During the next few days the Belgian field army had no respite. Landen was occupied by the Germans on the 10th of August, and strong cavalry screens of the enemy advanced along the Dutch border to within a few miles of the capital. Other large bodies of cavalry threatened the Belgian right wing, and in consequence a retirement of the small yet determined army was necessary.
Two days later the Belgians gained a brilliant success at Haelen, where the Germans, incautiously attempting to force a passage of the River Gethe, were driven back in disorder and with great loss.
Of this action Kenneth Everest and his companion saw nothing, having been sent on duty to the Belgian capital.
In Brussels the lads remained two days, having to await a reply to the dispatch they had brought. During their brief periods of leisure they hastened to call at the house of Major Résimont in the Rue de la Tribune, but the place was in charge of servants. No news was to be obtained of Mademoiselle Yvonne Résimont or of Kenneth's sister. Beyond the unauthenticated report that the two girls had left the school at Visé a few hours before the commencement of the German bombardment, all traces of them were lost.
"Perhaps," suggested Rollo, "your sister went back to England and took Yvonne with her. They say that numbers of refugees have passed through Rotterdam on their way across the North Sea."
"Possibly," agreed Kenneth. "In which case we are completely in the dark until we are lucky enough to get letters from home."
The inhabitants of Brussels were strangely calm. The fact that the German invaders had gained a firm footing in their country did not drive them into a panic. Possibly events of past history had taught them to regard the overrunning of Belgium as a foregone conclusion when the neighbouring Great Powers were at war. Above all, they continued steadfastly to rely upon the prompt arrival of the British Expeditionary Force, which, in conjunction with their own army and that of the French nation, would quickly send the barbarous Teutons fleeing for their lives across the Rhine.
"Hark!" exclaimed Rollo. "The papers are out. Something important has happened."
The chums had retired early to bed in their modest lodgings of the Rue Pontus, as they had been warned for duty at five on the following morning. Their stock of money, although augmented by their scanty army pay, was visibly dwindling; but after more than a week in bivouacs they were grateful to sleep under a roof, undisturbed by the nerve-shattering roar of hostile guns.
"It can wait till to-morrow," said Kenneth with a prodigious yawn. "I feel too jolly tired——"
The next moment he was out of bed and making for the window, for above the cheering on the Grands Boulevards came the oft-repeated cries of: "The English Army in Belgium".
Hastily scrambling into their clothes, the two excited lads made their way into the street and through the swarm of wildly exuberant citizens. After a struggle they succeeded, at the cost of a franc, in obtaining a copy of one of the local papers, and bore it back to their room in triumph.
In huge letters were the words: "LES ANGLAIS SUR LE CONTINENT", the report being taken from the French paper,Le Journal, dated Thursday, the 13th August:—
"By our Special Correspondent.—For several days the valiant British troops, who are to co-operate with our soldiers to repel the German aggression in Belgium, have been crossing the Straits. Kept back at first by the risks of a naval combat which the English fleet was waiting to offer, in the North Sea, to the principal units of the enemy marine, the disembarkation has now taken place in perfect order and with surprising regularity. Up to the present the contingents sent forward in the direction of Namur are considerable.
"Under the favour of darkness and in great mystery the transports were organized. During Saturday night, by small detachments all along the Belgian coast from Ostend to Zeebrugge, the steamers chartered by the British Admiralty disembarked at first a small army, which moved before dawn to the position allotted to it. Farther south, that same night, semaphores signalled the arrival of mysterious ships, which, after a brief stay, returned towards English shores. On the following day, too, at the same hour, similar operations and disembarkations took place with such rapidity and such silence that the inhabitants saw nothing."
"Sounds promising," remarked Rollo thoughtfully. "But this is Friday. Do you think it likely that our troops have been on Belgian soil for nearly a week and this is the first we've heard of it?"
"The Press Censor perhaps——"
"Cannot gag the mouths of a million, old chap. However, I hope it's true. Of course I know an army cannot be expected to land and proceed straight to the front, but if they are to do anything they'll have to jolly well hurry up."
"Don't put a damper on the good news, old man."
"All right, I won't, Kenneth; but, until I see a khaki regiment on Belgian soil, I'm hanged if I will believe. Take me for a doubting Thomas if you will. Anyway, I'm going to turn in again; we've to be up early, you know."
In spite of the deafening clamour without, the chums slept soundly until the concièrge knocked loudly at the door to announce that it was a quarter to five, and that the breakfast of messieurs les Anglais was ready to be served as ordered.
Upon arriving at the place indicated in their order, the two dispatch-riders found that they were to be temporarily attached to the mail escort. Letters and parcels for the troops in the field had accumulated during the last three days to enormous proportions. Five large motor-cars had been requisitioned to take this mass of correspondence from the capital, the convoy being accompanied by a patrol of lancers, cyclists, and motor-cyclists.
"Wonder if there's anything for us in that lot?" hazarded Kenneth, as four large wicker hampers addressed to the 9th Regiment of the Line were unceremoniously dumped into a car. The correspondence had already been passed by a Belgian censor, and the baskets had been secured by an imposing wax seal.
"Perhaps," replied Rollo. "At all events we'll keep a special eye on the car. One never knows where to expect the unwelcome attentions of those ubiquitous Uhlans, and it will never do to let them pry into the family secrets of our comrades of the 9th."
Through the flag-bedecked streets of Brussels the mail convoy made its way. The route, as supplied to the officer in command, was a circuitous one. Proceeding in an almost southerly direction, past the villages of Waterloo, Genappe, and Quatre Bras, the mails for Namur and the left flank of the Belgian field army were to be detached at the village of Sombreffe. The remainder of the convoy was then to proceed through Gembloux to Tirlemont, dropping the crates addressed to various regiments at the nearest points to their ultimate destinations.
The motor-cars set out at a rapid pace, so much so that by the time they were clear of the Forest of Soignies, less than ten miles from the capital, the horses and the cyclists were almost "done up". Either speed or the force at the disposal of the convoy had to be sacrificed, and after a hasty consultation with his subordinates, the officer in charge decided upon the latter alternative.
Accordingly the lancers were sent back, while a dozen of the cyclists were ordered to leave their machines at a wayside inn and to ride on the cars. From information received from various sources, there was every reason to believe that that part of the country was free from the attentions of the invaders, and no cause to doubt that the mail would be delivered in safety and with celerity. Again the convoy was set in motion, Kenneth and Rollo riding at a distance of about two hundred yards ahead, for their wish to keep an eye on one particular car had been abruptly nipped in the bud.
"We've seen the field of Waterloo at all events," shouted Rollo, in order to make himself heard above the noise of the motors. "But it's under different circumstances from those we expected."
They had had but a distant and momentary glimpse of the famous pyramid of earth surmounted by the Lion of Belgium. The ground that, less than a century before, was drenched with the blood of men of half a dozen nationalities was again being prepared for a similar object on a vaster scale. Belgian troops and peasants were busily engaged in digging trenches; for here, according to the expectations of military experts, was to be fought the decisive battle that was to save Brussels and Belgium from the Teutonic invasion.
At Quatre Bras the convoy struck the Namur road. A couple of miles farther on Kenneth's keen eyes detected a movement towards their left front. In double-quick time the lads dismounted and held up their hands, a signal that brought the convoy to a standstill.
"Cavalry, sir!" said Kenneth, pointing in the direction of a clump of trees.
"Our vedettes, without doubt," declared the Belgian officer, leisurely unstrapping his field-glasses. Before he could get them to bear, Kenneth was sweeping the country with his powerful binoculars. There was no mistake: the cavalry were Uhlans. They had already spotted the convoy, and were advancing at the trot to capture or destroy the weakly-protected mail escort.
Just then came a dull rumble at some distance to the rear of the line of halted cars. The enemy had blown up the railway bridge on the line between Charleroi and the north, thus cutting off the retreat of the convoy.
"Mon capitaine," exclaimed one of the cyclists who had been given a place in one of the cars; "I know this part of the country well. A kilometre farther on is a road to the right. It will bring us to Ligny."
The officer gave one glance towards the advancing Uhlans, now barely a mile and a half away.
"En avant!" he ordered.
It was touch-and-go which would first reach the junction of the roads. Only a momentary hesitation on the part of the Uhlans saved the situation, for, seeing the convoy advance at full speed, they feared an attack by the already dreaded motor-cars armed with mitrailleuses.
But as the convoy swung round the sharp corner a hail of bullets came from the carbines of the German cavalry; then, realizing that their discretion had got the better of their valour, the Uhlans dashed in pursuit.
The Belgians cheered ironically. The idea of horses competing with motor-cars seemed absurd. The latter covered three yards to the Uhlans' one, and every moment the animals were becoming more and more fatigued.
Suddenly Rollo gave vent to a warning shout. Ahead was the village of Ligny, but between the convoy and the nearest houses were dense masses of cavalry. Their capture seemed inevitable.
Again the motor-cars came to a halt. The Belgian captain saw that he was in a trap.
"Turn about!" he ordered. "We must charge these Prussians behind us. It will be easier to force our way through a hundred than——"
"Mon capitaine!" shouted an excited voice.
The Belgian officer turned, almost angrily.
"We are saved—regardez!" continued the speaker, pointing to the railway line about three hundred yards to the right of the road.
Making their way along the hollow by the side of the line were swarms of men in blue coats, red trousers, and kepis. There was no mistaking them: they were French troops. The cavalry, too, close to the village of Ligny were French chasseurs. The long-expected aid had become an accomplished fact. French armies were on Belgian soil.
Already the Uhlans had perceived their peril. They turned and rode for dear life.
Up came a group of French officers. Gravely they exchanged salutes with the commander of the convoy.
"We hope to effect a junction with the Belgian army before nightfall, monsieur," announced a colonel. "We have been instructed to occupy the line Ligny-Tirlemont. It is to be hoped that these pigs of Prussians have not tampered with the railway."
"Unfortunately they have, sir," replied the Belgian captain. "Already they have blown up a bridge on the Quatre Bras road."
The Frenchman rapped out an oath.
"More work for our engineers," he remarked. "Nevertheless, the Prussians shall pay. We have them. With the English between Antwerp and Louvain, and your army between Louvain and Tirlemont, these Germans are in front of a wall that cannot be climbed. You say that part of your convoy is destined for Namur? Send them on, monsieur. We hold both banks of the Sambre. For the rest we cannot, unfortunately, offer you any guarantees."
Accordingly the convoy was split up, Kenneth and Rollo going with the cars containing the mails for the Belgian troops at Tirlemont.
"The papers were right after all, old man," remarked Kenneth. "Our troops are in Belgium. Now, admit that your doubts were ill-founded."
"I suppose so," admitted Rollo; "but all the same I should like to see a khaki regiment, if only for the sake of ocular demonstration."
Before four that afternoon the mail for the 9th Regiment of the Line was safely delivered, and with the utmost dispatch the work of distribution began. It seemed a fitting reward that Kenneth should receive half a dozen letters, three of which, bearing different dates, were from his father. Rollo had to be content with four.
While the latter, with his usual deliberation, opened his communications in the order of their postmarks, Kenneth impetuously tore the envelope of his latest-dated one, and read as follows:—
"DEAR KENNETH,
"I wrote you at the Poste Restante at Liége, on the off-chance that you might receive it on the eve of the declaration of war. From the contents of your letter I have reason to believe that you did not. I am naturally most anxious concerning Thelma. Up to the time of writing I have had no tidings whatsoever, although I made enquiries of the British Consuls at Antwerp, Rotterdam, and The Hague.
"In my previous letters addressed to you at the Field Post Office of the 9th Regiment of the Line, I expressed my fullest approval of the step you have taken. In case you have not received my former letters I must repeat these sentiments. You are doing your duty to your country by serving under the Belgian flag as faithfully as if you were under your own—for ours is a united cause. Perhaps more so, since you are not yet of an age to accept a commission. Should you be in need of funds, I have placed the sum of Fifty Pounds to your account in the Credit Belgique at Brussels.
"I am also sending you a batch of newspapers ["They have gone adrift," thought Kenneth] which will be of interest to you.
"I hear also that ... [Here was a long excision by the Censor.]
"Once more, good luck. Do your duty manfully and fearlessly. Regards to young Barrington. I made a point of seeing his father the other day, and he is with me in my view of the step you two have taken. Needless to say, my Mediterranean trip is off. There is other work even for an old buffer such as I am.
"Your affectionate father,"THOMAS EVEREST."
"The pater's a brick," declared Kenneth, after he had finished wading through his other correspondence; then, observing that Rollo was still scanning his budget, he made his way across to the motor-cycles. In his excitement he had forgotten to turn off the petrol tap of his mount, and had just remembered the fact.
On the way back he ran across Major Résimont, whom he had not seen since the night of the evacuation of Liége.
The Major greeted him warmly, congratulated him upon gaining his stripes, and asked him how he had fared.
"I have, unfortunately, bad news," said the Major sadly. "It would be well to keep the information to yourself: the Liége forts have fallen, and General Leman is a prisoner."
"I thought they could hold out for months," Kenneth blurted out, his sense of discretion overcome by the suddenness of the news.
"We all thought so," rejoined Major Résimont quietly. "But those huge German guns, they cracked the cupolas like nutshells, and killed or wounded every man in the forts."
"The French are here, though," announced Kenneth. "We came in touch with them this morning."
"I know," said the Belgian. "They have already succeeded in taking Dinant. We have certain hopes in the French."
"And the British troops are in Belgium."
The Major shook his head.
"See, sir," persisted Kenneth, producing the copy of the paper he had purchased in Brussels.
"I have already seen it," said Major Résimont; "it is only a rumour. It is, moreover, false; there is not a single English regiment in Belgium. Your country is, I fear, too late to save Brussels from the invaders."
Major Résimont's sentiments were shared by the majority of his deep-thinking compatriots. The great faith in the prompt action of Great Britain in sending a strong Expeditionary Force to Belgium had received a severe set-back. Even yet the promised aid might be forthcoming—but it would be too late to spare the greater portion of the country, including the capital, from invasion.
When the Major stated that the Belgians had "certain hopes" in the French, he spoke with a justifiable sense of caution. He realized that the object of throwing French troops into Belgium was not to stay the threatened occupation of Brussels, but to avoid, if possible, the disastrous results of the presence of a German army on French soil. In short, Belgium was once more to be made the battle-ground between French and German troops, provided the fortresses on the borders of Alsace-Lorraine were strong enough to hold back the invaders in this quarter.
Unfortunately, in spite of the utmost efforts of the War Office, backed by the whole-hearted support of a united Parliament, Great Britain was just four days too late in the dispatch of her Expeditionary Force. Yet the brave Belgians did not repine, nor did they relax for one instant their opposition to the enormous and relentless masses of Germans who were now pouring in through the strategic railways between Aix-la-Chapelle and Liége.
But the sacrifice of Belgium was not in vain. By the heroic resistance of General Leman the clockwork regularity of the German time-table had been thrown hopelessly out of gear. The stubborn defence of Liége had delayed the Teuton advance to such an extent that France and England were able to complete their respective mobilizations, and to thwart the German Emperor's hopes of "rushing" Paris and thus forcing France to conclude a humiliating and disastrous peace.
"Corporal Everest!"
"Sir?"
"You are to take this dispatch to Major Foveneau, who is holding the village of Cortenaeken. Your compatriot may accompany you. Exercise particular care, for there are numerous Uhlan patrols in the neighbourhood of Diest."
It was on the second day after the British dispatch-riders' return with the mail-escort. Captain Planchenoît, who had already fully recognized the intrepidity and common sense of the two lads, had been instructed by his Colonel to communicate with the isolated post of Cortenaeken, and he could decide upon no fitter messengers than Kenneth Everest and his friend Rollo Barrington.
"You will observe that the dispatch is at present unsealed," continued Captain Planchenoît. "You must commit the text to memory. Should you be in danger of capture, destroy the dispatch at all costs. It is far too important to risk being hidden, yet Major Foveneau must have, if humanly possible, written orders."
"Very good, sir," replied Kenneth, saluting.
He then went off to find his chum, whom he found cleaning his mount. Kenneth had given up cleaning his motor-cycle days ago; beyond satisfying himself that it had plenty of oil and was in good running order, he troubled nothing about its appearance. Both lads had, moreover, wrapped the handle-bars in strips of brown linen, while the remaining bright parts had been covered with dull-grey paint.
"It's Cortenaeken this time," announced Kenneth. "Goodness knows how we get to the place, for there doesn't seem to be a vestige of a road leading to it, according to the map. Here's the dispatch—sounds important, doesn't it? We have to commit the words to memory, in case we have to destroy the paper."
"The best thing we can do is to ride for Tirlemont and make enquiries there," suggested Rollo, handing the dispatch back to his chum. "As regards concealing the paper, we must place it somewhere where we can get at it easily. I have it: we'll stow it in your petrol tank; the stuff won't injure the paper or interfere with the writing, and if things came to the worst, you can whip it out and set fire to it."
Accordingly the dispatch, cleverly rolled, was placed inside the gauze strainer to the patrol tank, and the metal cap replaced. Five minutes later the two motor-cyclists were buzzing along the congested road at a modest twenty miles an hour, dodging between the lumbering transport wagons and the military vehicles with an agility that surprised themselves.
Presently, as they struck towards the rear of the long lines of troops, the road became less encumbered and speed was materially increased. Soon the pace reached nearly forty miles an hour, for the highway was fairly broad, and ran as straight as a Roman road as far as the eye could reach.
"Puncture!" shouted Kenneth, as the front wheel of his cycle began to slither and bump upon thepavé, the machine running nearly fifty yards before he brought up and dismounted.
A hasty examination showed that a rusty iron nail, quite six inches in length, had penetrated the tread of the tyre, while to make matters worse its point had worked out close to the rim. The offending piece of metal, catching against the front forks, had already enlarged the hole in the tread till it became a slit nearly half an inch in length.
"Don't wait," he continued, as he unscrewed the cap of the petrol tank and produced the dispatch. "Take this, and hurry on. I'll patch this up and follow. If you can, wait for me at Cortenaeken till two o'clock."
"Right-o!" assented Rollo. "You can manage all right?"
"I can't ask you to bear a hand if I don't," replied Kenneth. "I'll make a job of it somehow. Good luck!"
Rollo was off. Kenneth stood beside his crippled steed and watched his friend's receding figure out of sight; then taking out his repair outfit he began his task. It was a long job. The cover, being practically a new one, was an obstinate one to remove. It had to be patched with canvas, while the double puncture in the inner tube took a considerable time to clean and prepare.
While he was waiting for the solution to get "tacky", a peculiar buzzing sound greeted his ears.
"Aeroplanes!" he muttered. "Whose, I wonder?"
He looked upwards. The sun shining in a cloudless sky dazzled his vision. He put on his tinted goggles, which during the repair operations he had removed. Then he saw, perhaps three thousand feet above him, a large Zeppelin moving in a westerly direction. He watched it with a sort of contemptuous interest.
"The vaunted German terror of the air—perhaps!" he soliloquized. "I wouldn't give much for its chances if even half a dozen aeroplanes tackled it. Ah! Thinking better of it?"
This last remark was uttered as the gigantic airship began to turn, pitching as it did so like a lively ship in a sea-way.
Bringing his binoculars to bear upon the Zeppelin, Kenneth watched its undignified progress. Apparently it had encountered a strong air-current that tended to drive it in a westerly direction. By the aid of the glasses Kenneth could see that the immense fabric showed, in spite of its supposed rigidity, a decided tendency to "whip" as it swung broadside on to the direction of the wind. Then, steadying itself on a course in exactly the opposite direction to that which it had previously been following, the Zeppelin forged ahead, still see-sawing ominously.
Suddenly the bow portion dipped, then with ever-increasing velocity the huge airship plunged earthwards. Its propeller ceased to revolve; from the cars, ballast—not loose sand, but solid material—was thrown out in the hope of checking the now terrific descent. Then it disappeared from the motor-cyclist's view, beyond a slight ridge of hills about five miles off.
"That's done for it, thank goodness!" ejaculated Kenneth, as he replaced his binoculars and reapplied himself to the repairs to the tyre; "if it were not for this rotten puncture I'd slip over and have a look at the remains. I hope the thing's fallen within the Belgian lines. It will cheer the plucky beggars up a bit."
It took him quite another half-hour to patch the torn canvas and coax the stubborn cover back into its rim. Then, with a feeling of gratification that he had overcome difficulties, he began to inflate the tyre.
"Almost hard enough," he said to himself, ceasing his efforts to prod the rubber with his thumb. "I'll give it another dozen strokes just to show there's no ill-feeling."
Bang! With a report like the discharge of a small field-piece the tyre collapsed. A portion of the inner tube had been nipped, with the result that a gash four inches in length was demanding attention.
"Confound it!" exclaimed Kenneth angrily.
With the perspiration pouring off him, he again tackled the obstinate cover with savage energy. This time the repair was a complicated one. Three times the patch failed to hold, but finally, at the end of an hour and a half's hard work, the tedious task was accomplished.
At Tirlemont Kenneth made enquiries, and was given such minute directions that before he had gone another five miles he was hopelessly befogged. The roads were little better than narrow lanes; there were no direction posts, and he had long forgotten whether he had to take the first turning to the left and the third to the right, or the third to the left and the first to the right. There were several isolated cottages, but their inhabitants had fled. The whole district seemed depopulated, for the great exodus to Brussels had begun. There was plenty of evidence of the hurried flight of the civil population. Articles of domestic use, found to be too heavy to carry far, had been jettisoned by the roadside. Here and there was an abandoned cart, still laden with the household goods of some unfortunate Belgian family.
At length Kenneth found that the lane he was following came upon a small stream. Here a bridge had recently been destroyed. Further progress in that direction was impossible, unless he decided to abandon his cycle and swim across the fifteen feet of water to the opposite bank. Following the stream was a rough path, badly cut up by the tracks of cattle. It was the only possible way unless he retraced his route.
Producing his military map Kenneth attempted to fix his position. He could only come to the conclusion that the stream was the River Velp, on which the hamlet of Cortenaeken stands. He was, he decided, about ten miles from the village, which ought to be reached by following the path he had struck.
It was bad going. The deep ruts made riding a nerve-racking ordeal. Here and there the path had slipped bodily into the reed-grown mud that fringed the stream. Dismounts were frequent; speed was out of the question.
After a mile or so of this unsatisfactory mode of progression the path ended abruptly, but here the stream was crossed by a narrow plank bridge. On the opposite side, at about two hundred yards from the bank, was a cottage, and—thanks be!—from the chimney a wreath of faint blue smoke was rising.
Kenneth dismounted, set his motor-cycle on its stand, and proceeded to examine the apparently frail bridge. It sagged considerably under his weight; what would it do with the additional weight of his mount? In addition there was the transport problem. He could not carry the heavy cycle; the plank was too narrow for him to attempt to ride across. Yet he did not feel at all inclined to go back along that rutty path.
"I'll give a few toots on the horn," he declared. "Perhaps the people in the house will come out and bear a hand. Hullo! There's a punt over there in the rushes. With assistance I could get my bike across in that."
The raucous blasts on the horn disturbed the quietude of the sylvan scene, but without the desired result. He tried again, still without success.
"Perhaps these people have also cleared out in a hurry and left a fire burning," he soliloquized. "Otherwise they must have heard the explosions of the engine as I rode up. Well, here goes!"
Crossing the stream he took his way to the spot where the punt was made fast. Here, again, his hopes were dashed to the ground, for not only was the flat-bottomed craft chained and padlocked to a massive post, but it had a gaping hole at one end and was half-full of water.
"It's only waste of time tramping across to that cottage," he said to himself. "I'll have a shot at getting the bike across first, and make enquiries later."
With that he retraced his steps to where his cycle was standing on the wrong side of the tantalizing stream. Throwing out the clutch and standing astride the saddle, Kenneth walked his motor-cycle towards the plank bridge; then shuffling very cautiously, he began the hazardous crossing.
At every step the soles of his boots were almost at the very edge of the worn plank. As he approached the centre it creaked ominously, while, to add to his difficulties, the motion of the water as it flowed underneath tended to make him giddy. He dared not look up unless he stopped, and that he was loath to do. One false step would send himself and his motor-cycle into six or seven feet of mud and water.
At length, safe and sound, Kenneth found himself on the farther bank. Here a road, very little better than the one he had recently traversed, led away from the house, the only visible approach to which was by means of a stone stile and a footpath.
Again leaving his cycle, the lad leapt over the low wall and hastened towards the building.
The door was wide open. Across the threshold lay the body of an old man, with a ghastly wound in his head. Kenneth recoiled in horror; then, thinking perhaps that the unfortunate farmer—for such he was—might still be living, he again approached.
Even in the attempt to move the man, he heard the sound of a heavy snore, while, as if in answer to the noise, a horse began to neigh.
"Germans!" ejaculated Kenneth. Once more he began to back, when, recollecting that even the sound of his motor had not disturbed the brutal slumberer, he drew his revolver and stepped across the threshold.
Coming in from the brilliant sunshine the place seemed almost pitch-dark, but in a few seconds the dispatch-rider's eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. He found himself in what was at one time the living-room of the farm. There was no hall or passage; the outer door opened straight into it.
The whole place was in a state of almost indescribable confusion. The table had been overthrown, the chairs smashed—and smashed deliberately, for no ordinary struggle would have resulted in such complete demolition of the furniture. On the walls were a few cheap, highly-coloured prints, slashed by a keen instrument, while the glass was shattered to fragments. On the floor were the remains of broken bottles and crockery. The cupboards had been ransacked, and their contents hurled all over the room. Even the hearthstone had been forced up; the despoilers had evidently thought that the thrifty farmer had hidden a store of money beneath it.
The rest of the rooms on the ground floor were in a similar state of confusion. Kenneth set his jaw tightly. He no longer had any inclination to beat a retreat. The sight of the foully-murdered Belgian and his devastated home filled him with rage.
Holding his revolver ready for instant action, the lad began to ascend the stairs. They creaked horribly under his weight, but still the sounds of drunken slumber continued.
At the head of the stairs four rooms opened on to a fairly spacious landing. Three of these were unoccupied by any living creature. In one was a huddled-up form.
"Brutes!" muttered the British lad. "No quarter!"
He pushed open the door of the remaining bedroom, whence the porcine grunts proceeded. Here were four men in the uniform of the dreaded Uhlans. Three, fully dressed and wearing their heavy boots, were sprawling in drunken slumber on the bed. They were nursing partly-consumed wine bottles, while the bed-clothes and floor were stained with the spilt liquid.
The fourth Uhlan was sitting in a chair, with his head resting on his chest. Across his forehead and over both ears was a blood-stained bandage. The wound had but recently been inflicted, so the Belgian farmer had apparently made a brave but unavailing stand in defence of his home. On the floor by the Uhlan's side lay his sword; his carbine was propped up against the arm of the chair.
"The brutes!" ejaculated Kenneth again. "Hang it, I can't shoot these fellows while they are asleep!"
Just at that moment the wounded Uhlan opened his eyes and raised his head. His brain had not been dulled by drink, for with a swift movement he seized his carbine, at the same time shouting to his comrades that the Belgians were upon them.
"Seems a bit low-down, but there was no other way as far as I could see," commented Kenneth as he made his way down the stairs.
It was a relief to get into the open air once more. Inserting four fresh cartridges into the chambers of his revolver, he replaced the weapon in his holster, and without giving another glance at the house of death and destruction he made his way to the stables, where the Uhlans' horses were tethered. He would not leave the helpless brutes to be fastened up perhaps for days. They would at least have a chance to eat and drink, for there was plenty of pasture and the river was handy.
Having given the animals their liberty, the lad remounted his cycle and rode along the only possible route. By the position of the sun he knew that he was going nearly due north, which was not in the direction he supposed Cortenaeken to be. To add to the difficulties of the situation there was the unpleasant fact that patrols of German cavalry were already in the district. Where, then, was the Belgian force that was supposed to be holding the district between Diest and Tirlemont?
There were houses scattered about in plenty; some to all outward appearance intact, others either burning furiously or reduced to four smoke-blackened walls.
After traversing about five miles of the indifferent lane, Kenneth found himself on a broad highway, bordered on both sides with trees. Here were civilians in throngs—men, women, and children—and a more woebegone crowd the British lad had never before beheld. Most of them were on foot, staggering under weighty bundles. Even the children had their burdens, mostly domestic pets. There were fowls in crates, rabbits, cats, and pigeons; masterless dogs tore frantically through the sad procession; others, harnessed to small carts piled high with goods and chattels, trotted docilely by the side of their masters. There were large farm-carts, too, creaking under the weight of furniture, on the top of which were perched refugees either too old or too young to make the journey afoot. The men were stolid of feature, but several of the women were crying; while with few exceptions the children, unable to comprehend the real nature of their hurried exodus, were laughing and chattering with excitement at their novel experience.
Kenneth dismounted and stopped an old Belgian, who by his dress had evidently been well-to-do.
"Can you direct me to Cortenaeken, monsieur?"
"To where Cortenaeken was," corrected the man. "It has been burnt by the accursed Prussians."
"And the troops? I have a message for Major Foveneau, who was holding the village——"
"You will not find a single Belgian there, monsieur—at least, not a living one. They have been compelled to retire on Louvain."
The Belgian courteously raised his hat and passed on hurriedly, for while he was speaking came the distant intermittent reports of rifle-firing. The whole procession of refugees quickened its pace. The menace was too close to be ignored.
Kenneth pulled out his map. He was now able to form a fairly accurate idea of where he was. He had no desire to return. His anxiety concerning his chum urged him to make his way as quickly as possible to Louvain. There, at least, he might be able to gain information concerning the British dispatch-rider who ought to have reported himself to Major Foveneau.
According to the map, Kenneth saw that there was a road to the left at a mile or so from where he stood. It struck the village of Winghe St. Georges, which was on the main road between Diest and Tirlemont and slightly nearer to the latter town.
Springing into the saddle Kenneth set off at a furious pace. Ahead, but slightly to the right, was a dense column of smoke that marked the site of the destroyed village of Cortenaeken. Farther away were more pillars of black vapour, the handiwork of the vengeful invaders, whose principle was to terrorize the luckless Belgians into a spirit of non-resistance.
The lad was heartily glad when he gained the branch road, since it led away from the desolated area. But before he had gone very far he became aware that he was crossing the tracks of a fighting force in retreat. Over the fields on either side and across the road were numerous deep ruts caused by wheels of artillery and service wagons. Here and there were abandoned carts, while half-buried in a muddy ditch was a field-piece with one wheel shattered. Its limber and several either dead or wounded horses still in the traces had overturned on the other side of the road. Yet, apart from the distant cannonade, there were no sounds of actual combat.
Kenneth was sorely tempted to follow the tracks of the retirement. It would be hard going, he argued, but where a gun could go his motor-cycle ought to be able to follow. But on further consideration he decided to keep to the road, at least as far as Winghe St. Georges.
Onwards he rode till he approached a ruined homestead. Four shattered walls, two gaunt gables, and a few scorched rafters were all that remained of the house. Surrounding it was a wall, broken in many places. Abutting on the wall were several roofless sheds.
"Halte-là!" exclaimed a voice. "There is danger ahead."
Kenneth pulled up sharply and, dismounting, looked in the direction from which the voice came. As he did so a man in the uniform of the Belgian lancers came out of the ruined house. He had lost his helmet, his coat was torn and covered with dust. Above his right knee was a blood-stained bandage. He was supporting himself by means of a rifle, using the weapon as a crutch with the butt under his armpit.
"What has happened, comrade?" asked the lad.
The soldier regarded him with evident suspicion.
"You are not a Belgian," he said pointedly, "yet you are in the uniform of our dispatch-riders."
"Quite so," replied Kenneth, producing his identification card. "I am a British subject in the Belgian service."
"British?" repeated the man. "What, then, is British? In faith, I do not know."
"English, then."
"Ah, English—good! Now I comprehend. But, monsieur, it is unsafe to go farther. There are Germans in force a few kilometres along the road. Their cavalry screens are thrown out over yonder. We had to retire. To me it is amazing how you came so far without falling in with the accursed Prussians."
"I saw a few Uhlans," announced Kenneth.
"Tête bleu! And what did they do?"
"Very little as far as I was concerned," replied the lad. "They murdered some civilians, so I shot them."
The Belgian's eyes glistened.
"You are a brave youth," he exclaimed.
"I think not in this case," objected Kenneth. "They were half-drunk, and had only just awoke. It seemed hardly fair play, yet——"
"Do not apologize, monsieur," growled the lancer. "After what these devils have done they have no right to expect any consideration. Over there, for example—but come within. It is hazardous to remain in the open. Perhaps, even now, we have been observed through some Prussian field-glasses. Your bicycle? It will be of no further use. It is better to destroy it and throw the remains into the ditch."
Kenneth shook his head.
"No fear," he objected resolutely. "I'd rather take my chances on the road."
"Impossible," declared the Belgian. "You would be shot before you went another three kilometres. And if the Germans see your motor-cycle they will be doubly suspicious and search the house."
"I'll leave it for the time being in one of those sheds," suggested the lad. "It won't be seen from the road."
The Belgian, beyond muttering "imbecile" under his breath, made no further objection. He even assisted Kenneth, as well as his wound would permit, to lift the heavy mount over the rubble in the gap of the outer wall.
"This place will do," declared the lad as he reached the furthermost shed. The roof and one angle of the brickwork had been demolished, but the rest of the building was almost intact. Having removed the sparking-plug, so as to render the cycle useless to the enemy in the event of its discovery, Kenneth placed the cycle on its side and covered it with a thick layer of damp and rotten straw. To all appearance the interior of the shed was a farm refuse-heap. No prowling German would be likely to want to use the straw for bedding or any other purpose.
"Come this way," said the Belgian, who, during the progress of Kenneth's operations, had begun to alter his opinion as to the danger of leaving the cycle as "incriminating evidence". "We will go to the house. In the cellar we can rest and perhaps have food. Have you anything to eat?"
"Two rolls and some chocolate," replied Kenneth. "We will share that."
"Good!" exclaimed the lancer, his eyes glistening at the prospect of food. "But there are others—three comrades of mine. We have not eaten anything to-day but raw turnips, and raw turnips are not very sustaining food on which to make a cavalry charge. It was in front of Cortenaeken that I got this," and he pointed to his wounded leg.
"Yet it is nothing," he added lightly, "a mere scratch; but I repaid the Prussian who gave it to me. Ah! This is what I require. I will now be able to discard this rifle. My own carbine is within."
He had stopped in the midst of his narrative, and was pointing to a hay-rake that rested in a corner of the wall.
"I will knock off the teeth and shorten the handle. Ciel! It will make an excellent crutch. As for the rifle, I may safely throw it down the well, unless you, monsieur, might care to have it. It may be useful to you."
"I have no cartridges."
"We have enough—about four hundred between the four of us. Nevertheless, you will have to clean the barrel carefully, for it is caked with earth. If you fired it in that state, without doubt it would do you more harm than the man at whom you pointed it. There, did I not say so?"
With a wave of his disengaged arm the Belgian indicated a cloud of dust rising from the road.
"We must hasten, yet be cautious," he continued. "That dust hides a column of German infantry."
Kenneth followed his new comrade into the house. The upper floor had almost disappeared. The ground floor was littered with charred fragments of rafters and boards, cakes of plaster and partly-burned thatch, in addition to broken articles of furniture. The parting-walls had been overthrown, so that the interior of the building presented the appearance of an open space.
Scrambling over the debris the wounded lancer made his way to a corner of the tottering walls. He stooped painfully and with considerable effort, and thrusting his fingers between the rubbish took hold of an iron ring. At this he heaved, and lifted a large flap about six inches.
"Assist me, monsieur," he said. "I am not quite so strong as I was four hours ago."
"One minute," exclaimed Kenneth. "I'll clear some of this rubbish away."
"Tiens!" ejaculated the Belgian. "Let it remain, for when we let the flap fall it will spread and hide the cracks in the floor. No one will then suspect that there is a cellar. Now, lift together.—Soyez tranquille!" he shouted, to reassure his comrades in hiding.
At a gesture from his newly-found friend, Kenneth descended the steep wooden ladder till his feet touched the stone floor of the cellar. The Belgian lancer followed more slowly, uttering maledictions under his breath at every step. Another of the occupants of the cellar ascended, and pulled the flap down with a resounding crash. The place seemed in total darkness.
"A new comrade—an Englishman in the service of our country," announced the lancer; and Kenneth's hands were warmly grasped by his unseen hosts.
After a while his eyes grew accustomed to the semi-gloom, for the daylight filtered through a small irregular opening at one end of the underground room. The Belgians present did not belong to the same regiment. One was a corporal of infantry, another an artilleryman, the third a Civil Guard, whose head-gear, somewhat resembling a bowler hat, made him easily recognizable. Their rifles were resting against the wall, their cartridge pouches and heavy packs had been thrown on the floor, and by their sides were some partly-consumed slices of turnip.
Kenneth promptly shared his rations, which were ravenously eaten by the half-famished men. The corporal, having swallowed his portion of roll and chocolate, took up his position at the opening through which the daylight could be seen.
"They come!" he announced. "The pigs! Look!"
The rest of the men made their way to the post of observation. The cellar was of brick, with massive oaken rafters overhead and a stone floor. At one end was a flight of stone steps that at one time communicated with the outside of the house. A fall of brick-work had almost entirely closed this exit, leaving a space about two inches in height and a little more than a foot in width between the top of the debris and the underside of the arch. The aperture was thus broad enough to afford an outlook for two persons without the faintest risk of discovery.
The corporal, as observation man, remained at his post, the others taking turn to gaze upon the approaching regiment of their hated foes.
The German troops had evidently gone through a rough experience. They looked utterly done up. Most of them were in their shirt-sleeves, their coats and accoutrements hanging from their rifles. Several were without caps, and many had been wounded. In spite of the sweltering heat they marched in close column, wellnigh choked with dust, and only kept at a brisk pace by the unsympathetic orders and threats of their officers.
As the head of the column approached, several men were ordered to double up to the ruined house. Already the German commander had good reason to dread the fury of the Belgian civil population, and every house on the line of march was searched for possible snipers before the regiment was allowed to march past it.
Kenneth could hear the Prussians' boots crunching on the rubble overhead, and their guttural shouts as they reported that the building was untenanted.
Then the column was again set in motion, and as the troops marched stolidly by, Kenneth saw that in their midst were about twenty peasants of both sexes.
The Belgian corporal rapped out an oath.
"The cowards!" he hissed. "They will use these people—countrymen—to screen their advance. They did so at Haelen and Landen. I would gladly bring down that red-faced Colonel but for the fact that those peasants would be instantly massacred."
Reluctantly the man closed the safety-catch of his rifle. The impulse to shoot had been tantalizing. Only his concern for his luckless fellow-countrymen had prevented the Belgian from sending a bullet through the Prussian officer's heart. Ignorant of his escape the Colonel rode past, followed by the rest of the regiment, for, from motives of extraordinary caution, he was in the centre of the column.
Another and yet another grey-clad regiment tramped past. With feelings akin to consternation, Kenneth realized that a considerable portion of the German army was now between him and his regiment. And Rollo—what had become of him?
Several hours passed. The Belgians, unable to control their natural vivacity, chattered gaily, relating their individual adventures, and closely questioning Kenneth as to his views on British aid for the sorely-harassed country. Occasionally, when their look-out reported fresh troops in sight, they would relapse into silence. The artilleryman jotted down in a pocket-book particulars and estimated numbers of all the German regiments that passed along the road, remarking that to-morrow, perhaps, the information might be useful to his officers.
About five in the afternoon the stream slackened, and half an hour later there were no signs of the invaders. The Belgians discussed the possibility of making a dash for their own lines, and eventually decided to attempt to put their plan into execution shortly after midnight. Even the wounded lancer expressed his confidence in his ability to keep up with his comrades.
"And will you accompany us?" he asked, addressing his British comrade.
"There's my motor-cycle," said Kenneth tentatively.
"Pouf! It is of no consequence. Let it remain; there are others to be obtained. It is useless to attempt to take it with you. The roads are unsafe, while in the open the ditches are too wide to take it across."
Still Kenneth hesitated. He had no doubt that the Belgian spoke truthfully, and that he could obtain another mount at head-quarters; but it would not be the same cycle, to which he was greatly attached.
While the wounded lancer was still endeavouring to persuade Kenneth to make the attempt on foot, the corporal, from the post of observation, reported that a patrol of Uhlans was approaching.
"There are but seven," he announced, "and they have a prisoner with them. Shall we——?" and he significantly tapped his rifle.
After a short interval one of the Belgians stood aside to allow Kenneth to look at the approaching patrol. They were riding their horses at a walking pace, their long lances being stepped in "buckets" behind their backs. Most of them were smoking large curved pipes.
Suddenly Kenneth uttered a half-stifled shout of surprise, for the prisoner was his chum, Rollo Barrington.