[1]The woods near Bridgeboro, in America, where Tom and the Scouts had hiked and camped.
[1]The woods near Bridgeboro, in America, where Tom and the Scouts had hiked and camped.
CHAPTER EIGHTEENTHE BIG COUP
No one knew, no one ever would know, of the anxiety and suspense which Tom Slade experienced in that fateful march through the country above Cantigny. Every uncertain pause of that huge officer, and every half inquiring turn of his head sent a shock of chill misgiving through poor Tom and he trudged along under the weight of his burden, hearing the flippant and bitter jibes of Roscoe as if in a trance.
At last, having crossed a large field, they fell into a well-worn path, and here Tom experienced his moment of keenest anxiety, for the officer paused as if in momentary recognition of the spot. For a second he seemed a bit perplexed, then strode on. Still again he paused within a few yards of the little house where the light had appeared.
But it was too late. About this house a dozen or more figures moved in the darkness. Their style of dress was not distinguishable, but Tom Slade called aloud to them, "Here's some prisoners we brought you back."
In an instant they were surrounded by Americans and Tom thought that his native tongue had never sounded so good before.
"Hello, Snipy," some one said.
But Roscoe Bent was too astonished to answer. In a kind of trance he saw the big Prussian officer start back, heard him utter some terrific German expletive, beheld the others of the party herded together, and was aware of the young American captain giving orders. In a daze he looked at Tom's stolid face, then at the Prussian officer, who seemed too stunned to say anything after his first startled outburst. He saw two boys in khaki approaching with lanterns and in the dim light of these he could distinguish a dozen or so khaki-clad figures perched along a fence.
"Where are we at, anyway?" he finally managed to ask.
"Just inside the village," one of the Americans answered.
"What village?"
"Coney Island on the subway," one of the boys on the fence called.
"Cantigny," some one nearer to him said. "You made a good haul."
"Well—I'll—be——" Roscoe began.
Tom Slade said nothing. Like a trusty pilot leaving his ship he strolled over and vaulted up on the fence beside the boys who, having taken the village, were now making themselves comfortable in it. His first question showed his thoughtfulness.
"Is the brook water all right?"
"Sure. Thirsty?"
"No, I only wanted to make sure it was all right. There were some big hogsheads of poison up in the woods where the brook starts and the other feller killed three Germans who tried to empty them in the stream. By mistake he shot a hole in one of the hogsheads and I thought maybe some of the stuff got into the water. But I guess it didn't."
It was characteristic of Tom that he did not mention his own part in the business.
"I drank about a quart of it around noontime," said a young sergeant, "and I'm here yet."
"It's good and cool," observed another.
"What's the matter with Snipy, anyway?" a private asked, laughing. "Somebody been spinning him around?"
"He just got mixed up, kind of, that's all," Tom said.
That was all.
There was much excitement in and about the little cottage on the edge of the village. Up the narrow path, from headquarters below, came other Americans, officers as Tom could see, who disappeared inside the house. Presently, the German prisoners, all except the big officer, came out, sullen in captivity, poor losers as Germans always are, and marched away toward the centre of the village, under escort.
"They thought they were taking us to the German lines," said Tom simply.
Roscoe, having recovered somewhat from his surprise and feeling deeply chagrined, walked over and stood in front of Tom.
"Why didn't you show me that compass, Tom?" he asked.
"Because it was wrong, just like you were," Tom answered frankly, but without any trace of resentment. "If I'd showed it to you you'd have thought it proved you were right. It was marked, crazy like, by that feller I told you about. I knew all the time we were coming to Cantigny."
There was a moment of silence, then Roscoe, his voice full of feeling, said simply,
"Tom Slade, you're a wonder."
"Hear that, Paul Revere?" one of the soldiers said jokingly. "Praise from the Jersey Snipe means something."
"No, it don't either," Roscoe muttered in self-distrust. "You've saved me from a Hun prison camp and while you were doing it you had to listen to me—Gee! I feel like kicking myself," he broke off.
"I ain't blaming you," said Tom, in his expressionless way. "If I'd had my way we'd have made a detour when I saw those broken branches, 'cause I knew it meant people were there, and then we wouldn't have got those fellers as prisoners, at all. So they got to thank you more than me."
This was queer reasoning, indeed, but it was Tom Slade all over.
"Me!" said Roscoe, "that's the limit. Tom, you're the same old hickory nut. Forgive me, old man, if you can."
"I don't have to," said Tom.
Roscoe stood there staring at him, thrilled with honest admiration and stung by humiliation.
And as the little group, augmented by other soldiers who strolled over to hear of this extraordinary affair first hand, grew into something of a crowd, Tom, alias Thatchy, alias Paul Revere, alias Towhead, sat upon the fence, answering questions and telling of his great coup with a dull unconcern which left them all gaping.
"As soon as I made up my mind they didn't belong there," he said, "I decided they weren't sure of their own way, kind of. If the big man hadn't taken the compass away from me, I'd have given it to him anyway. It had the N changed into an S and the S into an N. I think he kind of thought the other way was right, but when he saw the compass, that settled him. All the time I was looking at the Big Dipper, 'cause I knew nobody ever tampered with that. I noticed he never even looked up, but once, and then I was scared. When we got to the marsh, I was scared, too, 'cause I thought maybe he'd know about the low land being south of the woods. I was scared all the time, as you might say, but mostly when he turned his head and seemed kind of uncertain-like. It ain't so much any credit to me as it is to Archer—the feller that changed the letters. Anyway, I ain't mad,that's sure," he added, evidently intending this for Roscoe. "Everybody gets mistaken sometimes."
"You're one bully old trump, Tom," said Roscoe shamefacedly.
"So now you see how it was," Tom concluded. "I couldn't get rattled as long as I could see the Big Dipper up there in the sky."
For a few moments there was silence, save for the low whistling of one of the soldiers.
"You're all right, kiddo," he broke off to say.
Then one of the others turned suddenly, giving Tom a cordial rap on the shoulder which almost made him lose his balance. "Well, as long as we've got the Big Dipper," said he, "and as long as the water's pure, what d'you say we all go and have a drink—in honor of Paul Revere?"
So it was that presently Tom and Roscoe found themselves sitting alone upon the fence in the darkness. Neither spoke. In the distance they could hear the muffled boom of some isolated field-piece, belching forth its challenge in the night. High overhead there was a whirring, buzzing sound as a shadow glided through the sky where the stars shone peacefully. A company of boys in khaki, carrying intrenching implements, passed by, greeting them cheerily as they trudged back fromdoing their turn in digging the new trench line which would embrace Cantigny.
Cantigny!
"I'm glad we took the town, that's one sure thing," Tom said.
"It's the first good whack we've given them," agreed Roscoe.
Again there was silence. In the little house across the road a light burned. Little did Tom Slade know what was going on there, and what it would mean to him. And still the American boys guarding this approach down into the town, moved to and fro, to and fro, in the darkness.
"Tom," said Roscoe, "I was a fool again, just like I was before, back home in America. Will you try to forget it, old man?" he added.
"There ain't anything to forget," said Tom, "I got to be thankful I found you; that's the only thing I'm thinking about and—and—that we didn't let the Germans get us. If you like a feller you don't mind about what he says. Do you think I forget you named that rifle after me? Just because—because you didn't know about trusting to the stars,—I wouldn't be mad at you——"
Roscoe did not answer.
CHAPTER NINETEENTOM IS QUESTIONED
When it became known in the captured village (as it did immediately) that the tall prisoner whom Tom Slade had brought in, was none other than the famous Major Johann Slauberstrauffn von Piffinhoeffer, excitement ran high in the neighborhood, and the towheaded young dispatch-rider from the Toul sector was hardly less of a celebrity than the terrible Prussian himself. "Paul Revere" and his compass became the subjects of much mirth, touched, as usual, with a kind of bantering evidence of genuine liking.
In face of all this, Tom bestowed all the credit on Roscoe (it would be hard to say why), and on Archibald Archer and the Big Dipper.
"Now that we've got the Big Dipper with us we ought to be able to push right through to Berlin," observed one young corporal. "They say Edison's got some new kind of a wrinkle up his sleeve, but believe me, if he's got anything to beat Paul Revere's compass, he's a winner!"
"Old Piff nearly threw a fit, I heard, when he found out that he was captured by a kid in the messenger service," another added.
"They may pull a big stroke with Mars, the god of war," still another said, "but we've got the Big Dipper on our side."
Indeed, some of them nicknamed Tom the Big Dipper, but he did not mind for, as he said soberly, he had "always liked the Big Dipper, anyway."
As the next day passed the importance of Tom's coup became known among the troops stationed in the village and was the prime topic with those who were digging the new trench line northeast of the town. Indeed, aside from the particular reasons which were presently to appear, the capture of Major von Piffinhoeffer was a "stunt" of the first order which proved particularly humiliating to German dignity. That he should have been captured at all was remarkable. That he should have been hoodwinked and brought in by a young dispatch-rider was a matter of crushing mortification to him, and must have been no less so to the German high command.
Who but Major von Piffinhoeffer had first suggested the use of the poisoned bandage in thetreatment of English prisoners' wounds? Who but Major von Piffinhoeffer had devised the very scheme of contaminating streams, which Tom and Roscoe had discovered? Who but Major von Piffinhoeffer had invented the famous "circle code" which had so long puzzled and baffled Uncle Sam's Secret Service agents? Who but Major von Piffinhoeffer had first suggested putting cholera germs in rifle bullets, and tuberculosis germs in American cigarettes?
A soldier of the highest distinction was Major von Piffinhoeffer, of Heidelberg University, whose decorative junk had come direct from the grateful junkers, and whose famous eight-volume work on "Principles of Modern Torture" was a text-book in the realm. A warrior of mettle was Major von Piffinhoeffer, who deserved a more glorious fate than to be captured by an American dispatch-rider!
But Tom Slade was not vain and it is doubtful if his stolid face, crowned by his shock of rebellious hair, would have shown the slightest symptom of excitement if he had captured Hindenburg, or the Kaiser himself.
In the morning he rode down to Chepoix with some dispatches and in the afternoon to St. Justen-Chaussee.He was kept busy all day. When he returned to Cantigny, a little before dark, he was told to remain at headquarters, and for a while he feared that he was going to be court-martialled for overstaying his leave.
When he was at last admitted into the presence of the commanding officer, he shifted from one foot to the other, feeling ill at ease as he always did in the presence of officialdom. The officer sat at a heavy table which had evidently been the kitchen table of the French peasant people who had originally occupied the poor cottage. Signs of petty German devastation were all about the humble, low-ceiled place, and they seemed to evidence a more loathsome brutality even than did the blighted country which Tom had ridden through.
Apparently everything which could show an arrogant contempt of the simple family life which had reigned there had been done. There was a kind of childish spitefulness in the sword thrusts through the few pictures which hung on the walls. The German genius for destruction and wanton vandalism was evident in broken knick-knacks and mottoes of hate and bloody vengeance scrawled upon floor and wall.
It did Tom's heart good to see the resolute, capable American officers sitting there attending to their business in quiet disregard of all these silly, vulgar signs of impotent hate and baffled power.
"When you first met these Germans," the officer asked, "did the big fellow have anything to say?"
"He asked us some questions," said Tom.
"Yes? Now what did he ask you?" the officer encouraged, as he reached out and took a couple of papers pinned together, which lay among others on the table.
"He seemed to be interested in transports, kind of, and the number of Americans there are here."
"Hmm. Did he mention any particular ship—do you remember?" the officer asked, glancing at the paper.
"Yes, he did.Texas Pioneer. I don't remember whether it was Texan or Texas."
"Oh, yes," said the officer.
"We didn't tell him anything," said Tom.
"No, of course not."
The officer sat whistling for a few seconds, and scrutinizing the papers.
"Do you remember the color of the officer's eyes?" he suddenly asked.
"It was only in the dark we saw him."
"Yes, surely. So you didn't get a very good look at him."
"I saw he had a nose shaped like a carrot, kind of," said Tom ingenuously.
Both of the officers smiled.
"I mean the big end of it," said Tom soberly.
The two men glanced at each other and laughed outright. Tom did not quite appreciate what they were laughing at but it encouraged him to greater boldness, and shifting from one foot to the other, he said,
"The thing I noticed specially was how his mouth went sideways when he talked, so one side of it seemed to slant the same as his moustache, like, and the other didn't."
The officers smiled at each other again, but the one quizzing Tom looked at him shrewdly and seemed interested.
"I mean the two ends of his moustache that stuck up like the Kaiser's——"
"Oh, yes."
"I mean they didn't slant the same when he talked. One was crooked."
Again the officers smiled and the one who had been speaking said thoughtfully,
"I see."
Tom shifted back to his other foot while the officer seemed to ruminate.
"He had a breed mark, too," Tom volunteered.
"A what?"
"Breed mark—it's different from a species mark," he added naively.
The officer looked at him rather curiously. "And what do you call a breed mark?" he asked.
Tom looked at the other man who seemed also to be watching him closely. He shifted from one foot to the other and said,
"It's a scout sign. A man named Jeb Rushmore told me about it. All trappers know about it. It was his ear, how it stuck out, like."
He shifted to the other foot.
"Yes, go on."
"Nothing, only that's what a breed sign is. If Jeb Rushmore saw a bear and afterwards way off he saw another bear he could tell if the first bear was its grandmother—most always he could.
"Hmm. I see," said the officer, plainly interestedand watching Tom curiously. "And that's what a breed sign is, eh?"
"Yes, sir. Eyes ain't breed signs, but ears are. Feet are, too, and different ways of walking are, but ears are the best of all—that's one sure thing."
"And you mean that relationships can be determined by these breed signs?"
"I don't mean people just looking like each other," Tom explained, "'cause any way animals don't look like each other in the face. But you got to go by breed signs. Knuckles are good signs, too."
"Well, well," said the officer, "that's very fine, and news to me."
"Maybe you were never a scout," said Tom naively.
"So that if you saw your Prussian major's brother or son somewhere, where you had reason to think he would be, you'd know him—you'd recognize him?"
Tom hesitated and shifted again. It was getting pretty deep for him.
CHAPTER TWENTYTHE MAJOR'S PAPERS
It was perfectly evident that the officer's purpose in sending for Tom, whatever that was, was considerably affected by the boy's own remarks, and he now, after pondering a few moments, handed Tom the two papers which he had been holding.
"Just glance that over and then I'll talk to you," he said.
Tom felt very important, indeed, and somewhat perturbed as well, for though he had carried many dispatches it had never been his lot to know their purport.
"If you know the importance and seriousness of what I am thinking of letting you do," the officer said, "perhaps it will help you to be very careful and thorough."
"Yes, sir," said Tom, awkwardly.
"All right, just glance that over."
The two papers were clipped together, and as Tom looked at the one on top he saw that it wassoiled and creased and written in German. The other was evidently a translation of it. It seemed to be a letter the first part of which was missing, and this is what Tom read:
"but, as you say, everything for the Fatherland. If you receive this let them know that I'll have my arms crossed and to be careful before they shoot. If you don't get this I'll just have to take my chance. The other way isn't worth trying. As for the code key, that will be safe enough—they'll never find it. If it wasn't for the —— English service —— (worn and undecipherable) —— as far as that's concerned. As far as I can ascertain we'll go on the T.P. There was some inquiry about my close relationship to you, but nothing serious. All you have to do is cheer when they play the S.S.B. over here. It isn't known if Schmitter had the key to this when they caught him because he died on Ellis Island. But it's being abandoned to be on the safe side. I have notice from H. not to use it after sending this letter. If we can get the new one in your hands before —— (text undecipherable) —— in time so it can be used through Mexico."I'll have much information to communicate verbally in T. and A. matters, but will bring nothing in —— —— form but key andcredentials. The idea is L.'s—you remember him at Heidelberg, I dare say. I brought him back once for holiday. Met him through Handel, the fellow who was troubled with cataract. V. has furnished funds. So don't fail to have them watch out."To the day,"A. P."
"but, as you say, everything for the Fatherland. If you receive this let them know that I'll have my arms crossed and to be careful before they shoot. If you don't get this I'll just have to take my chance. The other way isn't worth trying. As for the code key, that will be safe enough—they'll never find it. If it wasn't for the —— English service —— (worn and undecipherable) —— as far as that's concerned. As far as I can ascertain we'll go on the T.P. There was some inquiry about my close relationship to you, but nothing serious. All you have to do is cheer when they play the S.S.B. over here. It isn't known if Schmitter had the key to this when they caught him because he died on Ellis Island. But it's being abandoned to be on the safe side. I have notice from H. not to use it after sending this letter. If we can get the new one in your hands before —— (text undecipherable) —— in time so it can be used through Mexico.
"I'll have much information to communicate verbally in T. and A. matters, but will bring nothing in —— —— form but key andcredentials. The idea is L.'s—you remember him at Heidelberg, I dare say. I brought him back once for holiday. Met him through Handel, the fellow who was troubled with cataract. V. has furnished funds. So don't fail to have them watch out.
"To the day,"A. P."
"So you see some one is probably coming over on theTexas Pioneer," said the officer, as he took the papers from bewildered Tom, "and we'd like to get hold of that fellow. The only trouble is we don't know who he is."
It was quite half a minute before Tom could get a grip on himself, so dark and mysterious had seemed this extraordinary communication. And it was not until afterward, when he was alone and not handicapped by his present embarrassment, that certain puzzling things about it became clear to him. At present he depended wholly upon what his superior told him and thought of nothing else.
"That was taken from your tall friend," said the officer, "and it means, if it means anything, that somebody or other closely related to him is coming over to France on theTexas Pioneer. From his mention of the name to you I take it that is what T. P. means.
"Now, my boy, we want to get hold of this fellow—he's a spy. Apparently, he won't have anything incriminating about him. My impression is that he's in the army and hopes to get himself captured by his friends. Yet he may desert and take a chance of getting into Germany through Holland. About the only clew there is, is the intimation that he's related to the prisoner. He may look like him. We've been trying to get in communication with Dieppe, where this transport is expected to dock to-morrow, but the wires seem to be shot into a tangle again.
"Do you think you could make Dieppe before morning—eighty to ninety miles?"
"Yes, sir. The first twenty or so will be bad on account of shell holes, I heard they threw as far as Forges."
"Hmm," said the officer, drumming with his fingers. "We'll leave all that to you. The thing is to get there before morning."
"I know they never let anybody ashore before daylight," said Tom, "because I worked on a transport."
"Very well. Now we'll see if the general and others hereabouts have been overrating you. You've two things to do. One is to get to Dieppebefore to-morrow morning. That's imperative. The other is to assist the authorities there to identify the writer of this letter if you can. Of course, you'll not concern yourself with anything else in the letter. I let you read it partly because of your very commendable bringing in of this important captive and partly because I want you to know how serious and important are the matters involved. I was rather impressed with what you said about—er—breed marks."
"Yes, sir."
"And I believe you're thoughtful and careful. You've ridden by night a good deal, I understand."
"Yes, sir."
"So. Now you are to ride at once to Breteuil, a little east of here, where they're holding this prisoner. You'll deliver a note I shall give you to Colonel Wallace, and he'll see to it that you have a look at the man, in a sufficiently good light. Don't be afraid to observe him closely. And whatever acuteness you may have in this way, let your country have the benefit of it."
"Yes, sir."
"It may be that some striking likeness will enable you to recognize this stranger. Possiblyyour special knowledge will be helpful. In any case, when you reach Dieppe, present these papers, with the letter which I shall give you, to the quartermaster there, and he will turn you over to the Secret Service men. Do whatever they tell you and help them in every way you can. I shall mention that you've seen the prisoner and observed him closely. They may have means of discovery and identification which I know nothing of, but don't be afraid to offer your help. Too much won't be expected of you in that way, but it's imperative that you reach Dieppe before morning. The roads are pretty bad, I know that. Think you can do it?"
"What you got to do, you can do," said Tom simply.
It was a favorite saying of the same Jeb Rushmore, scout and woodsman, who had told Tom about breed marks, and how they differed from mere points of resemblance. And it made him think about Jeb Rushmore.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONETHE MIDNIGHT RIDE OF PAUL REVERE
Swiftly and silently along the dark road sped the dispatch-rider who had come out of the East, from the far-off Toul sector,for service as required. All the way across bleeding, devastated France he had travelled, and having paused, as it were, to help in the little job at Cantigny, he was now speeding through the darkness toward the coast with as important a message as he had ever carried.
A little while before, as time is reckoned, he had been a Boy Scout in America and had thought it was something to hike from New York to the Catskills. Since then, he had been on a torpedoed transport, had been carried in a submarine to Germany, had escaped through that war-mad land and made his way to France, whose scarred and disordered territory he had crossed almost from one end to the other, and was now headedfor almost the very point where he had first landed. Yet he was only eighteen, and no one whom he met seemed to think that his experiences had been remarkable. For in a world where all are having extraordinary experiences, those of one particular person are hardly matter for comment.
At Breteuil Tom had another look at "Major Piff," who bent his terrible, scornful gaze upon him, making poor Tom feel like an insignificant worm. But the imperious Prussian's stare netted him not half so much in the matter of valuable data as Tom derived from his rather timid scrutiny. Yet he would almost have preferred to face the muzzle of a field-piece rather than wither beneath that arrogant, contemptuous glare.
It was close on to midnight when he reached Hardivillers, passing beyond the point of the Huns' farthest advance, and sped along the straight road for Marseille-en-Froissy, where he was to leave a relay packet for Paris. From there he intended to run down to Gournay and then northwest along the highway to the coast. He thought he had plenty of time.
At Gournay they told him that some American engineers were repairing the bridge at Saumont, which had been damaged by floods, butthat he might gain the north road to the coast by going back as far as Songeons and following the path along the upper Therain River, which would take him to Aumale, and bring him into the Neufchatel road.
He lost perhaps two hours in doing this, partly by reason of the extra distance and partly by reason of the muddy, and in some places submerged, path along the Therain. The stream, ordinarily hardly more than a creek, was so swollen that he had to run his machine through a veritable swamp in places, and anything approaching speed was out of the question. So difficult was his progress, what with running off the flooded road and into the stream bed, and also from his wheels sticking in the mud, that he began to fear that he was losing too much time in this discouraging business.
But there was nothing to do but go forward, and he struggled on, sometimes wheeling his machine, sometimes riding it, until at last it sank almost wheel deep in muddy water and he had to lose another half hour in cleaning out his carbureter. He feared that it might give trouble even then, but the machine labored along when the mud was not too deep, and at last, after almostsuperhuman effort, he andUncle Samemerged, dirty and dripping, out of a region where he could almost have made as good progress with a boat, into Aumale, where he stopped long enough to clean the grit out of his engine parts.
It was now nearly four o'clock in the morning, and his instructions were to reach Dieppe not later than five. He knew, from his own experience, that transports always discharge their thronging human cargoes early in the morning, and that every minute after five o'clock would increase the likelihood of his finding the soldiers already gone ashore and separated for the journeys to their various destinations. To reach Dieppe after the departure of the soldiers was simply unthinkable to Tom. Whatever excuse there might have been to the authorities for his failure, that also he could not allow to enter his thoughts. He had been trusted to do something and he was going to do it.
Perhaps it was this dogged resolve which deterred him from doing something which he had thought of doing; that is, acquainting the authorities at Aumale with his plight and letting them wire on to Dieppe. Surely the wires betweenAumale and the coast must be working, but suppose——
Suppose the Germans should demolish those wires with a random shot from some great gun such as the monster which had bombarded Paris at a distance of seventy miles. Such a random shot might demolish Tom Slade, too, but he did not think of that. What he thought of chiefly was the inglorious rôle he would play if, after shifting his responsibility, he should go riding into Dieppe only to find that the faithful dots and dashes had done his work for him. Then again, suppose the wires should be tapped—there were spies everywhere, he knew that.
Whatever might have been the part of wisdom and caution, he was well past Aumale before he allowed himself to realize that he was taking rather a big chance. If there were floods in one place there might be floods in another, but——
He banished the thought from his mind. Tom Slade, motorcycle dispatch-bearer, had always regarded the villages he rushed through with a kind of patronizing condescension. His business had always been between some headquarters or other and some point of destination, and between these points he had no interest. He andUncle Samhad a little pride in these matters. French children with clattering wooden shoes had clustered about him when he paused, old wives had called, "Vive l'Amerique!" from windows and, like the post-boy of old, he had enjoyed the prestige which was his. Should he, Tom Slade, surrender or ask for help in one of these mere incidental places along his line of travel?
What you got to do, you do, he had said, and you cannot do it by going half way and then letting some one else do the rest. He had read theMessage to Garcia(as what scout has not), and did that bully messenger—whatever his name was—turn back because the Cuban jungle was too much for him?He delivered the message to Garcia, that was the point. There were swamps, and dank, tangled, poisonous vines, and venomous snakes, and the sickening breath of fever.But he delivered the message to Garcia.
It was sixty miles, Tom knew, from Aumale to Dieppe by the road. And he must reach Dieppe not later than five o'clock. The road was a good road, if it held nothing unexpected. The map showed it to be a good road, and as far west as this there was small danger from shell holes.
Fifty miles, and one hour!
Swiftly along the dark road sped the dispatch-rider who had come from the far-off blue hills of Alsace across the war-scorched area of northern France into the din and fire and stenching suffocation and red-running streams of Picardyfor service as required. Past St. Prey he rushed; past Thiueloy, and into Mortemer, and on to the hilly region where the Eualine flows between its hilly banks. He was in and out of La Tois in half a minute.
When he passed through Neufchatel several poilus, lounging at the station, hailed him cheerily in French, but he paid no heed, and they stood gaping, seeing his bent form and head thrust forward with its shock of tow hair flying all about.
Twenty miles, and half an hour!
Through St. Authon he sped, raising a cloud of dust, his keen eyes rivetted upon the road ahead, and down into the valley where a tributary of the Bethune winds its troubled way—past Le Farge, past tiny, picturesque Loix, into an area of 'lowland where an isolated cottage seemed like a lonely spectre of the night as he passed, on through Mernoy to the crossing at Chabris, and then——
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO"UNCLE SAM"
Tom Slade stood looking with consternation at the scene before him. His trusty motorcycle which had borne him so far stood beside him, and as he steadied it, it seemed as if this mute companion and co-patriot which he had come to love, were sharing his utter dismay. Almost at his very feet rushed a boisterous torrent, melting the packed earth of the road like wax in a tropic sunshine, and carrying its devastating work of erosion to the very spot where he stood.
In a kind of cold despair, he stooped, reached for a board which lay near, and retreating a little, stood upon it, watching the surging water in its heedless career. This one board was all that was left of the bridge over which Tom Slade andUncle Samwere to have rushed in their race with the dawn. Already the first glimmering of gray was discernible in the sky behind him, and Tom looked atUncle Samas if for councilin his dilemma. The dawn would not require any bridge to get across.
"We're checked in our grand drive, kind of," he said, with a pathetic disappointment which his odd way of putting it did not disguise. "We're checked, that's all, just like the Germans were—kind of."
He knelt and let down the rest of his machine so that it might stand unaided, as if he would be considerate of those mud-covered, weary wheels.
And meanwhile the minutes passed.
"Anyway, you didyourpart," he muttered. And then, "If you only could swim."
It was evident that the recent rains had swollen the stream which ordinarily flowed in the narrow bed between slanting shores so that the rushing water filled the whole space between the declivities and was even flooding the two ends of road which had been connected by a bridge. An old ramshackle house, which Tom thought might once have been a boathouse, stood near, the water lapping its underpinning. Close by it was a buoyed mooring float six or eight feet square, bobbing in the rushing water. One of the four air-tight barrels which supported it had caught in the mud and kept the buoyant, raft-like platformfrom being carried downstream in the rush of water.
Holding his flashlight to his watch Tom saw that it was nearly fifteen minutes past four and he believed that about forty miles of road lay ahead of him. Slowly, silently, the first pale tint of gray in the sky behind him took on a more substantial hue, revealing the gaunt, black outlines of trees and painting the sun-dried, ragged shingles on the little house a dull silvery color.
"Anyway, you stood by me and it ain't your fault," Tom muttered disconsolately. He turned the handle bar this way and that, so thatUncle Sam'sone big eye peered uncannily across the flooded stream and flickered up the road upon the other side, which wound up the hillside and away into the country beyond. The big, peering eye seemed to look longingly upon that road.
Then Tom was seized with a kind of frantic rebellion against fate—the same futile passion which causes a convict to wrench madly at the bars of his cell. The glimpse of that illuminated stretch of road across the flooded stream drove him to distraction. Baffled, powerless, his wonted stolidness left him, and he cast his eyes here andthere with a sort of challenge born of despair and desperation.
Slowly, gently, the hazy dawn stole over the sky and the roof of dried and ragged shingles seemed as if it were covered with gray dust. Presently the light would flicker upon those black, mad waters and laugh at Tom from the other side.
And meanwhile the minutes passed.
He believed that he could swim the torrent and make a landing even though the rush of water carried him somewhat downstream. But what aboutUncle Sam? He turned off the searchlight and stillUncle Samwas clearly visible now, standing, waiting. He could count the spokes in the wheels.
The spokes in the wheels—the spokes. With a sudden inspiration born of despair, Tom looked at that low, shingled roof. He could see it fairly well now. The gray dawn had almost caught up with him.
And meanwhile the minutes passed!
In a frantic burst of energy he took a running jump, caught the edge of the roof and swung himself upon it. In the thin haze his form was outlined there, his shock of light hair jerking thisway and that, as he tore off one shingle after another, and threw them to the ground. He was racing now, as he had not raced before, and there was upon his square, homely face that look of uncompromising resolution which the soldier wears as he goes over the top with his bayonet fixed.
Leaping to the ground again he gathered up some half a dozen shingles, selecting them with as much care as his desperate haste would permit. Then he hurriedly opened the leather tool case on his machine and tumbled the contents about until he found the roll of insulated wire which he always carried.
His next work was to split one of the shingles over his knee so that he had a strip of wood about two inches wide. It took him but so many seconds to jab four or five holes through this, and adjusting it between two slopes of the power wheel so that it stood crossways and was re-enforced by the spokes themselves, he proceeded to bind it in place with the wire. Then he moved the wheel gently around, and found that the projecting edge of wooden strip knocked against the mud-guard. Hesitating not a second he pulled and bent and twisted the mud-guard,wrenching it off. The wheel revolved freely now. The spokes were beginning to shine in the brightening light.
And meanwhile the seconds passed!
It was the work of hardly a minute to bind three other narrow strips of shingle among the spokes so that they stood more or less crossways. There was no time to place and fasten more, but these, at equal intervals, forming a sort of cross within the wheel, were quite sufficient, Tom thought, for his purpose. It was necessary to shave the edges of the shingles somewhat, after they were in place, so that they would not chafe against the axle-bars. But this was also the hurried work of a few seconds, and then Tom moved his machine to the old mooring float and lifted it upon the bobbing platform.
He must work with the feverish speed of desperation for the float was held by no better anchor than one of its supporting barrels embedded in the mud. If he placed his weight or that ofUncle Samupon the side of the float already in the water the weight would probably release the mud-held barrel and the float, with himself andUncle Samupon it, would be carried willy-nilly upon the impetuous waters.
And meanwhile—— How plainly he could distinguish the trees now, and the pale stars stealing away into the obscurity of the brightening heavens.
With all the strength that he could muster he wrenched a board from the centre of the platform, and moving his arm about in the opening felt the rushing water beneath.
The buoyancy of the air-tight barrels, one of which was lodged under each corner of the float, was such that with Tom and his machine upon the planks the whole platform would float six or eight inches free of the water. To pole or row this unwieldy raft in such a flood would have been quite out of the question, and even in carrying out the plan which Tom now thought furnished his only hope, he knew that the sole chance of success lay in starting right. If the float, through premature or unskilful starting, should get headed downstream, there would be no hope of counteracting its impetus.
Lifting his machine, he lowered it carefully into the opening left by the torn-off plank, until the pedals rested upon the planks on either side and the power wheel was partially submerged. So far, so good.
In less than a minute now he would either succeed or fail. It was necessary first to alter the position of the float slightly so that the opening left by the plank pointed across and slightly upstream. He had often noticed how the pilot of a ferryboat directs his craft above or below the point of landing to counteract the rising or ebbing tide, and this was his intention now; but to neutralize the force of the water with another force not subject to direction or adjustment involved a rather nice calculation.
Very cautiously he waded out upon the precipitous, submerged bank and brought the float into position. This done, he acted with lightning rapidity. Leaping upon the freed float before it had time to swing around, he raised his machine, started it, and lowering the power wheel into the opening, steadied the machine as best he could. It was not possible to let it hang upon its pedals for he must hold it at a steep angle, and it required all his strength to manage its clumsy, furiously vibrating bulk.
But the effects of his makeshift paddle-wheel were pronounced and instantaneous. His own weight and that of the machine sufficiently submerged the racing power wheel so that the roughpaddles plowed the water, sending the float diagonally across the flooded stream with tremendous force. He was even able, by inclining the upper end of the machine to right or left, to guide his clumsy craft, which responded to this live rudder with surprising promptness.
In the rapid crossing this rough ferryboat lost rather more than Tom had thought it would lose from the rush of water and it brought him close to the opposite shore at a point some fifty feet beyond the road, but he had been able to maintain its direction at least to the extent of heading shoreward and preventing the buoyant float from fatal swirling, which would have meant loss of control altogether.
Perhaps it was better that his point of landing was some distance below the road, where he was able to grasp at an overhanging tree with one hand while shutting his power off and holding fast to his machine with the other. A landing would have been difficult anywhere else.
Even now he was in the precarious position of sitting upon a limb in a rather complicated network of small branches and foliage, hanging onto his motorcycle for dear life, while the buoyant float went swirling and bobbing down the flood.
It had taken him perhaps five minutes to prepare for his crossing and about thirty seconds to cross. But his strategic position was far from satisfactory. And already the more substantial light of the morning revealed the gray road winding ribbon-like away into the distance, the first glints of sunlight falling upon its bordering rocks and trees as if to taunt and mock him.
And meanwhile the minutes passed.