“I don’t know where we are going, but we’re on the way,” sang Billy,
whose spirits now ranged to a high pitch. “This beats anything we’ve
rung up yet in our target practice over here,” he gloated. “Isn’t he
a jolly old roadster?” Billy had checked the horse to a slow canter,
after a run of two miles.
“Let’s have a bit of a rest.” Henri’s sore shoulder was troubling him.
He still had his knapsack with some jumbled food in it. Billy had lost
his food supply when he made his leap on the horse.
While the animal was cropping the short grass along the trail the
riders took their ease by lounging on the turf and feeding on their
crumbled lunch.
“This is a thirsty picnic,” asserted Billy. “My throat is as dry as
powder. Let’s see if there isn’t a spring ’round here.”
Hooking the bridle reins over his arm, Billy led the way on a search
for water. At the bottom of a wooded hill the boys found themselves in
a marsh, and though bitter and brackish the water was a grateful relief
to their parched tongues. The horse acted as though he had not had a
drink for a week.
A little further on, in a meadow, the boys made a singular discovery.
They were amazed to see an important looking personage in a gorgeous
uniform, covered with decorations, wandering about the meadow like a
strayed sheep.
“What the dickens is that?” exclaimed Henri.
“Give it up.” Billy couldn’t even make a guess. “He shows gay but
harmless. I think I’ll look him over.”
On approaching the richly attired wanderer the boys with wonder noticed
that he carried a gold-tipped baton and from a shiny knapsack on his
shoulders rolls of music protruded.
The strange being kept proclaiming that he was going to direct the
German military music on a triumphal parade through the streets of
Paris. Henri could understand that much of the disconnected talk, and
also that the speaker was the head musician of the German army in
Belgium. He had been cut off from his command and become possessed by
a fit of melancholy from which the boys found it impossible to rouse
him. They divided with him what remained of the contents of Henri’s
knapsack, but could not induce him to proceed with them.
“It’s a pity that a man like that should lose his reason. But this
dreadful war strikes in most any kind of way, and if it isn’t one way
it’s another.”
Henri was still thinking of the horrible happening when the Belgian
battery was literally blown to pieces under his very eyes.
“There’s a peaceful sleeper here, anyhow,” said Billy, pausing, as they
trudged along, leading the horse toward the trail. He pointed to a
little mound above which had been set a rude wooden cross. It was the
grave of a French soldier, for on the cross had been placed his cap,
showing the name of his regiment. On the mound, too, had been scattered
a few wild flowers.
“Somebody who had a heart for the cause or the fighter must have passed
this way,” observed Henri. “The burial of a soldier near the battle
lines hasn’t much ceremony, I am told, and surely doesn’t include
flowers.”
The boys slept that night in the open, with the saddle for a pillow.
They were awakened just before dawn by the restless antics of Bon Ami
(“Good Friend”)--for so Henri had named the horse. The animal snorted
and tugged at the tether as if scenting some invisible approach through
the woods, at the edge of which the three had been passing the night.
Billy and Henri were on their feet in an instant, rubbing their eyes
and trying to locate by sight or sound among the trees or elsewhere in
the shadowy landscape the cause of Bon Ami’s disturbed action.
Even if the boys had suddenly made up their minds to run to cover, they
would not have had time to go very far, for in the instant a scout
troop rode out of the woods and straight at them.
The cavalrymen spread in fan shape, and in a moment Billy, Henri and
Bon Ami were completely surrounded.
In good but gruff English the ranking officer of the troop commanded:
“Come here and give an account of yourselves.”
Billy and Henri made haste to obey, and looking up at the officer
on horseback offered their smartest imitation of a military salute.
Peering down at them the cavalryman exclaimed:
“So help me, they’re mere boys. Who let you out, my fine kiddies, at
this top of the morning? Here, Ned,” calling to one of the nearest
troopers, “bring the hot milk and the porridge.”
Billy was becoming slightly nettled at this banter. He had no desire to
be taken seriously, but yet not quite so lightly.
“I am an American citizen, sir, traveling, with my friend, on personal
business.”
“Will you listen at that now?” laughed the cavalryman whom the first
officer had called “Ned.”
“Do you know or have you thought that ‘personal business’ is just now
rather a drug on the market in these parts?”
The chief was again addressing the boys, or, rather, Billy, who had
elected himself spokesman.
“It does appear that the soldiers have the right of way here,” admitted
Billy, “but we came in such a hurry that we couldn’t stop to inquire in
particular about the rules.”
“That’s a pretty good horse you have.” It was light enough now for the
officer to take in the fine points of Bon Ami. “Where did you get him?”
Billy explained the circumstances.
“Well, you are plucky ones,” commented the officer. “Now,” he
continued, assuming again the tone of command, “saddle your steed and
fall in.”
The troop wheeled back toward the north and the boys rode stirrup to
stirrup with the bluff captain.
At the noon hour the riders reached the field working quarters of the
British commander. A small headquarters guard lounged on the grass
around the farmhouse that sheltered the general and his staff, a dozen
automobiles and motorcycles were at hand and grooms were leading about
the chargers of the officers.
The scout troop halted at a respectful distance and dismounted.
“Put on your best manners,” suggested the troop captain as he preceded
the boys in quickstep to headquarters.
After a brief conference with an orderly, the boys were ushered into
the presence of several officers in fatigue uniform seated at a table
littered with papers. At the head of the table was a ruddy-faced man,
clean-shaven, with iron-gray hair, to whom all heads bent in deference.
“We have visitors, I see.” The general’s tone and manner were kindly.
The boys stood speechless, their eyes fixed upon the little Maltese
badge of honor suspended from the left breast of the general’s coat by
a crimson ribbon. It was the Victoria Cross!