And so, like Archibald Archer, that murderous old brute of the wooded
hills passes out of the story. A gun crew in Santois turned their handle
until they got the muzzle of their gun just exactly where they wanted it
and that was straight for the big wooded V between the hills. And having
fixed everything just right, they let fly—once, twice, three times—and
once again for good measure. And the old giant of the mountains was
never heard from again. But when those hills where Tom Slade hurried in
the night finally came within the iron lines of Marshal Foch, they found
the poor old monster knocked clear off his pedestal, where Tom Slade of
the Flying Corps had leaned to rest that night when his scouting lore
did not forsake him.
But gun crews and fliers notwithstanding, I like to think that the hand
which put that steel brute out of business was the small white hand of
an eager, generous little French girl who lived away at the foot of
those hills in the enemy country. And I am sure that Archibald Archer
would grin with unspeakable delight if he could but know that this good
end was accomplished by a “souveneerrr.”
I am now close upon the end of my reminiscences of Tom Slade with the
Flying Corps and it remains only to tell you what little is really known
about his tragic end.
On his way back from the enemy country that night he was blown out of
his course and drifted over La Chapelle which is about midway between
Epemay and the now famous Chateau-Thierry. If he had been able to fly
low enough to follow the road through Suippes to Chalons all would have
been well, for the approximate time of his return was known, and no
shots were to be fired. Indeed, so far west as La Chapelle they knew of
his being abroad on secret business, and should not have fired. But a
smart Aleck anti-aircraft crew, hearing the whir of a Hun machine, must
take a pop at it and Slade fell with a fractured head among the tangled
ruins of his machine. And that was the end of the Hun plane.
Our newspaper said that Slade was “suffering from a slight wound
received near La Chapelle.” Nothing about this blundering business which
all but lost him his life. In point of fact he suffered from very grave
mental disturbances as a result of his fall and I believe that he had
not regained in full measure his mental faculties at the time of his
final exploit But in this I may be mistaken. In any event, he was morose
and despondent while in the hospital, often mumbling threats to kill
someone. You will be glad to know that Jeanne visited him there, which
seemed to please him, and I think that if he had lived they might,
perhaps, have seen more of each other. One of the nurses told me that he
asked Jeanne if “that man came back” and when she said that he did,
Slade compressed his lips and said nothing. That matter is a mystery to
me. He made few friends in the hospital, because of his natural
taciturnity, and also because of his mental depression.
He was well on toward recovery, however, when the bomb was dropped which
killed two of the nurses. There seems to be no authority for his vowing
vengeance against the hostile fliers, but he is remembered to have said
that he “knew it was that man’s work.”
He was discharged from the hospital as cured, and after some difficulty
succeeded in being reinstated in the Flying Corps, with a combat plane,
which was now his one desire. “I got a special reason,” Captain Whitloss
says he told him. Those are the last words which I have heard of as
coming from Tom Slade.
Of the circumstances attending his last adventure you are already aware,
and save for a bit of lurid coloring, the newspaper account seems to be
about correct. He rose in pursuit of the Hun plane from Jonchery, west
of Rheims, but there seems to be no reason to suppose that he knew who,
in particular, he was pursuing.
Both planes passed out of sight above the clouds and shortly thereafter
the enemy plane was seen to fall. It fell in La Toi, as the news article
stated, just within the allied lines. Its occupant, a German named Otto
Brenner, was in the wreckage, quite dead. The fuel tank of his plane had
been shot through.
About ten minutes afterward Slade’s empty machine came fluttering down,
turned turtle and plunged headlong to earth. It did not fall upon a
“rocky hillside” as the paper stated, but in a field within the allied
lines. The body of Tom Slade was seen to fall separately but there can
be no truth in the declaration which one heard in Rheims (especially
among children) that it descended ten minutes after the plane fell. Such
a thing would be manifestly impossible.
It is true that a German airman, flying over the American lines, dropped
the cap said to have been worn by Slade. In it were his identification
disk, corresponding to the number against his name in the army files,
and the gold cross which he won while a scout. The Germans found his
body half way up a rocky slope and buried it in Pevy which now is in the
hands of Americans. I visited the grave which had a little white wooden
cross above it on which his name is carved in rough letters, very
German. I understand his name was sent to them across No Man’s Land
under a white flag after his identity has been ascertained from his disk
number. So maybe Fritzie has a soft spot, after all.
For your sake I laid a little wreath upon the grave and wrote on a piece
of bark (which I think you told me is the Scouts’ writing material) that
it was from the troop in Bridgeboro.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PART THREE—THE GRAY METEOR
I
Tells of certain perplexities which confronted me;
also of how I journeyed into Switzerland and of how I
first chanced to see the Gray Meteor.
The foregoing chapters which embody the story of Slade’s career, were,
as I have said before, intended for the perusal of Roy Blakeley alone.
They form, as you will have seen, a sort of story within a story. What
went before, and what I am now about to write, would never have been
written (much less published) save for the startling discoveries which I
have recently made. As I feel now, I should like not only Roy Blakeley,
but the whole world, to know the full truth of this strange business.
You will have noticed, no doubt, that in my somewhat rambling story of
Slade’s career I refrained from mentioning the shocking revelations that
were contained in the papers which I found in the Scuppers. To me (who
did not know him), the death of the brave airman was not so much of a
shock, but that he should have sold himself and his undoubted talents to
the enemy while all the while keeping up the appearance of loyal service
to the United States, was appalling—almost unbelievable. When and how,
in those latter days of his brave career, he had played into their
blood-guilty hands, I could not conjecture. But that is the wily genius
of spies and traitors.
I tried to make allowance for him on the supposition that his mind had
been polluted, his vision knocked askew, away back home by the disloyal
German by whom he had been employed. I told myself that though he was
brave, he was yet ignorant and weak, perhaps.
They had sent him into the enemy country partly because he had, in some
measure, the German type of countenance and spoke German passably. Was
there some obscure vein of German running in him, I asked myself. That
might explain, though it would not excuse. He had spoken in blunt praise
of his German captors and had come near to being court-martialled for
it. Was that just common fairness to certain Germans in a particular
instance? Or did it show the bent of his mind? It almost made me sick to
think about it. And I felt guilty to be perpetuating his reckless
courage for the benefit of the boy who had believed in him and still
revered his memory.
It is enough for me to say now that I shall write the balance of this
story with a clearer conscience.
Perhaps you will say that I should have come to believe in him when I
learned of his brave, heroic acts. But I beg you to remember the watch,
with T. S. engraved on the back of it, and the wallet packed full of
treason which was connected with it by a heavy lock-link chain. You
remember that? You remember that the watch was made in America? You
remember that in that wallet was the photograph of a Bridgeboro girl?
Bridgeboro, only a small place too, where he had lived and where I
lived, and where Roy lived. You remember the part of that girl’s letter
on the back of which was written a traitorous memorandum? Here it is
now—I copy it:
... looked about it seemed as if everyone in Bridgeboro was
there. And of course the Boy Scouts and that excruciating
imp of a Blakeley boy were on hand—Ruth’s brother, you know.
Oh, by the way, who do you suppose is in the old place on
Terrace Ave? Guess. The Red Cross ladies, and I’m working
with
Heaven knows how many times in my mind I afterward tried to wrench that
chain asunder and separate that name from the mementoes of treachery and
crime, just as I had actually tried in my amazement and bewilderment as
I sat in that little dank cave away up in the Scuppers where he had
fallen.
But in the end of it this was the sad conclusion that I reached—that
brave and heroic exploits may be colored and exaggerated by those who
tell them, but that records kept in secret do not lie. And if I did not
picture the adventurous young American as a patriot in those gathered
reminiscences of his career, it was because I could not, for the
haunting thought of some unknown, dark activities of his were always in
my mind, a stalking spectre. Yet not a hint did I give to Archer even,
much less to Roy, of what I had found out.
But there were one or two things which often puzzled me in the writing
of those chapters for Roy and I will mention these now. One was that
Archer told me Slade had no use for girls and never received letters
from them. Yet here was a very friendly, companionable letter, or part
of one, at least. Perhaps that is of no importance.
But this Bridgeboro girl had said in her letter that _that extraordinary
imp of a Blakeley boy was on hand—Ruth’s brother_. Did not Tom Slade
know that Roy was Ruth Blakeley’s brother, without her saying that?
Could she have supposed that he did not know who Roy was?
I thought about it a good deal and I did not cease to think of it until
a certain trouble of my own intervened and put all thoughts of Tom Slade
out of my mind for the time. This was the very troublesome cough I had
contracted as a result of being gassed. I could not seem to get the gas
out of my lungs, and it was becoming a matter of concern to me. I have
seen young fellows, recovered from the immediate, acute effects of
gassing, go to the wall with consumption. So when the doctors in Paris
told me that a change of air would be my best physician I lost no time
in seeking the mountains of Switzerland. I may mention, if you care to
know it, that I am now quite recovered and that with returning strength
there came to me a great light which brought me happiness and peace of
mind.
Of this I must now tell you.
The little hamlet of St. Craix is about thirty miles south of Basel in a
jumble of mountains which anywhere else but in Switzerland would require
a couple of hundred square miles to stand in. Solothurn is the nearest
place of any size but not exactly near enough to be neighborly, and the
great Ramieux Mountain rears its mighty bulk to the north. Some twenty
odd miles to the west is France, but I should say it would be a couple
of hundred million miles, more or less, if you went over the mountains.
From Ramieux Mountain I think you could slide down to Vetroz, get lunch,
and then slide on down and catch the train at Delemont.
My host, Hans Twann, had his little hostelry on the side of Meiden
Mountain, a mere hubble of a couple of thousand feet or so, and his
orchard tilted up like a picture on an easel. With the apples that grew
in this orchard he made cider, and he also made Kirschwasser, a very
agreeable beverage notwithstanding its formidable name.
He accommodated tourists on the side, in more ways than one, since his
land was all up and down, and from a distance his quaint little place
must have looked as if it were fixed like a postage stamp against the
rising wall of the mountain. What kept it there I cannot for the life of
me tell you. I always felt safer in back of it for then, if the worst
happened, I should fall down against it and stop. There was a little odd
patch of level land here, too, and he utilized it for an arbor where I
used to sit.
Here Herr Twann would often join me and I would banter him about the
insignificant size of his country. “Ach,” he would say, “dat iss becauss
it iss all crunched up—what? Like a piece of trash paper. Spread it out
flat and it iss bigger dan your United States.” There was some force to
this argument.
Herr Twann and his little household talked German among themselves, like
most of the inhabitants of northern Switzerland, though they all spoke a
sort of English which they had picked up from the many tourists who
resorted to the funny little place before the war.
His two children, Egbert and Emmie, were my particular friends and many
were the Alpine rambles that we had together. They were about ten and
eleven respectively, I think, the girl being the younger. Often we would
go down into St. Craix, the oddest little community you would wish to
see, with its little spired chapel just like a church in a toy village.
It was upon the Sunday of my first attendance at this church that
something happened which greatly distressed me. It all grew out of the
mischievous banter of those children. When the service was over they
showed me the relics (of the sort that any church in Switzerland has),
hallowed mementoes of saints and martyrs, and I hope I showed a seemly
reverence for them. As we left the hamlet they led me to a window of the
little schoolhouse and showed me within a skull which they said had been
found in a glacier.
“Now,” said I, “if you will show me the apple that William Tell shot
from his son’s head, I shall have seen all the sights.”
“We will show you the gray meteor,” they said. “You know what dat meteor
iss?”
“A big rock,” I told them, and I added sagely that we were not so stupid
in America.
They laughed and said I should see what kind of a rock this “gray
meteor” was.
After we had walked some distance they began looking eagerly across a
certain field at the farther side of which a mountain arose. Right at
the base of this mountain was a kind of grove. Their laughing voices
echoed back from the rugged height as we entered the field, and sounded
clear and musical in the quiet calm of that Alpine Sabbath morn.
“Come,” they urged.
As we neared the foot of the mountain the irregular contour of the base
developed into little rocks and caves, and then I saw emerging from one
of these a living figure which paused irresolutely, watching us.
“See—now you are fooled!” little Emmie cried. “You are so sure it iss a
rock!”
“You mean _that_ is the meteor?” I asked.
“So—you are fooled!” she answered gleefully.
As we approached closer, I could see the figure clearly, and a more
forlorn and pitiable spectacle I have never gazed upon. Seeing me, he
started to run, but thinking better of it, paused and waited for us with
an aspect of indescribable terror. I wore the regulation khaki uniform
of correspondents at the front, and this he seemed to scrutinize with a
kind of bewildered agitation.
“Hello,” I said, as we reached what I suppose I must call his lair. “How
are _you_ this bright Sunday morning?”
He made no answer, but watched me furtively and once or twice seemed on
the point of making off. It was evident that he either lived or spent
much time in a little cave formed by the rocks for near this were the
charred remnants of a fire. He was a young fellow of perhaps twenty,
with blond, disordered hair, and blue eyes, which latter feature
disconcerted me greatly for they bespoke a kind of breathing suspense,
entirely unwarranted by our innocent intrusion. His cheekbones were very
noticeable, he looked thin and ill-nourished, and the end of his mouth
twitched distressingly.
As to his apparel, it was in the last stages of shabbiness. His trousers
were, I dare say, of khaki, but they hung loose and looked ridiculous in
the absence of accompanying puttees. He wore the coat of a German
officer (of what rank or branch of service I could not say) and to
complete his grotesque appearance, he had a compass hung on a cord
around his neck which dangled upon his chest like a lady’s ornament.
“Well, how do you find yourself?” I repeated at a venture, for I did not
know whether or not he spoke English. He looked at me for a few seconds,
picked up a stick and then began to cry.
Seeing that no exchange of communication was possible between us, and
feeling that my intrusion was chiefly responsible for his agitation, I
told my little friends that we had better go. They seemed delighted to
have exhibited this creature to me.
“I think we should not laugh at him,” I said, as we resumed our homeward
way. “His brain is evidently not right and he is sick. Why do you call
him the gray meteor?”
“Is he not gray—his coat?” piped up young Egbert.
“Yes, but—meteor.”
“Ach, he come nobody know where—like out of the sky.”
As I looked back I could see the poor creature kneeling over his charred
fire rubbing one stick across another so that it looked as if he were
playing a violin.
II
Tells of my visit with the Gray Meteor and of how I
entertained him and of his call upon me.
You will believe that I lost no time in quizzing my host about this
mysterious “gray meteor.”
“Ach,” said he, “some deserter. Geneva and Locle are full uff them.”
“Geneva and Locle are near the border,” I said, “and all they have to do
is to take a hop, skip and a jump to get there. There are some from over
the Rhine, too,” I added, for I did not relish his implication that all
deserters were from France.
“Well, diss one is American, anyway,” he said.
“And how about his German coat?” I asked; “how do you know he is
American?”
“He iss crazy, dat is why,” he laughed. “He must be alwavss camping out.
Don’t you worry about him.”
“He is not crazy,” I retorted, a bit nettled, “but I will tell you what
is the matter with him——”
“Sure, he iss lazy.”
“He is suffering from shell shock or something of that sort,” I said,
ignoring his remark. “And what I should like to know is, how did he find
his way up here in such a state. Besides,” I added, “he should have care
and companionship. He is in no condition to be living in that hole of a
cave. Do you know anything about him?”
“He come apout a mont’ ago—nobody knows how. I ask him een, put he will
haff nudding. The childrens, dey call him de gray meteor. Maybe he come
from Mars—what?”
I soon found that if this poor, strayed soul had ever been a sensation
he had long since ceased to be one. The children still found him a
source of entertainment, made fun of him, and I am afraid, annoyed him.
Otherwise he lived in his cave, shunned the village and all other haunts
of men. I understood that he lived chiefly on fish which he caught, but
sometimes the children left food near his solitary retreat.
As to his being a deserter, that may very well have been the case, I
thought, but deserter or not, he was suffering from shell shock if I
knew anything about the manifestations of that dreadful thing.
How he had penetrated so far to this obscure retreat I could not
conjecture, for though not far distant in miles from the border, the
spot was unfrequented and almost inaccessible. Nor was such remoteness
necessary. In Basel, or any of the places along the western frontier, he
would have been as safe from molestation as at the North Pole. First and
last, his presence there puzzled and interested me, and his condition
aroused my sympathy.
All the next day my thoughts dwelt upon his gaunt appearance and
frightened look and on that vacillating timidity and uncertainty of
action which bespoke a crippled power of will. There was no mistaking
those signs; I had seen them before.
The morning following I dug into my grip and picking out several of the
bully old pals which I had brought with me, sallied forth to the retreat
of the “gray meteor.” From what Herr Twann had said I surmised that he
spoke English and finding him kneeling by the ashes of his fire, in
about the same position as when I had left him the day before, I said
cheerily:
“Good morning—fine Alpine weather.”
The look he gave me pierced me to the heart. I felt that he would either
run away or crawl to me like a guilty dog in grovelling shame. He
breathed heavily and his eyes were lit with an anguish of terror. He
started to rise but apparently had not the strength of will to lift
himself and as he crouched there a twig broke under his feet and he
started as if a cannon had been shot off close by.
“I think you’ve been trying to get a fire,” said I pleasantly, “by
rubbing those two sticks together. Am I right?”
He only looked at me and smiled uncertainly. “That’s a pretty hard
stunt,” I continued. “Suppose we start it with a match this time and
tomorrow I’ll hunt this business up. I’ve a book that tells about those
things. You and I will run through it together.”
I lighted the little parcel of twigs which he had gathered and after
watching the flame a few moments he said, “More?” and seemed irresolute
whether to bring more twigs or not.
“A few more, then a couple of big pieces, and we’ll be all hunk,” I
said.
The fire well started, we sat down beside it.
“It’s hot, isn’t it?” he asked nervously.
“Quite hot,” said I.
Then he gulped as if it had been an effort for him to say that much.
“You were right the first time,” I added, which seemed to afford him a
kind of childish pleasure.
“Now,” said I, “if you think I’m a soldier because I have on this khaki
suit, you’re mistaken. I’m a fellow that writes stories and things, and
I like to camp just as you do. I think you and I are very much alike.
Will you tell me your name?”
He shook his head, smiling weakly. It seemed to me that he had no
objection to telling me, but that he just lacked the stamina to do it. I
therefore began to speak of something else and after a moment he said:
“Tasso.”
“Is that your name?”
He nodded as if he had done a great thing in telling me. Then a slight
movement of my arm startled him and he jumped and trembled.
“Are you Italian?” I said; “is that your first name or your last name?”
“Both,” he said.
“Well,” said I, “you and I are going to be friends, anyway. And I’ve
brought along another friend, too. He’s in a book named _Kidnapped_. He
went on a long hike and lived in caves just like you. He made a long
trip through mountains with a companion and at last got to Edinburgh.”
He looked at me for a moment in a puzzled way and then asked
hesitatingly, “Did he get there in the night?”
“Indeed, I don’t remember,” I said, “but we shall find out.”
Suddenly he began to cry like a baby and it was pitiful to see him.
While he was crying I began to read those wonderful adventures of David
Balfour and he soon seemed to listen. But with every stir he would start
like a frightened animal and he had a way of twisting and pulling the
cord around his neck which was heartrending to see, so weak and aimless
was it. But he was attentive and evidently interested.
Thus began my acquaintance with that forlorn derelict of the great war,
and my simple program for helping him seemed to have begun auspiciously.
Each day I visited him and read to him and though he said little, and
that to no purpose, he seemed interested and would listen silently hour
after hour, starting at the merest sound or movement, and twirling and
twisting the cord on which hung his rusty, broken compass.
On the evening of the fourth or fifth day I saw him coming up the
mountain path toward the little inn. He paused trembling at the edge of
our little arbor and breathed as if he were very weary. I rose slowly,
being particular to make no noise or sudden movement, and greeted him as
if he had been coming each day. He stood uncertainly, intertwining his
fingers, and seemed on the point of retreating. But he had come, and
that was a great step in advance.
“I think it is my front name,” he said, as if that were the purpose of
his call.
“Oh, yes,” said I. “Tasso. So now I’ll call you Tasso.”
“If it thunders will you come and stay with me?” he asked.
“Indeed I will,” said I, “but it’s not going to thunder and tomorrow you
and I are going to take a hike together.”
III
Tells of my ramble with the Gray Meteor and of his
singular conduct, and of a discovery which I made.
I have seen soldiers suffering from shell shock led across the boulevard
in Paris, held by the hand like children. I have seen one, a great,
strapping fellow, guided to his seat in a restaurant. I have seen one
stand upon the street wringing his hands and sobbing because he did not
know which way to go. And no one of these unfortunates that I have ever
seen would have ventured out alone upon the most trifling errand. Panic
fear of themselves is their most distressing and conspicuous symptom.
Yet here was one of them whose last vestige of stamina seemed to have
forsaken him, but who had yet penetrated into these rugged mountain
heights. It was not so much the distance from France, as the endless
up-and-down distances and winding ways of those Alpine fastnesses which
made the thing seem impossible. Apparently he had a half forgotten
smattering of some of the primitive outdoor arts and I had won his
confidence and aroused some hope and interest in him by promising him a
“hike.” But he was no more able to reach this sequestered spot unaided
than a baby in arms.
Who, then, had aided him?
Try as I would, I could not persuade him to remain over night at my
little inn, the fear of any noise seeming constantly with him, and I let
him go, realizing with regret that perhaps he was as well off in his
solitude with only the softer voices of nature about him.
But in the morning I was early at his retreat, with high hopes of the
little excursion which awaited us. For I had thought that a quiet ramble
in those unfrequented places would be a balm and solace to his poor
nerves and wavering mind. Little did I dream what that ramble would
reveal.
Our path took us through a forest thick with pines of such magnificence
as I had never before seen, one as much like another as the pillars of a
collonade, and for which this Jura range is famous. I have it from my
host that after rainy weather the pungent odor from these pines is
actually intoxicating and that wayfarers have been known to slumber
under its fragrant influence for several days. I think I shall never
again smell the spirit-rousing pungence of a Christmas tree without
recalling our memorable ramble in that dim cathedral of the Jura
Mountains.
I noticed that the sounds of nature had no such distressing effect upon
my companion as did the ruder clamor of human clap-trap, and that he was
more at ease in these majestic scenes. Perhaps kind nature, that great
physician who asks no fee, had pointed out his solitary cave to him,
after the thunderous tumult of the war—I do not know. But in any event
he seemed more at ease than I had yet seen him. And I perceived clearly
enough then that he was not insane—only that he had lost his grip.
He seemed to take an interest in everything about us and surprised me
with the knowledge which he showed of nature and her little oddities.
Once he picked up a twig saying that it had grown on the north side of a
tree, and again a scrap of rock which he said was sandstone. “They’re
all sandstone, these mountains,” he said, or rather asked, as if he were
not quite sure of himself and afraid that I would contradict him.
“Yes,” I said. “I guess they’re mostly sandstone,” though, to tell you
the truth, they might have been soapstone for all I knew.
Not once did he speak of the war and when I cautiously mentioned it in a
casual way he paid no attention. It seemed that he had forgotten all
about it—blessed lapse of memory, I thought.
Well, after a while we came upon rough country, like a miniature chain
of mountains up there amid those mighty peaks. Here were rocky hollows
and no end of little caves and glens—such picturesqueness as I had never
seen. They say these caves are filled with the bones of extinct animals
and one bleached relic I picked up. But my companion told me that it was
only wood. “See,” he said smiling, “it has a grain.”
I think it was the first instance of a genuine smile that I had seen
upon his wan countenance.
Presently he kneeled down and examined some mossy earth, and
straightway, to my regret, he became greatly excited. We were in a sort
of little canon which extended some hundred yards or so and petered out
in an area of fairly level forest land where the trees grew sparsely in
a rocky soil.
“What is it?” I asked, a bit anxiously.
“See?” he said, standing and placing his heel in the moss. “See?”
“You mean it’s a footprint?” I asked.
“See?” he asked nervously, almost in suspense, as if dreading my reply.
“Surely,” said I; “I dare say others have passed here. We are not so far
from the village.”
“It’s mine,” he said. “See?” And ignoring me, he crept along, for all
the world as if he had lost something, examining the earth with great
concern and increasing satisfaction.
I had never before seen him so interested, and my own interest was
aroused, for if he had indeed passed here himself it might afford a clue
to something or other—though I did not know what.
“It is only moss,” I said, “and——”
“It’s wax-moss,” he interrupted me with the first sign of assurance he
had ever shown. “They stay in wax-moss—See?”
He was now so engrossed with his quest that I could but watch and follow
him.
“Have you been here before?” I queried. He gave no heed, but hurried
along through the gully until, having gone a hundred feet or more, his
will power seemed to collapse and he waited for me, wringing his hands
distressingly.
“What is it?” I said.
“It’s over there,” he answered, clutching me in evident terror.
“Well, we’ll go and see it,” I answered cheerily, and we moved along, he
still clutching me as if afraid that I would desert him.
It was curious to see how the one or two footprints he had found aroused
him to a flight of energy which petered out as quickly and left him
helpless and agitated. I could not for the life of me imagine why those
footprints should have interested him so and sent him loping along the
gully. He found no others, but apparently the sight of those two or
three produced a glimmer of memory in him. Evidently he had been here
before, and was wishful to retrace his former path but lacked the will
and courage to do so.
“I know where it is,” he said, wringing his hands. “I know now. Will you
go with me?”
His look was so imploring and his voice so full of a kind of panic fear
that I was persuaded there was something he wished to show me but dared
not. His will seemed to tipple like a seesaw between resolution and
irresolution, and he fell into the old habit of starting and clutching
me at every sound.
“Come,” I said, “I’ll go with you.”
I cannot describe the eager terror in his eyes, the trembling of his
hands as he clutched my arm, and the irresolute pauses which he made as
he passed along through the gully. Finally he seemed about to clamber
out of the rocky depression, hesitated, and broke down utterly, sobbing
like a child.
“Look—there—,” he at last managed to gasp “You—go—and see.” And he
gulped and tightened his grasp in panic fright.
I looked across a mass of piled up rock and saw, some distance away, a
large object which seemed to stir as I watched it.
“That’s it,” he said.
“All right,” said I. “You stay here, sit down on that stone and I’ll go
and see.”
He sat down, twirling the cord around his neck and watching me eagerly.
As I clambered up the low embankment, he started at the slight noise I
made.
Picking my way among the boulders I approached the object, until, a few
feet from it, I paused and looked at it aghast. It was the wreck of a
German observation balloon. The gas was entirely gone from its great bag
which lay plastered down upon the rocks, and its formerly glass-enclosed
car was in complete ruin. I think it must have blown across those rocks
for some distance to have been so shattered.
But all the details of its wreck and dilapidation were as nothing to me
when I saw certain markings on the broken side of its car. There were
two black crosses side by side, with the German Imperial coat of arms
between them.
The balloon with the two black crosses was known far and wide upon the
west front. It was the little palace, the lofty headquarters of an arch
demon of aerial frightfulness, who was the peering eye and minion of his
murderous superiors. I had talked with those who knew and catered to
this sneaking beast, and cowered before his swaggering arrogance—a poor
little French girl and her crippled father. He it was who had come from
America to help the Fatherland; who “knew about ze ships, when zey will
go”; whose two black crosses were a mark of special honor and
distinction!
Well, by the grace of Heaven, he was a mystery no longer. Poor,
dribbling, guilt-haunted wretch—he had brought me face to face with the
wrecked instrument of his crimes.
I make no excuse for what I did—I am only human. I strode back to where
the stricken creature sat, twirling and twisting the cord about his
neck. I was trembling and my words came short and spasmodic, but whether
from amazement or rage I do not know now. I only know that he cowered
before me like a reed blown in the blast—it stings me to the heart as I
think of it now.
“So you have got your reward,” I said. “Be sure that God knows how to
punish such as you! I have seen your evil eye put out and there, _there_
it lies, over among those rocks. You must come back to it, eh? Like a
murderer to its victim!”
His breath came in great, panting gulps, he wrung and twisted his hands,
and his look—oh, it will haunt me forever.
“I know who you are now! You will tell a little French girl that
Americans are murderers and hang their people to lamp-posts! America,
where you lived yourself and made your living—— Now you’ve got your
reward! I have seen the house that you defiled with your presence—the
little cottage of a French peasant! I don’t know how many ships lie at
the bottom of the ocean on account of you, you sneaking, lying
blackguard! But you’ve got your reward. Those innocent women and babies
at the bottom of the sea are better off than you—with your peering eye
put out and your senses drivelling. No wonder you’re afraid! Probably
the thunder of some Yankee cannon knocked your brain endways. The most
bestial German is a saint compared with you—Monsieur le Capitaine!” I
sneered. “No, keep away from me!” For he held his hands toward me with a
pitiful gesture. “I’ll not interfere with the decree of God. You can
wander in these mountains like a lost soul for all I care—drivelling
about poor murdered Indians in America. If you’ve forgotten your name,
I’ll tell it to you. It’s Toby! I know of one other almost as bad as you
are—Slade his name is—who would sell his country. Over there at that
balloon is a piece of broken cable—go and hang yourself with it—if
you’ve got the nerve!”
And with that I marched away. Scarcely had I gone ten paces when his
voice rose in a scream to wake the Heavens. Again and again he screeched
in an anguish of despair and his piercing cries echoed from those lonely
mountains until they died away in pitiable sobs.
But I never so much as turned to look at him.
IV
Tells how I went forth into the night, and of my
quest, and of my singular state of mind.
“So that is the infamous Captain Toby,” I thought, as I started back to
the inn, all agog over this discovery. “Monsieur le Capitaine, the sky
spy, accessory to a thousand murders! Another of Dennheimer’s recruits.
Well, he has his reward.” He would have fared worse, I consoled myself,
if he had fallen within the allied lines.
But already (though I would not acknowledge it) I had begun to feel the
first pangs of regret, not because I had denounced him, but because I
had not at least brought him back and left him in his cave where I had
found him. For if, indeed, I wished to leave his punishment to
Providence, it would have seemed only fair to return him to the spot
where Providence had placed him when I intervened.
I began to wonder how he had drifted so far and what were the
circumstances of his tragic flight. The broken cable told much, but what
was the experience which had left him with a tottering, broken will—the
victim of hideous fear and haunting guilt? He had evidently a hazy
recollection of landing in the darkness, for he had asked me, in his
eager, furtive way, if _David Balfour_ had reached his destination at
night.
I believed that his condition had been worse—was perhaps getting better
when I first saw him. And I pictured his being carried through the
darkness, a crazed victim locked in his little car, storm-tossed
perhaps, borne over those majestic peaks, beating against his glass
enclosure in crying fright, and at last dragged across rough canons and
over rocks and crawling out of the wreckage in the blackness of night in
this unknown country. I pictured him wandering aimlessly among the hills
and glens, in storm and tempest perhaps, and finally finding refuge in
his lone cave.
Before I had reached the inn I turned and retraced my steps to the scene
of our parting, but he was gone. I was siezed with remorse. The night
was coming on, and the thought of the poor wretch stricken anew by the
shock of my tirade, roaming aimlessly among those caverns, went to my
heart.
This, I thought, was not the way Uncle Sam treated his enemy prisoners.
I went back to his cave hoping that I might find him there, but there
was no sign of him, and I turned back toward the inn remorsefully.
And now I did not spare myself. I recalled my effort to find excuse, or
at least a plausible explanation, for Tom Slade’s truckling to the
enemy, because he was my young friend’s pal and lived in my own home
town. I recalled my agreeable pastime of recounting the episodes of his
loyal service, and of how I had put into the background that dark secret
of the Scuppers. But for this poor, half demented creature, who was
punished already, I had had nothing but heartless contempt and loathing.
I would have thought shame to dishonor that grave in Pevy. Yet here was
I dishonoring the dead—for was not this wretched thing dead in a way?
I cannot tell you of the pangs I suffered as the night drew on. Herr
Twann, who had shown little sympathy or interest in our unhappy
neighbor, seemed like a saint now compared to myself. A fine bungle I
had made of my kind intent! I have seen wounded soldiers handled pretty
roughly, but never one with genuine shell shock.
To my host and his good wife I said nothing of what I had learned—much
less of what I had done, but all through the evening I nursed my remorse
in silence.
As luck would have it, the night blew up cold and stormy. There is a
keenness to the slightest breeze in these parts and I have wondered
whether it is because of the narrow valleys it passes through, causing,
as one might say, a perpetual draft. The rain comes in gusts.
Well, on this memorable night there was not so much as a star to be
seen—only the tiny light away up on Ollon peak, which I always thought
must be a star. Some hermit monks lived there, I understood, and lonely
enough it must have been for them. Down in St. Craix we could see the
lights, dimmed by the misty thickness of the blown rain, disappear one
after another as the good peasant people went to their beds, and as I
watched them from our tap-room window, I felt that no human being should
be abroad in those mountains on such a night. Once there came a tap upon
our door and I thought it might be that poor distracted soul, but it was
only Laff Turtman, the herdsman, for a warming draught of kirschwasser.
He was on his way down to Craix with his sheep, and I could see them out
in the path, making a kind of community of warmth by crowding together.
The blazing fire in our tap-room was cheerful that night and we all sat
about it.
At last I could stand it no longer and taking my host’s oilskin cape and
hat from their peg, I announced that I was going to see if the Gray
Meteor was all right, that being the name they always called him by. It
pleased me to assume that he would be in his cave, and I would not
entertain the thought that he was not there. But he was nowhere about
the place. Outside were the two smooth sticks that he was wont to rub
together with such childish confidence of getting a spark from them, and
it went to my heart to see them lying there. The rain was streaming down
the cliff above his cave and pouring over the opening like a waterfall.
I was thoroughly alarmed now, but what to do I did not know. I cannot
say I had any sympathy for him more than any Christian would have for
the lowest wretch cast adrift on such a night. I was in two minds
whether to go all the way down into the village, but what could I do
there? Awaken the good people out of their slumbers?
It was intolerable to do nothing, and I ended by doing the only other
thing I could think of, and that was to pick my way through all that
drenching rain and darkness to the wreck of his balloon. Now that he had
seen it again, I suspected it would have a kind of fascination for him.
But he was not there and I was at my wits’ end. The wreck looked tragic
and uncanny enough in the night, the hollow, wrinkled bag moving to and
fro, and simulating the stirrings of some crouching thing among the
rocks. I groped about among the wreckage of the car and found a dented,
rusted spyglass, which had doubtless stolen many a secret from behind
our lines, and a jack-knife, so rusted that I could not open it. This I
took—I do not know why.
Suddenly through the rain I heard a sound near me and peering about I
saw a goggled head bobbing close by.
“Who is it—speak,” I demanded, and I am afraid my voice was not quite
steady.
But there was no answer and approaching I found it to be only an
airman’s helmet hanging from a hook in the broken moulding. Even as I
felt of it I started at a rustling sound beneath me, but I supposed it
was only some small creature of the mountains who had made the forlorn
ruin its home.
I had no wish to linger there and started homeward, drenched and utterly
miserable. Nor will I deny that this weird spectacle in those rugged,
dark-enshrouded mountains, had made me the prey of shadowy forebodings
and uncanny fancies. I, too, must start at every little sound and
shudder with a sort of vague apprehension. I cannot describe it any
better than to say that I felt as if something dreadful were going to
happen. I thought how the war had pushed its long, bloody tentacles out
to the farthest corner of the world—causing murder in some tropic
village, suicide in the ice-bound north—horror and destruction
everywhere. And it was here upon these neutral Alpine hills, this war,
stalking in the form of one distraught and guilty soul, who had been
cast up here with all his crimes upon his head. “One cannot get away
from it,” I said.
I felt it, I knew it—that something, I knew not what, but something, was
going to happen.
V
Tells of my experience in the night, and brings my
formal narrative to a close.
The household was gone to bed when I reached the little inn, but the
fire had been left burning for me, and I hung my dripping garments
before it and sank down on the massive settle. The candle was burning
out but the blaze in the big fireplace diffused its grateful warmth and
gave out a dim, fitful brightness. I remember how it checkered up the
rough wainscot and low-raftered ceiling so that my eye was ever and
again caught by moving figures which were nothing but the reflection of
the dancing blaze. Outside the blown rain beat against the little
windows in intermittent splashes, which seemed to heighten the sense of
comfort and security within.
But I took small comfort in the dim warmth, for I was sick at heart—sick
with horror and disgust at the renewed memory of that creature’s
deeds—treason—cowardly murder—but most of all at myself. I tried to
console myself with the reflection that it was better so, that after all
I had been giving aid and comfort to the enemy. We do not get much
consolation from the mental comforts which we manufacture for ourselves,
and the result of all this idle thinking was just to take me back home
to Bridgeboro and to conjure up thoughts of my young friend, Roy
Blakeley. _Do a good turn daily_, he had said. I could see him as he
said it! _Two on Sundays and holidays. Get a turning lathe and turn out
good turns. Keep turning._ I smiled at the recollection of all his
nonsense.... A fine kind of a good turn I had done!
So I fell to thinking, or rather my mind wandered aimlessly back to
that day when Roy and I had stood outside the Bridgeboro station,
reading the account of Tom Slade’s last exploit. I recalled the little
catch in his voice when he asked me if I was “_sure_ it was really
true,” and of how he looked across the street at the window of Temple
Camp office, where hung the service flag with its single star. Then I
thought of the grave in Pevy with its little wooden cross marked with
rough lettering—absurdly German. I thought of how, even to the last
moment of our parting, when he handed up my grips to the car platform,
he clung staunchly to the hope that somehow his pal was yet living.
“Well, at least,” I reflected cynically, “Tom Slade had the decency to
leave a few untainted memorials of loyal service behind him—enough to
make a story.” And I thanked my stars that no hint of other things had
escaped from my pen, in that tale which I had written for Roy. That did
not trouble my conscience at all now. Might it not go down as a good
turn? And the girl, whoever she was, she must never know either. Where
ignorance was bliss, ’twas folly to be wise. Why should I disgrace my
own home town and bring shame upon this noble “good turner” and scout?
Then in my drowsy reverie (for the dying fire had cast its spell on me)
I thought of something Slade had said to Jeanne Grigou—that you cannot
disgrace yourself alone. Queer he had not thought of that when he had
fallen into the web of the unspeakable Dennheimer. Why had he not
thought of Bridgeboro then—little Bridgeboro which was first over the
top with its loan quota. Had not the Schmitt affair been quite enough
for little Bridgeboro which had had its name sprawled all over the New
York papers on account of it?
Well, in any event, there should be no more of this business....
Roy—Roy—he would get over the shock of death, I mused. Nature provides
for that. But the shock of disgrace.... That was a pretty good story,
too—stopping just short of.... Yes, it was a pretty good story. And I
would give it to Roy and say, “Here’s a good turn I have turned out for
you.” And then....
Whew! How the rain beat against the window! The rattling of the loose
frame interrupted my reverie so that I got up and stretched myself and
went over and forced a folded scrap of paper between it and the jamb.
“I’ll be thankful,” I half yawned as I resumed my seat before the fire,
“if this thing is over soon.” I don’t know whether I was thinking of the
storm or the war.
But the rattling did not cease. Oh, it was the door and not the window.
So I got up again—then stood stark still, feeling a tremor all over me.
Not an inch could I move, only stand there, every nerve on edge,
listening. If I had been certain of a tapping on that door I would have
experienced no suspense, for suspense is tense uncertainty, and I knew
not whether it was a tapping or not.
I thought it was not, and to make sure I went over, unbarred the heavy
door and threw it open.
Never while I live shall I forget that sight. He stood there, dripping,
trembling; and if there had ever been a touch of the ridiculous in his
appearance in that tattered, ill-fitting German coat, there was nothing
but pathos in it now; his clothes hung in shining wetness to his form so
that I saw with horror how gaunt and emaciated he was. He wore no hat
and his blonde hair was streaking down over his face and he gazed out
from between those drooping strands with such a pitiful look of appeal
as I had never seen before.
[Illustration: HE STOOD THERE, DRIPPING, TREMBLING.]
“Yes,” I said roughly, “come in—I’m glad you’ve come. No, don’t touch
me, but sit there by the fire—you’re welcome. I was to blame. I’m
sorry.” It was odd, perhaps, but even in my relief at seeing him and
giving him shelter, a little of my anger and resentment returned so that
I was at an effort to repress it. “Dennheimer is worse than you, for he
seduced you. Sit down—you needn’t be afraid.”
I seated myself in the great chair before the fire, but he remained
standing with one hand upon its massive back. His sleeve was tight and
clinging, like a woman’s, which gave him a grotesque look and somehow
went to my heart. So standing, he spoke with a painful effort at
composure as if his few words had been contemplated and rehearsed. As he
spoke, I thought I saw in his eyes a kind of forced calmness as if he
had at last groped his way to some peg to hang his wits on.
“That other name,” he said, “say it.”
I was surprised that after his experience he did not clutch my arm, but
instead the chair and clung to it as if that were a part of his resolve.
The poor, heroic effort at self-control was touching and I answered in a
kinder tone.
“Other name? There isn’t any other name. I want you to sit close to the
fire and take off your coat and shoes; then we’ll talk. See, I’ll put a
fresh log on.”
“Say that name,” he repeated, and already I could see his will power
tottering. It had been strong enough for a request but not for continued
insistence.
“I think you must remember Dennheimer,” I said, “and I know of _no_
other name. Of course, you knew Dennheimer.”
He shook his head.
“Well,” I persisted, “it is more important to get dry and warm. I wonder
how you found your way here in such a night.”
“I can find my way anywhere,” he said; “I _had_ to find my way to ask
about the name.”
I was puzzled.
“You mean your own name—Tasso?” I ventured.
“Two traitors,” he said; “the other one. You said—you said—you said—_I_
was one.”
“Indeed,” I said, “I am not burdening my mind with the names of traitors
and if I named one it must have been in anger. As for you, I’ll not be
your judge—so sit down. You are tired and——”
“I’ve known a night like this before,” he said, clutching the chair and
gulping in the labor of his effort to be calm and rational; “I am glad
on account of it—the rain—because—it—it—reminds me. _You_ are a _coward_
if you are afraid of a storm—you—are—scouts—the—they——” and his voice
trailed away.
“Shh,” I said. “You must be quiet I will tell you the other name——”
“Yes,” he said eagerly.
“It was a young fellow who lived in my town in America and came over
here and after a while he got mixed up with the Germans somehow. Slade
was his name—Tom Slade; and I’m sorry I mentioned it before. He’s dead
now——”
“Say his name again,” he interrupted, trembling like a leaf.
“Slade—Tom Slade.”
“Tomasso—not Tasso,” he cried; “_that_ is what he used to call me.”
I thought his wits were wandering now, so I spoke soothingly, telling
him again to sit down. But he clutched my arm and looked at me like a
wild man. There was a light in his eyes, too, which I had never seen
before. And if he lacked in will and had no power to speak connectedly,
a certain fine abandon came to him which took me by storm. I knew, of
course, that his tirade was but the reaction of his nervous strain and
mental hallucinations, but some things that he said puzzled and rather
startled me.
“Do you know—do you know what he—I did,” he breathed. “You think you can
bury—me—but—you can’t. I—I’ll tell you what I did—I strangled him—like
that (he clutched my throat). I threw him out of the car. He—he tried—to
stab me with—with my own jack-knife—he tried to cut the rope—but I can
go too quick—up a rope—anyway—trailing—stalking—you see how I can come
here when I must have that name. That is _my_ name—it belongs to
me—me—it does. Give it to me—or—or I—it’s your town as much as mine—I
kept it from getting—disgraced you’re a coward if you’re a-scared of
storms—I rode a storm—I did—and I tracked you here—you are—_you’re_ a
thief—you are! Give me my name—Tom Slade—I hunt for—that. I trailed it—I
am _Tomasso_!”
I removed his weakening fingers from my throat and, standing, stroked
his shoulders soothingly. Every part of him was shaking and he was
breathing like a dog. He had to toss his head back to gulp out his
excitement and he kept closing one eye in a nervous manner, most
distressing to see.
“You _must_ be quiet,” I said, “and get your wet clothes off. Shh— I’ll
give you your name (for I thought it best to humor him) as soon as you
do that. Hold up your arm—so; so I can get your coat off. Now sit down,
quietly. There. It’s because you are tired—that’s all. Don’t think about
anything, just....”
But he would not sit down, only laid his head upon the back of the great
chair and sobbed like a baby. I made no effort to dissuade him for I
knew that was just the effect of his exhausting tirade. I assumed, of
course, that he had been talking nonsense....
* * * * *
Copy of cable despatch which I sent to Roy Blakeley on the
fourth day following the incidents related in the last
chapter.
“Tom Slade alive sick will recover am writing.”
* * * * *
Following is my last letter to Roy Blakeley, written at the little inn
of Hans Twann above St. Craix village in Switzerland:
Dear Roy:
I sent you a cable via Paris and Rouen. Tom Slade is alive and with me
here in Switzerland. I waited four days before sending the cable in
order that there might be no shadow of uncertainty about the facts,
which seemed hardly believable. I think this will go through to you
without much delay since the armistice has been signed. But you’ll
probably not see us for several months.
Tom is in care of the physician in Solothurn, the nearest town of any
size, and I am sure he is in good hands. He cannot leave here for
several weeks, however, and when he does we shall probably be delayed in
France in connection with getting his discharge or at least an extended
furlough. I understand the censorship is off, so this should come to you
unopened but in any case keep the whole business close until I return. I
have already written a sketch of Tom’s adventures for you but if there
is no objection in any quarter I would like to publish this whole
extraordinary business, first and last.
I can hardly collect my own mind sufficiently to give you a straight
account of this amazing climax of Tom’s career, and I will not now tell
you anything contained in the several batches of story I mean to hand
you. For you might as well know the whole thing. Tom himself is in no
condition to talk and contradicts himself a great deal. But of the
essential truth of what he tells me there can be no doubt.
He is suffering from shock incident to the terrible experience he had
and this, I think, was aggravated by an injury to his head which he had
previously sustained.
In the neighborhood where this final experience of his occurred it is
current among the French peasants that the body of Slade fell from the
clouds ten minutes after his machine crashed to earth. I mentioned this
supposed superstition in the narrative which I shall give you, saying
that such a thing was manifestly impossible. It is a fact, however, that
the victim fell ten minutes after Tom’s machine descended. _But the
victim was not Tom Slade._ You’ll hardly credit your senses when you
read this, but the body which fell on the rocky hillside was none other
than that of Toby Schmitt, son of Adolph Schmitt, the Bridgeboro grocer!
This unspeakable young scoundrel was in the German service and was the
moving spirit of their spy activities along a front of a hundred miles
or more. He was, in fact, the Captain Toby, or Monsieur le Capitaine,
whom you shall hear of in my narrative. Tom learned of this young
traitor’s presence along the front where he was on a secret mission in
France and saw his photograph, which he instantly recognized. He also
learned the means by which he might identify this arch villain—a double
cross on the observation balloon which he often used.
As nearly as I can gather from Tom (for he has to be handled carefully
still), the machine he was pursuing ascended into the clouds where,
apparently, its occupant was to seek orders from the balloon which was
anchored there. But of that, of course, he is not certain. He downed the
enemy flier and was about to shoot at the balloon when something
happened to his machine gun. You may imagine his chagrin at finding
himself thus helpless, especially when he noticed two black crosses on
the balloon’s car.
I think he must have been in a frenzy of rage and desperate resolution
to do what he did. I am hoping that later he will be able to give a
clearer account of it, and the doctor assures me that he will be. I
gather that he circled about the cable of the balloon until finally in
some way he was able to get hold of it. That he should have sacrificed
his plane and trusted himself to this cable is an evidence of his
towering resolve. The doctor thinks that even at that time his mental
state was perhaps not quite normal.
In any event, he knew what he was going to do. That he raised himself,
hand over hand, up that cable there seems no doubt. And he got into the
car. He says that “Schmitty” which was the name he knew young Schmitt by
in Bridgeboro, was frantic with fear, and so he must have been to see
this redoubtable creature lifting himself up through that cloud-filled
air and finally coming aboard like a pirate over the side of a ship. Yet
he dared not cut the rope for that would be to release his balloon and
put it at the mercy of the wind.
Before Tom was yet within the car, Schmitt, who was apparently unarmed,
or at least unprepared, reached down and secured the knife which Tom
carried in his pocket. Tom was powerless to prevent this since his hands
were upon the rope. _This is an American Boy Scout knife_ and I myself
later found it in the wreck of the balloon.
Tom says Schmitt tried to stab him with it. Of the frightful combat
which took place in that car we can only imagine the details. Tom
himself goes to pieces whenever he tries to talk about it. It was a case
of one or the other—there seems little doubt of that. And in the end
Schmitt either fell or was thrown out of the car. He must have been
clutching at Tom’s neck as he fell for he tore away the cord on which
hung Tom’s Scout cross and identification disk. These things were later
picked up by the Germans who removed Schmitt’s body. Schmitt had a watch
bearing the initials of his name, T. S., and to this was fastened a
wallet containing some of his treasonable papers. He had also been
corresponding with some girl in Bridgeboro and part of one of her
letters, together with a photograph, were found in the wallet.
All of these matters you shall find in the story which I hope soon to
give you and the circumstances attending the discovery of these things
and my own connection with them, will surprise you greatly.
I shall write no more now, for indeed I find it hard to set these things
down. Tom is getting better each day, he talks of you very much, and
looks forward to the day when he can be a scoutmaster. All through the
days of his sorrowful weakness and distraction the war has been a thing
forgotten, and it is hard to arouse in him memories of those last days
of his military career. But of scouting and of you he thinks continually
and never tires of talking. And I always call him Tomasso because, he
says, it reminds him of you.
POSTSCRIPT—WRITTEN AFTER MY RETURN TO AMERICA
I shall not prolong this narrative with an account of our return through
France, though it is quite likely that I may, at another time, detail
one or two of the rather surprising adventures which we encountered on
that remarkable journey. For what seemed to me good and sufficient
reasons, our progress was made as surreptitiously as possible, it being
my intention to keep the whole business quiet until we should report at
Chalons which was where Tom had been stationed.
But, as you probably know, if you have seen any of those misleading news
items, we were arrested at Langres. Here our pleasant hike through the
hills, which I had counted upon to restore Tom’s mental repose, was
rudely brought to an end by the preposterous charge that I was assisting
a deserter. The matter was straightened out in an hour, of course, and
is too ridiculous to dwell upon. Even the army medical men, who should
have known better, smiled annoyingly when I stated, what was the plain
truth, that it had simply been my intention to afford Tom a few days of
the old woods life which he loved before presenting him to the
authorities. And I have to thank his own irrational stubbornness and
crying rebellion, that he was not taken from me altogether.
The incident is of no consequence, but I think you must already have
discovered that Tom’s memories of scouting, even when he was at his
worst, formed the one link which bound his fitful and disordered mind to
former days. Indeed, it was by this means that I began the task of
nursing and diverting him. The merest mention of a camp fire or casual
reference to a trail found always a ready response and I have learned
myself to love Nature and all her beneficent influences and soothing
voices, for the knowledge of how she dwelt constantly in the poor brain
which could hold naught else.
It remains only to say that the task which I began has been triumphantly
completed by a keen-eyed old man who presides over Temple Camp in the
Catskills—Uncle Jeb, the boys call him. And if anyone in this war-torn
world could bring peace and poise to a distracted soul, Jeb Rushmore is
that man.
And this brings me to my final task of gathering up the few loose
threads of my tale, a thing which I could not do save for Tom’s complete
recovery. Straightway upon our return to Bridgeboro, Mr. Ellsworth, that
indefatigable scoutmaster, took him up to Temple Camp, where he and
Uncle Jeb are now busy getting the big camp ready for the influx of
scouts which begins about June.
Roy, Mr. Ellsworth and I lost no time in discussing the proposition of
publishing this whole story, and there seemed but one obstacle to our
doing so. This was Margie Clayton, as sweet and patriotic a girl as ever
lived, and what good end could be served by proclaiming to the world
that the young fellow whom she had liked and trusted was a sneak and a
traitor? Evidently she had cared for young Schmitt—there is no
accounting for tastes, and girls are funny things. It was Roy, bully
scout that he is, who put the clincher upon this discussion by reminding
us of some rule or other that a scout must be kind and chivalrous.
And it was Miss Margie herself who took the clincher off. How she
learned the truth about Schmitt I have never discovered, but she made
known in very unmistakable terms that the fate of the whole Schmitt
family was nothing to her and that she was very sorry she had ever
wasted a good photograph and a good sheet of notepaper on such a
creature. As for the photograph, it was not exactly wasted for I
returned it to her, and the last time I saw it was during one of my
visits to Temple Camp where it hung in a birchbark frame in Tom’s cabin.
I did not ask him how it got there.
So, the way being clear, we went ahead with our publishing enterprise
and I will conclude with one or two scraps of information which I have
lately had from Tom. One is in answer to the question of how the cable
of the balloon was broken. He thinks now that he must have cut this
himself in savage desperation, fearing that Toby Schmitt would return
after falling from the car. If, indeed, he did such a thing he must, of
course, have been stark mad, and it is awful to think of him, the prey
of such maniac fury, being carried, a lone prisoner in that little car,
through clouds and darkness, who shall say how high, and for how long,
and finally cast like a shipwrecked mariner upon those lonely mountains.
The harrowing story of that awful night can only be imagined, and
perhaps it is better so. No doubt, it is one of God’s mercies that Tom
should never recall all that happened in that insane combat among the
clouds, and in the frightful journey which followed. He believes that he
was in the air through another day, but I think that unlikely unless,
indeed, the fugitive balloon was born hither and yon upon the changing
winds before landing. All he knows is that he crawled out from under
that tangled wreckage in the darkness of night.
One or two trifling details he remembers more closely. I asked him how
Toby Schmitt happened to wear an American uniform and he said that
evidently it was the custom of that unspeakable creature to wear not
only the American, but the French and British uniforms, as occasion and
the work in hand suggested. It was the sight of Schmitt in Uncle Sam’s
outfit which enraged Tom to the point of uncontrollable fury, but
whether this was one of the causes or just a result of his nervous state
I cannot say. He tells me that in Schmitt’s room in the Grigou cottage
there was the uniform of an English lieutenant, and the jacket of an
American Y. M. C. A. worker.
But enough of Schmitt; my pen rebels at the task of recalling his
villainy. As for the tattered German coat which Tom wore, he supposes
that he found it in the car. He says that his own coat was torn away by
Schmitt in the struggle and no doubt this was so, since we know that the
wretch also wrenched away the cord bearing his scout badge and
identification disk.
There is only one more question and neither Tom nor myself could have
any answer for it. It is whether the Germans really believed that they
had discovered Slade, when in fact the body was that of their own man.
Very likely they really thought it was Slade for, of course, Schmitt
could not have been known to every subordinate in the German service,
and doubtless he was disfigured beyond identification as the result of
his tragic fall. Where his own mark of identification was, I have no
guess, though perhaps, being a spy, he wore none.
It is a matter of rueful memory with me that I should have reverently
laid a “tribute from our Bridgeboro scouts” upon the grave of that young
scoundrel. But perhaps a better spirit of Christian charity should
incline me to cherish no such angry regrets and I will not begrudge him
the few flowers which I left there as a token of the far-off town where
he was born.
Indeed, I am not of a mood for unavailing bitterness for the cruel war
is over and the springtime is come and the flowers are coming forth and
the birds are singing in the trees as if to lure one’s thoughts away
from the horrid nightmare. And last Saturday Roy and I made the trip up
to Temple Camp to see old Uncle Jeb and visit Tom in his retreat among
those silent, lonely hills.
Not a soul was thereabout as we rowed across the lake to the camp shore,
and the cabins and pavilion stood reflected in the black water and all
the surrounding woods seemed permeated with a solemn stillness. It was
at the day’s end and the frogs were sending up their harsh croakings out
of the marshy places—those discordant voices which accord so fittingly
with the quiet and the dusk.
“When the frogs begin croaking,” said Roy, “then you know that pretty
soon the scouts will begin coming.”
We found Uncle Jeb smoking his pipe under the lean-to of the boarded-up
cooking shack looking for all the world as if he were waiting for some
rattling old stage-coach which he was to pilot across the scorching
western plain. There was peace in his keen gray eyes and a refreshing
whiff of the prairies in his brown, furrowed skin and drooping, gray
moustache.
“Waiting for the boys to come, Uncle Jeb?” I asked, after the greeting.
“They’ll be comin’ purty quick naow, I reckin,” he drawled.
“Find it lonesome here?”
“’Tain’t never lonesome,” he said, “but I like to see the youngsters
coming.”
“I suppose you know that Roy and I together are going to write some
stories about Temple Camp,” I ventured, as a pleasantry.
He looked at Roy with a humorous twinkle in his eye.
“And we’re going to put you in, Uncle Jeb,” said Roy.
“Thar’s a youngster over yonder would fit into a story-book,” Uncle Jeb
drawled, “kind of a char-ac-ter, as you might say. Lives over thar
through the woods whar you see the smoke goin’.”
He told us we would probably find Tom over that way for he had gone
after milk. So we took our way along the woods path, which was filled
with memories for Roy, until we came to a road with open country beyond,
which, being private land, he had never crossed before. Perhaps a
hundred yards or so distant stood an old white farmhouse with the
familiar paraphernalia of barnyard and adjacent outbuildings, making, I
thought, a pleasant scene of old-fashioned farm life.
As we followed the cowpath across the fields we became aware of two
figures sitting on a rail fence, and I waved my hand to Tom, who
answered with a cheery greeting to us both. It was good to see him
looking so hale and ruddy.
But it was in a kind of trance that I saw him lower himself from the
fence to come and meet us. For a second I stood gaping, then grasped
Roy’s arm in speechless amazement. For there before me, swinging his
legs from the fence, was Archibald Archer!
Yes, it was none other than Archibald Archer as large as life, larger,
in fact, with his freckled face lighted up so that he was just one
enormous grin; Archibald Archer, home from the wars, and once more
enthroned among his favorite apple trees which ere long must pay him
their luscious tribute. His feet were quite bare, he wore trousers of
gaudy bed tick with suspenders brazenly conspicuous, and a straw hat as
big as a parachute.
“Well—I’m flabbergasted!” I managed to gasp as I took his proffered
hand; “I knew your home was near Temple Camp, but I didn’t know how
near.”
“I’m mustered out,” he informed me.
“I think I like you even better in your ancestral domains,” I said,
shaking his hand with right good will, “and I congratulate you that you
are back in your orchards once more. I might have known that it would
take more than a world war to kill _you_. Tell me, how is the souvenir
business?
“I got some mustarrd gas in a vinegarr jarr,” he said. “Want to see it?”
“Thank you,” I answered, “but I have had enough gas for one war. I think
you are yourself quite enough of a souvenir for me. I shall not lose
track of you again. Roy and I intend to put you where we can always have
you handy.” And I winked at my young literary partner.
“I got a piece of wirre from a wirreless, too,” Archer persisted, as if
his store was inexhaustible.
The doubtful nature of this last-mentioned memento gave me an
uncomfortable feeling that I was being made fun of, so I retorted with
severe sarcasm, “I do not care for that, but if you have a ring or two
from the bell of Rheims Cathedral I might be willing to accept it.”
“If you want to see the belles,” he said, “come to the barrn dance on
Saturrday night.”
It was useless trying to down him.
“And how are all your friends on the other side?” I inquired, venturing
upon a new tack. “Sir Douglas Haig and Papa Clemenceau? I hope they are
quite well.”
“Pretty smarrt,” he answered, “but they couldn’t come home with me on
account of being busy.”
“Too bad,” said I; “and General Pershing and your old college chum,
Marshal Foch—how are they?”
“Fine and dandy. They sent theirr kind regarrds to you.”
“Their kind what?” said Tom in that sober way of his.
“Regarrrrds!” repeated Archer.
“Once more,” said Tom.
But for answer Archer toppled him off the fence, where he had reseated
himself, to the amusement of Roy, who sat down on the ground, drew his
knees up, clasped his hands about them, and laughed so that he shook.
“Humpty Dumpty Tomasso,” he said.
And, do you know, I think that right there, with Roy Blakeley laughing
his merry laugh and the famous, patent-applied-for scout smile spread
all over his roguish face, is the place to end this rambling story. For
in that laugh, as in the spring breeze, there is promise. And if you
will but hold your hand to your ear, scout fashion, and fancy that you
can hear his joyous uproar, you may take it as a reminder that the
bloody warpath has, after all, brought us back to the solemn, friendly
trees and the placid lake of the beloved camp once more, and that we are
parting but to meet again in the scouts’ own season, which is the good
old summertime.