by W E Johns
Into the very middle of this unwelcome spectacle the driver guided his wagon. It stopped with a jerk. ‘So,’ he said. ‘Here we are.’
‘Thanks, I’ll do as much for you some day,’ said Thirty quietly, and prepared to dismount. In spite of his efforts to remain calm, his heart was fluttering, and he determined to lose no time in removing himself from such distasteful surroundings.
But even as he climbed down a cloaked figure detached itself from a group and moved towards the vehicle.
‘Is that you, Willy Schmidt?’ asked a voice.
‘Ja,’ replied the driver.
‘Who’s that you’ve got with you?’
‘A fellow I gave a lift to, that’s all.’
‘You know it’s against orders to give rides to strangers.’
‘He’s the son of the woman at my billet,’ lied the soldier, evidently with the object of saving himself from further reprimand.
Thirty began to walk away. Every instinct in him was prompting him to run, but he kept himself under control and walked as naturally as possible. Risking a sidelong glance, he saw to his consternation that the German N.C.O. was staring at his feet; he knew well enough what the man was staring at, and only by a supreme effort did he refrain from looking down at his field-boots.
‘Hi, you!’ shouted the N.C.O. suddenly.
Thirty pretended not to hear. Mingling with a party of soldiers, he hurried amongst them, and then slipped between the line of lorries to the pavement.
The N.C.O. shouted again, louder this time. Thirty heard him start to run forward and knew that he was in a tight corner. To make a bolt for it would, he knew, attract attention to himself, and with so many troops about this was the last thing he wanted. Still walking as quickly as he dared, his eyes flashed round his immediate surroundings. A dozen paces away a narrow alley leading off the square beckoned invitingly, and towards it he turned his steps. As soon as he was inside he darted forward, and did not slow down until the darkness in the unlighted passage forced him to go more warily.
He stopped to listen. He could still hear the N.C.O.’s strident voice, but he judged that he was talking to the troops in the square and had not followed him into the alley. Not a little relieved, he looked about him; he knew that he must be close to the church, but owing to the narrowness of the path in which he found himself, all he could see was the rising walls of the dingy houses on either side. However, to go back was out of the question, so he hurried on, keeping a look-out for an opening on either hand, hoping that he would find one wide enough to enable him to see the church tower and thus get his bearings. Instead, he came upon something which suited him even better, although it was not without a grim significance, for at the point where he struck it there was a surprising number of newly turned mounds of earth. It was the churchyard. In the centre of it loomed the stately mass of the church itself, now gaunt and forbidding in the dim light. Beyond it, and a little to one side, stood a house, from one window of which, on the ground-floor, a blur of orange light glowed fitfully through the misty rain.
Standing as it did in the churchyard, he knew that the house could be nothing but the presbytery, but between him and the little path that led to it was a formidable fence of perpendicular iron railings. He hesitated, and while he stood thus in indecision he heard footsteps approaching from the direction from which he had come. The footsteps were hurried, and accompanied by the sound of many voices. Instinctively he started off the opposite way, but before he had gone a dozen paces he heard footsteps coming from that direction also. In a moment he was clambering over the railings, hampered not a little by the blue blouse which he dared not discard. Reaching the top, he balanced himself precariously for a moment, and then jumped down on the other side. He landed with a jar that shook most of the breath out of his body, for the ground was uneven; but, waiting only long enough to recover his balance, he sped across the churchyard like a hunted animal, jumping over graves and dodging round the ornate tombstones that rose in front of him.
He reached a shrubbery, which he now discovered formed a hedge between the churchyard and the presbytery garden, and there stopped to collect his wits and his composure, for his nerves were quivering under the strain of his predicament. He could still hear voices in the direction of the footpath, but otherwise all seemed quiet, so, moving quietly, he forced a way through the shrubbery and approached the house.
Now that the moment had come, doubts began to assail him. Suppose it was not the right house? Suppose the priest was not at home? Suppose . . . He pulled himself together with an effort. Should he go to the window, or to the door? Peering into the gloom, he saw that he was in a small paved courtyard, on the far side of which stood a door with a window on either side. No lights showed. All was as silent as the grave.
‘Well, it’s no use standing here; I’ve got to get in somehow,’ he thought desperately, and walking quickly to the door, knocked on it with his knuckles. Then he listened; but the only sound was the monotonous drip-drip-drip of rain from the overflowing eaves. He knocked again, looking apprehensively over his shoulder in the direction of the path, where sounds suggested that a number of men had halted.
‘Yes, what is it?’
Thirty jumped convulsively as the words, spoken softly in French, came from the doorway. He had not heard the door open. Even now he was not quite sure whether it was open or shut.
‘Father Dupont?’ he whispered.
‘Yes, my son,’ replied the voice evenly. ‘What can I do for you at this late hour?’
‘I have a message for you,’ said Thirty softly, in his best French.
‘Ah! Come in.’
Thirty stepped forward and stood still while he heard the door being closed and bolted. Suddenly a match flared up, and for the first time he could see the speaker, who was now lighting a candle. He experienced a feeling of profound relief when he perceived the black cassock of a priest.
‘Follow me.’
Obediently Thirty followed the man down a narrow panelled corridor, on either side of which hung rows of old prints—pictures of saints and other religious subjects. Then a door was opened, and he found himself in a well-lighted room that was evidently a study.
‘Kindly be seated.’
Thirty sat nervously in the proffered chair while the priest walked slowly to the chair behind his desk and settled himself in it. Thirty looked at him curiously, for he was not in any way the sort of man he expected to see. Vaguely, at the back of his mind, he had visualized a keen, hawk-like face with piercing eyes; a slim, sinister-looking person. Instead, he found himself looking into a pair of gentle brown eyes, as soft as those of a doe. They were set in a round, kindly face, free from any sign of care or worry. But for the clerical attire, the man might have been a prosperous restaurant-proprietor—so thought Thirty as he gazed at him, wondering how to open the conversation.
‘You said something about a message, I think?’ the priest reminded him, quietly.
Thirty groped for his pocket under the blouse, and took out the little box which he had risked so much to deliver. ‘I was told to bring this to you,’ he said, simply.
The priest’s eyes looked at him from a face that was now completely devoid of expression. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Is that all?’
‘Yes . . . that’s all,’ replied Thirty awkwardly, somewhat taken aback by the other’s manner.
‘Then you’ll be going now? Come, I will show you out.’
Thirty stared. In his heart he knew that his mission had been accomplished and there was no reason for him to delay, yet he had hardly expected such a casual reception. Doubts again swept through him.
‘You are Father Dupont?’ he questioned, feeling more than a little embarrassed.
‘Do you doubt it?’
‘Er—no.’
‘Then why question it?’
Thirty plunged. ‘You know what is in that box?’
The priest regarded him dispassionately. ‘I shall find out,’ he said.
&n
bsp; Thirty experienced a strange sensation of anticlimax. The encounter, so far from having any dramatic quality, had proved to be so casual as to make him feel suddenly foolish. A faint smile crossed his face. But it faded suddenly as a sound reached his ears, and he knew from the manner in which the priest stiffened almost imperceptibly that he had heard it, too. Otherwise his manner did not change. Footsteps were approaching the house—heavy footsteps; and with them, faintly, came the chink of spurs.
The priest looked at Thirty. ‘Did any one see you come here?’ he asked, in a low voice.
‘No—that is, I don’t think so.’
‘Then go through into the kitchen. It is the first turning on the right down the corridor. Put on the apron you will find hanging behind the door and stir the soup which you will find simmering on the fire. Say nothing. Should any one speak to you, act as though you were dumb.’ The priest spoke quietly, but swiftly.
Thirty nodded, and turning on his heel strode swiftly down the corridor. As he passed into the kitchen there came a loud knocking on the door.
Chapter 15
A Desperate Predicament
Acting almost mechanically, he unhooked the apron which he found hanging on the back of the door and slipped it on, also a white chefs hat which was with it. He had purposely left the door ajar, and with what tense interest he listened can be better imagined than described. A glance showed him the soup simmering on an old-fashioned stove, but he paid no further attention to it.
Standing just inside the kitchen with his ear to the slightly open door, he heard the front door opened; a word of greeting, spoken in German, followed.
‘Ah, good evening, Herr Leutnant*1,’ said the priest, easily. ‘What indiscretion have you enjoyed that you seek absolution at this—’
‘I seek something more concrete than absolution,’ broke in a voice, bluntly. ‘A suspicious stranger was seen in the village not long ago. My corporal swears he made off in the direction of the churchyard, so I have looked in to warn you to keep your doors locked.’
‘Surely this—er—stranger would not be so evil as to rob a poor priest like myself. My thanks for your solicitude, nevertheless.’
‘One never knows,’ returned the voice.
Thirty breathed more easily. It seemed as if the visit portended nothing very serious, after all. But at the Leutnant’s next words he stiffened with horror. ‘We’ve sent for the dogs; they’ll soon rout him out,’ muttered the German, viciously.
The dogs! The words so upset Thirty that he could not think clearly. He knew well enough what the Leutnant meant, for he had heard often enough of the sagacious police-dogs that were used by the German army. What upset him most was the knowledge that once the dogs were put on his trail they would follow him to the house, which, apart from his own undoing, could hardly fail to throw suspicion on the priest.
Thirty forced himself to think calmly. At all costs he must save the man upon whom so much depended. But how? He could think of only one way. Whether he was there or not, the dogs would certainly lead the Germans into the house. That was inevitable. But if he adopted the role of a thief it would give the priest an opportunity of denying any knowledge of him, which he would be unable to do if he, Thirty, continued to pose as a chef. His mind was soon made up. A thief he would be. Then, once clear of the house, it would matter little to the priest if he were caught or not.
The German and the priest were still talking in the study, but their tones were muffled and he could not hear the actual words. Without expecting to see any one, he peeped along the corridor, but stepped back again swiftly with palpitating heart when his eyes fell on two German soldiers standing just inside the front door, which had been left open. Fortunately, they were watching the churchyard, so their backs were towards him.
Thirty steadied himself and looked round. The difficulty was to find something to steal. The only thing one was likely to find in a kitchen was food; still, that would do, he reflected. It would look as if he, a fugitive, had broken in on account of hunger.
In the larder he found, amongst other things, bread, half a ham, cheese, and a small sack half full of potatoes. It was the work of a moment to turn the potatoes out on to the floor; and in their place he thrust all the foodstuffs he could lay hands on. Thus laden, he stepped back into the kitchen. Instantly there was a sharp tap on the window. With a start that he could not repress, he looked in the direction of the sound. A face surmounted by a spiked helmet was grinning at him through the glass.
Thirty turned cold, but he did not lose control of himself. As much from sheer desperation as any thought of playing a bold hand, he crossed to the window and opened it.
‘What do you want?’ he said, in tones which he strove to keep casual.
‘Any soup in the pot?’ asked the German.
‘Of course,’ replied Thirty. ‘Have some?’
‘You bet—and so will Hans.’ A second German appeared at the window.
‘Stay where you are,’ Thirty told them. ‘If you come in here I may get into trouble.’ With hands that trembled in spite of himself, he unhooked two soup-basins from the dresser, filled them, and handed them to the waiting Germans. ‘Don’t be long over it,’ he said, meaningly.
As he turned back into the room, wondering if it might not be better to stay after all, he heard a hound bay not far away. That decided him. What the Germans would think when he went out he did not know; perhaps they would be too occupied with the soup to think anything; he hoped so, fervently. As he picked up the bag of food he noticed in a corner a bucket full of kitchen garbage—potato-peelings, cabbage-stalks, and broken egg-shells. It gave him an idea, so, hitching the bag over his left shoulder and holding it in his left hand, with the other he picked up the pail. Thus laden he walked quickly to the back door.
‘What have you got there?’ asked one of the Germans.
‘Rubbish,’ answered Thirty promptly. ‘Time I got rid of it.’
‘Here, let me take it,’ exclaimed the other, putting his soup-basin on the window-sill. ‘There’s no need for you to come out.’
Thirty inwardly cursed the German for his friendliness. ‘I’d better take it,’ he said. ‘It has to go in a special pig-trough, and you’ll never find it in the dark. You finish your soup by the time I come back.’ With that he strode off down a footpath that led away to the left.
He had not the remotest idea of where the path ended; his one concern was to get clear of the house. Twice he collided with fruit-trees, and then found himself in what was undoubtedly a kitchen garden. A few more paces and his feet sank into soft earth, which told him he was off the path, and he was about to retrace his steps when a pandemonium of barks and howls broke out in the direction of the churchyard. It nearly sent him into a panic, for he realized instantly what it meant. The hounds had found his scent.
The knowledge sent him forward at a run, fully prepared for a sentry’s challenge. Nothing of the sort happened, however. Still clinging to his burden, he came to the end of the garden, and a hedge. There was no gate, and nothing to indicate what lay beyond the hedge. To get through it, burdened as he was, was obviously an impossibility, so he got rid of both the sack and the bucket by the simple expedient of dropping them in a cabbage patch, after which he attacked the hedge.
With his clothes torn and his face bleeding from more than one scratch, he arrived on the other side, where he discovered to his dismay that he had left a good part of his blue blouse amongst the thorns. Peering into the darkness, he tried to see what was in front of him. It appeared to be a wide black shadow, and he took a pace towards it, only to throw himself back as he learned the truth. It was a river. ‘Of course it’s a river,’ he thought bitterly, remembering the name of the village. ‘It must be the Somme.’
A fresh chorus of baying not far away settled any doubt in his mind as to which way to take. Consoling himself with the thought that the water would at least end his trail as far as the hounds were concerned, he lowered himself into the river and struck
out for the opposite bank, which he could discern faintly some thirty yards away. But before he could reach it an entirely unlooked-for development occurred.
Out of the darkness on the far side of the river appeared a horse. He saw it without any particular surprise or alarm, and watched it as it walked slowly down the bank. Then something in its actions touched a chord in his memory. What on earth was the creature doing? Its movements suggested that it was pulling a heavy weight, but he could see nothing behind it. The horse passed on, still pulling its invisible burden.
He was still pondering on this phenomenon, without quickening his stroke, when something fell on his head. It also fell on the water beside him, but he was unaware of that, for the next instant the object that had fallen seemed to spring up under his jaw with a force that nearly dislocated it. And forthwith something tightened round his throat and began to drag him through the water.
In vain he kicked and struggled, clutching wildly at the thing that was strangling him. A purely instinctive cry of horror and alarm broke from his lips. It was answered by another, although he barely heard it; then, as suddenly as it had seized him, the grip relaxed, and in a half-drowning condition he became aware of a huge black bulk looming over him. Hands seized him by the collar and lifted him bodily out of the water; a moment later he was gasping like a stranded fish on a wooden deck.
In a flash he understood everything—the horse, the rope that had nearly throttled him, and the barge it was towing. He sat up hurriedly as the rays of a small oil lamp were turned on him. Behind it loomed vaguely the bulk of a human form.
‘Thanks,’ he said, with not a little confusion.
