the forest of sword 13

the forest of sword 13

"And at such a time as this," said John. "Do you know, Fleury, that my

greatest fear about getting killed is that then I wouldn't know how this

war is going to end?"

 

"I feel that way myself sometimes. Look, there's the Marne! See its

waters shining! It's the mark of the first great stage in the German

retreat."

 

"I wonder how we're going to cross. I suppose the bridges will be

crowded with artillery and men. It might pay the Germans just to let us

go."

 

"They won't do that. There's nothing in their rules about liberating

prisoners, and they wouldn't hear of such a thing, anyhow, trouble or no

trouble."

 

"I see some boats, and I fancy we'll cross on them. I wonder if we

couldn't make what we call in my country a get-away, while we're waiting

for the embarkation."

 

"If our gunners become much more accurate our get-away, as you call it,

will be into the next life."

 

Two huge shells had burst near, and, although none of the flying metal

struck them, their faces were stung by fine dirt. When John brushed the

dust out of his eyes he saw that he was right in his surmise about the

crossing in boats, but wrong about probable delays in embarkation. The

German machine even in retreat worked with neatness and dispatch. There

were three boats, and the first relay of prisoners, including John and

Fleury, was hurried into them. A bridge farther down the stream rumbled

heavily as the artillery crossed on it. But the French force was coming

closer and closer. A shell struck in the river sixty or eighty feet from

them and the water rose in a cataract. Some of the prisoners had been

put at the oars and they, like the Germans, showed eagerness to reach

the other side. John noted the landing, a narrow entrance between thick

clumps of willows, and he confessed to himself that he too would feel

better when they were on the farther bank.

 

The Marne is not a wide river, and a few powerful pulls at the oars sent

them near to the landing. But at that moment a shell whistled through

the air, plunged into the water and exploded practically beneath the

boat.

 

John was hurled upward in a gush of foam and water, and then, when he

dropped back, the Marne received him in its bosom.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER VIII

 

THE SPORT OF KINGS

 

 

John Scott, who was suffering from his second immersion in a French

river, came up with mouth, eyes and nose full of water. The stream

around him was crowded with men swimming or with those who had reached

water shallow enough to permit of wading. As well as he could see, the

shell had done no damage besides giving them a huge bath, of which every

one stood in much need.

 

But he had a keen and active mind and it never worked quicker than it

did now. He had thought his chance for escape might come in the

confusion of a hurried crossing, and here it was. He dived and swam down

the stream toward the willows that lined the bank. When he could hold

his breath no longer he came up in one of the thickest clumps. The water

reached to his waist there, and standing on the bottom in all the

density of willows and bushes he was hidden thoroughly from all except

watchful searchers. And who would miss him at such a time, and who, if

missing, would take the trouble to look for him while the French cannon

were thundering upon them and a perilous crossing was to be made?

 

It was all so ridiculously easy. He knew that he had nothing to do but

stand close while the men pulled themselves out of the river and the

remaining boats made their passage. For further protection he moved into

water deep enough to reach to his neck, while he still retained the

cover of the willows and bushes. Here he watched the German troops pass

over, and listened to the heavy cannonade. He soon noted that the

Germans, after crossing, were taking up strong positions on the other

side. He could tell it from the tremendous artillery fire that came from

their side of the Marne.

 

John now found that his position, while safe from observation, was far

from comfortable. The chill of the water began to creep into his bones

and more shells struck unpleasantly near. Another fell into the river

and he was blinded for a moment by the violent showers of foam and

spray. He began to feel uneasy. If the German and French armies were

going to fight each other from the opposing sides of the Marne he would

be held there indefinitely, either to be killed by a shell or bullet or

to drown from cramp.

 

But time passed and he saw no chance of leaving his watery lair. The

chill went further into his bones. He was lonesome too. He longed for

the companionship of Fleury, and he wondered what had become of him. He

sincerely hoped that he too had reached a covert and that they should

meet again.

 

No rumbling came from the bridge below, and, glancing down the stream,

John saw that it was empty. There must be many other bridges over the

Marne, but he believed that the German armies had now crossed it, and

would devote their energy to a new attack. He was squarely between the

lines and he did not see any chance to escape until darkness.

 

He looked up and saw a bright sun and blue skies. Night was distant, and

so far as he was concerned it might be a year away. If two armies were

firing shells directly at a man they must hit him in an hour or two, and

if not, a polar stream such as the Marne had now become would certainly

freeze him to death. He had no idea French rivers could be so cold. The

Marne must be fed by a whole flock of glaciers.

 

His teeth began to chatter violently, and then he took stern hold of

himself. He felt that he was allowing his imagination to run away with

him, and he rebuked John Scott sternly and often for such foolishness.

He tried to get some warmth into his veins by jumping up and down in the

water, but it was of little avail. Yet he stood it another hour. Then he

made one more long and critical examination of the ground.

 

Shells were now screaming high overhead, but nobody was in sight. He

judged that it was now an artillery battle, with the foes perhaps three

or four miles apart, and, leaving the willows, he crept out upon the

bank. It was the side held by the Germans, but he knew that if he

attempted to swim the river to the other bank he would be taken with

cramps and would drown.

 

There was a little patch of long grass about ten yards from the river,

and, crawling to it, he lay down. The grass rose a foot high on either

side of him, but the sun, bright and hot, shone directly down upon his

face and body. It felt wonderfully good after that long submersion in

the Marne. Removing all his heavy wet clothing, he wrung the water out

of it as much as he could, and lay back in a state of nature, for both

himself and his clothing to dry. Meanwhile, in order to avoid cold, he

stretched and tensed his muscles for a quarter of an hour before he lay

still again.

 

A wonderful warmth and restfulness flowed back into his veins. He had

feared chills and a serious illness, but he knew now that they would not

come. Youth, wiry and seasoned by hard campaigning, would quickly

recover, but knowing that, for the present, he could neither go forward

nor backward, he luxuriated in the grass, while the sun sucked the damp

out of his clothing.

 

Meanwhile the battle was raging over his head and he scarcely noticed

it. The shells whistled and shrieked incessantly, but, midway between

the contending lines, he felt that they were no longer likely to drop

near. So he relaxed, and a dreamy feeling crept over him. He could hear

the murmur of insects in the grass, and he reflected that the smaller

one was, the safer one was. A shell was not likely to take any notice of

a gnat.

 

He felt of his clothing. It was not dry yet and he would wait a little

longer. Anyhow, what was the use of hurrying? He turned over on his

side and continued to luxuriate in the long grass.

 

The warmth and dryness had sent the blood pulsing in a strong flood

through his veins once more, and the mental rebound came too. Although

he lay immediately between two gigantic armies which were sending

showers of metal at each other along a line of many miles, he considered

his escape sure and the thought of personal danger disappeared. If one

only had something to eat! It is curious how the normal instincts and

wants of man assert themselves even under the most dangerous conditions.

He began to think of the good German brown bread and the hot sausage

that he had devoured, and the hot coffee that he had drunk. One could

eat the food of an enemy without compunction.

 

But it was folly to move, even to seek dinner or supper, while the

shells were flying in such quantities over his head. As he turned once

more and lay on his back he caught glimpses as of swift shadows passing

high above, and the whistling and screaming of shells and shrapnel was

continuous. It was true that a missile might fall short and find him in

the grass, but he considered the possibility remote and it did not give

him a tremor. As he was sure now that he would suffer no bodily ill from

his long bath in the Marne he might remain in the grass until night and

then creep away. Blessed night! It was the kindly veil for all

fugitives, and no one ever awaited it with more eagerness than John

Scott.

 

The sun was now well beyond the zenith, and its golden darts came

indirectly. His clothing was thoroughly dry at last, and he put it on

again. Clad anew he was tempted to seek escape at once, but the sound of

a footstep caused him to lie down in the shelter of the grass again.

 

His ear was now against the earth and the footsteps were much more

distinct. He was sure that they were made by a horse, and he believed

that a Uhlan was riding near. He remembered how long and sharp their

lances were, and he was grateful that the grass was so thick and tall.

He longed for the automatic revolver that had been such a trusty friend,

but the Germans had taken it long since, and he was wholly unarmed.

 

He was afraid to raise his head high enough to see the horseman, lest he

be seen, but the footsteps, as if fate had a grudge against him, were

coming nearer. His blood grew hot in a kind of rebellion against chance,

or the power that directed the universe. It was really a grim joke that,

after having escaped so much, a mere wandering scout of a Uhlan should