Sword Is Drawn

by Andre Norton

“How wide is it?”

  “The marsh? It is not wide — long and narrow along the canal except where is the salt lake. Wait, I’ll show you clearer. Where yet is the map, sir?” Jaap asked the major.

  “I think this might do.” The major hooked a long arm out and pulled open a desk drawer. When he unrolled the map he picked out of it, Lorens saw that it was much like the one he had been shown in New York.

  “See,” Jaap put the paper down on the hearthstone, planting the toes of his shoes on its corners to keep it from rolling up again. “Here” — he pointed to a line of regular dots — “is the canal, and the course the barges follow through the marsh. Here is the swampy ground, long and thin, except where is the lake. Our station is here on this island, just before you reach the full width of the lake. Maybe three miles across it is here, not more — ”

  “Three miles. You could miss it in the dark.”

  Jaap stared at Lorens. “But you can’t! Men have blundered into it and lost their lives. There are quicksands. It looks small on the map, but it is otherwise when you see it.”

  “How does it look from the air?”

  “From the air?” echoed Jaap.

  “From the air,” repeated the major, his voice thoughtful. “So that is your idea. The odds are all against it — ”

  “The odds seem all against everything in this war, and yet several of our most desperate gamblers have lived to tell their stories,” replied Lorens. “Bombers do still pass over that coastline, do they not?”

  The major smiled. “Now and again, yes. They carry surprise packets for cities just a little farther on. It’s a slight bit south of our usual route, but not too far out of the way.”

  “Near enough to drop a passenger?”

  “Yes. But he wouldn’t have a chance afterward. Wind might carry him miles off before he reached land. A trained parachute man is the only one who might have a ghost of a chance. And even then they’d probably stop him. Have you any idea how that billow of silk shows up in the sky? If the jump was made while it was light enough to see the marsh and aim for it, you’d be spotted in an instant and a welcoming party would be waiting for you. If you jumped in the dark, you’d have a very slim chance, one in a thousand of ever reaching that island — ”

  “If it is the only way I can get there, then I’m taking it! And surely I can learn to manage one of those things so I can land somewhere near my objective!”

  “It takes months of training to make a paratrooper.”

  “I’m not intending to become a paratrooper, I am just going to jump once —”

  “Which,” Jaap interrupted with a sort of gloomy relish, “will be enough.”

  “What about it?” the major asked young Smits. “If he reaches this island, will you take over from there?”

  “If he reaches the island — ja. But we do not hunt him, that is understood? He comes to us. We are being very quiet as I have said, doing nothing which will set the moffens to nosing about. Reach the island, Mijnheer, and we shall back you. But break your neck in the fields and we do not raise one finger, understand?”

  “I understand. Then it is up to you, sir. Do I get my chance?”

  “If you will be so foolish, I am not the one to say no.”

  And that is what led Lorens directly to a cramped perch inside the armored belly of a bomber, flying under the stars away from the high cliffs of England to the dark curve of occupied Europe. Some days had passed since the meeting in that London house and his present position. As he sat there, his fingers crooked and relaxed on his knees, assuming the grips a sergeant had pounded into him. Just so you pulled and relaxed the cords above you, spilling wind from the bowl of silk which was your support, so that you would have some control over your choice of landing place.

  Even the landing was a work of art which that sergeant had said frankly he could not teach him in so short a time. The man had made prophecies about broken bones and twisted ligaments. But Lorens had refused to listen. All that mattered now was the actual leap into the dark, the few minutes in the air, then the touch of Netherlands soil again. Once he was on his feet, he knew what he could do and how to do it. And in his mind the jump itself became a mere interval between the bomber and the earth he was so impatient to reach.

  He did not even hear warnings. Because he was so sure that this was what he was meant to do, this was his own part in the war, and he would be allowed to complete it successfully. He did not know why he believed that, but he thought it the truth, not overconfidence or blind refusal to face the risk.

  A figure in a bulky flying suit loomed over him now.

  “Time to hit silk — ”

  Lorens touched the buckles at his waist and thighs. The chute itself banged against him as he edged sidewise along the runway.

  “Right place?”

  “Right. Navigator has checked it. Good luck and goodbye!”

  He half tumbled, half hurled himself forward into a fierce blast of air which pushed him on — into a frightening empty void of night sky. Feeling for the release ring he gave it a pull, then his body was brought up with a sudden snap, the shock of which did not miss a single vertebra up the length of his spine.

  Back on the coast blossoms of ack-ack fire bloomed in the sky, and a series of searchlight pencils searched the dark for the bombers already well inland. The world below him was a flat black mass without a pin-prick of light to give him a bearing. For the first time he realized the enormity of his task. How could he aim for the outskirts of the marsh, as he had so confidently planned, when there was no marsh to be seen? Even if it lay directly below, he could not tell it in this light from the open fields. He would have to trust to the accuracy of the navigator and his own management of the chute to bring him down within reasonable distance of his objective.

  Almost before these thoughts crossed his mind, his fingers were busy at their newly learned task. A slight pull, then a stronger one, a try in another direction. So endeavoring to control the wind-filled silk, Lorens drifted down toward the unseen blot which was the Netherlands.

  13

  THE JAWS OF THE WOLF

  In the end he missed utter disaster by less than a full hand’s breadth. Perhaps it was the last desperate tug he gave, a convulsive struggle with all his weight, when he saw, with eyes more accustomed to the dark, what was reaching up for him, that carried him those few inches away from death. For it was not the open countryside he had planned on that was now his target, but a grove of trees.

  There was one long moment of tearing and bumping through foliage and over limbs, scraping his arms and legs across bark whose grate he could feel even through his clothing. Then he swung in a pendulum’s orbit, the silk of the chute well entangled over his head. To unbuckle the harness and drop was out of the question — there might be three feet, five, or even ten of air under his dangling body, since the dark under the trees was impenetrable.

  When he caught his breath again, he tried to pull himself up by the cords, only to have the whole overhead mess give slightly in warning. Then he flung out his arms horizontally in a desperate hope of finding some near branch capable of bearing his weight. His nails touched bark, scraped furrows in it. Delightedly he kicked, setting the harness to swinging again.

  Then his fingers were able to dig in. With a last spurt of effort he pulled himself toward the promised help. Two minutes later, he had scrambled astride a fair-sized branch and sat with his back planted firmly against the main trunk of the tree while he tugged loose from the harness.

  He should free the chute and conceal it. But that was impossible under the circumstances. His alternative was to get as far away as possible from its betrayal of his presence before it was sighted.

  Australia had not left him in the best of shape for climbing, and he could only thank the American Commando for the feeble remnants of skill he could summon in that scramble which ended in what a less prejudiced observer would have called a nasty fall.

  At least for a short time he was content to
lie as he had landed, on his back, drawing air into the lungs from which it had been driven, while he cautiously called on one important muscle after another to resume its usual duties.

  He could see now, and it was something beyond the bole of the tree which brought him up on his feet when he caught sight of it. A white wall considerably higher than his head made a backdrop he did not find particularly promising.

  But was he inside or outside that wall? And what did it protect or confine?

  Keeping first to the shelter of the tree, then shuffling into the embrace of a thorny bush, he gained the wall, and a moment later the edge of a strip of ground which settled his question only too clearly. The freshly turned furrows were those of a garden. By all signs he was inside the wall.

  Very well, this was the time to keep his head if he wished it to literally remain on his shoulders. In every wall there was a gate. He had only to find the one in this, then he would walk out into the night, leaving his chute to startle and mystify some innocent countryman in the morning.

  The proper way of finding the gate was just to follow the wall. But that was easier said than done here. The owner had a liking for planting bushes and trees which necessitated detours.

  Surely no wall could go much farther without turning. Why, it must run miles and miles! To his tense nerves hours appeared to have passed since he started out on his quest for the gate. Well, here was the corner at last and another row of bushes. Then without warning he planted one foot in a tiny pond and stifled the exclamation the cold water in his shoe brought to his lips. He must be leaving a trail as plain as an elephant’s, but there was nothing he could do about it.

  Beyond the pool was a wall of brush through which he bored his way on hands and knees, lying flat at last to wriggle under low branches. And so he landed chin down upon the raked gravel of a carriage drive. There before him were the gates he had hunted so long.

  It was the enemy who intervened to save him the last folly of getting to his feet and walking out of those supposedly harmless gates. A low, haunting whistle sent him back under the skirts of the bushes. And he watched, in utter consternation, the stiff figure of a sentry cross on his beat.

  The sentry was wide awake and no dullard. He had a nasty habit of halting almost in mid-step to look about him alertly, as if he were in the heart of a hostile country, instead of at the gate of a house in a nation a year occupied. That extreme alertness spoke well for the night amusements of Lorens’ fellow Netherlanders, but he could wish that the sentry had no reason to fear anything in the dark — at least for tonight. As it was, there was no chance of getting by this barrier. He would have to try elsewhere.

  But he was loath to leave the drive for the mysteries of the gardens where he might stumble into some unknown betrayal without warning. At one end of the drive was a gate, what was at the other?

  Trying to remember all his lessons in woodcraft, he crept back along the gravel. Evidently the Nazis who guarded the house had no reason to fear trouble inside the gates, or they would have grubbed out all this cover long ago.

  Disturbed insects of the night flew against his face and neck, and the damp grass wreathed in tangles about his wrists and hands as he felt out his path. Although the night was cool, his shirt clung to his shoulders and ribs, and drops of perspiration gathered at his hair line to trickle down his cheeks and drip from nose and chin. In spite of his efforts at noiselessness, there were times when the crackle of his passing sounded as loud to his own ears as ack-ack fire. But maybe the sentry was used to odd noises in the garden at night, for the cry to halt and the sound of a shot, both of which Lorens was momentarily expecting, never came. Then the drive took a sudden turn to the left, and he chanced a short stop to catch his breath and try to plan the next move in this midnight nightmare.

  At the other end of the drive was, naturally enough, a house. But the black bulk showed no lights, merely hunched itself together in the midst of a smooth circle of lawn where the drive made a crescent before the principal door. Lorens squatted in what he realized a moment later was a particularly sticky mud puddle and considered the situation.

  He could, of course, go blundering about in the dark hunting another gate. But he knew that he was operating now on borrowed time. How many minutes or hours had passed since he had stepped out of the bomber he had no way of telling. But morning was surely coming, and with daylight the discovery of the chute in the tree was certain. And that would mean a hunt with all of them beating the fields after him.

  First they would search nearby, the garden, the outbuildings — especially since the sentry could testify to his not passing or attempting to pass the gate. But would they search the house itself? That old, old trick of hiding a wanted article by placing it in plain sight, would it still work? That was chance number one.

  As an alternative he had chance two — finding a place where the wall could be scaled, so getting out into the countryside and freedom. But why were there no sentries except at the gate? The Nazis did not appear to fear anyone trying to get over their barrier. Did that mean that they had some adequate defense planted there in the form of a booby trap to take care of ambitious climbers? And could he make that climb? His back and leg were aching from his earlier exertions, could he attempt more, maybe harder ones, without rest?

  In or over, the question balanced in his mind. Take a wild chance on the house or try the wall again?

  The hum of a well-cared-for car motor broke in upon his hesitancy. A black blot was coming along the drive, two round bluish lights close to the ground giving it eyes. It came to a full stop before the house door, and the driver switched off the engine.

  “Well, and here we are, Franz. Must I get out again, or will you lift your fat bottom off the seat and tell the Kapitan that we have come?”

  His companion’s answer was a grunt and the click of the door latch.

  “Always it is me, Manfred, who must do this. Why, I ask?”

  “You had better ask if we must go out again tonight. The Englishers came over an hour ago. When they go back there may be trouble. Remember last week?”

  “Can I forget it?” demanded Franz bitterly. “Down in a mud puddle with my face I was and bomb pieces all about my ears. The English swine dump anywhere the bombs when they are going home. When blows the siren it is better to hunt cover. If the Kapitan would learn that — ”

  “Do not presume, Franz, to teach the Kapitan his duties,” Manfred chuckled. “He is a hero.”

  “Well, and am I not one also? Dashing about in the dark with these damned Dutch only too eager to set booby traps for us. What happened to Kurt, over at Delfthaven? He went out for a walk and never has he been seen since. And did we not find Gustav’s collar badges in that barn the Kapitan raided just too late? I was at school with Gustav, and he was a good man. Did he not win the cross in Poland? And he was thought too cunning to be fooled by these Dutch. I tell you, Manfred, we are not dealing with a conquered people, we are fighting an army — a hidden one. And no good will come of that — ”

  “No good will come of your talking with that big mouth while the Kapitan is waiting. Tell him we are here now, and hope that he does not want to go riding in the night.”

  “All right, all right. We are in good time, there is no need to hurry. And why should we ride up and down these dark roads every night? What is he hunting?”

  “How should I know? But it will be you he is hunting if you don’t move.”

  The shadow which was Franz tramped up to the door.

  Since he did not knock, Lorens guessed that there was a bell in use. A moment later the door swung inward, but there was no sign of light. And all the watcher could hear was a muffled conversation. Then Franz came back to the car.

  “Do we go?” demanded Manfred.

  “Ja. When did we ever have any good luck — all ours is bad. We go — riding about in the dark until morning. Such a way to spend good sleeping hours. And let us hope that we come to no grief with this foolishness —”
<
br />   His voice snapped off as another figure came from the house to the car.

  “Tonight” — a colder, more high-pitched voice gave the order — “we shall patrol the canal toward Delft-haven. Not more than twenty miles an hour and keep watch over the canal. Understand?”

  “Ja, ja, Herr Kapitan.”

  Manfred started the engine and brought the car around on the drive with the skill of a veteran driver. Then it headed out toward the gates.

  So the Kapitan, whoever he might be, was gone until morning. Now how many inhabitants remained in the house? Explorations would be better started in the back. An open window in the kitchen quarters would be rewarding —

  Lorens’ mind was occupied with a new puzzle. Who was the Kapitan and why had he taken to this midnight patrolling of the roads which was so disliked by his subordinates? Just at present he wanted to solve that secret. The good advice he had heard in New York — never to allow himself to be drawn from his original objective — was fast going the way of most good advice.

  The house, he discovered, had been built in the form of a T with the front bar backed by a short protruding wing, in which he deduced he would find the domestic offices. It was toward the junction of the wing and the main house that he made his way. The windows were covered with thick wooden shutters, protection for blackouts, and the two he stealthily tried did not yield a fraction of an inch to such force as he dared put upon them.

  But right at the junction was a door. And without much hope he bore down upon its old latch and pushed. To his amazement it gave, swinging inward. He came into a tiled passage at the far end of which another door was outlined by a faint glow of light.

  He hunched down in the dark and removed his boots, tying their laces together and swinging them over his shoulder. In here he would not dare to use the revolver inside his coat except as a last resort. But the thick-soled British army boots were weapons not to be despised in close fighting. With one hand against the wall as a guide, he edged toward the beckoning crack of light.