THE WATCH ON THE RHINE
Evening was closing upon a waste of muddy flats. Far as the eye could
see there was no rise in the land; it lay level to the skyline, with
here and there a glint of still water, and, further off, flat banks
between which a wide river flowed sluggishly. If you cared to follow
the river, you came at length to stone blockhouses, near which sentries
patrolled the banks—and would probably have turned you back rudely.
From the blockhouses a high fence of barbed wire, thickly
criss-crossed, stretched north and south until it became a mere thread
of grey stretching over the country. There was something relentless,
forbidding, in that savage fence. It was the German frontier. Beyond it
lay Holland, flat and peaceful. But more securely than a mountain range
between the two countries, that thin grey fence barred the way.
If you turned back from the sentries and followed the muddy path along
the river bank, you were scarcely likely to meet any one. The guards in
the blockhouses were under strict discipline, and were not encouraged
to allow friends to visit them, either from the scattered farms or from
the town of Emmerich, where lights were beginning to glimmer faintly in
the twilight. It was not safe for them to disregard regulations, since
at any moment a patrol motor-launch might come shooting down the river,
or a surprise visit be paid by a detachment from the battalion of
infantry quartered, for training purposes, at Emmerich. Penalties for
lax discipline were severe; the guards were supposed to live on the
alert both by day and by night, and the Emmerich commandant considered
that the fewer distractions permitted to the sentries, the more likely
they were to make their watch a thorough one. There had been too many
escapes of prisoners of war across the frontier; unpleasant remarks had
been made from Berlin, and the Commandant was on his mettle. Therefore
the river-bank was purposely lonely, and any stray figure on it was
likely to attract attention.
A mile from the northern bank a windmill loomed dark against the
horizon; a round brick building, like a big pepper-castor, with four
great arms looking like crossed combs. A rough track led to it from the
main road. Within, the building was divided into several floors, lit by
narrow windows. The heavy sails had plied lazily during the day; now
they had been secured, and two men were coming down the ladder that led
from the top. On the ground floor they paused, looking discontentedly
at some barrels that were ranged against the wall, loosely covered with
sacking.
“Those accursed barrels are leaking again,” one said, in German.
“Look!” He pointed to a dark stain spreading from below. “And Rudolf
told me he had caulked them thoroughly.”
“Rudolf does nothing thoroughly—do you not know that?” answered his
companion scornfully. “If one stands over him—well and good; if not,
then all that Master Rudolf cares for is how soon he may get back to
his beerhouse. Well, they must be seen to in the morning; it is too
late to begin the job to-night.”
“I am in no hurry,” said the first man. “If you would help me I would
attend to them now. All the stuff may not be wasted.”
“Himmel! I am not going to begin work again at this hour,” answered the
other with a laugh. “I am not like Rudolf, but I see no enjoyment in
working overtime; it will be dark, as it is, before we get to Emmerich.
Come on, my friend.”
“You are a lazy fellow, Emil,” rejoined the first man. “However, the
loss is not ours, after all, and we should be paid nothing extra for
doing the work to-night. Have you the key?”
“I do not forget it two nights running,” returned Emil. “What luck it
was that the master did not come to-day!—if he had found the mill open
I should certainly have paid dearly.”
“Luck for you, indeed,” said his companion. They went out, shutting and
locking the heavy oaken door behind them. Then they took the track that
led to the main road.
The sound of their footsteps had scarcely died away when the sacking
over one of the barrels became convulsed by an internal disturbance and
fell to the floor; and Jim Linton’s head popped up in the opening, like
a Jack-in-the box.
“Come on, Desmond—they’ve gone at last!” he whispered.
Desmond’s head came up cautiously from another barrel.
“Take care—it may be only a blind,” he warned. “They may come back at
any moment.”
Jim’s answer was to wriggle himself out of his narrow prison, slowly
and painfully. He reached the floor, and stood stretching himself.
“If they come back, I’ll meet them with my hands free,” he said. “Come
on, old man; we’re like rats in a trap if they catch us in those
beastly tubs. At least, out here, we’ve our knives and our fists. Come
out, and get the stiffness out of your limbs.”
“Well, I suppose we may as well go under fighting if we have to,”
Desmond agreed.
Jim helped him out, and they stood looking at each other. They were a
sorry-looking pair. Their clothes hung in rags about them; they were
barefoot and hatless, and, beyond all belief, dirty. Thin to
emaciation, their gaunt limbs and hollow cheeks spoke of terrible
privations; but their sunken eyes burned fiercely, and there was grim
purpose in their set lips.
“Well—we’re out of the small traps, but it seems to me we’re caught
pretty securely in a big one,” Desmond said presently. “How on earth
are we going to get out of this pepper-pot?”
“We’ll explore,” Jim said. Suddenly his eye fell on a package lying on
an empty box, and he sprang towards it, tearing it open with claw-like
fingers.
“Oh, by Jove—_food!_” he said.
They fell upon it ravenously; coarse food left by one of the men, whose
beer-drinking of the night before had perhaps been too heavy to leave
him with much appetite next day. But, coarse as it was, it was life to
the two men who devoured it.
It was nearly six weeks since the night when their tunnel had taken
them into the world outside the barbed wire of their prison; six weeks
during which it had seemed, in Desmond’s phrase, as though they had
escaped from a small trap to find themselves caught within a big one.
They had been weeks of dodging and hiding; travelling by night,
trusting to map and compass and the stars; lying by day in woods, in
ditches, under haystacks—in any hole or corner that should shelter them
in a world that seemed full of cruel eyes looking ceaselessly for them.
Backwards and forwards they had been driven; making a few miles, and
then forced to retreat for many; thrown out of their course, often lost
hopelessly, falling from one danger into another. They had never known
what it was to sleep peacefully; their food had been chiefly turnips,
stolen from the fields, and eaten raw.
Three times they had reached the frontier; only to be seen by the
guards, fired upon—a bullet had clipped Jim’s ear—and forced to turn
back as the only alternative to capture. What that turning-back had
meant no one but the men who endured it could ever know. Each time
swift pursuit had nearly discovered them; they had once saved
themselves by lying for a whole day and part of a night in a pond, with
only their faces above water in a clump of reeds.
They had long abandoned their original objective; the point they had
aimed at on the frontier was far too strongly guarded, and after two
attempts to get through, they had given it up as hopeless, and had
struck towards the Rhine, in faint expectation of finding a boat, and
perhaps being able to slip through the sentries. They had reached the
river two nights before, but only to realize that their hope was vain;
no boats were to be seen, and the frowning blockhouses barred the way
relentlessly. So they had struck north, again trying to pierce the
frontier; and the night before had encountered sentries—not men alone,
but bloodhounds. The guards had contented themselves with firing a few
volleys—the dogs had pursued them savagely. One Jim had succeeded in
killing with his knife, the other, thrown off the trail for a little by
a stream down which they had waded, had tracked them down, until,
almost exhausted, they had dashed in through the open door of the old
mill—for once careless as to any human beings who might be there.
The bloodhound had come, too, and in the mill, lit by shafts of
moonlight through the narrow windows, they had turned to bay. The fight
had not lasted long; they were quick and desperate, and the dog had
paid the penalty of his sins—or of the sins of the human brutes who had
trained him. Then they had looked for concealment, finding none in the
mill—the floors were bare, except for the great barrels, half-full of a
brown liquid that they could not define.
“Well, there’s nothing for it,” Jim had said. “There’s not an inch of
cover outside, and daylight will soon be here. We must empty two of
these things and get inside.”
“And the dog?” Desmond had asked.
“Oh, we’ll pickle Ponto.”
Together they had managed it, though the barrels taxed all their
strength to move. The body of the bloodhound had been lowered into the
brown liquid; two of the others had been gradually emptied upon the
earthen floor. With the daylight they had crawled in, drawing the
sacking over them, to crouch, half-stifled through the long day,
trembling when a step came near, clenching their knives with a sick
resolve to sell their freedom dearly. It seemed incredible that they
had not been discovered; and now the package of food was the last
stroke of good luck.
“Well, blessings on Emil, or Fritz, or Ludwig, or whoever he was,” Jim
said, eating luxuriously. “This is the best blow-out I’ve had
since—well, there isn’t any since, there never was anything so good
before!”
“Never,” agreed Desmond. “By George, I thought we were done when that
energetic gentleman wanted to begin overhauling the casks.”
“Me too,” said Jim. “Emil saved us there—good luck to him!”
They finished the last tiny crumb, and stood up.
“I’m a different man,” Desmond said. “If I have to run to-night, then
the man that tries to catch me will have to do it with a bullet!”
“That’s likely enough,” Jim said, laughing. “Well, come and see how
we’re going to get out.”
There seemed little enough chance, as they searched from floor to
floor. The great door was strong enough to resist ten men; the windows
were only slits, far too narrow to allow them to pass through, even had
they dared risk the noise of breaking their thick glass. Up and up they
went, their hearts sinking as their bodies mounted; seeing no possible
way of leaving their round prison.
“Rats in a trap!” said Desmond. “There’s nothing for it but those
beastly barrels again—and to watch our chance of settling Emil and his
pal when they come to-morrow.”
“Let’s look out here,” Jim said.
They were at the top of the mill, in a little circular place, barely
large enough for them to stand upright. A low door opened upon a tiny
platform with a railing, from which the great sails could be worked;
they were back now, but the wind was rising, and they creaked and
strained at their mooring rope. Far below the silver sheet of the Rhine
moved sluggishly, gleaming in the moonlight. The blockhouses stood out
sharply on either bank.
“Wonder if they can see us as plainly as we see them,” Jim said.
“We’ll have callers here presently if they can,” Desmond said. “That,
at least, is certain. Better come in, Jim.”
Jim was looking at the great sails, and then at the rope that moored
them.
“Wait half a minute,” he said.
He dived into the mill, and returned almost instantly with a small coil
of rope.
“I noticed this when we came up,” he said. “It didn’t seem long enough
to be any use by itself, but if we tie it to this mooring-rope it might
be long enough.”
“To reach the ground from here?” Desmond asked him in astonishment.
“Never! You’re dreaming, Jim.”
“Not from here, of course,” Jim said. “But from the end of the sail.”
“The sail!” Desmond echoed.
“If we tie it to the end of the sail’s rope, and let the mill go, we
can swing out one at a time,” Jim said. “Bit of a drop at the bottom,
of course, but I don’t think it would be too much, if we wait till our
sail points straight down.”
“But——” Desmond hesitated. “The sail may not bear any weight—neither
may the rope itself.”
“The ropes seem good enough—they’re light, but strong,” Jim said. “As
for the sail—well, it looks pretty tough; the framework is iron. We can
haul on it and test it a bit. I’d sooner risk it than be caught here,
old man.”
“Well—I’m going first,” Desmond said.
“That you’re not—it’s my own little patent idea,” Jim retorted. “Just
you play fair, you old reprobate. Look—they keep a sort of boathook
thing here, to catch the rope when the arm is turning—very thoughtful
and handy. You’ll easily get it back with that.”
He was knotting the two ropes as he spoke, testing them with all his
strength.
“There—that will hold,” he said. “Now we’ll let her go.”
He untied the mooring-rope, and very slowly the great sails began to
revolve. They tugged violently as the arm bearing the rope mounted, and
drew it back; it creaked and groaned, but the rope held, and nothing
gave way. Jim turned his face to Desmond on the narrow platform.
“I’m off!” he said. “No end of a jolly lark, isn’t it? Hold her till I
get on the railing.”
“Jim—if it’s too short!”
“Well, I’ll know all about that in a minute,” said Jim with a short
laugh. “So long, old chap: I’ll be waiting below, to catch you when you
bounce!”
He flung his legs over the railing, sitting upon it for an instant
while he gripped the rope, twining his legs round it. Then he dropped
off, sliding quickly down. Sick with suspense, Desmond leaned over to
watch him.
Down—down he went. The mill-arms rose for a moment, and then checked as
his weight came on them—and slowly—slowly, the great sail from which he
dangled came back until it pointed straight downwards, with the
clinging figure hanging far below. Down, until the man above could
scarcely see him—and then the rope, released, suddenly sprang into the
air, and the sails mounted, revolving as if to make up for lost time.
On the grass below a figure capered madly. A low, triumphant whistle
came up.
“Oh, thank God!” said Desmond. He clutched the boathook and leaned out,
finding that his hands trembled so that the sails went round three
times before he managed to catch the dangling rope. Then it was only a
moment before he was on the grass beside Jim. They grinned at each
other.
“You all right?” Jim asked.
“Oh, yes. It was pretty beastly seeing you go, though.”
“It was only a ten-foot drop at the end,” said Jim, casting his eye up
at the creaking sails. “But it certainly was a nasty moment while one
wondered if the old affair would hold. I don’t believe it ever was made
in Germany—it’s too well done!”
“Well, praise the pigs we haven’t got to tackle those barrels again!”
Desmond said. “Come along—we’ll try and find a hole in the old fence.”
They came out of the friendly shadow of the mill and trotted
northwards, bending low as they ran; there was no cover on the flats,
and the moonlight was all too clear, although friendly clouds darkened
it from time to time. It was a windy night, with promise of rain before
morning.
“Halt! Who goes there?”
The sharp German words rang out suddenly. Before them three soldiers
seemed to have risen from the ground with levelled rifles.
Jim and Desmond gave a despairing gasp, and turned, ducking and
twisting as they fled. Bullets whistled past them.
“Are you hit?” Jim called.
“No. Are you?”
“No. There’s nothing but the river.”
They raced on madly, their bare feet making no sound. Behind them the
pursuit thudded, and occasionally a rifle cracked; not so much in the
hope of hitting the twisting fugitives, as to warn the river sentries
of their coming. The Germans were not hurrying; there was no escape,
they knew! Father Rhine and his guardians would take care of their
quarry.
Jim jogged up beside Desmond.
“We’ve just a chance,” he said—“if we ever get to the river. You can
swim under water?”
“Oh yes.”
“Then keep as close to the bank as you can—the shots may go over you.
We’ll get as near the blockhouses as we dare before we dive. Keep
close.”
He was the better runner, and he drew ahead, Desmond hard at his heels.
The broad river gleamed in front—there were men with rifles silhouetted
against its silver. Then a merciful cloud-bank drifted across the moon,
and the shots whistled harmlessly in the sudden darkness. Jim felt the
edge of the bank under his feet.
“Dive!” he called softly.
He went in gently and Desmond followed with a splash. The sluggish
water was like velvet; the tide took them gently on, while they swam
madly below the surface.
Shouts ran up and down the banks. Searchlights from the blockhouses lit
the river, and the water was churned under a hail of machine-gun
bullets, with every guard letting off his rifle into the stream in the
hope of hitting something. The bombardment lasted for five minutes, and
then the officer in command gave the signal to cease fire.
“The pity is,” he observed, “that we never get the bodies; the current
sees to that. But the swine will hardly float back to their England!”
He shrugged his shoulders. “That being settled, suppose we return to
supper?”
It might have hindered the worthy captain’s enjoyment had he been able
to see a mud-bank fifty yards below the frontier, where two dripping
men looked at each other, and laughed, and cried, and wrung each
other’s hands, and, in general, behaved like people bereft of reason.
“Haven’t got a scratch, have you, you old blighter?” asked Jim
ecstatically.
“Not one. Rotten machine-gun practice, wasn’t it? Sure you’re all
right?”
“Rather! Do you realize you’re in Holland?”
“Do you realize that no beastly Hun can come up out of nowhere and take
pot-shots at you?”
“It’s not their pot-shots I minded so much,” said Jim. “But to go back
to a prison-camp—well, shooting would be a joke to that. Oh, by Jove,
isn’t it gorgeous!” They pumped hands again.
“Now, look here—we’ve got to be sober,” Desmond said presently.
“Holland is all very well; I’ve heard it’s a nice place for skating.
But neither of us has any wish to get interned here.”
“Rather not!” said Jim. “I want to go home and get into uniform again,
and go hunting for Huns.”
“Same here,” said Desmond. “Therefore we will sneak along this river
until we find a boat. Go steady now, young Linton, and don’t turn hand
springs!”
Within the Dutch frontier the Rhine breaks up into a delta of navigable
streams, on which little brown-sailed cargo-boats ply perpetually; and
the skipper of a Dutch cargo-boat will do anything for money. A couple
of hours’ hard walking brought Jim and Desmond to a village with a
little pier near which half a dozen boats were moored. A light showed
in a port-hole, and they went softly on deck, and found their way below
into a tiny and malodorous cabin. A stout man sprang to his feet at
sight of the dripping scarecrows who invaded his privacy.
South Africa had taught Desmond sufficient Dutch to enable him to make
himself intelligible. He explained the position briefly to the mariner,
and they talked at length.
“Wants a stiff figure,” he said finally, turning to Jim. “But he says
‘can do.’ He’ll get us some clothes and drop down the river with us to
Rotterdam, and find a skipper who’ll get us across to Harwich—the
German navy permitting, of course!”
“The German navy!” said Jim scornfully. “But they’re asleep!” He yawned
hugely. “I’m going to sleep, too, if I have to camp on the gentleman’s
table. Tell him to call me when it’s time to change for Blighty!”