Роберт Чамберс - Who Goes There!

The yearling had ceased its twitching; the sow was down, too, a great lump of coarse black fur in the ditch.

Then the rifles began again; a company of little roe deer whirled into the ride and went down or stumbled with delicate limbs dangling broken, or leaped to a height incredible in the agony of a death wound.

Pell–mell after them galloped a whole herd of red deer; the German rifles rattled steadily. Now and then blasts from fowling–pieces dropped running or incoming pheasants, cock and hen alike; or crumpled up some twisting rabbit or knocked a great hare head over heels.

Faster and faster came the terrified wild things, stag, roe, boar, and hare; steadily the German rifles cracked and rattled out death; thicker and swifter pelted the meteor flight of pheasants; birds of all sorts came driving headlong in their flight; big drab–tinted wood–pigeons, a wild duck or two, widgeon and mallard; now and then a woodcock fluttered past like some soft brown bat beating the air; now and then a coq–de–la–bruyere, planing on huge bowed wings above collapsed and fell heavily to the loose roar of the fowling–pieces.

Crippled, mutilated creatures were heaped along the ride; over them leaped their panic–stricken comrades only to stumble in the rifle–fire and lie struggling or inert.

A veil of smoky haze made the carrefour greyer now, through which at intervals a dying stag lifted its long neck from the shambles about him or some strong feathered thing beat its broken wings impotently upon the grass.

Once a great boar charged, and was shot to pieces, spattering the steps of the shrine with blood. Once a wounded hare dragged its tortured body to the shrine, as though for sanctuary. A non–com swung it crashing against the granite cross.

And now a more sinister thing occurred. Out from the forest, amid the stampeding game, reeled a man! His blue smock hung in ribbons; one bleeding fist grasped a rifle; the cartridges en bandoulière glittered.

For a second he stood there, swaying, panting, bewildered in the smoke haze; then three non–coms fired at him at once.

At that he straightened up, stood so for a second as though listening, then he took one uncertain step and pitched into a patch of briers on his face.

Presently some German foot–soldiers appeared in the ride, moving cautiously, scanning every ditch, every hollow, every thicket, their rifles poised for a snap–shot. A roebuck floundered up and went off before them like the wind, unnoticed. Then one of the soldiers fired, and a boy jumped out from behind a hazel bush and started to run along the edge of the woods. He was followed by two sheep dogs.

"Jean Pascal!" said Michaud calmly. "May God pardon him now."

As the little shepherd ran, the soldiers stood and fired at him, aiming carefully. They broke his leg as he passed the carrefour. The lad raised himself from the ground to a sitting position and was sobbing bitterly, when they shot him again. That time he fell over on his side, his hands still covering his dead and tear–wet face. His dogs trotted around him, nuzzling him and licking his hands. An officer shot them both.

Schultz broke cover in a few moments, his rifle at his cheek; and, dropping to one knee in the ride, he coolly opened fire on the officers by the shrine. But he had time only for a single shot which jerked a spiked helmet from a cavalry major's clipped head. Then they knocked him flat.

As the herdsman lay gasping in the roadway with a bullet in his stomach, looking with dull and glazing eyes at the rifle flashes, three men from Yslemont—blackened, haggard, ragged creatures—burst out, fighting like wildcats with the beaters behind them.

Two were bayoneted and clubbed to death in the briers; the last man ran like a crazed hare, doubling, dodging, twisting among the trees where the rifle hail filled the air with twigs and splinters and tattered leaves.

After him lumbered a dozen foot–soldiers, clumping along in their hob–nailed ammunition boots. Then, high above on The Pulpit, Guild spoke sharply to Michaud, who gave a jerk to his white head and made a little gesture to the others behind him.

"Now," added Guild in a low voice.

"Fire," said Michaud calmly.

The rocky glen roared with the volley. The foot–soldiers below halted in astonishment and looked up. One fell sideways against a tree; another dropped to his knees and remained motionless, the spike of his helmet buried deep in the soft earth.

They were shouting down by the carrefour now; clear, mellow whistle signals sounded persistently. Horses were coming, too; the ride reverberated with their galloping. And all the while The Pulpit resounded with the rifle–fire of its little garrison, and soldiers were dropping along the carrefour and the ride.

"The Pulpit resounded with the rifle–fire of its little garrison"

"Pigs of Prussians!" shouted the old garde–de–chasse; "does a Belgian game–drive suit you now! Ah, scoundrels, bandits, sound the Mort on your imbecile whistles. For the swine of the North are dying fast!"

"Be silent," said Michaud coldly. "You tarnish your own courage!"

Guild and Darrel had taken rifles; they stood firing down at the carrefour where the horses of the Uhlan advanced guard were plunging about in disorder under a confusion of lances and fluttering pennons.

But the confusion lasted only a few moments; horsemen whirled their mounts and cleared out at full speed; the carrefour was empty of officers now; not a German was visible in the early sunshine, only the steady clatter of their rifle–fire continued to pelt the heights where bullets cracked and smacked on the rocks.

"Enough," said Michaud quietly. "It is time to leave. André, bring thou a bar to me."

A charcoal burner ran to the hole in the rocks and drew out a crowbar. Michaud took it, shoved it under the edge of the ledge, found a fulcrum, motioned the men back.

Two other men threw their weight on the bar; the ledge lifted easily. Suddenly the entire parapet gave way, crashing like an avalanche into the glen below.

"They shall need wings who follow us," said the old man grimly. "Monsieur," turning calmly to Guild, "if we cross the Dutch border unarmed, will they interne us?"

"No, I think not."

"And from there we may be free to find our way to the colours?"

"Yes."

"By sea?"

"By land and sea to Dunkirk. I know of no easier or quicker way."

"Monsieur goes with us?"

"First I must stop at Quellenheim." He added, in a low voice: "By mistake my papers were sent there last night. Our King must see those papers."

"Bien," said Michaud. "We bivouac near Quellenheim tonight—time for a crust, Monsieur, while you go to the house and return. Is it agreeable to Monsieur?"

"Perfectly." And, to Darrel: "Take your chance while it remains and join the Courlands when they leave Quellenheim. Will you promise?"

"I'll see," said Darrel, carelessly tossing his rifle across his shoulder and stepping into the silent file of men which was already starting across the ridge.

It was nearly eleven o'clock at night before they bivouacked without fires in the woods behind the Lodge at Quellenheim.

The circuitous forest route had wearied the men; they threw themselves on the dead leaves and moss; some slept where they lay, others groped in sacks with toil–stiffened fingers searching for crusts, which they munched slowly, half asleep.

Guild drew Darrel and Michaud aside.

"To go by Luxembourg and Holland is too long and too uncertain," he said. "If we could cross the railway beyond Trois Fontaines before daylight we should have a clear country before us to Antwerp."

It had been days since the household at Lesse had heard any war news, but Darrel recollected that there had been rumours of a German drive toward Antwerp.