Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  The bright glare of lanterns dazzled him as he looked up, but he saw a line of men with bared sabres standing to his right — tall Uhlans, buttoned to the chin in their sombre overcoats, helmet-cords oscillating in the lantern glow.

  Another Uhlan, standing erect before him, had been speaking for a second or two before he even heard him.

  “Prisoner, do you understand German?” repeated the Uhlan, harshly.

  “Yes,” muttered Jack. He began to shiver, perhaps from the chill of the wet earth.

  “Stand up!”

  Jack stumbled to his numbed feet. A drop of blood rolled into his eye and he mechanically wiped it away. He tried to look at the man before him; he could not, for his fascinated eyes returned to that thing that hung on a rope from the great sprawling oak-branch at the edge of the grove.

  Like a vague voice in a dream he heard his own name pronounced; he heard a sonorous formula repeated in a heavy, dispassionate voice— “accused of having resisted a picquet of his Prussian Majesty’s 11th Regiment of Uhlan cavalry, of having wilfully, maliciously, and with murderous design fired upon and wounded trooper Kohlmann of said picquet while in pursuit of his duty.”

  Again he heard the same voice: “The law of non-combatants operating in such cases leaves no doubt as to the just penalty due.”

  Jack straightened up and looked the officer in the eyes. Ah! now he knew him — the map-maker of the carrefour, the sneak-thief who had scaled the park wall with the box — that was the face he had struck with his clenched fist, the same pink, high-boned face, with the little, pale, pig-like eyes. In the same second the man’s name came back to him as he had deciphered it written in pencil on the maps — Siurd von Steyr!

  Von Steyr’s eyes grew smaller and paler, and an ugly flush mounted to his scarred cheek-bone. But his voice was dispassionate and harsh as ever when he said: “The prisoner Marche is at liberty to confront witnesses. Trooper Kohlmann!”

  There he stood, the same blond, bony Uhlan whom Jack had tumbled into the dust, the same colourless giant whom he had dragged with trailing spurs across the road to the tree.

  From his pouch the soldier produced Jack’s silver flask, with his name engraved on the bottom, his pipe, still half full of tobacco, just as he had dropped it when the field-glasses told him that Uhlans, not French lancers, were coming down the hill-side.

  One by one three other Uhlans advanced from the motionless ranks, saluted, briefly identified the prisoner, and stepped back again.

  “Have you any statement to make?” demanded Von Steyr.

  Jack’s teeth were clenched, his throat contracted, he was choking. Everything around him swam in darkness — a darkness lit by little flames; his veins seemed bursting. He was in their midst now, shouldered and shoved across the grass; their hot breath fell on his face, their hands crushed his arms, bent back his elbows, pushed him forward, faster, faster, towards the tree where that thing hung, turning slowly as a squid spins on a swivel.

  It was the grating of the rope on his throat that crushed the first cry out of him: “Von Steyr, shoot me! For the love of God! Not — not this—”

  He was struggling now — he set his teeth and struck furiously. The crowd seemed to increase about him; now there was a mounted man in their midst — more mounted men, shouting.

  The rope suddenly tightened; the blood pounded in his cheeks, in his temples; his tongue seemed to split open. Then he got his fingers between the noose and his neck; now the thing loosened and he pitched forward, but kept his feet.

  “Gott verdammt!” roared a voice above him; “Von Steyr! — here! get back there! — get back!”

  “Rickerl!” gasped Jack— “tell — tell them — they must shoot — not hang—”

  He stood glaring at the soldiers before him, face bloody and distorted, the rope trailing from one clenched hand. Breathless, haggard, he planted his heels in the turf, and, dropping the noose, set one foot on it. All around him horsemen crowded up, lances slung from their elbows, helmets nodding as the restive horses wheeled.

  And now for the first time he saw the Marquis de Nesville, face like a death-mask, one hand on the edge of the wicker balloon-car, which stood in the midst of a circle of cavalry.

  “This is not the place nor is this the time to judge your prisoners,” said Rickerl, pushing his horse up to Von Steyr and scowling down into his face. “Who called this drum-head court? Is that your province? Oh, in my absence? Well, then, I am here! Do you see me?”

  The insult fell like the sting of a lash across Von Steyr’s face. He saluted, and, looking straight into Rickerl’s eyes, said, “Zum Befehl, Herr Hauptmann! I am at your convenience also.”

  “When you please!” shouted Rickerl, crimson with fury. “Retire!”

  Scarcely were the words out of his mouth, scarcely had he backed his startled horse, when there came a sound of a crushing blow, a groan, and a soldier staggered back from the balloon-car, his hands to his head, where the shattered helmet hung by one torn gilt cord. In the same instant the marquis, dishevelled, white as a corpse, rose from the wicker car, shaking his steel box above his head. Then, through the ring of nervous, quivering horses the globe of the balloon appeared as by magic — an enormous, looming, yellow sphere, tense, glistening, gigantic.

  The horses reared, snorting with fright, the Uhlans clung to their saddles, shouting and cursing, and the huge balloon, swaying from its single rope, pounded and bounced from side to side, knocking beast and man into a chaotic mass of frantic horses and panic-stricken riders.

  With a report like a pistol the rope parted, the great globe bounded and shot up into the air; a tumult of harsh shouts arose; the crazed horses backed, plunged, and scattered, some falling, some bolting into the undergrowth, some rearing and swaying in an ecstasy of terror.

  The troopers, helpless, gnashing their teeth, shook their long lances towards the sky, where the moon was breaking from the banked clouds, and the looming balloon hung black above the forest, drifting slowly westward.

  And now Von Steyr had a weapon in his hands — not a carbine, but a long chassepot-rifle, a relic of the despoiled franc-tireur, dangling from the oak-tree.

  Some one shouted, “It’s loaded with explosive bullets!”

  “Then drop it!” roared Rickerl. “For shame!”

  The crash of the rifle drowned his voice.

  The balloon’s shadowy bulk above the forest was belted by a blue line of light; the globe contracted, a yellow glare broke out in the sky. Then far away a light report startled the sudden stillness; a dark spot, suspended in mid-air, began to fall, swiftly, more swiftly, dropping through the night between sky and earth.

  “You damned coward!” stammered Rickerl, pointing a shaking hand at Von Steyr.

  “God keep you when our sabres meet!” said Von Steyr, between his teeth.

  Rickerl burst into an angry laugh.

  “Where is your prisoner?” he cried.

  Von Steyr stared around him, right and left — Jack was gone.

  “Let others prefer charges,” said Rickerl, contemptuously— “if you escape my sabre in the morning.”

  “Let them,” said Von Steyr, quietly, but his face worked convulsively.

  “Second platoon dismount to search for escaped prisoner!” he cried. “Open order! Forward!”

  CHAPTER XIX

  RICKERL’S SABRE

  Jack, lying full length in the depths of the forest, listened fearfully for the sounds of the human pack on his heels. The blackness was stupefying; the thud of his own heart seemed to fill the shrouded forest like the roll of a muffled drum. Presently he crept on again, noiselessly, painfully, closing his eyes when the invisible twigs brushed his face.

  He did not know where he was going, he only thought of getting away, anywhere — away from that hangman’s rope.

  Again he rested, suffocated by the tumult in his breast, burning with thirst. For a long while he lay listening; there was not a sound in the night. Little by little his coolness ret
urned; he thought of Lorraine and his promise, and he knew that now he could not keep it. He thought, too, of the marquis, never doubting the terrible fate of the half-crazed man. He had seen him stun the soldier with a blow of the steel box, he had seen the balloon shoot up into the midnight sky, he had heard the shot and caught a glimpse of the glare of the burning balloon. Somewhere in the forest the battered body of the marquis lay in the wreck of the shattered car. The steel box, too, lay there — the box that was so precious to the Germans.

  He rose to his knees, felt around among the underbrush, bent his head and crept on, parting leaves and branches with one hand, holding the other over his eyes. The thought that he might be moving in a circle filled him with fear. But that was exactly what he was doing, for now he found himself close to the park wall; and, listening, he heard the river murmuring among the alders. He halted, utterly at a loss. If he were caught again could Rickerl save him? What could a captain of Uhlans do? True, he had interfered with Von Steyr’s hangman’s work, but that was nothing but a reprieve at best.

  The murmur of the river filled his ears; his hot throat was cracking. Drink he must, at any rate, and he started on in the darkness, moving stealthily over the moss. The water was closer than he had imagined; he bent above it, first touching it with groping hands, then noiselessly bathed his feverish face in the dark stream, drinking his fill.

  He longed to follow the shallow stream, wading to Morteyn, but he dared not risk it; so he went along the bank as far as he could, trying to keep within sound of the waters, until again he found himself close to the park wall. The stream had vanished again.

  Dawn began to gray the forest; little by little the nearest trees grew from the darkness, and bushes took vague shapes in the gloom. He strained his eyes, peering at every object near him, striving to recognize stones, saplings, but he could not. Even when dawn at last came up out of the east, and the thickets grew distinct, he did not know where he was. A line of vapour through the trees marked the course of the little river. Which way was it flowing? Even that he could not tell. He looked in vain for the park wall; that had vanished utterly with the dawn. Very cautiously he advanced over the deep forest mould to the willow-fringed bank of the stream. The current was flowing east. Where was he? He parted the willows and looked out, and at the same instant an Uhlan saw him and shouted.

  Running swiftly through the trees, head lowered, hands clenched, he heard the sound of galloping on a soft road that seemed to run through the forest, parallel to his own course. Then, as he bore hastily to the right and plunged into the deeper undergrowth, he caught a glimpse of the Château close by through the trees. Horrified to find himself back at the place from which he had started, he doubled in his tracks, ran on, stooping low, splashed into the stream and across, and plunged up to the shoulders through the tall weeds and bushes until again he felt the forest leaves beneath his feet.

  The sudden silence around him was disconcerting. Where had the Uhlan gone? He ran on, making straight for the depths of the woods, for he knew now where he was, and in which direction safety lay.

  After a while his breath and legs gave out together, and he leaned against a beech-tree, his hands pressed to his mouth, where the breath struggled for expulsion. And, as he leaned there, two Uhlans, mounted, lances advanced, came picking their way among the trees, turning their heads cautiously from side to side. Behind these two rode six others, apparently unarmed, two abreast. He saw at once that nothing could save him, for they were making straight for his beech-tree. In that second of suspense he made up his mind to die fighting, for he knew what capture meant. He fixed his eyes on the foremost Uhlan, and waited. When the Uhlan should pass his tree he would fly at him; the rest could stab him to death with their lances — that was the only way to end it now.

  He shrank back, teeth set, nerving himself for the spring — a hunted thing turned fierce, a desperate man knowing that death was close. How long they were in coming! Had they seen him? When would the horse’s nose pass the great tree-trunk?

  “Halt!” cried a voice very near. The soft trample of horses ceased.

  “Dismount!”

  It seemed an age; the sluggish seconds crawled on. There was the sound of feet among the dry forest leaves — the hum of deep voices. He waited, trembling, for now it would be a man on foot with naked sabre who should sink under his spring. Would he never come?

  At last, unable to stand the suspense, he moved his eyes to the edge of the tree. There they were, a group of Uhlans standing near two men who stood facing each other, jackets off, shirts open to the throat.

  The two men were Rickerl and Von Steyr.

  Rickerl rolled up his white shirt-sleeve and tucked the cuff into the folds, his naked sabre under his arm. Von Steyr, in shirt, riding-breeches, and boots, stood with one leg crossed before the other, leaning on his bared sabre. The surgeon and the two seconds walked apart, speaking in undertones, with now and then a quick gesture from the surgeon. The three troopers held the horses of the party, and watched silently. When at last one of the Uhlans spoke, they were so near that every word was perfectly distinct to Jack:

  “Gentlemen, an affair of honour in the face of the enemy is always deplorable.”

  Rickerl burst out violently. “There can be no compromise — no adjustment. Is it Lieutenant von Steyr who seeks it? Then I tell him he is a hangman and a coward! He hangs a franc-tireur who fires on us with explosive bullets, but he himself does not hesitate to disgrace his uniform and regiment by firing explosive bullets at an escaping wretch in a balloon!”

  “You lie!” said Von Steyr, his face convulsed. At the same moment the surgeon stepped forward with a gesture, the two seconds placed themselves; somebody muttered a formula in a gross bass voice and the swordsmen raised their heavy sabres and saluted. The next moment they were at it like tigers; their sabres flashed above their heads, the sabres of the seconds hovering around the outer edge of the circle of glimmering steel like snakes coiling to spring.

  To and fro swayed the little group under the blinding flashes of light, stroke rang on stroke, steel shivered and tinkled and clanged on steel.

  Fascinated by the spectacle, Jack crouched close to the tree, seeing all he dared to see, but keeping a sharp eye on the three Uhlans who were holding the horses, and who should have been doing sentry duty also. But they were human, and their eyes could not be dragged away from the terrible combat before them.

  Suddenly, from the woods to the right, a rifle-shot rang out, clear and sharp, and one of the Uhlans dropped the three bridles, straightened out to his full height, trembled, and lurched sideways. The horses, freed, backed into the other horses; the two remaining Uhlans tried to seize them, but another shot rang out — another, and then another. In the confusion and turmoil a voice cried: “Mount, for God’s sake!” but one of the horses was already free, and was galloping away riderless through the woods.

  A terrible yell arose from the underbrush, where a belt of smoke hung above the bushes, and again the rifles cracked. Von Steyr turned and seized a horse, throwing himself heavily across the saddle; the surgeon and the two seconds scrambled into their saddles, and the remaining pair of Uhlans, already mounted, wheeled their horses and galloped headlong into the woods.

  Jack saw Rickerl set his foot in the stirrup, but his horse was restive and started, dragging him.

  “Hurry, Herr Hauptmann!” cried a Uhlan, passing him at a gallop. Rickerl cast a startled glance over his shoulder, where, from the thickets, a dozen franc-tireurs were springing towards him, shouting and shaking their chassepots. Something had given way — Jack saw that — for the horse started on at a trot, snorting with fright. He saw Rickerl run after him, seize the bridle, stumble, recover, and hang to the stirrup; but the horse tore away and left him running on behind, one hand grasping his naked sabre, one clutching a bit of the treacherous bridle.

  “À mort les Uhlans!” shouted the franc-tireurs, their ferocious faces lighting up as Rickerl’s horse eluded its rider
and crashed away through the saplings.

  Rickerl cast one swift glance at the savage faces, turned his head like a trapped wolf in a pit, hesitated, and started to run. A chorus of howls greeted him: “À mort!” “À mort le voleur!” “À la lanterne les Uhlans!”

  Scarcely conscious of what he was doing, Jack sprang from his tree and ran parallel to Rickerl.

  “Ricky!” he called in English— “follow me! Hurry! hurry!”

  The franc-tireurs could not see Jack, but they heard his voice, and answered it with a roar. Rickerl, too, heard it, and he also heard the sound of Jack’s feet crashing through the willows along the river-bottom.

  “Jack!” he cried.

  “Quick! Take to the river-bank!” shouted Jack in English again. In a moment they were running side by side up the river-bottom, hidden from the view of the franc-tireurs.

  “Do as I do,” panted Jack. “Throw your sabre away and follow me. It’s our last chance.” But Rickerl clung to his sabre and ran on. And now the park wall rose right in their path, seeming to block all progress.

  “We can’t get over — it’s ended,” gasped Rickerl.

  “Yes, we can — follow,” whispered Jack, and dashed straight into the river where it washed the base of the wall.

  “Do exactly as I do. Follow close,” urged Jack; and, wading to the edge of the wall, he felt along under the water for a moment, then knelt down, ducked his head, gave a wriggle, and disappeared. Rickerl followed him, kneeling and ducking his head. At the same moment he felt a powerful current pulling him forward, and, groping around under the shallow water, his hands encountered the rim of a large iron conduit. He stuck his head into it, gave himself a push, and shot through the short pipe into a deep pool on the other side of the wall, from which Jack dragged him dripping and exhausted.

  “You are my prisoner!” said Jack, between his gasps. “Give me your sabre, Ricky — quick! Look yonder!” A loud explosion followed his words, and a column of smoke rose above the foliage of the vineyard before them.