"Not anywhere around here, unless you're willing to wait until I can
build fire enough to make you one!"
The man blushed crimson.
"Ah--I couldn't think--"
"No trouble. Get one of your men to make a blaze, and, boasting aside,
I'll brew you a cup such as you haven't had since you left England."
No sooner said than done, and quarter of an hour later, a half-dozen
Tommy Atkins were sipping hot Kardomah with sugar and condensed milk
from tin mugs.
"You're certainly right--the French don't know how to do it, at least in
these parts. I had a teapotful yesterday morning that was as near a
mixture of stewed herbs and Hunyadi water I ever hope to taste. And
now, isn't there something we can do for you?"
"Tell me where you're bound for?"
The man brought out a note-book and pointed to a name.
"La Ferte-sous-Jouarre?"
"Yes, that's it. I wouldn't dare tackle it."
"Is the road clear? Can we go there? It's only fifteen kilometers from
my home."
"I don't know if they'll let you by--but if you're clever and follow on
close behind us with your Red Cross armlet, there's just a
chance--that's all."
I didn't need a second bidding and after warning my people not to talk
if we met sentries but to have faith in me, we pushed ahead. Our army
friends with better horses soon left us in the rear, but undaunted we
proceeded, finally reaching the heights that overlooked La Ferte--and
led into the village, Jouarre, perched on the side of the hill running
towards the Marne.
Oh, the pitiful sights that met our gaze as we wended our way along
those glorious roads, now full of ruts and knee-deep in mud! As far as
eye could see the entire country had served as a huge camp for the
invader, and when forced to flee he had sacked and destroyed everything
within his reach. The wonderful fertile fields had been soiled,
polluted, and among other damning evidences of their fury, the smoking
ruins of every farm house stood like specters in the brilliant sunshine.
At the entrance to La Ferte our road was barred by two sentinels,
elderly peasants, by their looks. I played mum and tapped my Red Cross
armlet.
"_Non, on ne passe pas!_"
I beckoned them and fumbled among my papers for my _carte d'identite_.
They approached the cart, but as they did so, my faithful Betsy let
forth an angry growl.
"Down!" I commanded in English. "Down! I say! They're not going to
hurt me!"
Those phrases were my undoing!
"Oh, ho!" said my interlocutors. "And after that you think you're going
to get past us? We've had enough Boches in this place. You can come
in--but between us!"
And jumping up on either side of me, one of them took the reins and
started forward. This being taken for a spy was an altogether new and
very disagreeable sensation.
"But, gentlemen," I protested calmly, "I'm known in this place. If
there's an inhabitant left I'll be identified in a second. How green
you'll feel if you drag me before an officer and find you're mistaken!"
They were unrelenting.