined courage of those about her. They had their
task to do, and nothing must turn them from it.
This work went on, uninterrupted, while the Germans took possession of
the town. Not a very imposing possession with an almost decimated
battalion of which the survivors had been hammered into exhaustion by
the dogged French and American resistance. But their presence,
nevertheless, meant everything of the bitter humiliation and
helplessness of surrender to Château-Plessis. The hospital was now under
German control, dependent on whatever supplies the conquerors accorded
them, in fact, beneath the German heel. Just now, however, the hospital
was as much a German as an Allied refuge. The major in command of the
battalion assigned three German surgeons and a dozen orderlies to help
in the enormous labor of caring for the five hundred patients crowded
into the old town hall.
Early that afternoon Lucy started out under German orders on her first
duty. In company with a French convalescent soldier, who carried two
empty baskets like the one slung across her own shoulder, she left the
hospital armed with permits from the German senior surgeon. She had
faced the new chief, a big, gray-whiskered Boche with red face and
bristling eyebrows, and had obtained his kind permission to walk two
miles in the sun in search of dairy supplies to feed the German wounded.
But if food for the enemy were not forthcoming the Allies’ wounded would
be the first to suffer, so the two willing helpers, the little American
and the poilu, he still pale and limping as he walked, did not linger on
their errand. Beyond the square their way led through the desolate and
deserted streets where the bombardment had been heaviest. This was the
part of Château-Plessis from which the inhabitants had earliest fled,
and not a human being was in sight, not even a pilfering German soldier,
for the place had been in the German hands before, and they well knew
there was little worth stealing left in it.
Lucy’s heart beat hard and painfully as she neared once more the broad
meadows beyond the outskirts of the town. How short a time it was since
she had gone free and unmolested to that field to give Bob joyful
welcome. She had thought it hard that day to bear the ceaseless roar of
the artillery in her ears, yet then she had been on Allied ground, safe
in the power of those she loved and trusted, while now——She glanced up
at the wounded poilu beside her and suddenly felt ashamed. He was
breathing quickly as he limped along, for it was not a week since he had
left his bed. Yet he had begged to do this little bit to help his
comrades. She was so well and strong, surely she ought to be as brave as
he. Just then he broke into her thoughts.
“Look, Mademoiselle,” he said, stopping to take breath as he pointed on
ahead. “There is the Boche patrol. They’ll want our papers when we pass,
so get ’em ready.”
At the corner of the last street before the lanes began, a little house
remained almost undamaged. Before it paced a German sentry, and over the
gabled roof the red, white and black flag hung lifeless in the warm,
still air. Lucy hastily drew out the papers from her blouse, for the
sentry, at sight of the pedestrians, stopped his march and stood in the
narrow street to bar the way. Inside the open door of the house a half
dozen gray-clad figures sat or stood, and one of them strolled to the
doorway on hearing the sentry’s challenge. He was a short, burly captain
of infantry, with keen, bright eyes and stiff, upstanding hair, his
uniform, though lately brushed, still dirty and mud-stained after the
desperate encounter of the past three days. He glanced down at Lucy with
a look of surprise as he held out his hand for the papers which the
sentry ran to present him. She kept her eyes on the ground, fearful lest
some of her thoughts might show in her too expressive face, while the
officer looked over the surgeon’s permits for Lucy Gordon, American
non-combatant, and Jean Brêlet, French prisoner of war, to pass freely
for the good of the German Hospital Corps. After a moment he gave a
short nod and handed them back to the sentry. But as Lucy, with a deep
sigh of relief, snatched the papers from the sentry’s hand and was
starting on again, she was stopped by an imperious gesture from the
doorway. A second officer had joined the first and while speaking he
nodded his head inquiringly toward Lucy and her companion. The infantry
captain motioned the two to approach the steps, and addressing the
poilu, who had obeyed the summons with obvious reluctance, asked him in
slow, labored French, “Do you speak any German?”
Brêlet shook his head with emphasis. “Not the least bit in the world!”
he said exultantly.
The German gave him a quick, contemptuous look, and forbearing to
continue his questions, turned to Lucy. “Sprechen Sie Deutsch,
Fräulein?” he asked, with a shade more of civility in his masterful
tone.
Lucy longed with all her heart to answer as the poilu had done. At that
moment she bitterly repented of the once pleasant hours spent in the
company of Elizabeth, a German servant at Governor’s Island, when she
had learned something of the language Bob refused to bother with. In her
uncertainty and confusion she stammered out the truth, “A little.”
The German gave a nod of approval, the irritation fading from his
arrogant face. Without a word or glance vouchsafed to Brêlet he motioned
Lucy to come into the house. Most unwillingly she obeyed, with a
backward imploring glance at her companion, which had the effect of
making the good fellow start boldly forward to accompany her, only to be
thrust back into the street by the watchful sentry. With beating heart
and knees that shook with apprehension, Lucy mounted the few steps that
led into the principal room of the old house. The officers within made
way for her with slight bows, and from the rear a Feldwebel, or
Sergeant, brought a chair which he placed beside the table near the
centre of the room. The captain signed to Lucy to sit down, and, taking
a seat across the table from her, said at once, “You are American,
Fräulein. What are you doing here?”
Lucy’s momentary fright and weakness had swiftly given way to a great
burst of hatred and indignation at finding herself subject to the
commands of these triumphant enemies. She was too angry to be afraid,
and it was in a confident and defiant voice that she returned, “If you
wish me to understand, you will have to speak more slowly.”
The German glanced up at her with an air of surprise, a faint smile at
the corners of his mouth, but he only said, “Very well. Did you
understand my question?”
“Yes,” Lucy answered, looking across at him with steady eyes. “I came
here to see my father, who is badly wounded. I was going back to England
when the town was taken.”
The officer nodded without comment, then, turning to the sergeant beside
him, he ordered, “Bring in the prisoner.”
The junior officers in the room had taken seats about the table, with
much clumping of boots and rattling of swords. The sergeant opened a
door at the back of the room and, entering it, returned almost at once,
preceded by a tall young fellow in the khaki of the British army. He was
covered with dirt and dust, even his face was stained with mud and the
grime of powder, through which his blue eyes shone oddly out, above his
lean, sunburned cheeks. He looked desperately weary, almost done for,
but he squared his shoulders and crossed the room with a firm step. Lucy
bit her lip until it bled to force back the tears of sympathy that
rushed to her eyes. The young officer was not more than twenty years
old; and how terribly like Bob he seemed, with that close-cropped brown
hair, and the still boyish curve about his lips. Just as Bob must have
appeared when he too, tired and despairing, faced his German captors
without a friendly face to look upon. She met the young Englishman’s
weary but undaunted gaze with such a look of eager friendliness that he
stopped short, and for a second the cold defiance left his face, and
astonishment, confusion and a kind of welcoming light played over it.
But it was hardly a moment. Room was made for him to stand before the
table, and the German captain once more addressed Lucy, only this time
with a frown of annoyance.
“As you know, few English or Americans speak German.” He paused as
though this fact was strange enough to ponder over, then continued, “As
it happens, we do not any of us speak English. For that reason, we have
need of you.”
Lucy had already guessed that she was to act as interpreter, and this
knowledge had relieved her vague fears of detention or imprisonment. But
now her thoughts began to whirl again. Did she know enough German to
fulfil her task to her captor’s satisfaction? More troubling still,
would she be asked to put questions which the young Englishman would not
answer? At this her heart leaped with a sudden confidence. If there was
any game of wits to be played, she thought that she and this boy with
the brave blue eyes and steady lips would be more than a match for their
pompous questioner. To make sure of her powers she asked the captain
suddenly in English, “Shall I translate for you?”
He stared frowningly at her, understanding not a word, nor did any signs
of intelligence appear on the others’ faces. One little fair-haired
lieutenant exclaimed, “Ach! English,” as though making a discovery, but
could get no further, and the captain with a mutter of annoyance said
sharply:
“Speak German, Fräulein.”
With a faint excuse for her forgetfulness, Lucy repeated the question,
to which the captain nodded agreement, adding still more sharply, “Do
your best, and keep your wits alert. The more he tells us, the better
for him—you understand?”
As Lucy nodded in silence he commenced at once: “Ask him his name.”
The question being translated, the Englishman answered, “Archibald
Beattie, Captain, Royal Infantry.”
“Ask him what Army Corps he belongs to.”
After a second’s hesitation, the prisoner answered, “The eighteenth.”
“What division?”
“The second.”
“Be careful!” said the German sharply. “Tell him that division was moved
toward Château-Thierry day before yesterday, and he was taken last
night, before Argenton.”
The Englishman shrugged his shoulders. “That is my division,” he said
calmly. “They must have gone down to Château-Thierry without me.”
The German gave his prisoner an ill-natured glance when this was
translated. “What regiment?” he persisted.
“The fifth.”
This time Lucy repeated the number with something like a cold chill down
her back. The fifth regiment of the second division had passed with
others through Château-Plessis three days ago, on its way south. She
knew now what she had really never doubted, that the young Britisher was
feeding false information into the brain of his questioner, and trusting
to the Germans’ very imperfect knowledge of the disposition of the
Allied troops at this point to make his bluff pass muster. And it had
evidently done so in the case of the distant division he had joined on
such short notice. The captain was not well enough informed to
contradict him with much assurance. Bob had been right, Lucy thought
with triumph. The Allied airplanes had kept the enemy from observing the
troops’ movements. With the same ascendancy in men, he had said,—with
something even approaching equality in numbers, not a foot of ground
would have been captured.
“How long was your regiment at Argenton?”
While Lucy translated the Englishman’s answers, she could not reflect,
for to translate the English into German was all she could manage. She
spoke German far from well, though some terms much alike in the two
languages, such as “corps,” “regiment,” “company,” helped her a little.
But when she put the English questions to the prisoner, and in the
pauses while the German captain pondered frowningly over his next words,
she thought out and decided on her scheme.
Her chance came with a long question. “How was it that the British and
American troops south of Argenton retired westward after their
artillery?”
As Lucy translated this into rapid English, she looked hard at the
prisoner, and, without pausing, added the words, “_Where are they
sending you?_”
The Englishman did not change countenance as he answered, “The artillery
had to move. Cannon are valuable. We stayed where we were posted until
the guns were safe. _No further than this. The old prison outside the
town._”
Trembling with joy at her success, Lucy translated the first half of the
reply.
The German received it with a sneering smile, demanding promptly, “How
many prisoners do you claim were taken by your regiment?”
To this inquiry Lucy added, “_Are you certain?_”
The Englishman answered, “About five thousand in three days’ fighting.
_Some French prisoners told me so. What are you doing here?_”
He was trying her own game, anxious, she could see, to account for her
presence in this place.
Burning with eagerness to offer a few words of hope or comfort to the
brave young officer, who brought Bob’s face so vividly before her, as
well as to satisfy his own curiosity in her behalf, Lucy turned
expectantly for the next question. But the German captain, with the
gesture of a man who feels that he is wasting his time, rose noisily
from his seat at the table. He gave a keen, unfriendly look at his
prisoner, as though he would like to have compelled his confidence, but
perhaps his keenness told him that not all the German army could
accomplish that. The four juniors had sprung to their feet beside him,
and he waved a hand toward Lucy, saying shortly:
“That will do, Fräulein.”
Lucy turned for one farewell glance at her ally, left in the enemy’s
hands. His face lighted up for a second also, as though her sympathy had
not been wasted. With relief, too, she guessed that she was quite free
to leave. Then she was in the sunny street again, and patient Brêlet,
greeting her with a look of thankful joy, limped forward eagerly,
saying:
“_Mon Dieu_, Mademoiselle! I don’t know what I thought waiting here! I
would have gone for help, but where is help, when the Boches are on
top?” He wiped his hot face, shouldering the baskets once more, while
Lucy hurried him on, explaining in her difficult French:
“It’s all right, Brêlet. They only wished me to speak German.” She
breathed a deep sigh of relief, looking up toward the blue sky and the
soft green leaves of the poplar grove before them. “I’ll tell you about
it, Brêlet, but first let’s hurry to get the eggs from old Mère Breton.
That’s her cottage, isn’t it, beyond the trees?”
The long afternoon was almost over when Lucy’s tired feet once more
climbed the steps of the hospital. Her arms ached with the weight of her
basket of eggs and vegetables, and her head, too, with the heat of the
sun and the throb of anxious thoughts. With a blank depression stealing
over her, she made her way among the crowd of never-resting workers and
found herself at last by her father’s room. Miss Pearse was just coming
out, and at sight of Lucy her face wakened to a glad relief as she
exclaimed, “Oh, thank Heaven, you’re back! I couldn’t think what had
happened, you were gone so long. Were you all right?”
“Yes, I’ll tell you about it later,” said Lucy briefly. “How is Father?”
“He has been awake all the afternoon and asking for you. He doesn’t know
yet that the Germans have the town. In another day it won’t hurt him to
hear it—he’s getting well so fast. Don’t let him guess it to-night,
though, Lucy. He thinks you are going back to England to-morrow. He has
fallen asleep just now, but go in and sit by him. He’ll wake again
before long.”
Lucy nodded, looking at the young nurse’s tired face. “What an awful day
you’ve had, Miss Pearse! Oh, I’m going to help more to-morrow.”
“We have a few women now, of those left in the town, to help us, so we
are better off than we expected,” was the still cheerful answer. “And
you have helped, Lucy. Some one would have had to take that long walk if
you hadn’t been here.”
Lucy smiled faintly, not convinced that she had done much, and went
softly into her father’s room. His cot was sheltered by a screen since
morning, for the beds of two other officers, British and American, had
been made room for in the little space. More than anything in the world,
Lucy longed now to find her father awake and filled with all his old
strength of purpose. She wanted to tell him the whole dreadful story of
the town’s capture and to ask what the chances really were that the
Allies would get it back again. She wanted to hear him share her grief
and anger, and lay down the law of hope and courage with unshaken
resolution. She needed him to stand by her in spirit, that she might
lean on his strength of mind, in spite of his weakness of body. But she
could not have her wish. He had fallen asleep, ignorant of her desperate
need. Overcome at last with the weight of a long day’s crushing anxiety,
the lonely little girl dropped down beside the cot and buried her hot
face in her father’s pillow.
Presently she heard footsteps approaching, but indifferent to everything
she did not move. Then some one knelt down on the floor behind her, and
two arms stole gently about her trembling shoulders. For a moment Lucy
could not believe she really heard the familiar voice that, filled with
the tenderest affection, cried softly in her ear, “Miss Lucy! Dear Miss
Lucy! Is it so I see you again at last?”
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