The Man with the Clubfoot

by Valentine Williams

  CHAPTER XX

  CHARLEMAGNE'S RIDE

  The hands of the clock pointed to a quarter past twelve. Funny, how myeyes kept coming back to that clock! There was a smell of warm gunpowderin the room, and the autumn sunshine, struggling feebly through thewindow, caught the blue edges of a little haze of smoke that hung lazilyin the air by the desk in the corner. How close the room was! And howthat clock face seemed to stare at me! I felt very sick....

  Lord! What a draught! A gust of icy air was raging in my face. The roomwas still swaying to and fro....

  I was in the front seat of a car beside Francis, who was driving. Wewere fairly flying along a broad and empty road, the tall poplars withwhich it was lined scudding away into the vanishing landscape as wewhizzed by. The surface was terrible, and the car pitched this way andthat as we tore along. But Francis had her well in hand. He sat at thewheel, very cool and deliberate and very grave, still in his officer'suniform, and his eyes had a cold glint that told me he was keyed up totop pitch.

  We slackened speed a fraction to negotiate a turn off to the right downa side road. We seemed to take that corner on two wheels. A thin churchspire protruded from the trees in the centre of the group of houseswhich we were approaching so furiously. The village was all butdeserted: everybody seemed to be indoors at their midday meal, butFrancis slowed down and ran along the dirty street at a demure pace. Thevillage passed, he jammed down the accelerator and once more the carsprang forward.

  The country was flat as a pancake, but presently the fields fell away abit from the road with boulders and patches of gorse here and there. Thenext moment we were slackening speed. We drew up by a rough track whichled off the road and vanished into a tangle of stunted trees and scrubgrowing across the yellow face of a sand-pit.

  Francis motioned me to get out, and then sprang to the ground himself,leaving the engine throbbing. His face was grey and set.

  "Stay here!" he whispered to me. "You've got your pistol? Good. Ifanybody attempts to interfere with you, shoot!" He dashed into thetangle and was swallowed up. I heard a whistle, and a whistle in answer,and a minute later he appeared again helping Monica through the thickundergrowth.

  Monica looked as pretty as a picture in her dark green shooting suitand her muffler. She was as excited as a child at its first play.

  "A car!" she exclaimed. "Oh, Francis, I'll sit beside you!"

  My brother glanced at his watch.

  "Twenty to one!" he murmured. He had a hunted look on his face. Monicasaw it and it sobered her.

  They got up in front, and I sat in the body of the car.

  "Hang on to that!" said Francis, handing me over a leather case. Irecognized it at a glance. It was Clubfoot's dispatch-box. Francis wasthorough in everything.

  Once more we dashed out along the desolate country roads. We saw hardlya soul. Houses were few and far between and, save for an occasionalgreybeard hoeing in the wet fields or an old woman hobbling along theroad, the countryside seemed dead. In the cold air the engine ransplendidly, and Francis got every ounce of horse-power out of it.

  On we rushed, the wind in our ears, the cold air in our faces, until wefound ourselves racing along an avenue of old trees that led straight asan arrow right into the heart of the forest. It was as silent as thegrave: the air was dank and chill and the trees dripped sorrowfully intothe brimming ruts of the road.

  We whizzed past many tracks leading into the depths of the forest, butit was not until the car had eaten up some five kilometres of the mainroad that Francis slowed to a halt. He consulted a map he pulled fromhis pocket, then glanced at his watch with puckered brow.

  "I had hoped to take the car into the forest," he said, "but the roadsare so soft we shan't get a yard. Still we can but try."

  We went forward again, very slowly, to where a track ran off to theleft. It was badly ploughed up, and the ruts were fully a foot deep.Monica and I got out to lighten the car, and Francis ran her in. But hehadn't gone five yards before the car was bogged up to the axles.

  "We'll have to leave it," he said, jumping out. "It's ten minutes totwo ... we haven't a second to lose."

  He pulled a cloth cap from the pocket of his military overcoat, thenstripped off the coat, showing his ordinary clothes underneath, and veryshiny black field-boots up to his knees. He put his helmet in theovercoat and made a roll of it, tucking it under his arm, and thendonned his cap.

  "Now," he said, "We'll have to run for it, Monica, I'm afraid: we mustreach our cover while the light lasts or I shan't be able to find it andit will be dark in these woods in about two hours from now. Are youready?"

  We struck off the track into the forest. There was not much undergrowth,and the trees were not planted very close, so our way was not impeded.We jogged on over a carpet of wet leaves, stumbling over the roots ofthe trees, tearing our clothes on the brambles, bringing down showers ofraindrops from the branches of pine or fir we brushed on our headlongcourse. Now a squirrel bolted up his tree, now a rabbit frisked backinto his hole, now a soft-eyed deer crashed away into the bushes on ourapproach. The place was so still that it gave me confidence. There wasnot a trace of man now that we were away from the marks of his carts onthe tracks, and I began to feel, in the presence of the stately, silenttrees, that at last I was safe from the menace that had hung over me forso long.

  We rested frequently, breathless and panting, a hand to the side. Monicawas a marvel of endurance. Her boots were sopping, her skirt wet to thewaist, her face was scratched, and her hair was coming down, but shenever complained. Francis was seemingly tireless and was always the oneto lead the way when we started afresh.

  It was heavy going, for at every step our feet sank deep in the leaves.The forest was undulating with deep hollows and steep banks, which triedus a good deal. It soon became evident that we could not keep up thepace. Monica was tiring visibly, and I had had about enough; Francis,too, seemed done up. We slackened to a walk. We were toiling painfullyup on of these steep banks when Francis, who was leading, held up hishand.

  "Charlemagne's Ride!" he whispered as we came up. We looked down fromthe top of the bank and saw below us a broad forest glade, canopied bythe thick branches of the ancient trees that met overhead, and leadingup a slope, narrowing as it went, to a path that lost itself among theshadows that were falling fast upon the forest.

  Francis clambered down the bank and we followed. Twilight reigned belowin the glade under the lofty roof of branches and our feet rustledsoftly as we trod the leaves underfoot. It was a ghostly place, andMonica clutched my arm as we went quickly after Francis, who, stridingrapidly ahead, threatened to be swallowed up in the shadows of theautumn evening. He led us up the slope and along the narrow path. A pathstruck off it, and he took it. It led us into a thicker part of theforest than we had yet struck, where there were great bouldersprotruding from the dripping bushes, and brambles grew so thick that inplaces they obscured the track.

  The forest sloped up again, and in front of us was a steep bank, itssides dotted with great rocks and a tangle of brambles and undergrowth.Francis stooped between two boulders at the foot of the slope, thenturning and beckoning us to follow, disappeared. Monica went in afterhim, and I came last. We were in a kind of narrow entrance, scooped outof the earth between the rocks, and it led down to a broad chamber,which had apparently been dug beneath some of the boulders, for,stretching out my hand, I found the roof was rock and damp to the touch.

  Francis and Monica were standing in this chamber as I came down.Directly I entered I knew why they stood so still. A glimmer of lightcame from the farther end of the cave and a strange sound, a sort ofstrangled sobbing, reached our ears.

  I crept forward in the dark in the direction of the light. Myoutstretched hands came upon a low opening. I stooped and, crawlinground a rock, saw another chamber illuminated by a guttering candlestuck by its wax to the earthen wall. On the floor a man was lying,sobbing as though his heart would break. He was wearing some kind ofmilitary great-coat with a yellow stripe runn
ing down the back.

  "Pst!" I called to him, drawing my pistol from my pocket. As I did so,Francis behind me touched my arm to let me know he was there.

  "Pst!" I called again louder.

  The man swung round on to his knees with a sudden, frightened spring.When he saw my pistol, he jerked his hands above his head. Dirty andunshaven, with the tears all wet on his face, he looked a woe-begone andtragic figure.

  "Kamerad! Kamerad!" he muttered stupidly at me. "Napoo! Kaput!Englander!"

  I gazed at the stranger, hardly able to believe my ears. That trenchjargon in this place!

  "Are you English?" I asked him.

  At the sound of my voice he stared about him wildly.

  "Ay, I be English, zur," he replied with a strong West Country burr,"God help me!" And, heedless of me and my pistol, he covered his facewith his hands and burst into a wild fit of sobbing again, rockinghimself to and fro in his grief.

  "Go back to Monica!" I whispered to Francis. "I'll see to this fellow!"

  I managed to pacify him presently. Habit is a tenacious ruler and,grotesque figures though we were, the "zur" he had addressed to mebrought out the officer in me. I talked to him as I would have done toone of my own men, and he quietened down at last and looked up at me.

  He was only a lad--I could tell that by the clearness of his skin andthe brightness of his eyes--but his face was wan and wasted, and at thefirst glance he looked like a man of forty. Under his great-coat, whichwas German, he was clad in filthy rags which once had been a khakiuniform, as the cut--and nothing else--revealed.

  He told me his simple story in his soft Somersetshire accent, just theplain tale of the fate that has overtaken thousands of ourfellow-countrymen since the war began. His name was Maggs, SapperEbenezer Maggs, of the Royal Engineers, and he was captured near Mons inAugust, 1914, when out laying a line with a party. With a long train ofBritish prisoners--"zum of 'em was terrible bad, zur, dying, as youmight say"--he had been marched off to a town and paraded to the railwaystation through streets thronged with jeering German soldiery. In cattletrucks, the fit, the wounded, the dying and the dead herded together,without food or water, they had made their journey into Germany withhostile mobs at every station, once the frontier was past, brutal menand shrieking women, to whom not even the dying were sacred.

  It was a terrible tale, that lost nothing of its horror from the simple,unadorned style of this West Country farmer's son. He had been one ofthe ragged, emaciated band of British prisoners of war who had shiveredthrough that first long winter in the starvation camp of Friedrichsfeld,near Wesel. For two years he had endured the filthy food, the neglect,the harsh treatment, then a resourceful Belgian friend, whom he calledJohn, in happier days a contraband runner on this very frontier, hadshown him a means to escape. Five days before they had left the camp andseparated, agreeing to meet at Charlemagne's Ride in the forest and tryto force the frontier together. "John" had never come. For twenty-fourhours Maggs had waited in vain, then his courage had forsaken him, andhe had crept to that hole in his grief.

  I went and fetched Francis and Monica. Maggs shrunk back as they camein.

  "I bean't fit cumpany for no lady, zur," he whispered to me, "I be thatdurty, fair crawling I be ... We couldn't keep clean nohow in that camp!"

  All the good soldier's horror of dirt was in his voice.

  "That's all right, Maggs," I answered soothingly, "she'll understand!"

  We sat down on the floor in the light of Sapper Maggs' candle, andFrancis and I reviewed our situation. The cave we were in ... an oldSmuggler's _cache_ ... was where Francis had spent several days duringhis different attempts to get across the frontier. The border line wasonly about a quarter of a mile distant and ran right through the forest.There was no live-wire fencing in the forest, such as the Germans haveerected along the frontier between Holland and Belgium. The frontier wasguarded by patrols. These patrols were posted four men to every twohundred yards along the line through the forest, so that two men,patrolling in pairs, covered a hundred yards apiece.

  It was now half-past five in the evening. We both agreed that we shouldcertainly make the attempt to cross the frontier that night. Francisnudged me, indicating the sapper with his eyes.

  "Maggs," I said, "we are all in a bad way, but our case is moredesperate than yours. I shall not tell you more than this, that, if weare caught, any of us three, we shall be shot, and anyone caught with uswill fare the same. If you will take my advice, you will leave us andstart off by yourself: the worst that can happen to you is to be sentback to your camp. You will be punished for running away, but you won'tlose your life!"

  Sapper Maggs shook his yellow head.

  "I'll stay," he answered stolidly; "it's more cumfortable-like for usfour to 'old together, and it's a better protection for the lady. Ibean't afear'd of no Gers, I bean't! I'll go along o' yew officers andthe lady, if yew don't mind, zur!"

  So it was settled, and we four agreed to unite forces. Before we set outFrancis wanted to go and reconnoitre. I thought he had done more thanhis share that day, and said so. But Francis insisted.

  "I know my way blindfold about the forest, old man" he said "it'll befar safer for me than for you. I'll leave you the map and mark theroute you are to follow, so that you can find the way if anythinghappens to me. If I'm not back by midnight, you ought certainly not towait any longer, but make the attempt by yourselves."

  My brother handed me back the document and went over the route we wereto follow on the map. Then he deposited his bundle in the cave anddeclared himself ready.

  "And don't forget old Clubfoot's box," he said by way of a partinginjunction.

  Monica took him out to the entrance of our refuge. She was dabbing hereyes with her handkerchief when she returned. To divert her thoughts, Iquestioned her about the events that had led to my rescue, and she toldme how, at Francis' request, she had got all the servants out of theCastle on different pretexts. It was Francis who had got rid of thesoldiers remaining as a guard.

  "You remember the Captain of Koepenick trick," she said. "Well, Francisplayed it off on the sergeant and those six men. He slept at Cleves, hadhimself trimmed up at the barber's, bought those field-boots he iswearing, and stole that helmet and great-coat off the pegs in thepassage at Schmidt's Cafe, where the officers always go and drink beerafter morning parade. Then he drove out to the Castle--he knew that theplace would be deserted once the shoot had started--and told thesergeant he had been sent from Goch to inspect the guard. I think he isjust splendid! He inspected the men and cursed everybody up and down,and sent the sergeant out to the paddock with orders to drill them fortwo hours. Francis was telling me all about it as we came along. He saysthat if you can get hold of a uniform and hector a German enough, hewill never call your bluff. Can you beat it?"

  The hours dragged wearily on. We had no food, and Maggs, who had eatenthe last of his provisions twenty-four hours before--the British soldieris a bad hoarder--soon consumed the last of my cigarettes. It was pastten o'clock when I heard a step outside. The next moment Francis camein, white and breathless.

  "They're beating the forest for us," he panted. "The place is full ofmen. I had to crawl the whole way there and back, and I'm soaked to theskin."

  I pointed to Monica, who was fast asleep, and he lowered his voice.

  "Des," he said, "I've hoped as long as I dared, but now I believe thegame's up. They're beating the forest in a great circle, soldiers andpolice and customs men. If we set out at once we can reach the frontierbefore they get here, but what's the use of that ... every patrol is onthe look-out for us ... the forest seems ablaze with torches."

  "We must try it, Francis," I said. "We haven't a dog's chance if westay here!"

  "I think you're right," he answered. "Well, here's the plan. There's adeep ravine that runs clear across the frontier. I spent an hour in it.They've built a plank bridge across the top just this side of the line,and the patrol comes to the ravine about every three minutes. It ispractically imposs
ible to get out of sight and sound along that ravinein three minutes, but ..."

  "Unless we could drar the patrol's attention away!" said Sapper Maggs.

  But Francis ignored the interruption.

  "... We can at least try it. Come on, we must be starting! Thank God,there's no moon; it's as dark as the devil outside!"

  We roused up Monica and groped our way out of the cave into the blackand dripping forest. Somewhere in the distance a faint glare reddenedthe sky. From time to time I thought I heard a shout, but it sounded faraway.

  We crawled stealthily forward, Francis in front, then Monica, Maggs andI last. In a few minutes we were wet through, and our hands, blue anddead with cold, were scratched and torn. Our progress was interminablyslow. Every few yards Francis raised his hand and we stopped.

  At last we reached the gloomy glade where, as Francis had told us,according to popular belief, the wraith of Charlemagne was still seen onthe night of St. Hubert's Day galloping along with his ghostlyfollowers of the chase. The rustling of leaves caught our ears;instantly we all lay prone behind a bank.

  A group of men came swinging along the glade. One of them was singing anancient German soldier song:

  "Die Voeglein im WaldeSie singen so schoenIn der Heimat, in der Heimat,Da gibt's ein Wiederseh'n."

  "The relief patrol!" I whispered to Francis, as soon as they were past.

  "The other lot they relieve will be back this way in a minute. We mustget across quickly." My brother stood erect, and tiptoed swiftly acrossCharlemagne's Ride, and we followed.

  We must have crawled for an hour before we came to the ravine. It was adeep, narrow ditch with steep sides, full of undergrowth and brambles.Now we could hear distinctly the voices of men all around us, as itseemed, and to right and to left and in front we caught at intervalsglimpses of red flames through the trees. We could only proceed at asnail's pace lest the continual rustle of our footsteps should betrayus. So each advanced a few paces in turn; then we all paused, and thenthe next one went forward. We could no longer crawl; the undergrowth wastoo thick for that; we had to go forward bent double.

  We had progressed like this for fully half an hour when Francis, whowas in front as usual, beckoned us to lie down. We all lay motionlessamong the brambles.

  Then a voice somewhere above us said in German:

  "And I'll have a man at the plank here, sergeant: he can watch theravine."

  Another voice answered:

  "Very good, Herr Leutnant, but in that case the patrols to right andleft need not cross the plank each time; they can turn when they come tothe ravine guard."

  The voices died away in a murmur. I craned my neck aloft. It was sodark, I could see nothing save the fretwork of branches against thenight sky. I whispered to Francis, who was just in front of me:

  "Unless we make a dash for it now that man will hear us rustling along!"

  Francis held up a finger. I heard a heavy footstep along the bank aboveus.

  "Too late!" my brother whispered back. "Do you hear the patrols?"

  Footsteps crashing through the undergrowth resounded on the right andleft.

  "Cold work!" said a voice.

  "Bitter!" came the answer, just above our heads.

  "Seen anything?"

  "Nothing!"

  The rustling began again on the right, and died away.

  "They're closing in on the left!" Another voice this time.

  "Heard anything, you?" from the voice above us.

  "Not a thing!"

  The rustling broke out once more on the left, and gradually became lostin the distance.

  Silence.

  I felt a hot breath in my ear. Sapper Maggs stood by my side.

  "There be a feller a-watching for us up there?" he whispered.

  I nodded.

  "If us could drar his 'tention away, yew could slip by, next time thepatrols is past, couldn't 'ee?"

  Again I nodded.

  "It'd be worse for yew than for me, supposin' yew'd be ca-art, that'swhat t'other officer said, warn't it?"

  And once more I nodded.

  The hot whisper came again.

  "I'll drar 'un off for ee, zur, nex' time the patrols pass. When Iholler, yew and the others, yew run. Thirty-one forty-three SapperMaggs, R.E., from Chewton Mendip ... that's me... maybe yew'll let ushave a bit o' writing to the camp."

  I stretched out my hand in the darkness to stop him. He had gone.

  I leant forward and whispered to Francis:

  "When you hear a shout, we make a dash for it!"

  I felt him look at me in surprise--it was too dark to see his face.

  "Right!" he whispered back.

  Now to the left we heard voices shouting and saw torches gleaming redamong the trees. To right and rear answering shouts resounded.

  Again the patrols met at the plank above our heads, and again theirdeparting footsteps rustled in the leaves.

  The murmur of voices grew nearer. We could faintly smell the burningresin of the torches.

  Then a wild yell rent the forest. The voice above us shouted "Halt!" butthe echo was lost in the deafening report of a rifle.

  Francis caught Monica by the wrist and dragged her forward. We wentplunging and crashing through the tangle of the ravine. We heard asecond shot and a third, commands were shouted, the red glare deepenedin the sky....

  Monica collapsed quite suddenly at my feet. She never uttered a sound,but fell prone, her face as white as paper. Without a word we picked herup between us and went on, stumbling, gasping, coughing, our clothesrent and torn, the blood oozing from the deep scratches on our faces andhands.

  At length our strength gave out. We laid Monica down in the ravine anddrew the under growth over her, then we crawled in under the bramblesexhausted, beat.

  Dawn was streaking the sky with lemon when a dog jumped sniffing downinto our hiding-place. Francis and Monica were asleep.

  A man stood at the top of the ravine looking down on us. He carried agun over his shoulder.

  "Have you had an accident?" he said kindly.

  He spoke in Dutch.