My Escape from Germany 23

My Escape from Germany 23

CHAPTER XVII

 

WESTWARD HO!

 

 

Until we got out into the open country I was to walk in front, carrying

the portmanteau, which was a little too bulky a load for a man of

smaller stature than mine. Wallace was to follow twenty or thirty paces

in the rear, but not to lose sight of me.

 

Into the town and the market-place it was plain sailing. Without

looking at the sign “To Wesel,” the existence of which I had forgotten,

I turned into the right lane, recognizing it from its general aspect.

Nevertheless, the darkness made the ground which I had traversed in

daylight look different.

 

At the cross-roads a long procession of street lamps disappeared down

the street which ought to have been the right one. On my first escape I

had failed to notice these standards on what then looked like a country

road. They are not very conspicuous in daylight. I had had my eyes

fixed upon the landscape generally, rather than upon details close to

me, which had no meaning for me at that time. Furthermore, I had very

soon taken a path on the left.

 

For the moment I was confused, and, not being able to take bearings in

the dark, I walked ahead, up a lane, pondering the situation. Here were

no lights, which was inviting. A woman passed me, and a moment after

Wallace closed up rapidly.

 

“Did you see that woman?” he asked. “She turned and looked after you.

She’ll inform the police. We’ve got to get off the road!”

 

“All right! It’s dark enough for anything. There is no danger. Just

let’s get off the road and see whether anything happens.”

 

We waited some time, but nothing occurred. Nothing could, as a matter

of fact, for we didn’t wait long enough.

 

“I can’t recognize this road,” I complained. “The darkness makes

everything look different. We’re too far east. That road with the lamps

along it is the right one, after all.”

 

“You’re absolutely wrong,” came the quite unexpected opposition from

Wallace. “We’re too far west.”

 

I had only been soliloquizing aloud, to give Wallace a chance of

understanding every step we took.

 

“How can you know that?”

 

“I saw a sign, farther back, ‘To Wesel.’ That means we are too far

west.”

 

“Are you sure you saw the sign, and did we pass along the road in its

direction?”

 

“Absolutely certain!”

 

“I can’t understand it at all. We simply can’t be too far west!”

Wallace had seen the sign in the market-place. This being the

starting-point, his conclusion was not warranted. But he could not know

that. I, on the other hand, was sufficiently doubtful on account of the

lamp standards, and Wallace’s opposition turned the scales.

 

“All right,” I conceded ungraciously, for I am rather touchy about my

woodcraft, “if you’re so sure of it, we’ll walk straight north. In that

way we’ll come across the road we are looking for, if you’re right. If

not, we can turn back. Now we’ll find a place to pack our knapsacks and

get rid of this beastly bag.”

 

We left the road definitely now, close to a church which stood dark and

lonely among open fields. We were still near Haltern, but the night

increased the distances.

 

A drop of rain struck my face. Delighted, I turned to Wallace, who was

behind me: “I say, I believe it’s coming on to rain. It would be fine

if the weather got mild again!”

 

Behind a wall, which enclosed a churchyard, we stopped to get ready

for the road. We packed our knapsacks as best we could in complete

darkness, for our only flash-lamp refused to act. While we were doing

so, it really began to rain, and we slipped into our oilsilks. Then we

started out across-country, due north, walking by compass.

 

The going was terrible. The ground was frozen hard and the rain on

coming in contact with it congealed to ice, which caused us to slip and

stumble on the unyielding ridges between the furrows, and now and again

to come down hard. The exertion kept us warm. When I took off my hat

for a moment, to wipe my forehead, I found the brim full of solid ice.

 

We proceeded for about half an hour, up-hill all the time. Then the

edge of a wood stopped us. That decided me: I knew now that we were

following the wrong course.

 

“Look here, Wace, there’s not a shadow of a doubt in my mind that we

are too far east. Haltern is bearing south. If we were anywhere near

the right road, it ought to lie in a southeasterly direction. If we had

been too far west, we should have come to the woods much sooner. We can

make one very decisive test. We’ll go east, until the eastern extremity

of Haltern bears south. Then we shall know that we are too far to the

east!”

 

We altered our course accordingly and proceeded in this new direction.

Suddenly the ground disappeared from underneath my feet, and I fell

headlong down the banks of a deep, hollow road. Wallace was saved

by being last. Up the other side and across more fields we came to

another road. Here we almost ran into a man, whom our sudden appearance

frightened out of his wits, to judge by the way he hurried off toward

the town.

 

“Now, then, Haltern bears almost southwest now. Back we go to the

cross-roads. Southeast will take us there in a straight line. Come

along.”

 

On the way back I noticed for the first time a change in my companion.

His steps, all of a sudden, seemed to have lost their elasticity, while

I grew stronger and more contented every minute.

 

“What’s the matter with you?” I asked.

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Of course there is. I know it from the way you walk!”

 

“I don’t feel extra well. Something wrong with my stomach. It’ll pass

soon, I expect.”

 

That was bad news. We came to a lonely wooden hut, like a very small

barn. I stopped. “Tell me frankly if you think you can’t go on. In

that case we’ll break in here. We’ll have a certain amount of shelter

inside. There is no danger. To-morrow will be Sunday and nobody is

likely to come near us. It is much better to stop in time, before you

have drawn too much upon your reserve strength. The situation is not

precarious enough for that. You’ll want that later on.”

 

“No,” he insisted; “I can go on.”

 

At last we turned into the road we were looking for. The rain had

changed to sleet. The road was slippery with ice. Progress would have

been slow under any circumstances, but it was slower on account of

Wallace’s failing strength. He was plucky, however, and he kept going.

 

The usual thirst began to trouble us. Fortunately we had filled our

water-bottles at the hotel in Hanover. To husband our supply on

Wallace’s behalf, I contented myself with sucking the ice which I

peeled in lumps from my hat brim.

 

In due course we came to the first clearing. The outlines of a barn

on the right, and a house on the left, seemed familiar. “Let’s rest a

bit,” I proposed to Wallace, for he seemed almost done. He propped

himself in a sitting posture against the wall of the barn, while I

scouted around.

 

There was a farmyard behind the structure. The barn itself consisted

of a loft, reared on strong uprights. Only half the space below was

enclosed by boards, and filled with compressed straw. The other half

was open, and contained a big farm wagon. Between its wheels and the

straw a number of clumsy ladders were tightly wedged. In the gable of

the loft an open door showed a black interior.

 

“There will be straw up there,” I said to Wallace. “The cattle were

given a fresh bed to-day, probably. Nobody will want to fetch straw on

a Sunday. We’ll be quite safe.” And I went through the same argument as

before.

 

Wallace was undecided for a moment, I believe. But, to tell the truth,

I had spoken rather too sharply to him a little time before. My only

excuse is that I was exceedingly worried. Rotten as he felt, he was

bound to be nettled. “No,” he said; “I will go on.”

 

It was obvious that he was suffering from an attack of something

akin to indigestion. I was unable, though, to make head or tail of

his attack. When I pressed him for information, he told me he had

swallowed some shaving-soap, mistaking it in the dark for chocolate. He

had hardly any pain, but our pace decreased gradually to a crawl as we

neared the crest of the spur of hills, where the path which I had used

on my first escape branched off. Not having a torch, I missed it, but

discovered my mistake about two hundred yards beyond. We had come out

of the forest. Plowed fields on our right had given me the first hint

of my error.

 

“We’ll have to turn back. I’ve missed the path,” I informed my friend.

 

“I can’t move any farther. I must lie down,” answered Wallace

indistinctly, swaying on his feet.

 

Too miserable to say anything, I led him back, and some way into the

timber got out his flimsy sleeping-bag, and put him inside. Then I felt

his pulse. It was going at the rate of about one hundred and thirty a

minute.

 

“How do you feel?” I asked.

 

“Done for, old man. But don’t you worry. You go on. No use spoiling

your chance. You leave me here. I’ll be all right.”

 

“I’m not going to leave you, except for a few minutes. I want to find

that path. I’ll be back in a quarter of an hour. You’ll be all right

that long, won’t you?”

 

I was still hoping for a miraculous recovery, although Wallace’s rapid

pulse had upset me sorely. My mind was tenaciously holding to the idea of “carrying on,” and I wished to know how to get my companion on the right road without wasting his precious strength.