“Can I help you?” he asked in a low tone.
The tone was friendly. Did he dare to trust this shadowy stranger?
“I have come a long journey,” he answered evasively. “I am very tired. I must rest a few minutes.”
“Come, I will show you where you can rest safely.”
He helped Stormy to his feet.
Stormy followed him, aside from the road. They came to a shanty built of boughs, behind a group of bushes; a pile of straw covered with tow bags was there. The stranger pointed.
“Lie down. No one will disturb you. And when you leave, take the upper road.” Again he pointed, and turning away, “God’s blessing,” he said, and vanished into the darkness.
Stormy hesitated. “And on you, too, stranger,” he said half under his breath.
He lay on that pallet of bag-covered straw, pondering. Had this been a real man, or one of the shadowy figments of his imagination? Rather, had it not been a vision that God sent to hearten him? He was too weary to think it through. Of course, if this was someone sent from the camp to track him down, it might be only a trick to get him asleep and kill him for escaping from their clutches. It might well be that. The enemy seemed to enjoy such tricks. But if it was a trick he could not help it. He could not keep on much longer tonight, and if he tried to he would only fall somewhere else and be tracked down the sooner. He must get some sleep if it was only a few minutes. He would not sleep long. Besides, he was not alone. God was his guide and help. And there came to him a verse from his childhood: “My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth. He will not suffer thy foot to be moved: he that keepeth thee will not slumber.”
He closed his eyes, and lifted his heart: Oh, Lord, I’m in Your care. I’m trusting You to keep watch while I sleep. This is Your Stormy.
And in the morning when he woke, there beside him on the ground was food. Coarse bread and a tin of water, and on his eyelids lingered the memory of a frail hand touching him.
Of course, that was the way God fed Elijah, but such miracles did not come today without a human instrument. Surely not an angel. Not that girl of his dreams, for she was far away. His guess was that the shadowy man who had directed him to a resting place had done it, and he thanked God. He ate his breakfast gratefully, puzzling meantime about the kindly stranger in the shadows last night. Was he one of God’s men?
But he must not linger. The sun was over the rim of the world and light was growing brighter. He must get on. The upper road the man had said. God, shall I take it? I’m trusting You! he murmured in his soul.
He put the last morsel of bread in his pocket for another time of need and crept softly out from under the boughs. He wished he might thank whoever had brought him comfort, but he would thank God instead. The man would understand.
He looked around him, followed the path, an obscure one, that had been pointed out, and found himself mounting above the town yet almost hidden from the world below. The way was not smooth, but he did not have to be so furtive about his going, and so could make progress. His limbs were stiff and still painful from the long journey of the days before, but he felt definitely rested, and much more cheerful. He no longer felt so alone. Surely some of God’s messengers must be about somewhere. Surely sometime soon there would be someone whom he could dare to ask his location. And yet, he must not be impulsive. The enemy still had tricks to play. He must keep his eyes on his Guide.
He had been walking for what seemed hours when he suddenly rounded a tree, larger than most, and saw ahead of him down the leafy way the figure of a man. Startled, he watched him. The man walked steadily on ahead and did not seem to see him. It made him uneasy, but he knew he must not show uneasiness. He must walk on as if he had a perfect right there. It would only lay him open to suspicion to seem uneasy. So he walked on. But when he rounded a little turn in the dim path he was treading, the man ahead had disappeared! Now, what did that mean? Was it possible that he could hear quick footsteps farther ahead running? Oh, what did this mean? Was someone else hiding? And was there some way that he, too, could disappear before this person ahead could bring someone else to help seize him?
He looked around, but there was no sign of anywhere near him for him to hide. To the right, just beyond the bushes that made a wall at his side, he could see a bluff, with a sheer fall down into what looked like an old quarry, no trees nor foliage to hide behind. Just the rough open side of the blank mountainside.
He hastened his own steps, hoping perhaps to come within sight again of the stranger, but a swift survey at each turn of the way revealed only a lonely empty landscape, desolate, even in spite of the scraggly foliage that was a far healthier growth than any he had seen the day before. But as the day began to wane, the way ahead seemed more and more desolate, filled with thick undergrowth that only seemed to him to be leading away from the direction he had hoped to take. Was this the intention, this detour that had apparently been mapped out for his unwary feet by that shadowy stranger who had seemed so kind?
He paused and sat down by the wayside to think it over, before he would decide what to do, and to bow his head and consult his Guide.
Should he turn around and go back? Lose all that time? Or should he go on a little farther and perhaps run into a nest of enemies who might take him captive again? Still, why should enemies take the trouble to lead him so far out of the way? They must know, if they knew anything about him at all, that he had come a long, weary way and must be weak and sick, almost starved. They would understand, of course, that he was in a state to be easily taken, without much force or strategy. So why would enemies take all this trouble to mislead him?
And while he thought upon these things he took out the dry crust, which he had saved from the food the stranger had left for him that morning, and slowly ate it, trying to savor every crumb and make it taste to his sick imagination like a whole meal.
Suddenly he looked up and the shadowy stranger was before him again, looking down at him curiously, with almost a smile on his face.
“You found the way?” the stranger said.
“Yes,” assented Stormy, “at least so far. I’ve you to thank for that. Or at least—I’m wondering?”
The stranger smiled vaguely and looked at him keenly.
“You mean you do not know whether to trust me?” asked the man almost amusedly.
Stormy met his gaze across the dusk and smiled back.
“Well, something like that,” he said and smiled himself. “I was just questioning whether I was right. I am inclined to trust you. You certainly have been kind.”
“Not very kind,” said the man. “The bed on which you slept last night was not luxurious. The food left by your side was not very palatable. You see, I wasn’t sure if you were to be trusted.” And the man smiled outright.
“Yes, well, we don’t know much about each other,” said Stormy. “I was just asking God what to do.”
The face of the other man softened.
“Yes?” said the man with a new tone in his voice. “Well, I take my orders from Him, too. Suppose we have a little talk. I’m not an enemy, at least. Can you tell me anything about yourself? I don’t want to pry into your secrets. What do you want? Where do you want to go? How could I help you, if I find that I can help you?”
Stormy grinned wearily.
“All right,” he said. “I guess I owe you a little information. You’ve certainly been kind to me. The very fact that you can talk my language is an asset. Well, I’ll tell you. I’m tired and I’m sick and I want to get home. If you can show me how to get there alive I’ll be grateful.”
“And home is America? Is that right?”
“That is right,” said Stormy wearily. “How did you know?”
“Not because you are wearing an enemy coat,” said the stranger pointedly. “You are from the internment camp.”
“And you want to turn me back?” said Stormy wearily, his tired lips trembling. Then he gave a quick look at the other man, a man who was alm
ost frail in his build, and yet there was about him a certain ruggedness. Still, if he himself were up to his normal strength he could knock him out quickly enough and escape. But he was astonished to see a look of pity on that other face. Or was it just the shadows of the dusk that made it look that way?
“No, I have no desire to turn you back to that hell of existence,” said the man in a kindly voice. “That is what we are here for, to bring help to any who are trying to get away. But it is not always easy, nor always possible. You will understand there must be great care, great caution. No impulsive moves.”
“Of course not,” said Stormy. “I think I have learned that.”
“Perhaps,” said the man, studying him carefully. “We shall see. But it may take some time. Arrangements have to be made. We are a long way from boats and airfields. But there are ways, at times. Then there have to be permits. Have you any identification papers?”
“Naturally not. They took those all away from me at that camp. Though I went with very little. It was a part of my job not to be recognized.”
“I see,” said the man. “Be careful not to tell that to everybody. We have a few with us who are not yet tried out. We cannot trust everybody.”
“Of course not,” said Stormy. “But see! I am trusting you.”
The man smiled. “And I you, or I should not have told you some of these things. I am warning you to be as cautious as if you knew we were all enemies. Something might be overheard even when you are talking with one you trust.”
“I understand,” said Stormy. “And I think I begin to see that you belong to some kind of an underground, loyal to your country but in an enemy-occupied territory. France, perhaps? Am I right?”
“We do not put those things into words, my friend,” said the man gravely, “we wait and see.”
“I beg your pardon. I think I understand,” said Stormy as gravely. “And if I transgress in any way I beg that you will let me know.”
“I will, my friend. Now, come. You need some food, and you need to sleep. It will be plain food and a humble bed, but you need have no fear. Come!”
Stormy followed him down a hidden path to an entrance. Inside there was a rough corridor, cavelike in its structure, with several turnings, and at last a hollowed-out room furnished with a cot and a blanket, a wooden table and a bench of rough boards.
“There!” said his guide. “Can you be comfortable here awhile?”
“Comfortable?” said Stormy. “It is like heaven in comparison with the place from which I came.”
“Yes, I know,” said the older man. “I have heard others tell. Stay here now. They will bring you food, but I must go. I have other business to attend to. Stay here till I come back, or till I send you word. They will call me Pierre. Good night. God rest you!”
There was a quick handclasp, as between old friends, and the man was gone.
Almost at once, a boy entered with a tray and food upon it. A bowl of steaming soup whose fragrance was most heartening, a plate of coarse bread, a pitcher of water and a tin cup.
The boy showed him where to wash, and then left him. Stormy sat down and ate every drop and every crumb they had brought him. Then he washed and lay down on the cot, drawing the blanket up around his shoulders. “God, I’m trusting You,” he murmured, half aloud, as if God were standing there close beside him within that refuge. Then he closed his eyes and was immediately lost to the world in a deep, profound sleep, such as he had not dared to take since he stole from that awful camp.
Chapter 14
Milk and a kind of porridge in the morning for breakfast. Good milk and good porridge! God be thanked! Stormy was grateful. Later he lay down and slept again, not even bothering to wonder how long he would be kept prisoner in this semidarkness. He was storing up new strength, replenishing the life that had almost failed him once or twice on the way here.
For three days Stormy rested a great deal, slept much, ate all they brought him, found his way to the shower and was refreshed. But when a fourth day came without the return of his guide, Pierre, who had brought him here, he grew exceedingly restless. Occasionally, when he was sure there would be no one by to see him he would put himself through some bodily exercises. He did not wish to grow so soft he could not keep on with his journey, in case all the promises Pierre had suggested should fail him. He trusted the man, was sure he was genuine, but by this time he had decided that probably Pierre had promised more than he was able to fulfill, and meantime he should get ready to break away and fend for himself.
It seemed, as he thought it over, that it might be an easy enough thing to do, to break away. The room he was occupying was, as he remembered his coming, only a dozen or so yards from the entrance door, and surely he could retrace the way by which he had come, after he was once out of this labyrinth of cavelike corridors. Yet he hesitated to make the break. Suppose Pierre should return and find him gone! It would be construed by him as breaking faith with him. It would show him that he had not fully trusted him.
And after all, even if he had to wait even twice as long as he had already waited, did he know any other method of hoping to get away from this dangerous location? It seemed sometimes that he was building hope upon a mighty frail foundation, but still he knew no other substitute for what had been promised.
So, on the fourth morning when they brought his breakfast, he asked the lad who fetched it if there wasn’t some work that he could do, something to help in the scheme of the things out of which he was getting his living.
The lad looked at him speculatively and said, “I’ll ask.” Later he returned and said, “Can you scrub and keep the washroom clean?”
Stormy agreed readily enough and was promptly set to work, albeit he noticed that there were very few people around when he did it. Were they keeping him separated from all others until he proved himself trustworthy? Well, that was fair enough. So far he had not had access to much space beyond his own little room and the washroom. But somehow, though it gave him a strange feeling not to be trusted, he recognized the necessity and was content. But the scrubbing they gave him to do occupied very little of the time that began to hang heavy on his hands, for he was getting slept out and really refreshed in body, and continually his rejuvenated mind grew more active. He tried to imagine what it would be like if he ever got back to his outfit. What he would say first and how the others would react to his coming. He began to count up the ones who had still been alive when he left and found the fellow named Mayberry outstanding as a friend he prized. Oh, he hoped no mishap had befallen Mayberry. He was good in his line and was responsible for the destruction of a number of enemy planes. But sooner or later everyone, even the best, fell, or was wounded or killed or taken prisoner, and even Mayberry might be among the list of casualties.
And then it came to him that not alone for his own sake would this man’s loss be a catastrophe. There was that lovely girl, his sister Cornelia, the girl whose face had appeared to him in his own distress, with the appearance of an angel. If anything happened to her brother, Cornelia would suffer. He did not want that. He found himself more than once praying that that would not be.
Then suddenly he told himself he was getting sentimental. He must snap out of this and turn his thoughts another way. There were others in his company whose friendship he prized. There was Barney Vance. He loved Barney. They were buddies. Even before he had brought Barney back from the battlefield in a dying condition and hovered over him in the hospital while he was recovering from his own wounds, they had been like brothers.
Barney had still been in the hospital when he left on this expedition, still too gravely ill to be allowed to be sent home yet. Did Barney get well, or did he die? Where was he now? Boy! How he wished he might see him and talk with him for a little while! How they could talk about their Lord now, and he could tell his friend how again and again the Bible promises had been verified for him. How wonderful it would be if he had recovered enough to be able to go home. Supposing he had, and was even now back
in their own land, if he should ever get back and be allowed a furlough he would go straight back to the good old United States of America and hunt out Barney Vance. They would have a good old talk together. Yes, sir, that was a plan, and someday, if it pleased the Lord to let him go home, he would carry out that plan.
So he whiled away the hours, when there was nothing else to do, trying to keep his mind in a wholesome attitude toward the world in general, his world from which he had come.
And then one day, just as the long rays of the dying sun that reached a sharp brilliancy were slanting into the corridor beyond his doorway, where it shone every pleasant day for about ten minutes, he heard a sound. Soft footsteps along the stone floor, and then suddenly Pierre stood before him.
Stormy looked up with quick relief, an exclamation of welcome in his voice and eyes.
“You have come back!” he said with deep relief. “I was fearful that something had happened to you. I thought there must be danger to you whenever you went abroad.”
“Yes, perhaps there is,” Pierre said, smiling. “But then, isn’t that the case with everyone, everywhere, even out in the world when there is no war?”
“I suppose it is,” said Stormy. “And no one can die until God gets ready to call him. Yet humanly speaking, we feel that we must care for our lives, unless duty demands otherwise.”
“Yes,” said Pierre, with a smile. “Well, friend, this was duty demanding.”
Stormy flashed him a look. “I would not want to be the cause of anything happening to you, my good sir.”
“Friend, those things are so tied up together that we have to trust our God while we are doing our best. That, I think, is what He wants us to do. And now, come, I must tell you what I have accomplished. Come sit down beside me and I will show you.”
Time of the Singing of Birds Page 14
