"We're lost," they said, "cut off from our brigade."
"That's nothing. How many of you are there? Enough to fight? The
Germans are coming on hard and fast."
"We're only two and our horses are done for. We were driven out of
Coulommiers this morning."
My driver threw up his hands and sobbed.
"Our friend John's horse went lame and we left him at the bottom of the
hill while we came up to reconnoiter. We can't leave him down there all
alone."
"He's gone--gone--I swear it. Followed the French chasseurs on my
bicycle, leading his mount!"
"Thank God!"
"Now then, how far the Germans will come is a question. They'll
probably go in and occupy the town, and there's just one thing for us to
do--bolt."
Whizz! Whizz! Whizz--the lead fairly splashed around us!
Leon and Emile rode back to say that the road ahead was clear.
"Les Boches," I said, pointing down the hill.
"Come on, you cowards!" yelled my boys defiantly, George brandishing the
rifle of my wounded man.
"Oh, Madame, ask the Englishmen for their revolvers. They've got their
rifles--that's five of us armed, and Monsieur's revolver makes six!
It's almost man to man. Ah, please, Madame!" they implored.
In the excitement of the moment I nearly lost my head and consented. I
was worked to such a point that any solution would have seemed a relief.
The Britishers saw me put my hand in my pocket.
"No! No!" they pleaded. "You can't--if we're caught you won't be
killed--but murdered, tortured! We're the only ones who have a right to
fire!"
"But they've been peppering my cart regardless of my sex!"
"That's perhaps their way of waging war, but not ours. Now then, off
you go--quickly."
We disappeared behind a clump of trees and tore down the clear road as
fast as our horses would carry us. George sneaked back on his wheel to
see if our aggressors were following, and came back radiant to announce
that after coming halfway up the bill, they had turned about and were
cantering to take possession of Jouy--as I had predicted.
"Where's our nearest barracks?" enquired one of the Scotsmen. (I now
saw that I had to do with the Scots a little.) We slowed down a little.
"Where is our nearest barracks?" enquired one of the Scotsmen.
"How on earth do you expect me to know? Up until I met you I hardly
realized there were any British troops on the continent!"
"Where are you bound for?"
"Melun. There's a big French garrison there in time of peace. You'll
always be sure of getting orders there--unless we meet someone on the
road."
They thought that was the best idea, and fell back, cantering behind my
caravan with which I had now caught up.
On we trotted-up hill and down dale for several hours, my poor wounded
boy still writhing on his bed of agony.
Towards four o'clock we had reached a long smooth stretch where we could
see right and left for several miles over the plains. Presently, on a
crossroad that ran perpendicular to ours, I spied a motor wagon. It was
soon followed by another and then another, and pressing forward we
reached the crossing in time to see Harrods' Stores, Whitley's, Swan &
Edgar, and an interminable number of English Army supply motors coming
straight towards us.
Knowing that it would be impossible to pass before the whole long line
had gone by, I crossed over and now saw that the Scots Grays would soon
find friends. I called Leon and pulling out a card, told him to pedal
back and dig out a bottle of champagne I had hidden in our hay cart, and
to present it to our soldier friends as a bracer and a souvenir. And
then we pushed ahead.
Two minutes later, to my utter surprise, a heavy motor horn tooted on
the road behind me and looking back, I saw a private car emerge from
behind one of the English motors, and whirl down in our direction. It
was a four-seater affair with but two occupants, a chauffeur and a woman
wearing a streaming white veil.
"Quick!" I shrieked, grabbing the reins and pulling our cart full into
the middle of the road. "They've got to take me and the boy to Melun!"
Seeing his deliverance so near, my old friend obeyed at once.
The motor, stupefied by our actions, slowed down.
"Get out of the way!" yelled the chauffeur. "Are you crazy! Out or
I'll run you down!"
"Never! Look here. I don't care where you're bound for, but you've got
to make room for me and a dying man in your machine. It's Melun--or
nothing!"
"Wounded! Heaven, the Germans! We're caught! Go on, quick, quick, I
say!" shrieked the woman.
The chauffeur made a movement as though to skid past us.
"No, you don't," I said, once again producing my trusty Browning.
The woman hid her face in her hands.
"Now then, either you can make room for us or I'll blow off your tires
and you'll have to get down and walk like all the rest of us!"
My gray-headed driver was jubilant.
"That's right, Madame, you've hit it!" he encouraged.
There just wasn't any choice. The chauffeur got down and began piling
the gasoline cans behind on the back seat to one side. Then, each of us
grabbing a corner of the mattress, we hoisted the sufferer onto the
machine, covering him with a sheet. Try as we would, though, we could
not get him to bend his knees, and in consequence all during the trip
the poor chauffeur received constant kicks from the agonized soul we
were rushing towards surgical aid.
"Now then," I said, turning to my old driver. "Thank you for your cart,
and bon voyage to Coulommiers. George, tell my people to meet me in
Melun."
And hatless, coatless, with but one golden louis in my pocket (I had
confided my bag to Julie when the wounded man had arrived at Jouy), I
started on our record-breaking trip to Melun.