THE FIGHT FOR THE BRIDGE.
I.
It was nearly noon when the tired youth awoke. He looked wonderingly
about, and there was a haunting fear in his light eyes, like those of a
stag that dreads the hunters. From the north there came the sound of
drum-fire, a weird, almost tedious, rhythm of guns working at a feverish
pace; and the near-by road was a mass of jumbled traffic. Ambulances,
supply-wagons, field-artillery, lorries, with jingling harness or
snorting engines--streams of vehicles moved slowly up and down their
channel. At a reckless speed motorcyclists, carrying urgent messages,
swerved through it all; and in the ditches that ran alongside, refugees
were stumbling on, fleeing from the new terror, their crouching,
misshapen figures like players from a grotesque drama of the Macabre.
'The sausage-eaters,' said Mathews philosophically, 'must be feelin'
their oats, sir.'
At the sound of the familiar voice the fear passed from Dick's face.
Memory had returned, and he smiled, though his body trembled as if with a
chill. 'I'm starved,' he said, 'and I have nothing with me. How long
did I sleep, Mathews?'
'Pretty near seven hours, Mas'r Dick. Here you are, sir--feedin'-time,
and the bugle's went.'
He handed Durwent a sandwich, which the young man devoured ravenously,
washing it down with some cold tea. Mathews also munched at a sandwich,
and through the cornstalks they watched the two currents of war-traffic
eddying past each other. There was a roar of engines behind them, and,
flying low, a formation of sixteen British aeroplanes made in a straight
line for the battle area.
With a map which the groom had thoughtfully borrowed from an officer the
previous day, Dick managed to gain fairly accurate information as to
their position. By calculation he figured out that they had travelled
seventeen or eighteen miles during the night, and identifying the main
road on which they had come, he saw that after two or three miles it
would take a rectangular turn to the right, running parallel to the line
of battle. Four miles to the south-east of the turning-point there was a
river, and this the fugitives decided to reach that night.
'If we can locate that,' said Dick eagerly, 'it is bound to lead us into
the French lines.'
'Werry good, sir,' said the groom, with an air of resignation. His
contempt for maps and their unintelligibility was deep-rooted, but if his
young master thought he could locate a river with one, he would keep an
open mind on the subject until it had, at least, been given a fair trial.
'You see,' said Durwent, 'a great many of these troops on the road are
French, so when we follow that route we must get into French territory.'
'Yezzir,' said Mathews profoundly. 'I won't go for to say as 'ow you
mayn't be right. All the same, Mas'r Dick, when it comes to enterin' the
ring wi' them sausage-eaters I'd raither 'ave a dozen Lancashire or Devon
lads about me than all the Frenchies you could put in Hyde Park. It
ain't that these here spec'mens don't 'ave a good sound heart as far as
standin' up and takin' knocks is concerned, but they be too frisky and
skittish for my likin'. I see 'em all wavin' their arms like as if a
carriage and pair has run away, and talkin' all at once and together,
likewise and sim'lar. Wot's more, they does it in a lingo that no one
can't go for to make out, not even a Frenchy hisself, because I never see
one Frog listenin' to another--did you, sir? Wot's more, sir, they gets
all of a lather over things which is only fit for women-folk to worry
on--such as w'ether a hen has laid its egg reg'lar; or the coffee, was it
black enough? From wot I see as puts a Frog in a dither, I sez to myself
that if you was to take him to a real hoss-race, he'd never see the
finish. No, sir; he'd be dead o' heart-failure afore the hosses was off.'
Dick smiled at the tremendous seriousness of the old groom, and lay back
wearily on the ground. 'We had better both turn in for another nap,' he
said. 'We'll need all our strength to-night, and if we stay awake we're
sure to get hungry.'
'Werry sound advice, Mas'r Dick,' said Mathews. 'But would I be
presumin', sir, to ask you a favour? I got a letter yesterday from my
old woman, and wot with her writin' and me bein' nought o' a scholar, I
was wonderin', Mas'r Dick, if you would just acquaint me with any fac's
that you might think the old girl would like me for to know.'
'Willingly,' said Dick, taking a sealed letter from the groom, who
squatted solemnly on the ground, assuming an air of deep contemplation,
as one who has to give an opinion on a hitherto unread masterpiece.
'It begins,' said Dick, with some difficulty making out the writing,
which was extremely small in some words and very large in others, and
punctuated mainly with blots--'"Dear Daddy"'----
'That,' said Mathews, 'is conseckens o' me bein' sire to little
Wellington.'
'Oh yes,' said Dick. '"Dear Daddy, ther ain't nothing to tell you
Wellington has took the mumps and the cat had some more kittens"'----
'That's a werry remark'ble cat,' observed Mathews. 'I never see a animal
so ambitious. Wot does the old girl say Wellington has took?'
'Mumps.'
'By Criky! I hope it don't go for to make his nose no bigger. Wot a
infant he is! Mumps! Go on, Mas'r Dick--the old girl's doin' fine.'
'"The day,"' resumed Dick--'"the day afor Tuesday come last week"'----
'Don't pull up, sir,' said Mathews as Dick paused to re-read the puzzling
words. 'You has to take my old woman at a good clip to get her
meanin'--but you'll find it hid somewere, Mas'r Dick. I never see the
old girl come a cropper yet.'
With this to guide him, the reader found his place again with the aid of
a blot, a half-inch square, which surrounded the first word. '"The day
afor Tuesday,"' he went on, '"come last week Wellington and the rector's
boy Charlie fit."'
'Werry good,' said Mathews approvingly.
'"Wellington's nose were badly done in and he looks awful bad but the
rector's boy"'----
'Wot does she say about him?' asked Mathews, staring into space.
'"The rector's boy could not see out of neither eye for 3 days."'
Repressing a chuckle by a great effort, Mathews hastily fumbled for his
corncob pipe, and placing it unlit in his mouth, continued to look into
space with a face that was almost purple from smothered exuberance.
'"Milord and Lady,"' resumed Dick, '"is just the same and Milord always
asks how you was and will I remember him to you."'
'A thoroughbred--that's wot he is,' said Mathews, apparently addressing
the distant refugees.
'"Miss Elise was heer last week and is that sweet grown that all the
woonded tommies fit with pillos to see who wud propos to her. There
ain't no news. Bertha the skullery maid marrid a hyland soldier and they
are going for to keep a sweet-shop after the war. Wellington sprayned
his ankil yesterday by clyming out of the windo where I had locked him in
as he has the mumps."'
'Wot a infant!' commented Mathews admiringly.
'"I am sending you a parsil and a picter of me and Wellington. We are
very lonesum, daddy, and I'll be reel glad when the war is over and you
come back. It is awful lonesum and Wellington is to. This morning he
cut his hand trying to carv our best chair into the shape of a horse. I
am feeling fine and hope the reumatiz don't worry you no more. With
heeps of love from me and Wellington, your wife, Maggie."'
It was a strange contrast in faces as the young man folded the letter and
handed it back. In the countenance of the groom there was a sturdy pride
in the epistolary achievement of his wife--a pride which he made a
violent but unsuccessful effort to conceal. In the pale, handsome face
of the young aristocrat there was a whimsical pathos. By the picture
conjured up in the crudely written letter he had seen his parents, his
sister, the humble cottage of the groom, and the wife's faithfulness and
cheeriness. He had seen them, not as separate things, but hallowed and
unified by a common sacrifice for England.
For the first time since his escape Dick Durwent regretted it. He could
see no safety ahead for Mathews, no matter how long they evaded arrest.
Although a cool, fretful wind was blowing over the fields, the warm noon
sun made his eyelids heavy.
Against the wish of the groom, he insisted upon spreading the greatcoat
over them both, and in a few minutes master and man were resting side by
side as comrades.
'Mathews,' said Dick quietly.
'Yezzir?'
'Give me your word that if you ever reach England you will never tell my
family about this. They don't know I am in France, and'----
'Mum as a oyster, sir--that's the ticket. Werry good, Mas'r Dick. A
oyster it is.'
Ten minutes had passed without either of them speaking, when Mathews
partially raised himself on one elbow. 'If women,' he said ruminatingly,
'was to have votes, my old girl would run for Parlyment, sure as
skittles. I wonder, Mas'r Dick, if a feller who courted a girl in good
faith, and arter a few years found she were Prime Minister of
England--would that constitoot grounds for divorce?'
But Dick was asleep, and dreaming of days when happiness was in the air
one breathed; when brother and sister had revelled in nature's carnival
of seasons. After several minutes' contemplation of the uncertainty of
married life, the old groom followed him into a slumber which was
unattended by dreams, but did not lack a sonorous serenade.
II.
The night was streaked with tragedy as the fugitives stole to the road.
The drum-fire of the guns had grown to a roar, through which there came
the blast and the crash of siege artillery, shaking the earth to its very
foundations, as if the gases of hell had ignited and were bursting
through. As though by lightning striking low, the night was lit with
flashes illuminating the fields and the roads about; and shells were
screaming and whining through the air, winged, blood-sucking monsters
crying for their prey. Across a yellow moon broken clouds were driven on
a gale that whipped the dust of the roads into moaning whirlpools.
Dense traffic moved sullenly on, the ghostly figures of drivers astride
horses that whinnied in terror of the night. Not a light was shown.
There were only the glimpses of the sickly moonlight and the flame-red
flashes of the guns; and, unnoticed, Durwent and the groom followed
beside a lorry.
Once, as they strode forward in the roar and horror of the dark, they
heard the explosion of a shell that, by a trick of ill-luck, had found
the road. There followed the shriek of wounded horses, quick commands
penetrating the darkness. Corpses of men, dead horses, and shattered
vehicles were drawn aside, and the long line that had been halted for
four minutes closed the gap and moved on.
When they reached the turn in the road, they left the shadowy procession
and made for the river by following a soft wagon-path that cut across the
fields. For two hours they hurried on through the night's madness. More
than once they were almost thrown to the ground by the terrific explosion
of heavy guns that had taken up positions by the path; and by the flashes
in the fields they could see the weird figures of the gunners toiling at
their work of death.
As they neared the river they caught a glimpse of coloured flares not far
ahead, and there came a momentary lull in the confused bombardment.
'Listen!' cried Dick.
From somewhere on the banks of the river there was the sound of
rifle-fire, and the rat-tat-tat-tat of machine-guns, like the rattle of
riveters at work on a steel structure.
Following a tow-path which ran by the river, they appeared to be entering
a zone of comparative quiet. Although the sound of rifle-fire grew more
clear, the noise of the guns came from behind them, but to the right and
the left. For an hour they ran rapidly forward, and it seemed that the
tide of battle had swept to the north, leaving this area denuded of
troops. They saw neither guns nor infantry, although a renewed burst of
machine-gun fire told them they were nearing their unknown destination.
They had not started from their hiding-place until nearly midnight, and
as they reached a slight rise of the ground they could see that the
darkness was slowly lifting with day's approach.
'See, sir,' said the groom, pointing ahead, 'yonder side o' the river to
the right.'
'I can't see anything,'
'Look 'ee, Mas'r Dick. Follow the river. I think that that there gray
streak is a bridge.'
It was not until they had gone ahead a considerable distance that Durwent
could make out a heavy bridge spanning the river, which ran with a swift
current, and was more than two hundred feet in width. A blurring red was
tinting the black clouds in the east as they crept along the path, when
they heard a sharp challenge.
'Friends,' cried Dick, and halted.
'Stand still until I give you the once over.' An American corporal, who
had apparently been running and was out of breath, came up to them,
carrying a revolver, and looked closely into their faces.
'What are you doing here?' he asked.
'Stragglers,' answered Durwent, 'separated from our unit.'
'Where in Samhill is the rest of your army?'
'There are no troops back here for ten miles,' answered Dick.
The American took off his helmet and wiped his brow.
'Jumping Jehosophat!' he exclaimed ruefully, 'do I have to marathon ten
miles and back? They sure are generous with exercise in the army. Say,
you guys--if you're on the level about being stragglers, and want a real
honest-to-God showdown scrap, you hike over that bridge. Do you see that
big tree over in the bush? Can you make it out? Well, when you get
across the river, just line your lamps on that tree, and after half a
mile or so you'll come to a sunken road. Report to Major Van Derwater,
and tell him you're the only army M'Goorty--that's me--has found so far.
And tell him I'll discover the French admiral who is supposed to be
bringing up reinforcements, if I have to search this whole one-horse
country for him. You'd better get a move on before the light comes up,
for, believe me, Lizzie, those Boches can shoot, and if ever they see you
coming across that bridge you may as well kiss yourselves good-bye.'
Having delivered himself of this expressive monologue, the corporal
replaced the revolver in its holster and took a seaman's hitch in his
breeches. Again the machine-guns spat out, the sound seeming to be borne
on the wind as the bullets traversed the air.
'Gosh!' said the corporal, 'but I'd give a year's tips to see that scrap
out. They had the bulge on us by about three to one, and we had to back
up to keep the line straight, but now we're holding them great.
Say--we've got a bunch of bowhunks there who could shoot the wart off a
snail. Some scrap, believe me. Well, so long.'
He had just started off at a run, when he stopped and turned round. 'If
you ever come to New York, look me up at the Belmont. I'm a waiter
there, and I can put you wise to a lot of things. Chin, Chin!'
'Cheerio,' answered Dick, as the energetic corporal disappeared.
'I'm gettin' 'ard o' 'earin',' said the old groom. 'Leastways I ain't
sure I 'eerd 'im correct. Wot did 'e say?'
'Mathews!'--Dick turned to his servant, and his voice shook with
excitement--'there's a battle going on the other side of the river, and
we're to report to Major Van Derwater. By heavens, Mathews! I feel
half-mad with joy. They didn't get us after all, did they? We sha'n't
be shot like curs, at any rate. Think of it, old man--we've won out!
They can't stop us now'---- His words stopped suddenly. 'Mathews,' he
said, 'you must not come. Stay here, and join the reinforcements when
they turn up. You have to consider your wife and little Wellington.'
For answer the groom started along the path towards the bridge, and
Durwent was forced to break into a run before he could head him off.
'Mathews,' he said sternly.
'Mas'r Dick,' replied the groom, snorting violently, 'you shouldn't go
for to insult me. Beggin' your pardon and meanin' no disrespeck, this
here war is as much mine as yourn. Orders or no orders, I'm agoin' to
have a howd'ee with them sausage-eaters, and, as that there free-spoke
young gen'l'man observed, the bridge ain't exactly a chancery in the
daylight. Come along, sir; argifyin' don't get nowhere.'
Realising that further expostulation was useless, Dick followed the groom
to the bridge. As they crossed it he noted that it was strongly built of
steel, with supports that would bear the heaviest of weights. Gaining
the opposite side, they waited as Dick took his bearings by the tree; and
crossing a hard, chalky field, they stole towards the sunken road. They
could hear the occasional crack of a rifle, and there was the _ping_ of a
bullet passing over their heads as they pressed on through the lightening
gloom.
'Halt!'
A voice rang out, and they were questioned as to their identity. On
being ordered to advance, they jumped down into a sunken road which
constituted an admirable trench, and were at once surrounded by American
soldiers.
'I was ordered to report to Major Van Derwater,' said Durwent.
They were asked various questions, and were then escorted a few yards to
the right, where an officer was looking over the bank which hid the road.
'British stragglers, sir,' said the sergeant who had taken charge of them.
'What unit are you from?' asked the officer.
His voice was calm and deep, but gave no indication as to how he felt
disposed towards the two fugitives. In answer to his question Dick gave
the name of his battalion, and Mathews did the same.
'How did you know my name?'
'We met your corporal, sir,' said Durwent.
'Where are your rifles?'
'Lost them, sir.'
'In what engagement were you cut off from your units?'
Dick tried to reply, but not only was he ignorant of the locality through
which he had travelled, but his soul burned with resentment at being
forced into lying. Mathews said nothing, and seemed quite untroubled.
He was prepared to accept his young master's choice of engagements for
his own, no matter where or when it might have taken place.
'I don't like this,' said the officer. 'These men are a long way from
the British lines, and are either deserters or worse. Guard them
closely, and if things get hot, tie their arms together so they will give
no trouble.'
'Very good, sir,' answered the sergeant, preparing to lead them away; but
Durwent, whose blood, had run cold with dismay at the officer's words,
struggled forward.
'Sir,' he cried, 'if you think I'm not to be trusted, give me a dirty
job--anything. A bombing-raid, or a patrol--I'll do anything at all,
sir, if you'll only give me a chance.'
'Well spoke, Mas'r Dick,' said Mathews proudly. 'Werry well spoke
indeed.'
The officer, who had been about to issue a peremptory order, stopped at
the sturdy honesty of the groom's voice. 'Send for Captain Selwyn,' he
said. 'You will find him at the creek.'
III.
By a creek that trickled across the road, Captain Austin Selwyn was
watching the brushwood which concealed the enemy. Beside him, lining the
bank, every available man was on the alert, waiting the developments
which would follow the raising of night's curtain. In the misty gray of
dawn they looked fabulous in size, and indistinct.
The night in January at the University Club in New York had marked a
reconciliation between Selwyn and Van Derwater. With the issue between
America and Germany so clearly defined, they had both lent their voices
to the insistent demand for war. At first people had been incredulous,
and hazarded the guess that the young author was endeavouring to cover
his own tracks; but when he enlisted in the ranks at the outbreak of
hostilities, they made a popular hero of him. They spoke of him as the
Spirit of the Cause; but he paid little attention to the clamour. His
joy in the prospect of action, and the release from all his mental
tortures, had produced in him a kind of frenzy, that crystallised into an
intense hatred of Germany.
The pendulum had swung to its extreme. Once a man animated with a
passionate humanitarianism, in whom the spirit of universal brotherhood
burned with an inextinguishable force, he had become a creature drunk
with lust for revenge. Patriotism, Justice, Freedom--they were all
catch-words to hide the brutal, primeval instinct to kill.
In the little thought which he permitted himself, Selwyn argued that the
ignorance of many nations had made war possible, but only Germany had
been vile enough to try to exploit it for the achievement of world-power.
For that reason alone she was a thing of detestation.
His enthusiasm and quickly acquired knowledge of army routine marked him
for promotion. He was given a commission, and at the request of Van
Derwater was attached to the same regiment as himself. Together they had
crossed to France, and were among the first American troops in action.
In the months that followed, Selwyn had revelled in the carnage and the
excitement of war. He was reckless to the point of bravado, and his keen
dramatic instinct drove him into unnecessary escapades where his senses
could enjoy a thrill not far removed from insanity. Only when out of the
line, when the mockery and the hideousness of the whole thing demanded
his mind's solution, would the mood of despondency return. But in the
trenches he knew neither pity nor fear. Men fought for the privilege of
serving under him, and with their instinct for euphony and love of the
bizarre gave him the name of 'Hell-fire.' He gloried in the physical
ascendancy of it all--in the dangers--in the discomforts. He was an
instrument of revenge, a weapon without feeling.
On the other hand, Van Derwater had undergone no appreciable change. He
carried himself with the same dignity and formality as in his days at
Washington--except when emergency would scatter the wits of his
fellow-officers, and he would suddenly become a dynamic force, vigorous
in conception and swift of action. Yet success or failure left him
unmoved, once a crisis had passed. His men respected but did not
understand him. They wove a legend about his name. They said he had
come to France wanting to be killed, but that no bullet could touch him.
And even those who scoffed, when they saw him, unruffled and strangely
solitary, moving about with almost ironic contempt of danger, wondered if
there might not be some truth in the story.
'Major Van Derwater would like to speak to you right away, sir.'
Telling a non-commissioned officer to take his place, Selwyn followed the
messenger along the road until they came to the spot which Van Derwater
had chosen for his headquarters. Daylight was emerging from its retreat,
and there was the promise of a warm day in the glowing east.
'You sent for me, sir?' he said.
'Yes. You might question these two British stragglers. Their story is
not straight, but they seem decent enough fellows. If you are not
satisfied'----
He was interrupted by an exclamation of astonishment from Selwyn, who had
noticed the Englishmen for the first time.
'Great Scott!' gasped Selwyn. 'Dick Durwent!'
Dick looked up, and at the sight of the American's face he uttered a cry
of relief. 'Is that really you, Selwyn? What luck! You remember
Mathews at Roselawn, don't you? You can say'----
'Good-mornin', sir,' said the unperturbed groom. 'This is a werry
pleasant surprise, to be sure. How are you, sir?'
'Van,' said Selwyn, after shaking hands with them both, 'this is Lord
Durwent's son, and the other is his groom, Mathews. I will vouch for
them absolutely.'
'Good!' Van Derwater slightly inclined his head as an indication that he
was satisfied. 'We need every man. You had better take them in your
section and equip them with rifles from casualties.'
IV.
A few minutes later, after he had procured food for the two men, who were
growing faint with hunger, Selwyn resumed his post. The heavy grass
fringing the bank made it possible to keep watch without being directly
exposed as a target; but beyond a desultory rifle-fire about a mile on
their right, there was no indication of enemy activity.
When Durwent had been equipped with a steel helmet and a rifle, Selwyn
called him over to his side, and as concisely as possible explained the
military situation. In the German attack against the French forces (with
which the Americans were brigaded) the line had been swept back. Deep
salients had been driven in on both their flanks, but orders had been
received to hold the bridge at all costs, as, if a counter-attack could
be launched, it would be an enfilading one made by troops brought across
the river. Relying on their machine-gun and rifle fire to overcome the
Americans' resistance, the enemy's artillery had been drawn into the
deepening salients; but in spite of all-day fighting the straggling line
had held.
After a few questions from Durwent they relapsed into silence, gazing at
the undulating expanse of country revealed by the ascending sun.
'Selwyn.' Dick cleared his throat nervously. 'I must tell you the
truth. You were decent enough to stand sponsor for Mathews and me, and I
want you to know everything. The major was right. We're not
stragglers--we're deserters.'
Selwyn made no comment, and both men stared fixedly through the long
grass that drooped with heavy dew.
'Yesterday morning,' said Durwent dully, 'I was to have been shot. I was
drunk in the line, and deserved it. It's no use trying to excuse myself.
I fancy my nerves were a bit gone after what we'd been through the last
few months, but---- Well, I suppose I am simply a failure, as that chap
said in London--there isn't much more to it than that. By a queer deal
of the cards, Mathews was on guard, and helped me to escape. It was
rotten of me to let him take the chance; but it's been that way all
through. Even at the end of everything--after being a waster and a
rotter since I was a kid--I have to drag this poor chap down with me.
Promise, Selwyn, if you come out of this alive, that you'll fight his
case for him.'
Selwyn murmured assent, but he was trying to shake off a haunting feeling
that was enveloping him like a mist--a feeling that everything the young
Englishman was saying he had heard before. It left him dazed, and made
Durwent's voice sound far away. He tried to dismiss it as an illogical
prank of the mind, but the thing was relentless. He could not rid
himself of the thought that sometime in the past--months, years, perhaps
centuries ago--this pitiful scene had been enacted before.
It chilled his soul with its presage of disaster. He saw the hand of
destiny, and everything in him rebelled against the inexorable cruelty of
it all. It was infamous that any life should be dominated by a whim of
the Fates; that any creature should enter this world with a silken cord
about his throat. Destiny. Does it mould our lives; or do our lives,
inundated with the forces of heredity, mould our destinies? He tried to
grapple with the thought; but through the pain and confusion of his mind
he could only feel the presence of unseen fingers spelling out the words
written in a hidden past.
'I wonder,' said Durwent, after a pause of several minutes, during which
neither had spoken, 'what happens when this is finished.'
'Do you mean--after death?' said Selwyn, forcing his mind clear of its
clouds.
Durwent nodded and leaned wearily with his arms on the bank. 'I tried to
think it out the night before I was to be shot,' he said. 'I can't just
say what I did think--but I know there's something after this world.
Selwyn, is there a God? I wonder if there will be another chance for the
men who have made a mess of things here.'
The American turned towards the young fellow, whose pale face looked
singularly boyish, and had a wistfulness that touched him to his very
heart. Durwent was gazing over the grass into the distance, oblivious of
everything about him, and in the blue of his eyes, which borrowed lustre
from the morning, there was the mysticism of one who is searching for the
land which lies beyond this life's horizon.
'I wonder,' repeated Durwent dreamily.
Selwyn tried to frame words for a reply, but skilled as he was in the
interpretation of thought, he was dumb in confession of his faith. He
longed to speak the things which might have brought comfort to the lad's
harassed soul, but everything which came to him, echoing from his former
years, was so inadequate, so tinctured with smug complacency. Was there
a God?
The question left him mute.
'There are times,' went on Durwent, almost to himself, 'when my head is
full of strange fancies--when I'm listening to music--or at dawn like
this. While I was under arrest, a little French girl who had heard I was
to die brought some flowers she had picked for me. When I think of that
girl, and her flowers, and Elise, and the faithfulness of old Mathews, I
do believe there is some kind of a God. . . . Selwyn'--unconsciously his
hands stretched forward supplicatingly--'surely these things can't
die? . . . There's been so much that's ugly and lonely in my life. . . .
Don't you believe that we fellows who have failed will be able to have a
little of the things we've missed down here?'
'Dick,' said Selwyn hoarsely, 'I believe'----
The words faltered on his lips, and in silence the two men stood together
in the presence of the day's birth. There was a strange calm in the air.
The dew on the grass caught a faint sparkle from a ray of sunlight that
penetrated the eastern skies.
V.
'_The Boches, sir! They're coming!_'
The sergeant's warning rang out, and in an instant the air was shattered
with battle. Protected by the fire from a nest of machine-guns, the
Germans launched a converging attack towards the bridge. Waiting until
the advancing troops were too close to permit the aid of their own
machine-gun fire, the Americans poured a deadly hail of bullets into
their ranks. The attack broke, but fresh troops were thrown in, and the
line was penetrated at several points.
Van Derwater rallied his men, directed the defence, and time after time
organised or led counter-attacks which restored their position. His
voice rose sonorously above everything. Hearing it, and seeing his
powerful figure oblivious to the bullets which stung the air all about
him, his men yelled that they could never be beaten so long as he led
them.
Half-mad with excitement, Selwyn repelled the attacks on his sector,
though his casualties were heavy and ammunition was running low.
Durwent's mood of reverie had passed, and he fought with limitless
energy. Once, when the Huns had penetrated the road, one of their
officers levelled a revolver on him, but discharged the bullet into the
ground as the butt of Mathews's rifle was brought smashing on his wrist.
The old groom followed his master with eyes that saw only the danger
hanging over him. For his own safety he gave no care, but wherever Dick
stepped or turned, the groom was by his side, with his large, rough face
set in a look that was like that of a mastiff protecting its young.
As waves breaking against a rock, the Huns retreated, rallied, and
attacked again and again, and each time the resistance was less
formidable as the heroic little band grew smaller and the ugly story
passed that ammunition was giving out.
They had just thrown back an assault, and Van Derwater had sent for his
section commanders to advise an attack on the enemy in preference to
waiting to be wiped out with no chance of successful resistance, when he
heard a shout, and bullets spat over their heads. Turning swiftly about,
they saw a tank lurching across the bridge. Amidst wild shouting from
the Americans, the clumsy landship stumbled towards them, with bullets
glancing harmlessly off its metal carcass. Lumbering on to the road, the
tank stopped astride it.
In almost complete forgetfulness of the impending enemy attack, the
jubilant Americans crowded about the machine and cheered its occupants to
the echo, as a small door was opened and two French faces could be seen.
In a few words Van Derwater explained the situation, receiving the
discouraging information that no troops were anywhere near the vicinity.
The tank had been discovered by the ex-Belmont waiter and sent on to the
bridge.
'Pass word along,' said Van Derwater crisply, 'to prepare for an attack.
The tank will go first, and when it is astride their machine-gun position
we will go forward and drive them out of the brushwood into the
open.--Messieurs, the machine-guns are gathered there--straight across,
about forty yards from the great tree.'
The Frenchmen tried to locate the spot indicated, but were obviously
puzzled and too excited to listen attentively. Van Derwater was about to
repeat his instructions, when Dick Durwent shouldered his way into the
group. Men's voices were hushed at the sight of his blazing eyes.
In a bound he was on the bank, and stood exposed to the enemy's fire.
With something that was like a laugh and yet had an unearthly quality
about it, he threw his helmet off and stood bareheaded in the golden
sunlight. '_En avant, messieurs_!' he cried. '_Suivez-moi_!'
There was a grinding of the gears and a roar of machinery as the tank
reared its head and lunged after him.
'Stop that man, Selwyn!'
Van Derwater's voice rang out just in time. The old groom had scrambled
to the bank to follow his master, but four hands grasped him and pulled
him back. With a moan he clung to the bank, following Dick with his
eyes. And his face was the colour of ashes.
With their voices almost rising to a scream, the chafing Americans
watched the Englishman walk towards the enemy lines. Bullets bit the
ground near his feet, but, untouched, he went on, with the metal monster
following behind. Once he fell, and a hush came over the watchers; but
he rose and limped on. His face pale and grim, Van Derwater moved among
his men, urging them to wait; but they cursed and yelled at the delay.
Again Dick fell, and with difficulty stumbled to his feet. For a moment
he swayed as if a heavy gale were blowing against him, and as his face
turned towards his comrades they could see his lips parted in a strange
smile. Raising his arm like one who is invoking vengeance, he staggered
on, and by some miracle reached the very edge of the enemy's position.
There he collapsed, but rising once more, pointed ahead, and lurched
forward on his face.
With a roar the American torrent burst its bounds and swept towards the
enemy. Selwyn leaped in advance of his men, his voice uttering a long,
pulsating cry, like a bloodhound that has found its trail.
He did not see, over towards the centre, that Van Derwater had stopped
half-way and had fallen to his knees, both hands covering his eyes.