The Day of Wrath Part 20

Pochard's comment was to the point, at any rate. "I congratulate you, monsieur," he said. "I'll do a bit in that line myself when this little one is lodged with his aunt in Huy. If every Belgian accounts for two Prussians, you'll hold them till the French and English join up."

"Do you know for certain where the English are?" put in Dalroy eagerly.

"Yes, at Charleroi. The French are in Namur. Come with me to Huy. A few days, and the _sales Alboches_ will be pelting back to the Rhine."

For the second time Dalroy heard a slang epithet new to him applied to the Germans. He little guessed how familiar the abbreviated French form of the word would become in his ears. Briton, Frenchman, Slav, and Italian have cordially adopted "Boche" as a suitable term for the common enemy. It has no meaning, yet conveys a sense of contemptuous dislike.

Stricken France had no heart for humour in 1870. The merciless foe was then a "Prussian"; in 1914 he became a "Boche," and the change held a comforting significance.

Dalroy, of course, did not share the Frenchman's opinion as to the speedy discomfiture of the invader; but night was falling, the offer of shelter was too good to be refused. Nevertheless, he was careful to reveal a real difficulty. "Unfortunately, we have a dead woman in the cart," he said. "Madame Stauwaert, too, is ill, but she has recovered from a fainting fit, I see."

"Ah, poor Stauwaert!" murmured the other. "A decent fellow. I saw them kill him. And that's his wife, of course. I didn't recognise her before."

Dalroy was relieved to find that the Frenchman and the bereaved woman were friends. He had not forgotten the priest's statement that there would be a spy in every group in that part of Belgium. Later he ascertained that Monsieur Pochard was a well-to-do leather merchant in Andenne, who, like many others, refused to abandon a long-established business for fear of the Germans; doubtless he was destined to pay a heavy price for his tenacity ere the war ended. He behaved now as a true Samaritan, urging an immediate move, and promising even to arrange for Madame Joos's burial. Dalroy helped him to carry the child, a three-year-old boy, who was very sleepy and peevish, and did not understand why he should not be at home and in bed.

Joos suffered them to lead him where they listed. He walked by the side of the cart, and told "Lise" how he had dealt with the Uhlan. Leontine sobbed afresh, and tried to stop him, but he grew quite angry.

"Why shouldn't she know?" he snapped. "It is her affair, and mine. You screamed, and turned away, but I hacked at him till his wind-pipe hissed."

Monsieur Pochard brought them to Huy by a rough road among the hills.

It was a dreadful journey in the gloaming of a perfect summer's evening.

The old man's ghoulish jabbering, the sobs of the women, the panting of two exhausted dogs, and the wailing of the child, who wanted his father's arms round him rather than a stranger's, supplied a tragic chorus which ill beguiled that _Via Dolorosa_ along the heights of the Meuse.

Irene insisted on taking the boy for a time, and the youngster ceased his plaint at once.

"That's a blessed relief," she confided to Dalroy. "I'm not afflicted with nerves, but this poor little chap's crying was more than I could bear."

"He is too heavy that you should carry him far," he protested.

"You're very much of a man, Arthur," she said quietly. "You don't realise, I suppose, that nature gives us women strong arms for this very purpose."

"I hadn't thought of that. The fact is, I'm worried. I have a doubt at the back of my head that we ought to be going the other way."

"Which other way?"

"In precisely the opposite direction."

"But what can we do? At what stage in our wanderings up to this very moment could we have parted company with our friends? Do you know, I have a horrible feeling that we have brought a good deal of avoidable misery on their heads? If we hadn't gone to the mill----"

"They would probably all have been dead by this time, and certainly both homeless and friendless," he interrupted. Then he began telling her the fate of Vise, but was brought up short by an imperative whisper from Pochard. They were talking English, without realising it, and Huy was near.

"And why carry that sword?" added the Frenchman. "It is useless, and most dangerous. Thrust it into a ditch."

Dalroy obeyed promptly. He had thoughtlessly disregarded the sinister outcome if a patrol found him with such a weapon in his hand.

They came to Huy by a winding road through a suburb, meeting plenty of soldiers strolling to and from billets. Luck befriended them at this ticklish moment. None saw a little party turning into a lane which led to the back of the villa tenanted by Monsieur Pochard's married sister.

This lady proved both sympathetic and helpful. The cart, with its sad freight, was housed in a wood-shed at the bottom of the garden, and the dogs were stabled in the gardener's potting-shed.

"The ladies can share my bedroom and my daughter's," she said. "You men must sleep in the greenhouse, as every remaining room is filled with Uhlans. Their supper is ready now, but there is plenty. Come and eat before they arrive. They left on patrol duty early this morning."

And that is where the fugitives experienced a stroke of amazing good fortune. That particular batch of Uhlans never returned. It was supposed that they were cut off while scouting along the Tirlemont road.

Apparently their absence only contributed to an evening of quiet talk and a night of undisturbed rest. In reality, it saved the lives of the whole party, including the hostess and her family.

Early next morning Monsieur Pochard interviewed an undertaker, and Madame Joos was laid to rest in the nearest cemetery. Maertz, Madame Stauwaert, and Leontine attended the funeral. Joos showed signs of collapse. His mind wandered. He thought his wife was living, and in Verviers. They encouraged the delirium, and dosed him with a narcotic.

Irene helped in the kitchen, and Dalroy dug the garden. Thus, the confederacy remained split up during the morning, and was not noticed by an officer who came to inquire about the missing Uhlans.

About noon Monsieur Pochard drew Dalroy aside. "Monsieur," he said, and his face wore anxious lines, "last night the old man implied that he was Henri Joos, of Vise. No, please listen. I don't want to be told. I can only give you certain facts, and leave you to draw your own conclusions.

Active inquiries are being made by the authorities for Henri Joos, Elisabeth Joos, Leontine Joos, their daughter, and Jan Maertz, all of Vise. With them are an Englishwoman aged twenty, and an English officer named Dalroy, both dressed as Belgian peasants. The appended descriptions seem to be remarkably accurate, and a reward of one thousand marks is offered for their capture."

"They may be willing to pay double the price for freedom," said Dalroy.

The Frenchman was not offended. He realised that this was not a suggestion of a personal bribe.

"You have not heard all," he continued. "These people were traced to Verviers, but the trail was lost after Maertz bought a cart and a dog-team in that town three days ago. Unfortunately, some Uhlans, pa.s.sing through Andenne last night, have reported the presence of just such a party on the main road. Other soldiers believe they saw a similar lot entering Huy after dark, and the burgomaster is warned that the strictest search must be made among refugees at Huy. To make sure, a German escort will a.s.sist. It is estimated that Joos and the others will be caught, because they will probably depend on a _laisser pa.s.ser_ issued in Argenteau under false names, which are known. Joos figures as Wilhelm Schultz, for instance. Don't look so surprised, monsieur. The burgomaster is my brother-in-law's partner. He will not reach this quarter of Huy till half-past three or four o'clock."

"But there is the record of Madame Joos's burial," put in Dalroy instantly.

"No. The poor creature remains a 'woman unknown, found dead.' The Germans don't worry about such trifles. But, by a strange coincidence, Madame Stauwaert practically takes her place for identification purposes. By the mercy of Providence, no German soldier was in this house last night, or he would now be the richer by a thousand marks. The notice is placarded at the _Kommandantur_, and is being read by the mult.i.tude."

"We shall not bring further trouble on a family which has already run grave risk in our behalf," vowed Dalroy warmly. "We must scatter at once, and, if caught, suffer individually."

"I was sure you would say that, monsieur; but sworn allies carry friendship to greater lengths. Now, let us take counsel. Madame Stauwaert can remain here. Fifty people in Huy will answer for her. My sister can hire a servant, Leontine. If Joos is tractable he can lodge in safety with some cottagers I know. Maertz wishes to join the Belgian army, and you the British; while that charming young lady will want to get to England. Well, we may be able to contrive all these things. I happen to be a bit of an antiquary, and Huy owns more ruined castles and monasteries than any other town of similar size in Belgium, or in the world, I imagine. Follow my instructions to the letter, and you will cheat the Germans yet. They are animals of habit and cast-iron rule.

When searching for six people they will never look for one or two. Yet it would be folly if you and mademoiselle wandered off by yourselves in a strange country. Then, indeed, even German official obtuseness might show a spark of real intelligence; whereas, by gaining a few days, who knows whether your armies may not come to you, rather than you go to them?"

The good-hearted Frenchman's scheme worked without a hitch. The cart was broken up for firewood, the harness burnt, and the dogs taken a mile into the country by Maertz, who sold them for a couple of francs, and came back to a certain ruined priory by a roundabout road.

Irene and Dalroy had gone there already. The place lay deep in trees and brushwood, and was approachable by a dozen hidden ways. Although given over to bats and owls, its tumbledown walls contained one complete room, situated some twenty feet above the ground level, and reached by a winding staircase of stone slabs, which looked most precarious, but proved quite sound if used by a sure-footed climber.

Here, then, the three dwelt eleven weary days. During daylight their only diversion was the flight of hosts of aeroplanes toward the French frontier. Twice they saw Zeppelins. For warmth at night they depended on horse-rugs and bundles of a species of bracken which throve among the piles of stones. They were well supplied with food, deposited at dusk in a fosse, and obtained when the opening bars of "La Brabanconne" were whistled at a distance. The air itself was a guarantee that no German was near, because the Belgian national anthem is not pleasing to Hun ears.

A typed note in the basket formed their sole link with the outer world.

And what momentous issues were conveyed in the briefest of sentences!

"Namur has fallen after a day's bombardment by a new and terrible cannon."

"Brussels has capitulated without resistance."

"After a fierce battle, the French and English have retired from Charleroi and Mons."

"The retreat continues. France is invaded. Valenciennes has fallen."

On the eleventh morning Dalroy hid among the bushes until the daily basket was brought. Monsieur Pochard himself was the go-between. He feared lest Leontine would contrive to meet Maertz, so the girl did not know where her lover was hidden.

The Frenchman started visibly when Dalroy's voice reached him; but the latter spoke in a tone which would not carry far. "I'm sorry to seem ungrateful," he said, "but we are growing desperate. Do us one last favour, monsieur, and we impose no more on your goodness. Tell me where and when we can cross the Meuse, and the best route to take subsequently. Sink or swim, I, at any rate, must endeavour to reach England, and mademoiselle is equally resolved to make the attempt."

"I don't blame you," came the sorrowful reply. "This is going to be a long war. Twenty years of deadly preparation are bearing fruit. I am sick with anxiety. But I dare not loiter in this neighbourhood, so, as to your affair, my advice is that you cross the Meuse to-morrow in broad daylight. The bridge is repaired, and no very strict watch is kept.

Make for Nivelles, Enghien, and Oudenarde. The Belgians hold the Antwerp-Gand-Roulers line, but are being driven back daily. I have been thinking of you. If you delay longer you will--at the best--be imprisoned in Belgium for many months. Are you determined?"