The Forest of Swords 1

The Forest of Swords 1

The Forest of Swords A Story of Paris and the Marne

 

Author: Joseph A. Altsheler

 

 

FOREWORD

 

"The Forest of Swords," while an independent story, based upon the World

War, continues the fortunes of John Scott, Philip Lannes, and their

friends who have appeared already in "The Guns of Europe." As was stated

in the first volume, the author was in Austria and Germany for a month

after the war began, and then went to England. He saw the arrival of the

Emperor, Francis Joseph, in Vienna, the first striking event in the

gigantic struggle, and witnessed the mobilization of their armies by

three great nations.

 

 

 

 

CONTENTS

 

 

CHAPTER PAGE

 

I. IN PARIS 1

II. THE MESSAGE 30

III. IN THE FRENCH CAMP 53

IV. THE INVISIBLE HAND 76

V. SEEN FROM ABOVE 99

VI. IN HOSTILE HANDS 121

VII. THE TWO PRINCES 146

VIII. THE SPORT OF KINGS 167

IX. THE PUZZLING SIGNAL 186

X. OLD FRIENDS 209

XI. THE CONTINUING BATTLE 231

XII. JULIE LANNES 247

XIII. THE MIDDLE AGES 268

XIV. A PROMISE KEPT 291

XV. THE RESCUE 311

 

 

 

 

THE FOREST OF SWORDS

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER I

 

IN PARIS

 

 

John Scott and Philip Lannes walked together down a great boulevard of

Paris. The young American's heart was filled with grief and anger. The

Frenchman felt the same grief, but mingled with it was a fierce, burning

passion, so deep and bitter that it took a much stronger word than anger

to describe it.

 

Both had heard that morning the mutter of cannon on the horizon, and

they knew the German conquerors were advancing. They were always

advancing. Nothing had stopped them. The metal and masonry of the

defenses at Liège had crumbled before their huge guns like china

breaking under stone. The giant shells had scooped out the forts at

Maubeuge, Maubeuge the untakable, as if they had been mere eggshells,

and the mighty Teutonic host came on, almost without a check.

 

John had read of the German march on Paris, nearly a half-century

before, how everything had been made complete by the genius of Bismarck

and von Moltke, how the ready had sprung upon and crushed the unready,

but the present swoop of the imperial eagle seemed far more vast and

terrible than the earlier rush could have been.

 

A month and the legions were already before the City of Light. Men with

glasses could see from the top of the Eiffel Tower the gray ranks that

were to hem in devoted Paris once more, and the government had fled

already to Bordeaux. It seemed that everything was lost before the war

was fairly begun. The coming of the English army, far too small in

numbers, had availed nothing. It had been swept up with the others,

escaping from capture or destruction only by a hair, and was now driven

back with the French on the capital.

 

John had witnessed two battles, and in neither had the Germans stopped

long. Disregarding their own losses they drove forward, immense,

overwhelming, triumphant. He felt yet their very physical weight,

pressing upon him, crushing him, giving him no time to breathe. The

German war machine was magnificent, invincible, and for the fourth time

in a century the Germans, the exulting Kaiser at their head, might enter

Paris.

 

The Emperor himself might be nothing, mere sound and glitter, but back

of him was the greatest army that ever trod the planet, taught for half

a century to believe in the divine right of kings, and assured now that

might and right were the same.

 

Every instinct in him revolted at the thought that Paris should be

trodden under foot once more by the conqueror. The great capital had

truly deserved its claim to be the city of light and leading, and if

Paris and France were lost the whole world would lose. He could never

forget the unpaid debt that his own America owed to France, and he felt

how closely interwoven the two republics were in their beliefs and

aspirations.

 

"Why are you so silent?" asked Lannes, half angrily, although John knew

that the anger was not for him.

 

"I've said as much as you have," he replied with an attempt at humor.

 

"You notice the sunlight falling on it?" said Lannes, pointing to the

Arc de Triomphe, rising before them.

 

"Yes, and I believe I know what you are thinking."

 

"You are right. I wish he was here now."

 

John gazed at the great arch which the sun was gilding with glory and he

shared with Lannes his wish that the mighty man who had built it to

commemorate his triumphs was back with France--for a while at least. He

was never able to make up his mind whether Napoleon was good or evil.

Perhaps he was a mixture of both, highly magnified, but now of all

times, with the German millions at the gates, he was needed most.

 

"I think France could afford to take him back," he said, "and risk any

demands he might make or enforce."

 

"John," said Lannes, "you've fought with us and suffered with us, and so

you're one of us. You understand what I felt this morning when on the

edge of Paris I heard the German guns. They say that we can fight on,

after our foes have taken the capital, and that the English will come in

greater force to help us. But if victorious Germans march once through

the Arc de Triomphe I shall feel that we can never again win back all

that we have lost."

 

A note, low but deep and menacing, came from the far horizon. It might

be a German gun or it might be a French gun, but the effect was the

same. The threat was there. A shudder shook the frame of Lannes, but

John saw a sudden flame of sunlight shoot like a glittering lance from

the Arc de Triomphe.

 

"A sign! a sign!" he exclaimed, his imaginative mind on fire in an

instant. "I saw a flash from the arch! It was the soul of the Great

Captain speaking! I tell you, Philip, the Republic is not yet lost! I've

read somewhere, and so have you, that the Romans sold at auction at a

high price the land on which Hannibal's victorious army was camped, when

it lay before Rome!"

 

"It's so! And France has her glorious traditions, too! We won't give up

until we're beaten--and not then!"

 

The gray eyes of Lannes flamed, and his figure seemed to swell. All the

wonderful French vitality was personified in him. He put his hand

affectionately upon the shoulder of his comrade.

 

"It's odd, John," he said, "but you, a foreigner, have lighted the spark

anew in me."

 

"Maybe it's because I _am_ a foreigner, though, in reality, I'm now no

foreigner at all, as you've just said. I've become one of you."

 

"It's true, John, and I won't forget it. I'm never going to give up hope

again. Maybe somebody will arrive to save us at the last. Whatever the

great one, whose greatest monument stands there, may have been, he loved

France, and his spirit may descend upon Frenchmen."

 

"I believe it. He had the strength and courage created by a republic,

and you have them again, the product of another republic. Look at the

flying men, Lannes!"

 

Lannes glanced up where the aeroplanes hovered thick over Paris, and

toward the horizon where the invisible German host with its huge guns

was advancing. The look of despair came into his eyes again, but it

rested there only a moment. He remembered his new courage and banished

it.

 

"Perhaps I ought to be in the sky myself with the others," he said, "but

I'd only see what I don't like to see. The _Arrow_ and I can't be of any

help now."

 

"You brought me here in the _Arrow_, Lannes," said John, seeking to

assume a light tone. "Now what do you intend to do with me? As everybody

is leaving Paris you ought to get me out of it."

 

"I hardly know what to do. There are no orders. I've lost touch with the

commander of our flying corps, but you're right in concluding that we

shouldn't remain in Paris. Now where are we to go?"

 

"We'll make no mistake if we seek the battle front. You know I'm bound

to rejoin my company, the Strangers, if I can. I must report as soon as

possible to Captain Colton."

 

"That's true, John, but I can't leave Paris until tomorrow. I may have

orders to carry, I must obtain supplies for the _Arrow_, and I wish to

visit once more my people on the other side of the Seine."

 

"Suppose you go now, and I'll meet you this afternoon in the Place de

l'Opéra."

 

"Good. Say three o'clock. The first to arrive will await the other

before the steps of the Opera House?"

 

John nodded assent and Lannes hurried away. Young Scott followed his

figure with his eyes until it disappeared in the crowd. A back may be an

index to a man's strength of mind, and he saw that Lannes, head erect

and shoulders thrown back, was walking with a rapid and springy step.

Courage was obviously there.

 

But John, despite his own strong heart, could not keep from feeling an

infinite sadness and pity, not for Lannes, but for all the three million

people who inhabited the City of Light, most of whom were fleeing now

before the advance of the victorious invader. He could put himself in

their place. France held his deepest sympathy. He felt that a great

nation, sedulously minding its own business, trampled upon and robbed

once before, was now about to be trampled upon and robbed again. He

could not subscribe to the doctrine, that might was right.

 

He watched the fugitives a long time. They were crowding the railway

stations, and they were departing by motor, by cart and on foot. Many of

the poorer people, both men and women, carried packs on their backs. The

boulevards and the streets were filled with the retreating masses.

 

It was an amazing and stupefying sight, the abandonment by its

inhabitants of a great city, a city in many ways the first in the world,

and it gave John a mighty shock. He had been there with his uncle and

Mr. Anson in the spring, and he had seen nothing but peace and

brightness. The sun had glittered then, as it glittered now over the Arc

de Triomphe, the gleaming dome of the Invalides and the golden waters of

the Seine. It was Paris, soft, beautiful and bright, the Paris that

wished no harm to anybody.

 

But the people were going. He could see them going everywhere. The

cruel, ancient times when cities were destroyed or enslaved by the

conqueror had come back, and the great Paris that the world had known so

long might become lost forever.

 

The stream of fugitives, rich and poor, mingled, poured on without

ceasing. He did not know where they were going. Most of them did not

know themselves. He saw a great motor, filled high with people and

goods, break down in the streets, and he watched them while they worked

desperately to restore the mechanism. And yet there was no panic. The

sound of voices was not high. The Republic was justifying itself once

more. Silent and somberly defiant, the inhabitants were leaving Paris

before the giant German guns could rain shells upon the unarmed.

 

It was three or four hours until the time to meet Lannes, and drawn by

an overwhelming curiosity and anxiety he began the climb of the Butte

Montmartre. If observers on the Eiffel Tower could see the German forces

approaching, then with the powerful glasses he carried over his shoulder

he might discern them from the dome of the Basilica of the Sacred

Heart.

 

As he made his way up the ascent through the crooked and narrow little

streets he saw many eyes, mostly black and quick, watching him. This by

night was old Paris, dark and dangerous, where the Apache dwelled, and

by day in a fleeing city, with none to restrain, he might be no less

ruthless.

 

But John felt only friendliness for them all. He believed that common

danger would knit all Frenchmen together, and he nodded and smiled at

the watchers. More than one pretty Parisian, not of the upper classes,

smiled back at the American with the frank and open face.

 

Before he reached the Basilica a little rat of a young man stepped

before him and asked:

 

"Which way, Monsieur?"

 

He was three or four years older than John, wearing uncommonly tight

fitting clothes of blue, a red cap with a tassel, and he was about five

feet four inches tall. But small as he was he seemed to be made of

steel, and he stood, poised on his little feet, ready to spring like a

leopard when he chose.

 

The blue eyes of the tall American looked steadily into the black eyes

of the short Frenchman, and the black eyes looked back as steadily. John

was fast learning to read the hearts and minds of men through their

eyes, and what he saw in the dark depths pleased him. Here were cunning

and yet courage; impudence and yet truth; caprice and yet honor. Apache

or not, he decided to like him.

 

"I'm going up into the lantern of the Basilica," he said, "to see if I

can see the Germans, who are my enemies as well as yours."

 

"And will not Monsieur take me, too, and let me have look for look with

him through those glasses at the Germans, some of whom I'm going to

shoot?"

 

John smiled.

 

"If you're going out potting Germans," he said, "you'd better get

yourself into a uniform as soon as you can. They have no mercy on _franc

tireurs_."

 

"I'll chance that. But you'll take me with you into the dome?"

 

"What's your name?"

 

"Pierre Louis Bougainville."

 

"Bougainville! Bougainville! It sounds noble and also historical. I've

read of it, but I don't recall where."

 

The little Frenchman drew himself up, and his black eyes glittered.

 

"There is a legend among us that it was noble once," he said, "but we

don't know when. I feel within me the spirit to make it great again.

There was a time when the mighty Napoleon said that every soldier

carried a marshal's baton in his knapsack. Perhaps that time has come

again. And the great emperor was a little man like me."

 

John began to laugh and then he stopped suddenly. Pierre Louis

Bougainville, so small and so insignificant, was not looking at him. He

was looking over and beyond him, dreaming perhaps of a glittering

future. The funny little red cap with the tassel might shelter a great

brain. Respect took the place of the wish to laugh.

 

"Monsieur Bougainville," he said in his excellent French, "my name is

John Scott. I am from America, but I am serving in the allied

Franco-British army. My heart like yours beats for France."

 

"Then, Monsieur Jean, you and I are brothers," said the little man, his

eyes still gleaming. "It may be that we shall fight side by side in the

hour of victory. But you will take me into the lantern will you not?

Father Pelletier does not know, as you do, that I'm going to be a great

man, and he will not admit me."

 

"If I secure entrance you will, too. Come."

 

They reached side by side the Basilique de Sacré-Coeur, which crowns the

summit of the Butte Montmartre, and bought tickets from the porter,

whose calm the proximity of untold Germans did not disturb. John saw the

little Apache make the sign of the cross and bear himself with dignity.

In some curious way Bougainville impressed him once more with a sense of

power. Perhaps there was a spark of genius under the red cap. He knew

from his reading that there was no rule about genius. It passed kings

by, and chose the child of a peasant in a hovel.

 

"You're what they call an Apache, are you not?" he asked.

 

"Yes, Monsieur."

 

"Well, for the present, that is until you win a greater name, I'm going

to call you Geronimo."

 

"And why Zhay-ro-nee-mo, Monsieur?"

 

"Because that was the name of a great Apache chief. According to our

white standards he was not all that a man should be. He had perhaps a

certain insensibility to the sufferings of others, but in the Apache

view that was not a fault. He was wholly great to them."

 

"Very well then, Monsieur Scott, I shall be flattered to be called

Zhay-ro-nee-mo, until I win a name yet greater."

 

"Where is the Father Pelletier, the priest, who you said would bar your

way unless I came with you?"

 

"He is on the second platform where you look out over Paris before going

into the lantern. It may be that he has against me what you would call

the prejudice. I am young. Youth must have its day, and I have done some

small deeds in the quarter which perhaps do not please Father Pelletier,

a strict, a very strict man. But our country is in danger, and I am

willing to forgive and forget."

 

He spoke with so much magnanimity that John was compelled to laugh.

Geronimo laughed, too, showing splendid white teeth. The understanding

between them was now perfect.

 

"I must talk with Father Pelletier," said John. "Until you're a great

man, as you're going to be, Geronimo, I suppose I can be spokesman.

After that it will be your part to befriend me."

 

On the second platform they found Father Pelletier, a tall young priest

with a fine but severe face, who looked with curiosity at John, and with

disapproval at the Apache.

 

"You are Father Pelletier, I believe," said John with his disarming

smile. "These are unusual times, but I wish to go up into the lantern. I

am an American, though, as you can see by my uniform, I am a soldier of

France."

 

"But your companion, sir? He has a bad reputation in the quarter. When

he should come to the church he does not, and now when he should not he

does."

 

"That reputation of which you speak, Father Pelletier, will soon pass.

Another, better and greater will take its place. Our friend here, and

perhaps both of us will be proud to call him so some day, leaves soon to

fight for France."

 

The priest looked again at Bougainville, and his face softened. The

little Apache met his glance with a firm and open gaze, and his figure

seemed to swell again, and to radiate strength. Perhaps the priest saw

in his eyes the same spark that John had noticed there.

 

"It is a time when France needs all of her sons," he said, "and even

those who have not deserved well of her before may do great deeds for

her now. You can pass."

 

Bougainville walked close to Father Pelletier, and John heard him say in

low tones:

 

"I feel within me the power to achieve, and when you see me again you will recognize it."