Tom Slade with the Boys Over There Part 16

"Maybe it would be best if you held it in your teeth," said Tom thoughtfully; "unless you can swim with it in your hand."

The compa.s.s and the flashlight, which indeed were more susceptible of damage from the water than the precious gla.s.s, were encased in the other rubber glove, and the two fugitives waded out into the black, silent river.

Scarcely had their feet left the bottom when the first drop of rain fell upon Tom's head, and a chill gust of wind caught him and bore him a yard or two out of his course. He spluttered and looked about for Archer, but could see nothing in the darkness. He did not want to call for he knew how far voices carry across the water, and though the spot was isolated he would take no chances.

It rained hard and the wind, rising to a gale, lashed the black water into whitecaps. Tom strove vainly to make headway against the storm, but felt himself carried, w.i.l.l.y-nilly, he knew not where. He tried to distinguish the light beyond the Baden sh.o.r.e, which he had selected for a beacon, but he could not find it. At last he called to Archer.

"I'm going to turn back," he said; "come on--are you all right?"

If Archer answered his voice was drowned by the wind and rain. For a few moments Tom struggled against the elements, hoping to regain the Alsatian sh.o.r.e. His one guiding instinct in all the hubbub was the conviction that the wind smelled like an east wind and that it ought to carry him back to the nearer sh.o.r.e. He would have given a good deal for a glimpse of his precious little compa.s.s now.

"Where are you?" he called again. "The light's gone. Let the wind carry you back--it's east."

He could hear no answer save the mocking wind and the breaking of the water. This latter sound made him think the sh.o.r.e was not far distant.

But when, after a few moments, he did not feel the bottom, his heart sank. He had been lost in the woods and as a tenderfoot he had known the feeling of panic despair. And he had been in the ocean and seen his ship go down with a torpedo's jagged rent in her side. But he had never been lost in the water in the sense of losing all his bearings in the darkness. For a minute it quite unnerved him and his stout heart sank within him.

Then out of the tumult came a thin, spent voice, barely audible and seeming a part of the troubled voices of the night.

"----lost----," it said; "----going down----"

Tom listened eagerly, his heart still, his blood cold within him.

"Keep calling," he answered, "so I'll know where you are. I'll get to you all right--keep your nerve."

He listened keenly, ready to challenge the force of the storm with all his young skill and strength, and thinking of naught else now. But no guiding voice answered.

Could he have heard aright? Surely, there was no mistaking. It was a human voice that had spoken and whatever else it had said that one, tragic word had been clearly audible:

"----down----"

Archer had gone down.

CHAPTER XIX

TOM LOSES HIS FIRST CONFLICT WITH THE ENEMY

"Down!"

For the first time in Tom Slade's life a sensation of utter despair gripped him and it was not until several seconds had elapsed, while he was tossed at the mercy of the storm, that he was able to get a grip on himself. He struck out frantically and for just a brief minute was guilty of a failing which he had never yielded to--the perilous weakness of being rattled and hitting hard at nothing. In swimming, above all things, this is futile and dangerous, and presently Tom regained his mental poise and struck out calmly, swimming in the direction in which the wind bore him, for there was nothing else to do. Not that his effort helped him much, but he knew the good rule that one should never be pa.s.sive in a crisis, for inaction is as depressing to the spirit as frantic exertion is to the body. And he knew that by swimming he could keep his "morale"--a word which he had heard a good deal lately.

His heart was sick within him and a kind of cold desperation seized him.

Archer, whom he had known away back home in America, whom he had found by chance in the German prison camp, who had trudged over the hills and through the woods with him, was lost. He would never see him again.

Archer, who was always after souvenirs....

These were not thoughts exactly, but they flitted through Tom's consciousness as he struggled to keep his head clear of the tempestuous waters. And even in his own desperate plight he recalled that their last words had been words of discord, for he knew now (generous as he was) that _he_ was to blame for this dreadful end of all their fine hopes--that Archer had been right--they should have stayed at Melotte's hovel. Amid the swirl of the waters, as he swam he knew not where, he remembered how Archer had said he ought to think of his duty to Uncle Sam and not imperil his chance to help by going after Florette Leteur.

He was sick, utterly sick, and nearer to hopelessness than he had ever been in his life; but he struck out in a kind of mechanical resignation, believing that the wind and the trend of the water must bring him to one sh.o.r.e or the other before he was exhausted. There was no light anywhere, no clew or beacon of any sort in that wild blackness, and since he therefore had no reason to oppose his strength to the force of the storm he swam steadily in the direction in which it carried him. It made no difference. Nothing mattered now....

After a while the noise of the lashing changed to that lapping sound which only contact with the land can give, and soon Tom could distinguish a solid ma.s.s outlined in the hollow blackness of the night.

He had no guess whether it was the Baden or the Alsatian sh.o.r.e that he was approaching nor how far north or south he had been carried. Nor did he much care.

His foot touched something hard which brought him to the realization that he must lessen the force of his advance or perhaps have his life dashed out upon a rocky sh.o.r.e; and presently he was staggering forward, brushing his hair away from his eyes, wondering where he was, and scarcely sensible of anything--his head throbbing, his whole body on the verge of exhaustion.

"It's my fault--anyway--I got to admit it----" he thought, "and--it serves--me--right."

One firm resolution came to him. Now that Providence had seen fit to cast him ash.o.r.e, if he was to be permitted to continue his flight alone, he would go straight for his goal, the Swiss border, and not be led astray (that is what he called it, _led astray_) by any other enterprise. His duty as a soldier, and he thought of himself as a soldier now, was clear. His business was to help Uncle Sam win the war and he must leave it to Uncle Sam to put an end to the stealing of young girls and to restore them to their homes. He saw himself now, as Archer had depicted him, in the silly role of a "story book hero" and he felt ashamed. He knew that General Pershing would not have sent him rescuing girls, and that the best way he could help France, and even the Leteurs, was to hurry up and get into the trenches where he belonged. Yes, Archer was right. And with a pang of remorse Tom remembered how Archer had said it, "rescuing a girrl!" He would never hear Archer talk like that any more....

He had more than once been close enough to death to learn to keep his nerve in the presence of it, but the loss of his companion quite unnerved him. It had not occurred to him that anything _could_ happen to Archer, who claimed himself that he always landed right side up because he was lucky. Tom could not realize that he was gone.

Still, comrades were lost to each other every day in that far-flung trench line and in that b.l.o.o.d.y sea of northern France friends were parted and many went down.

"_Down_----"

How that awful word had sounded--long drawn out and faint in the storm and darkness!

He stumbled over a rocky s.p.a.ce and ran plunk into something solid. As he looked up he could distinguish the top of it; uneven and ragged it seemed against the blackness of the night. Whatever it was, it seemed to be slender and rather high, and the odd thought came to him that he was on the deck of some mammoth submarine, looking up at the huge conning tower. Perhaps it was because he _had_ once been rescued by a submarine, or perhaps just because his wits were uncertain and his nerves unstrung, but it was fully a minute before he realized that he was on solid earth--or rock. It afforded him a measure of relief.

What that grim black thing could be that frowned upon him he did not know, and he staggered around it, feeling it with his hands. It was of masonry and presently he came to what was evidently a door, which opened as he leaned against it. Its silent hospitality was not agreeable to him; the very thought of a possible German habitation roused him out of his fatigue and despair, and with a sudden quick instinct he drew stealthily back until presently he felt the water lapping his feet again.

Here, at a comparatively safe distance, he paused for breath after what he felt to be a worse peril than the storm, and felt for the one trusty friend he had left--the little compa.s.s. The precious rubber glove containing this and the flashlight was safe in his pocket, and he held both under his coat and tried to throw the light upon the compa.s.s and get his bearings. But the glove must have leaked, for the battery was dead. The little compa.s.s, which was to prove so useful in days to come, was probably still loyal after its immersion, but he could not distinguish the dial clearly.

He knew he must go southeast, where the dim woods seemed now to beckon him like a living mother. Never had the thought of the mountains and the lonely forest been so grateful to this scout before. If only he had strength to get there....

"What you _got_ to do--you do," he panted slowly under his breath, frowning at the compa.s.s and trying in the darkness to see which way that faithful little needle turned. Once, twice, he looked fearfully up toward that grim building.

Then he decided, as best he might, which direction was southeast and dragged his aching legs that way until presently he was stumbling in the water again.

Surely, he thought, the river ran almost north and south, and southeast _must_ lead on into the mountains. But perhaps he had not read the compa.s.s aright or perhaps he was on the edge of a deep bay, which would mean water extending still westward. Or perhaps he was on the Alsatian sh.o.r.e.

For a moment he stood bewildered. Then he tried to read the compa.s.s again and started forward in the direction which he thought to be west.

If he were on the Alsatian sh.o.r.e, this should take him away from that black, heartless Teuton ruin.

But it only took him into a chaos of broken, shiny rock where he stumbled and fell, cutting his knee and making his head throb cruelly.

And then Tom Slade, seeing that fate was against him, and having used all the resource and young strength that he had, to get to the boys "over there," gave up and lay among the jagged rocks, holding his head with one bruised hand and thinking hopelessly of this end of all his efforts.

CHAPTER XX

A NEW DANGER

He did not know how long he lay there, but after a while he crept along over the slimy rocks and because it was not easy to stand alone he limped to that grim, threatening structure, and leaned against it, trying to collect his faculties.