The Dispatch Riders Part 17

"Don't wait," he continued, as he unscrewed the cap of the petrol tank and produced the dispatch. "Take this, and hurry on. I'll patch this up and follow. If you can, wait for me at Cortenaeken till two o'clock."

"Right-o!" a.s.sented Rollo. "You can manage all right?"

"I can't ask you to bear a hand if I don't," replied Kenneth. "I'll make a job of it somehow. Good luck!"

Rollo was off. Kenneth stood beside his crippled steed and watched his friend's receding figure out of sight; then taking out his repair outfit he began his task. It was a long job. The cover, being practically a new one, was an obstinate one to remove. It had to be patched with canvas, while the double puncture in the inner tube took a considerable time to clean and prepare.

While he was waiting for the solution to get "tacky", a peculiar buzzing sound greeted his ears.

"Aeroplanes!" he muttered. "Whose, I wonder?"

He looked upwards. The sun shining in a cloudless sky dazzled his vision. He put on his tinted goggles, which during the repair operations he had removed. Then he saw, perhaps three thousand feet above him, a large Zeppelin moving in a westerly direction. He watched it with a sort of contemptuous interest.

"The vaunted German terror of the air--perhaps!" he soliloquized. "I wouldn't give much for its chances if even half a dozen aeroplanes tackled it. Ah! Thinking better of it?"

This last remark was uttered as the gigantic airship began to turn, pitching as it did so like a lively ship in a sea-way.

Bringing his binoculars to bear upon the Zeppelin, Kenneth watched its undignified progress. Apparently it had encountered a strong air-current that tended to drive it in a westerly direction. By the aid of the gla.s.ses Kenneth could see that the immense fabric showed, in spite of its supposed rigidity, a decided tendency to "whip" as it swung broadside on to the direction of the wind. Then, steadying itself on a course in exactly the opposite direction to that which it had previously been following, the Zeppelin forged ahead, still see-sawing ominously.

Suddenly the bow portion dipped, then with ever-increasing velocity the huge airship plunged earthwards. Its propeller ceased to revolve; from the cars, ballast--not loose sand, but solid material--was thrown out in the hope of checking the now terrific descent. Then it disappeared from the motor-cyclist's view, beyond a slight ridge of hills about five miles off.

"That's done for it, thank goodness!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Kenneth, as he replaced his binoculars and reapplied himself to the repairs to the tyre; "if it were not for this rotten puncture I'd slip over and have a look at the remains. I hope the thing's fallen within the Belgian lines. It will cheer the plucky beggars up a bit."

It took him quite another half-hour to patch the torn canvas and coax the stubborn cover back into its rim. Then, with a feeling of gratification that he had overcome difficulties, he began to inflate the tyre.

"Almost hard enough," he said to himself, ceasing his efforts to prod the rubber with his thumb. "I'll give it another dozen strokes just to show there's no ill-feeling."

Bang! With a report like the discharge of a small field-piece the tyre collapsed. A portion of the inner tube had been nipped, with the result that a gash four inches in length was demanding attention.

"Confound it!" exclaimed Kenneth angrily.

With the perspiration pouring off him, he again tackled the obstinate cover with savage energy. This time the repair was a complicated one.

Three times the patch failed to hold, but finally, at the end of an hour and a half's hard work, the tedious task was accomplished.

At Tirlemont Kenneth made enquiries, and was given such minute directions that before he had gone another five miles he was hopelessly befogged. The roads were little better than narrow lanes; there were no direction posts, and he had long forgotten whether he had to take the first turning to the left and the third to the right, or the third to the left and the first to the right. There were several isolated cottages, but their inhabitants had fled. The whole district seemed depopulated, for the great exodus to Brussels had begun. There was plenty of evidence of the hurried flight of the civil population.

Articles of domestic use, found to be too heavy to carry far, had been jettisoned by the roadside. Here and there was an abandoned cart, still laden with the household goods of some unfortunate Belgian family.

At length Kenneth found that the lane he was following came upon a small stream. Here a bridge had recently been destroyed. Further progress in that direction was impossible, unless he decided to abandon his cycle and swim across the fifteen feet of water to the opposite bank. Following the stream was a rough path, badly cut up by the tracks of cattle. It was the only possible way unless he retraced his route.

Producing his military map Kenneth attempted to fix his position. He could only come to the conclusion that the stream was the River Velp, on which the hamlet of Cortenaeken stands. He was, he decided, about ten miles from the village, which ought to be reached by following the path he had struck.

It was bad going. The deep ruts made riding a nerve-racking ordeal.

Here and there the path had slipped bodily into the reed-grown mud that fringed the stream. Dismounts were frequent; speed was out of the question.

After a mile or so of this unsatisfactory mode of progression the path ended abruptly, but here the stream was crossed by a narrow plank bridge. On the opposite side, at about two hundred yards from the bank, was a cottage, and--thanks be!--from the chimney a wreath of faint blue smoke was rising.

Kenneth dismounted, set his motor-cycle on its stand, and proceeded to examine the apparently frail bridge. It sagged considerably under his weight; what would it do with the additional weight of his mount? In addition there was the transport problem. He could not carry the heavy cycle; the plank was too narrow for him to attempt to ride across. Yet he did not feel at all inclined to go back along that rutty path.

"I'll give a few toots on the horn," he declared. "Perhaps the people in the house will come out and bear a hand. Hullo! There's a punt over there in the rushes. With a.s.sistance I could get my bike across in that."

The raucous blasts on the horn disturbed the quietude of the sylvan scene, but without the desired result. He tried again, still without success.

"Perhaps these people have also cleared out in a hurry and left a fire burning," he soliloquized. "Otherwise they must have heard the explosions of the engine as I rode up. Well, here goes!"

Crossing the stream he took his way to the spot where the punt was made fast. Here, again, his hopes were dashed to the ground, for not only was the flat-bottomed craft chained and padlocked to a ma.s.sive post, but it had a gaping hole at one end and was half-full of water.

"It's only waste of time tramping across to that cottage," he said to himself. "I'll have a shot at getting the bike across first, and make enquiries later."

With that he retraced his steps to where his cycle was standing on the wrong side of the tantalizing stream. Throwing out the clutch and standing astride the saddle, Kenneth walked his motor-cycle towards the plank bridge; then shuffling very cautiously, he began the hazardous crossing.

At every step the soles of his boots were almost at the very edge of the worn plank. As he approached the centre it creaked ominously, while, to add to his difficulties, the motion of the water as it flowed underneath tended to make him giddy. He dared not look up unless he stopped, and that he was loath to do. One false step would send himself and his motor-cycle into six or seven feet of mud and water.

At length, safe and sound, Kenneth found himself on the farther bank.

Here a road, very little better than the one he had recently traversed, led away from the house, the only visible approach to which was by means of a stone stile and a footpath.

Again leaving his cycle, the lad leapt over the low wall and hastened towards the building.

The door was wide open. Across the threshold lay the body of an old man, with a ghastly wound in his head. Kenneth recoiled in horror; then, thinking perhaps that the unfortunate farmer--for such he was--might still be living, he again approached.

Even in the attempt to move the man, he heard the sound of a heavy snore, while, as if in answer to the noise, a horse began to neigh.

"Germans!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Kenneth. Once more he began to back, when, recollecting that even the sound of his motor had not disturbed the brutal slumberer, he drew his revolver and stepped across the threshold.

Coming in from the brilliant sunshine the place seemed almost pitch-dark, but in a few seconds the dispatch-rider's eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. He found himself in what was at one time the living-room of the farm. There was no hall or pa.s.sage; the outer door opened straight into it.

The whole place was in a state of almost indescribable confusion. The table had been overthrown, the chairs smashed--and smashed deliberately, for no ordinary struggle would have resulted in such complete demolition of the furniture. On the walls were a few cheap, highly-coloured prints, slashed by a keen instrument, while the gla.s.s was shattered to fragments. On the floor were the remains of broken bottles and crockery. The cupboards had been ransacked, and their contents hurled all over the room. Even the hearthstone had been forced up; the despoilers had evidently thought that the thrifty farmer had hidden a store of money beneath it.

The rest of the rooms on the ground floor were in a similar state of confusion. Kenneth set his jaw tightly. He no longer had any inclination to beat a retreat. The sight of the foully-murdered Belgian and his devastated home filled him with rage.

Holding his revolver ready for instant action, the lad began to ascend the stairs. They creaked horribly under his weight, but still the sounds of drunken slumber continued.

At the head of the stairs four rooms opened on to a fairly s.p.a.cious landing. Three of these were unoccupied by any living creature. In one was a huddled-up form.

"Brutes!" muttered the British lad. "No quarter!"

He pushed open the door of the remaining bedroom, whence the porcine grunts proceeded. Here were four men in the uniform of the dreaded Uhlans. Three, fully dressed and wearing their heavy boots, were sprawling in drunken slumber on the bed. They were nursing partly-consumed wine bottles, while the bed-clothes and floor were stained with the spilt liquid.

The fourth Uhlan was sitting in a chair, with his head resting on his chest. Across his forehead and over both ears was a blood-stained bandage. The wound had but recently been inflicted, so the Belgian farmer had apparently made a brave but unavailing stand in defence of his home. On the floor by the Uhlan's side lay his sword; his carbine was propped up against the arm of the chair.

"The brutes!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Kenneth again. "Hang it, I can't shoot these fellows while they are asleep!"

Just at that moment the wounded Uhlan opened his eyes and raised his head. His brain had not been dulled by drink, for with a swift movement he seized his carbine, at the same time shouting to his comrades that the Belgians were upon them.

CHAPTER XIV