FROM THE HEIGHTS
Hammersley had him covered, and the General made no move to defend
himself. He bent his head and folded his arms, peering into
Hammersley’s eyes like a short-sighted man trying to adjust his vision
to an unaccustomed task. But his frown relaxed almost immediately and
his lips separated, showing a gleam of teeth.
“My compliments, Herr Hammersley,” he said. “You have done well. It
pleases me to meet at last----”
“Move your right hand again the fraction of an inch and I will shoot,
Excellenz,” said Hammersley, in the sharp, quick accents of a resolute
man.
Von Stromberg only smiled more broadly. But he did not move. He had
seen enough of Herr Hammersley to respect his sincerity.
“I have staked my professional reputation upon your presence elsewhere,
Herr Hammersley. Instinct, perhaps, led me here. I do not know what
else. But I came alone. I am not armed.”
Hammersley was in no mood for trifling and time was flying. Better to
shoot the man and be done with it, but he couldn’t, somehow. Instead he
searched him quickly for weapons.
“You’re too late, Excellenz. I am sorry, but I have no time for
conversation.”
“You will at least let me pay you the compliment of saying that the
Prussian blood in you has made you the most brilliant Englishman I have
ever met.”
“I have no time to match phrases with you----”
“_Ach_, but you match what is much more important--a genius for
dissimulation. Yesterday you disappointed me, Herr Hammersley, with
your talk of plans--of fortifications--of Strassburg. I had been hoping
that you were playing a deeper game, something that would relieve the
flat monotony of my routine. You were to save me from utter boredom. It
is true. I had hoped that. I was disappointed when I thought that you
were like the others. Disappointed! I should have known----”
“And now that I have the papers--what are you going to do about it?”
asked Hammersley with a touch of bravado.
Von Stromberg shrugged.
“I confess that I am so rapt in admiration of your genius that I am at
a loss--I must yield to the inevitable. But I am happy in the knowledge
that only a person of the skill of Herr Hammersley could have succeeded
in outwitting the head of the Secret Service Department of the Empire.”
“Enough of this!” Hammersley broke in. “I should kill you, General
von Stromberg, but I won’t if you obey me promptly. Stand aside--over
there--against the wall. If you move, I’ll shoot. I’m going out of
here.”
Von Stromberg did as he was bidden, and his long strides and erect
carriage had lost none of their dignity. When he reached the wall he
turned with a smile. Then he said suavely:
“I fear, Herr Hammersley, that you will not go forth as rapidly as you
like.”
Hammersley only laughed at him.
“We’ll see about that.” He took a stride to the canvas curtain and had
a quick look outside. And then to the girl: “Crank her, Doris! The
compressed air--the button to the left beside the wheel!”
There was a long pause when Doris reached forward in her seat. A pause
filled with meanings for Hammersley, in which his fate and hers, was
hanging in the balance. Von Stromberg seemed to read his thoughts, and
the wolfish smile spread again over his face.
“It is just possible,” he said blandly, “that someone may have been
tinkering with the machinery.”
There was another long silence--a moment of agony for Hammersley.
“Yes, _I_ have,” roared Hammersley exultantly.
For just then there was a violent explosion, deafening in the enclosed
space, like the roar of a giant cracker would have been--another--and
then more rapidly another, followed by a number of concussions, like
a pack of giant crackers catching intermittently and then in quick
succession.
General von Stromberg’s smile faded--then vanished in a look of
inefficacy and dismay. He was senile. Hammersley’s grin derided him.
Speech was impossible, but the muzzle of the automatic was as eloquent
as before. One more explosion or six, for that matter, would add little
to the din. Von Stromberg’s life hung by a hair at that moment and
he knew it. Still covering His Excellency, who was now glancing at
the slit in the curtain beside him, Hammersley climbed up to the seat
in front of Doris in the cockpit of the machine. And just as he was
putting a leg over, His Excellency took a quick glance upward, which
had in it a world of expression--and bolted.
Hammersley’s shot must have missed. He looked around at Doris and
laughed, and she saw the light of triumph that rode in his eyes. The
exhaust was roaring steadily now, but with one hand on the wheel and
in the other his automatic, Hammersley sat motionless, watching the
slits in the canvas for the men that he knew must come in a moment.
At a gesture of his, Doris sank low in the cockpit, her hands on the
wheel, watching, too, and ready to do her share as Cyril had directed.
One--two minutes passed--she seemed to be counting the seconds. The
body of the machine was trembling as though with the excitement of the
moment and the explosions had blended into one continuous roar. Cyril
threw the clutch in and the note lowered as the propellers began to
whirr. The huge fabric jumped forward, gathering momentum as it went,
until by the time it reached the canvas curtain in front of it, it was
going as fast as a man would run. The weight of the heavy flap retarded
it for a moment, but it went steadily on, and the canvas was pushed
outward--then rose--it seemed to Doris like the curtain on a melodrama.
Men were running up, shooting as they ran. They clutched at the toggles
and swung off their feet, falling in a heap upon the ground. She saw
a man, the only one not in uniform, take hold of the lower plane and
try to stop the momentum. It was John Rizzio. She saw his face for
a second, dark, handsome, smiling. Cyril rose in his seat and their
weapons streamed fire. Rizzio moved backward with the machine, still
clinging to the lower plane, and then disappeared, passing under it,
just where the blades of the right-hand propeller were.
A slight shock and a shapeless mass went rolling over and over until
it brought up motionless against the jamb of the door. Two other men,
Foresters, warned by Rizzio’s fate, sprang aside with horror in their
eyes. Doris sank lower in her seat, her cheeks bloodless, grasping her
wheel with icy hands, filled with horror. Cyril had sunk down in his
seat, clutching at the side of the cockpit, his weapon falling from
his fingers. With an effort she steadied her hold on the wheel. The
canvas curtain had passed over their heads. They were in the open. To
the right, coming from the Windenberg road, a machine filled with men
was dashing across the field before them at a diagonal which would
intercept them. She heard shots near at hand. Cyril did not move. She
had a glimpse of General von Stromberg, who had snatched a pistol from
the hand of the nearest soldier and fired.
They were moving fast. But the automobile in the field before them
seemed to be moving faster--Captain Wentz and four men! She saw Cyril’s
hand rise in front of her, pointing to the left to avoid them, but
Wentz came on. The Yellow Dove was still running on its wheels. She
saw the danger. Wentz was aiming at a collision. She pulled her wheel
toward her instinctively and the Yellow Dove rose, skimming the ground.
She felt it lifting, slowly, now rapidly. The automobile seemed about
to strike them. Another jerk on the wheel and the skids of the Yellow
Dove just grazed the wind-shield of the machine, and a soldier leaped
into the air, trying to catch a hold, missed and tumbled to the ground.
In the car men were shouting like demons, and a volley of pistol
bullets pierced the planes. She felt them strike the armored body, but
she sank lower, clutching her wheel.
Clear? They must be. A second of agonized suspense and she saw Cyril
turn his head and look down behind them. His face was white but his
eye flashed triumph. His lips moved, but she heard nothing. Safe? They
must be. The Yellow Dove, mounting easily, had cleared the trees at
the border of the farm and before the eyes of the girl stretched only
undulating surfaces of gray and green.
In front of her Cyril lay back in his seat. His hands clutched the
sides of the cockpit. O God! She had not been sure before what his
sudden lassitude had meant. He had been hit! John Rizzio! He turned
around and smiled at her and one hand, stretched before him, pointed
up and to the right. Her throat closed and her heart seemed to stop
its beating and the Dove for a moment swung and tossed like a drunken
thing, but with an effort she inclined her wheel and met it. Cyril
again raised his fingers and pointed upwards. Higher! She tipped the
wheel further toward her. His gesture was like an appeal to Heaven--a
symbol of his faith in her and in the God of both. She set her lips and
obeyed. Broken and helpless--perhaps dying, he was putting his faith in
her. She must not fail him now.
She kept her gaze before her over Cyril’s head, trying to gain strength
for what she had to do, thinking that she was in England--at Ashwater
Park--and that the wheel she held was that of her own little Nieuport.
There seemed to be little difference between them, except that the
Yellow Dove was easier to manage. It responded to the slightest touch,
and had a magnificent steadiness that reassured Doris as to her ability
to do the thing that was required of her.
The mountains had fallen below them and the horizon had widened until
it blurred into the haze of the distance. She looked down on what
seemed to her a plain of purple velvet touched with lighter patches
of orange and violet. Before her the sun was setting blood red in a
sea of amber. She mounted above it into the clear empyrean of azure,
higher--higher yet. She felt the exhilaration of large spaces, the
joy of conquest over all material things. Death even did not dismay
her--Cyril’s--her own. She seemed to have crossed at a bound, from the
realm of substance into that of immateriality. Her soul already sang in
accord with the angels. They were mated. She and Cyril--mated! And even
Death should not separate them.
Dusk fell slowly below them, like a black giant striding across the
face of the earth, but all was still bright and clear about her. The
red ball of the sun would not set. She was going upward--upward into
the realm of continuous and perfect day. Below her a thread of silk,
thrown carelessly upon a purple carpet. The Rhine! She saw Cyril’s hand
come up and move feebly to the right. She turned slowly and followed
its direction. The Rhine--she remembered Cyril’s words back there in
the woods. She must follow the Rhine to the sea and then turn to the
westward along the coast. She would do it. She must.
Cyril was hurt--but perhaps not badly. His gestures reassured her. He
moved his hand in a level line in front of him and she understood.
They had mounted high enough. The barograph showed four thousand
feet. She brought the wheel up to normal and held it there. The wind
burned her cheeks and she knew from the changes in the river below
her that the speed of the Yellow Dove was terrific--ninety miles--a
hundred--a hundred and twenty--an hour--perhaps much more--she did not
know. The speed got into her blood. Faster, faster, was the song her
pulses sung. She was a part of the Yellow Dove now, and it was a part
of herself. Its wings were her wings and its instinct was in her own
fingertips.
Night fell slowly, a luminous night full of stars. She seemed to be
hanging among them--to be one of them--watching the earth pass under
her. Two of them gleamed like St. Elmo’s lights at the tips of the
planes. The sky was clear and bright, of a deep bluish purple, like
the skies she remembered high up on the plains of the great West in
her own country. The air was bitter cold upon her face and she blessed
Cyril’s foresight for the helmet, gloves and old leather jacket that
he had put on her in the hangar. In front of her Cyril leaned slightly
to one side and his right hand touched a button, throwing an electric
light in a hood in front of the wheel upon the face of the compass
and barograph. She glanced at them quickly--four thousand feet--the
direction north-northwest. She longed to speak to him and shouted his
name. But in the roar of the engines she could not hear her own voice.
He still sat up, the fingers of his right hand moving from time to
time as he gave her the direction. She thanked God for that--he was
alive--he would live until they reached Ypres. He _must_ live. He
_must_. She set her teeth upon the words and _willed_ it, praying at
last aloud with lips that screamed yet made no sound.
Below her moved the lights of a city. She did not know what it was.
Cologne, perhaps. She had passed it yesterday morning in the train with
John Rizzio. Yesterday! It seemed a year ago. Cologne--then Dusseldorf.
The river was not difficult to follow. She lost it once and then
moving at a lower altitude she found it quickly. But the old terror was
gripping her now. Cyril! His fingers no longer moved directing her. He
had sunk lower in his seat and his head had fallen back upon one side,
his face upturned to the stars. Was he----?
She put the thought from her. It was impossible. She had prayed. Not
that.... He had only fainted from pain, from sickness. Not dead--she
would not--could not believe it. She longed to reach forward--to let
him feel her hand upon his neck--that he might know her pity and her
pain. It almost seemed better that death should come to them both now
than that he should die and not know the comforting touch of her hand.
She leaned forward and one hand left the wheel, but she lost her touch
of the air and the planes tipped drunkenly, threatening the destruction
she courted.
The madness passed--and with its passing came a calm, ice-cold. She
was no longer a sentient being. She was merely an instinct with wings,
flying as the eagle flies straight for its goal. She kept her glance on
the compass and followed the river. North-northwest. The silver thread
had become a ribbon now, reflecting the starlight. She passed over
other towns. She could see their lights, but her gaze was fixed most
often on the distant horizon, where after a while she would find the
sea.
A yellowish light, painting the under side of the plane above her head,
bewildered her. She could not understand. It was like a reflection of
a candle inside a tent. Low as it was, it blinded her eyes, accustomed
to the soft light of the stars. There was a crash nearby, in the very
air beside her it seemed, a blinding flash of light, and the Yellow
Dove toppled sideways. Instinctively she caught it, turning as she went
and rose higher--higher--as a bird flies at the sound of a shot below.
She knew now what it meant--a searchlight! They were firing at her with
the high-angle guns. She had come fast, but the wire from Windenberg
had been faster. She put the light behind her and long arms of light
still groped for her, but she rose still higher, five--six thousand
feet her barograph told her. Below, to her right, a small thing, shaped
like a dragon-fly, was spitting fire--to her left another, but she sank
lower in her seat laughing at them. Something of Cyril’s joyous bravado
possessed her. She defied them, rising far above them--higher--seven
thousand feet--eight, until she could see them no more.
North-northwest! She found her course again and flew on into the night.
She had lost the river, but that did not matter now. She knew that
after a time--an hour or more--she must come to the sea. And when all
signs of danger were gone she went down again where she could more
plainly see the earth. The moon had come up and bathed the scene below
with its soft light, and far ahead of her she saw irregular streaks of
pale gray against long lines of purplish black. The sea? She had lost
all idea of time and distance. How far the sea was from Windenberg
she did not know, and if she had known it, the passage of time was a
blank to her--a continuous roar, the music of the spheres which took no
thought of time or space. The flight had lasted but a minute--and an
eternity.
To her left the gray streaks were nearer--west by north her compass
said, and she steered for them. Soon she made out distinctly contours
of large masses of gray against the black--water and land. The air was
milder and she sniffed the salt. She went down to three thousand feet
to get her bearings, ever watchful for the dragon-flies and ready to
soar again at the first flash of a searchlight. She had already learned
to avoid the planes where the lights were grouped--the colonies of
glow-worms that here meant danger.
Had she crossed the Belgian line? She had been to Antwerp, to Brussels,
and tried to remember what they had looked like on the map. There was
water near Antwerp--she remembered that, inland bodies of water which
led to the sea. Now she could see beyond the bodies of inland water to
a wide expanse of gray beyond the dark--uninterrupted gray--the ocean!
She bore to her left until her course was due west. A searchlight
flashed upon her for a second and was gone. By the way the contours
were changing she knew that her speed was terrific. And slowly but
more and more certainly as she neared the sea, a problem presented
itself--her goal! Where was it, and how to find it in the dark? Cyril
had said that they must land back of Ypres. But where was Ypres? Beyond
Ostend and inland--thirty--forty miles. She knew that much from the war
maps that she had pored over with her father. But how to find it?
She was over the sea now. The Yellow Dove felt a new breeze and the
wheel tugged under her hand, but the machine lifted at the touch and
wheeled like a gull to speed down the coast. Ostend! The Kursaal!
If she could get a sight of it! It was dangerous, but she must go
lower--three--two hundred feet from the sea, where she might make out
familiar profiles against the sky.
The waves rose to meet her, reflecting the starlight, and just below
her to the left the surf rolled in lines of white upon the beach.
Dunes, dunes interminably, with here and there a collection of huts.
A dark shape moved in the water ahead of her, another---- Warships?
Destroyers. She wheeled out to sea and flew above them, but before they
had time even to get their searchlights ranged upon her, the danger was
past. She would win now. The Yellow Dove was invincible.
A dark irregular mass ahead of her rose above the monotony of dunes,
buildings, and a bulk she seemed to recognize--a round dome iridescent
like a soap bubble in the moonlight. The Kursaal! Ostend! She was
nearing her destination--the end of the German lines. Friends were
near--Belgians, French, and English. Twenty--thirty miles beyond Ostend
and then inland somewhere back of Ypres she would find the English.
The English lines were thirty or forty miles long, she remembered.
It should not be difficult to find them. She must be sure to go far
enough--but not too far--not to where the French army joined the
British forces. Cyril’s papers must go to the English, to General
French himself. He had said so.
She had no way of judging distance except by the passage of the
minutes. At the speed she was flying she must turn inland in fifteen
minutes. She had no watch and she tried counting the seconds. She had
counted sixty--four times--when a battery hidden among the dunes along
the shore opened fire on her. She was half a mile from shore, flying
low, but the flash of light startled her and the shell burst beyond.
She rose quickly, moving further out to sea, frightened, but still
self-possessed. It would not do to fail now with the goal in sight.
The compass gave her course southwest by west. She counted again,
guessing at the time she had lost, and then, making a wide spiral out
to sea and rising to three thousand feet, she drove the Yellow Dove
inland. Searchlights were turned on her and shots fired, but she went
higher, trying to make out if she could the lines of the opposing
armies. Red and yellow lights were displayed below to her left, and
far to her right were tiny clusters of lights, but there seemed to be
no order in their arrangement--no lines that she could distinguish
even at this height. Her keen eyes, now inured to the darkness, made
out a monoplane against the starlight ahead of her--but she swerved to
the right, the greater power of the Yellow Dove enabling her to rise
and elude it. She flew for what seemed ten or fifteen minutes, going
steadily to the south and west, when she drove for a spot where there
were no lights and then shut off the throttle and dove.
She knew that this was perhaps the greatest moment of her great
adventure. A landing place in the dark in a country she did not know,
where a church steeple, a telegraph wire, the limb of a tree, would
bring her and her precious freight to disaster. With the sudden
shutting off of the power, a silence that bewildered her, a silence
broken only by the whirr of the wind against the planes. Her ears ached
from the change of pressure in her swift descent. She eased her wheel
back gently, trying to make out objects below. Dark patches--woods--to
be avoided, the roof of a house--another--lights here and there, small,
obscure, which she had not seen. She avoided them all, planing down in
a spiral toward what seemed to be unobstructed space.
She breathed a prayer as the earth came up to meet her. Death----?
Whatever came--Cyril, too.... She stared straight before her, feeling
out the wind pressure on the planes, gliding as near the horizontal as
she dared. An open field! Thank God! A gentle shock and the springs
responded. The Yellow Dove rebounded slightly and ran along the ground
smoothly upon its wheels--then stopped. She tried to get up, but could
not. Her hands seemed fastened to the wheel. She heard the sound of
men’s voices shouting and saw lights, but she could not seem to make
a sound. She was shivering violently, also laughing a little, but she
had no sense of being cold. She seemed very weak somehow, and very
helpless. And then, just as the lights grew brighter--they went out.