The Last Shot Part 71

"Nor is that the worst of it," said the vice-chief. "They are pressing at other well-chosen points. They threaten to pierce our centre."

"Our centre!" gibed Westerling. "You do need rest. Our centre, where we have the column of last night's attack still concentrated! If anything would convince me that I have to fight this war-alone--I--" Westerling choked in irritation.

"Yes. The ground is such that it is a tactically safe and advantageous move for Lanstron to make. He strikes at the vitals of our machine."

"But what about the remainder of the force that made the charge? What about all our guns concentrated in front of Engadir?"

"I was coming to that. The rout of the a.s.saulting column was much worse than we had supposed. Those who are strong enough cannot be got to reform. Many were so exhausted that they dropped in their tracks. Our guns are at this moment in retreat--or being captured by the rush of the Browns' infantry. Your Excellency, the crisis is sudden, incredible."

"Our wire service has broken down. We cannot communicate with many of our division commanders," put in Bellini, the chief of intelligence.

"Yes, our organization, so dependent on communication, is in danger of disruption," concluded Turcas. "To avoid disorder, we think it best to retreat across the plain to our own range."

At the word "retreat" Westerling sprang to his feet, his cheeks purple, the veins of his neck and temples sculptured as he took a threatening step toward the group, which fell back before the physical rage of the man, all except the vice-chief, his mouth a thin, ashy line, who held his own.

"You cowards!" Westerling thundered. "Retreat when we have five millions to their three!"

"We have not that odds now," replied the parchment voice. "All their men are engaged. They have caught us at a disadvantage, unable to use our numbers except in detail in trying to hold on in face of--"

"I tell you we cannot retreat!" Westerling interrupted. "That is the end. I know what you do not know. I am in touch with the government.

Yes, I know--"

This brought fresh alarm into faces which had become set in grim stoicism by many alarms. If the people were in ignorance of the losses and the army in ignorance of the nation's feeling, the officers of the staff were no less in ignorance of what pa.s.sed over the long-distance wire between the chief of staff and the premier.

"I know what is best--I alone!" Westerling continued, driving home his point. "Tell our commanders to hold. Neither general nor man is to budge. They are to stick to the death. Any one who does not I shall hold up to public shame as a poltroon. Who knows but Lanstron's attack may be a council of desperation? The Browns may be worse off than we are. Hold, hold! If are are tired, they are tired. Frequently it takes only an ounce more of resolution to turn the tide of battle. Hold, hold!

To-morrow will tell a different story! We are going to win yet! Yes, we are going to win!"

"It is for you to decide, Your Excellency," said Turcas, slowly and precisely. "You take the responsibility."

"I take the responsibility. I am in command!" replied Westerling in unflinching pose.

"Yes, Your Excellency."

And they filed out of the room, leaving him to his isolation.

A little later, when Francois came in unannounced, bringing coffee, he found his master with face buried in hands. Westerling was on the point of striking the valet in anger at the discovery, but instead attempted a yawn to deceive him.

"I fell asleep; there's so little to worry about, Francois," he explained.

"Yes, Your Excellency. There is no need of worrying as long as you are in command," said Francois; and Westerling gulped at the coffee and chewed at a piece of roll, which was so dry in his mouth and so hard to swallow that he gave up the attempt.

After Marta had learned, over the telephone, from Lanstron of the certain repulse of the Gray a.s.sault, fatigue--sheer physical fatigue such as made soldiers drop dead in slumber on the earth, their packs still on their backs--overcame her. Her work was done. The demands of nature overwhelmed her faculties. She slept with a nervous twitching of her muscles, a restless tossing of her lithe body, until hammers began beating on her temples, beating, beating with the sound of sh.e.l.l bursts, as if to warn her that punishment for her share in the killing was to be the eternal concussion of battle in her ears. At length she realized that the cannonading was real.

Hastening out-of-doors, as her glance swept toward the range she saw bursts of shrapnel smoke from the guns of the Browns nearer than since the fighting had begun on the main line, and these were directed at bodies of infantry that were in confused retreat down the slopes, while all traffic on the pa.s.s road was moving toward the rear. Impelled by a new apprehension she hurried to the tunnel. Lanstron answered her promptly in a voice that had a ring of relief and joy in place of the tension that had characterized it since the outbreak of the war.

"Thanks to you, Marta!" he cried. "Everything goes back to you--thanks to you came this chance to attack, and we are succeeding at every point!

You are the general, you the maker of victories!"

"Yes, the general of still more killing!" she cried in indignation. "Why have you gone on with the slaughter? I did not help you for this. Why?"

No reply came. She poured out more questions, and still no reply. She pressed the b.u.t.ton and tried again, but she might as well have been talking over a dead wire.

Though the morning was chill, Mrs. Galland, in a heavy coat, was seated outside the tower door, beatifically calm and smiling; for she would miss rejoicing over no detail of the spectacle. The battle's sounds were sweet music--symphony of retribution. Oh, if her husband and her father could only be with her to see the ancient enemy in flight! Her cheeks were rosy with the happy thrumming of her heart; a delirious beat was in her temples. She wanted to sing and cheer and give thanks to the Almighty. The advancing bursts of billowy shrapnel down the slopes were a heavenly nimbus to her eyes. She breathed a silent blessing on a manoeuvring Brown dirigible. They were coming! The soldiers of her people were coming to take back their own from the robber hosts and restore her hearth to her. Soon she would be seated on the veranda watching the folds of her flag floating over La Tir.

"Isn't it wonderful? Isn't it like some good story?" she said to Marta.

"Yes, like a miracle--and there has been a Galland in every war of the Browns and you were in this!"

Having no son, she had given her daughter in sacrifice on the altar of her country's G.o.ds, who had answered with victory. Her old-fashioned patriotism, true to the "all-is-fair-in-war" precept, delighted in the hour of success in every trick of Marta's double-dealing, though in private life she could have been guilty of no deceit.

"Marta, Marta, I shall never tease you again about your advanced ideas or about journeying all the way around the world without a chaperon.

Your father and my father would have approved!" She squeezed Marta's hands and pressed them to her cheek. Marta smiled absently.

"Yes, mother," she said, but in such a fashion that Mrs. Galland was reminded again that Marta had always been peculiar. Probably it was because she was peculiar that she had been able to outwit the head of an army.

"Oh, that mighty Westerling who was going to conquer the whole world!

How does he feel now?" mused Mrs. Galland "Westerling and his boasted power of five against three!"

For the Grays were barbarians to her and the Browns a people of a superior civilization, a superior aristocracy, a superior professional and farming and laboring cla.s.s. There was nothing about the Browns to Mrs. Galland that was not superior. War, that ancient popular test of superiority in art, civilization, morals, scholarship, the grace of woman and the manliness of man, had proved her point in the high court, permitting of no appeal.

One man alone against the tide--rather, the man who has seen a tide rise at his orders now finding all its sweep against him--Westerling, accustomed to have millions of men move at his command, found himself, one man out of the millions, still and helpless while they moved of their own impulses.

As news of positions lost came in, he could only grimly repeat, "Hold!

Tell them to hold!" fruitlessly, like adjurations to the wind to cease blowing. The bell of the long distance kept ringing unheeded, until at last his aide came to say that the premier must speak either to him or to the vice-chief. Westerling staggered to his feet and with lurching steps went into the closet. There he sank down on the chair in a heap, staring at the telephone mouthpiece. Again the bell rang. Clenching his hands in a rocking effort, he was able to stiffen his spine once more as he took down the receiver. To admit defeat to the premier--no, he was not ready for that yet.

"The truth is out!" said the premier without any break in his voice and with the fatalism of one who never allows himself to blink a fact.

"Telegraphers at the front who got out of touch with the staff were still in touch with the capital. Once the reports began to come, they poured in--decimation of the attacking column, panic and retreat in other portions of the line--chaos!"

"It's a lie!" Westerling declared vehemently.

"The news has reached the press," the premier proceeded. "Editions are already in the streets."

"What! Where is your censorship?" gasped Westerling.

"It is helpless, a straw protesting against a current," the premier replied. "A censorship goes back to physical force, as every law does in the end--to the police and the army; and all, these days, finally to public opinion. After weeks of secrecy, of reported successes, when n.o.body really knew what was happening, this sudden disillusioning announcement of the truth has sent the public mad."

"It is your business to control the public!" complained Westerling.

"With what, now? With a speech or a lullaby? As well could you stop the retreat with your naked hands. My business to control the public, yes, but not unless you win victories. I gave you the soldiers. We have nothing but police here, and I tell you that the public is in a mob rage--the whole public, bankers and business and professional men included. I have just ordered the stock exchange and all banks closed."

"There's a cure for mobs!" cried Westerling. "Let the police fire a few volleys and they'll behave."

"Would that stop the retreat of the army? We must sue for peace."

"Sue for peace! Sue for peace when we have five millions against their three!"

"It seems so, as the three millions are winning!" said the premier.