Verdun to Mezieres, near the historic field of Sedan; Dinant,
Namur--names of everyday reading now, on the northern army route to
Brussels. Colonel Bainbridge, Sergeant Scott, the Boy Aviators, Jimmy
and Reddy were all in the march for the coast region. The Trouville
jewels and gold had been sewn into four canvas belts, and one assigned
to each of the boys, who wore them under their blouses. It was the
intention of Henri and his young comrades to accompany the command
until it reached the vicinity of some near coast point, where they
planned to try for a ship voyage that would end in the English Channel.
Jimmy had no military ties to hold him with the Coldstream Guards; he
was a waif until he found his own command.
“Give me even a day on the old stamping grounds,” he said, “and it’s me
that will be a jolly boy.”
“Wish there was a bridge over the briny deep,” chimed in Billy, “and I
know somebody who would soon start on the long walk to Bangor.”
Henri was thinking of his mother, and Reddy was never out of his dream
of Paris.
West Flanders was the scene of incessant military operations, and like
an island was cut off from the rest of Belgium, through the blowing up
of the bridges leading thereto. Peasants were obliged to make emergency
bridges from planks, and crawl along these to escape from the danger
zone.
Among the last memories, outside of fighting, that the boys carried
from Belgium, were of the bedraggled men and women suffering through
cold and hunger.
The Germans had declared the territory west of the railroad running
from Brussels to Antwerp an official war area, where nobody, including
even Germans, were allowed to travel without a special military
passport.
“Now,” said Jimmy, “we’re on the dead-line; even if we could get into
Antwerp, it’s ten to one that we couldn’t get out, and so what’s the
use of getting in?”
“But I’d rather take the chances of getting out of this wasp’s nest by
water than by attempting to break through any more wholesale killings
on the land.”
That was Billy’s view. He was war-worn.
“But we’re going back by water,” assured Jimmy, “only it won’t have to
be exactly from Antwerp. I’ve voyaged several times to Flushing--that’s
in The Netherlands, you know--and once among the Dutch, and in the
Scheldt river. I know a trick or two to get out on the North Sea.”
“You’re the captain on this trip,” conceded Henri; “if we can’t sail
from Antwerp, let’s push along anywhere, so long as it’s up-coast, even
to The Hague. Once in neutral territory, some of our troubles are over.”
“‘Some’ is the way to put it, Henri,” remarked Billy, “for if you had
said ‘all our troubles’ I’d think you were figuring on our final rest
at the bottom of the sea.”
“Well, it’s just this way,” continued Jimmy. “I believe I know a
route, rounding Antwerp on the east, that will take us out of fighting
ground, and in the town of Santvlieto, on the Scheldt, I have a friend
who is mate on a trade vessel, regularly running between Flushing and
the channel. I feel sure that he is home, for there are so many mines
planted in the North Sea now that it isn’t safe to risk anything that
isn’t insured to the limit.”
“But isn’t Santvlieto quite a way up the river from Flushing?” asked
Henri, who knew something of the coast line near Antwerp.
“Easy distance in a boat,” advised Jimmy. “I’ve been up and down
several times with my friend.”
“Let’s take the matter up with the colonel,” suggested Billy.
The boys all agreed to that, and the colonel strongly advised them to
get out of the war zone, if they could do it in safety.
“It’s hard to part with you, though, my brave boys, and,” particularly
addressing Billy and Henri, “I can never forget that it was you who
gave my dear dead son the best burial you could. I hope we can go
to that grave together some day. I will never forget, either, that
daring adventure of your own when you saved our command from being
annihilated. Here, sergeant,” calling to that officer who was drilling
some raw recruits nearby, “come and get your release as caretaker of
these youngsters.”
Sergeant Scott stood as straight as a ramrod, facing the colonel and
his young friends.
When he heard what the boys proposed to do, the sergeant bent his head
for an instant, then spoke gruffly, with a little husky note, too:
“Fall in, you lads; eyes right; salute!”
With all gravity salutes were exchanged.
“We can give them convoy, can’t we, colonel?”
“Yes, sergeant,” quickly replied the colonel, “give them protection as
far on the way as you think best.”
With that the fine soldier and gentleman turned to address some of the
staff assembling for conference.
The protecting force of cavalry were with the boys to a point within
five miles of the frontier, and all was clear.
The sergeant gave each of the boys an iron hand grip, and, leading the
horses the boys had ridden, the troop wheeled and soon disappeared in a
cloud of dust.
Billy, Henri and the sergeant were to meet again, but not in France or
Belgium.
An hour later the boys were in neutral territory, and it was the first
breath they had drawn in peace in many a day.
But of lasting peace, not yet.
Hans Troutman was at home, and sorry for it--not because of the
unexpected visit of his young friend from Dover--he was delighted over
that,--but simply because Hans was a thrifty fellow who did not like
even to waste time, let alone money.
While the good mother in the little house on the big river was setting
the oilcloth table-cover, with the kind of a meal that appeals to the
robust feeder, Henri was making a business proposition to Hans.
Hans gloried in business propositions, and he could understand them in
three separate and distinct languages.
Fifty gold franc pieces for his company and his boat to Flushing.
Fifty more if he put the boys on a ship that was bound for the English
Channel.
“It’s just like finding it,” said Hans, lighting his pipe.