The Parts Men Play Part 48

Without a sound, d.i.c.k sank to the ground in complete exhaustion. The groom unstrapped his own greatcoat, which had been carried rolled, and covered the lad with it. Taking a thermos bottle from his haversack, he poured some hot tea between d.i.c.k's lips, and saw a little glow of warmth creep into the cheeks.

'Now, sir,' he said, 'take a bit 'o' this sandwich. 'Ave another swig o' the tea. Bless my heart, sir, won't them fellers be surprised when they finds as how they ain't got no corpse for their funeral? That's better, sir. I will say about army tea that even if it ain't what my old woman would make, it's rare an' strong, Mas'r d.i.c.k--rare an' strong an' powerful, likewise and sim'lar.'

'Mathews,' said d.i.c.k weakly, 'how was it--you were on guard--last night? Was it just an accident?'

'Yes, sir. Just a accident. Well, not precisely a accident neither, sir. I be what the War Office calls "a headquarter troop," and do odd jobs behind the lines. Sometimes I dig graves, and other times I be a officer's servant, and likewise do a turn o' sentry-go. Well, sir, when I heard that you was a prisoner and was goin' for to be shot, I persuades the corp'l to put me on guard, exchangin' a diggin' job with a bloke by the name o' Griggs, so as not to incormode the records o'

the War Office. That's all, sir. There I were, and here we be; and arter you've had a sleep, you and me will have a jaw on our immed'ate future. 'Ave a good snooze, Mas'r d.i.c.k, and I'll keep an eye trimmed on the road.'

With the same boyishness he had shown that night in Selwyn's rooms, d.i.c.k put out his hand and pressed the old groom's arm. With a paternal air, Mathews patted the hand with his own and reached for his pipe, explaining that he would steal a smoke before daylight. But the lad did not hear him. He was lost in a deep, dreamless sleep.

CHAPTER XXV.

THE FIGHT FOR THE BRIDGE.

I.

It was nearly noon when the tired youth awoke. He looked wonderingly about, and there was a haunting fear in his light eyes, like those of a stag that dreads the hunters. From the north there came the sound of drum-fire, a weird, almost tedious, rhythm of guns working at a feverish pace; and the near-by road was a ma.s.s of jumbled traffic. Ambulances, supply-wagons, field-artillery, lorries, with jingling harness or snorting engines--streams of vehicles moved slowly up and down their channel. At a reckless speed motorcyclists, carrying urgent messages, swerved through it all; and in the ditches that ran alongside, refugees were stumbling on, fleeing from the new terror, their crouching, misshapen figures like players from a grotesque drama of the Macabre.

'The sausage-eaters,' said Mathews philosophically, 'must be feelin'

their oats, sir.'

At the sound of the familiar voice the fear pa.s.sed from d.i.c.k's face.

Memory had returned, and he smiled, though his body trembled as if with a chill. 'I'm starved,' he said, 'and I have nothing with me. How long did I sleep, Mathews?'

'Pretty near seven hours, Mas'r d.i.c.k. Here you are, sir--feedin'-time, and the bugle's went.'

He handed Durwent a sandwich, which the young man devoured ravenously, washing it down with some cold tea. Mathews also munched at a sandwich, and through the cornstalks they watched the two currents of war-traffic eddying past each other. There was a roar of engines behind them, and, flying low, a formation of sixteen British aeroplanes made in a straight line for the battle area.

With a map which the groom had thoughtfully borrowed from an officer the previous day, d.i.c.k managed to gain fairly accurate information as to their position. By calculation he figured out that they had travelled seventeen or eighteen miles during the night, and identifying the main road on which they had come, he saw that after two or three miles it would take a rectangular turn to the right, running parallel to the line of battle. Four miles to the south-east of the turning-point there was a river, and this the fugitives decided to reach that night.

'If we can locate that,' said d.i.c.k eagerly, 'it is bound to lead us into the French lines.'

'Werry good, sir,' said the groom, with an air of resignation. His contempt for maps and their unintelligibility was deep-rooted, but if his young master thought he could locate a river with one, he would keep an open mind on the subject until it had, at least, been given a fair trial.

'You see,' said Durwent, 'a great many of these troops on the road are French, so when we follow that route we must get into French territory.'

'Yezzir,' said Mathews profoundly. 'I won't go for to say as 'ow you mayn't be right. All the same, Mas'r d.i.c.k, when it comes to enterin' the ring wi' them sausage-eaters I'd raither 'ave a dozen Lancashire or Devon lads about me than all the Frenchies you could put in Hyde Park. It ain't that these here spec'mens don't 'ave a good sound heart as far as standin' up and takin' knocks is concerned, but they be too frisky and skittish for my likin'. I see 'em all wavin' their arms like as if a carriage and pair has run away, and talkin' all at once and together, likewise and sim'lar. Wot's more, they does it in a lingo that no one can't go for to make out, not even a Frenchy hisself, because I never see one Frog listenin' to another--did you, sir? Wot's more, sir, they gets all of a lather over things which is only fit for women-folk to worry on--such as w'ether a hen has laid its egg reg'lar; or the coffee, was it black enough? From wot I see as puts a Frog in a dither, I sez to myself that if you was to take him to a real hoss-race, he'd never see the finish. No, sir; he'd be dead o' heart-failure afore the hosses was off.'

d.i.c.k smiled at the tremendous seriousness of the old groom, and lay back wearily on the ground. 'We had better both turn in for another nap,' he said. 'We'll need all our strength to-night, and if we stay awake we're sure to get hungry.'

'Werry sound advice, Mas'r d.i.c.k,' said Mathews. 'But would I be presumin', sir, to ask you a favour? I got a letter yesterday from my old woman, and wot with her writin' and me bein' nought o' a scholar, I was wonderin', Mas'r d.i.c.k, if you would just acquaint me with any fac's that you might think the old girl would like me for to know.'

'Willingly,' said d.i.c.k, taking a sealed letter from the groom, who squatted solemnly on the ground, a.s.suming an air of deep contemplation, as one who has to give an opinion on a hitherto unread masterpiece.

'It begins,' said d.i.c.k, with some difficulty making out the writing, which was extremely small in some words and very large in others, and punctuated mainly with blots--'"Dear Daddy"'----

'That,' said Mathews, 'is conseckens o' me bein' sire to little Wellington.'

'Oh yes,' said d.i.c.k. '"Dear Daddy, ther ain't nothing to tell you Wellington has took the mumps and the cat had some more kittens"'----

'That's a werry remark'ble cat,' observed Mathews. 'I never see a animal so ambitious. Wot does the old girl say Wellington has took?'

'Mumps.'

'By Criky! I hope it don't go for to make his nose no bigger. Wot a infant he is! Mumps! Go on, Mas'r d.i.c.k--the old girl's doin' fine.'

'"The day,"' resumed d.i.c.k--'"the day afor Tuesday come last week"'----

'Don't pull up, sir,' said Mathews as d.i.c.k paused to re-read the puzzling words. 'You has to take my old woman at a good clip to get her meanin'--but you'll find it hid somewere, Mas'r d.i.c.k. I never see the old girl come a cropper yet.'

With this to guide him, the reader found his place again with the aid of a blot, a half-inch square, which surrounded the first word. '"The day afor Tuesday,"' he went on, '"come last week Wellington and the rector's boy Charlie fit."'

'Werry good,' said Mathews approvingly.

'"Wellington's nose were badly done in and he looks awful bad but the rector's boy"'----

'Wot does she say about him?' asked Mathews, staring into s.p.a.ce.

'"The rector's boy could not see out of neither eye for 3 days."'

Repressing a chuckle by a great effort, Mathews hastily fumbled for his corncob pipe, and placing it unlit in his mouth, continued to look into s.p.a.ce with a face that was almost purple from smothered exuberance.

'"Milord and Lady,"' resumed d.i.c.k, '"is just the same and Milord always asks how you was and will I remember him to you."'

'A thoroughbred--that's wot he is,' said Mathews, apparently addressing the distant refugees.

'"Miss Elise was heer last week and is that sweet grown that all the woonded tommies fit with pillos to see who wud propos to her. There ain't no news. Bertha the skullery maid marrid a hyland soldier and they are going for to keep a sweet-shop after the war. Wellington sprayned his ankil yesterday by clyming out of the windo where I had locked him in as he has the mumps."'

'Wot a infant!' commented Mathews admiringly.

'"I am sending you a parsil and a picter of me and Wellington. We are very lonesum, daddy, and I'll be reel glad when the war is over and you come back. It is awful lonesum and Wellington is to. This morning he cut his hand trying to carv our best chair into the shape of a horse. I am feeling fine and hope the reumatiz don't worry you no more. With heeps of love from me and Wellington, your wife, Maggie."'

It was a strange contrast in faces as the young man folded the letter and handed it back. In the countenance of the groom there was a st.u.r.dy pride in the epistolary achievement of his wife--a pride which he made a violent but unsuccessful effort to conceal. In the pale, handsome face of the young aristocrat there was a whimsical pathos. By the picture conjured up in the crudely written letter he had seen his parents, his sister, the humble cottage of the groom, and the wife's faithfulness and cheeriness. He had seen them, not as separate things, but hallowed and unified by a common sacrifice for England.

For the first time since his escape d.i.c.k Durwent regretted it. He could see no safety ahead for Mathews, no matter how long they evaded arrest.

Although a cool, fretful wind was blowing over the fields, the warm noon sun made his eyelids heavy.

Against the wish of the groom, he insisted upon spreading the greatcoat over them both, and in a few minutes master and man were resting side by side as comrades.

'Mathews,' said d.i.c.k quietly.

'Yezzir?'

'Give me your word that if you ever reach England you will never tell my family about this. They don't know I am in France, and'----