Читать книгу Our Young Aeroplane Scouts in France and Belgium - Horace Porter - Страница 13

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“I don’t know where we are going, but we’re on the way,” sang Billy, whose spirits now ranged to a high pitch. “This beats anything we’ve rung up yet in our target practice over here,” he gloated. “Isn’t he a jolly old roadster?” Billy had checked the horse to a slow canter, after a run of two miles.

“Let’s have a bit of a rest.” Henri’s sore shoulder was troubling him. He still had his knapsack with some jumbled food in it. Billy had lost his food supply when he made his leap on the horse.

While the animal was cropping the short grass along the trail the riders took their ease by lounging on the turf and feeding on their crumbled lunch.

“This is a thirsty picnic,” asserted Billy. “My throat is as dry as powder. Let’s see if there isn’t a spring ’round here.”

Hooking the bridle reins over his arm, Billy led the way on a search for water. At the bottom of a wooded hill the boys found themselves in a marsh, and though bitter and brackish the water was a grateful relief to their parched tongues. The horse acted as though he had not had a drink for a week.

A little further on, in a meadow, the boys made a singular discovery. They were amazed to see an important looking personage in a gorgeous uniform, covered with decorations, wandering about the meadow like a strayed sheep.

“What the dickens is that?” exclaimed Henri.

“Give it up.” Billy couldn’t even make a guess. “He shows gay but harmless. I think I’ll look him over.”

On approaching the richly attired wanderer the boys with wonder noticed that he carried a gold-tipped baton and from a shiny knapsack on his shoulders rolls of music protruded.

The strange being kept proclaiming that he was going to direct the German military music on a triumphal parade through the streets of Paris. Henri could understand that much of the disconnected talk, and also that the speaker was the head musician of the German army in Belgium. He had been cut off from his command and become possessed by a fit of melancholy from which the boys found it impossible to rouse him. They divided with him what remained of the contents of Henri’s knapsack, but could not induce him to proceed with them.

“It’s a pity that a man like that should lose his reason. But this dreadful war strikes in most any kind of way, and if it isn’t one way it’s another.”

Henri was still thinking of the horrible happening when the Belgian battery was literally blown to pieces under his very eyes.

“There’s a peaceful sleeper here, anyhow,” said Billy, pausing, as they trudged along, leading the horse toward the trail. He pointed to a little mound above which had been set a rude wooden cross. It was the grave of a French soldier, for on the cross had been placed his cap, showing the name of his regiment. On the mound, too, had been scattered a few wild flowers.

“Somebody who had a heart for the cause or the fighter must have passed this way,” observed Henri. “The burial of a soldier near the battle lines hasn’t much ceremony, I am told, and surely doesn’t include flowers.”

The boys slept that night in the open, with the saddle for a pillow. They were awakened just before dawn by the restless antics of Bon Ami (“Good Friend”)—for so Henri had named the horse. The animal snorted and tugged at the tether as if scenting some invisible approach through the woods, at the edge of which the three had been passing the night.

Billy and Henri were on their feet in an instant, rubbing their eyes and trying to locate by sight or sound among the trees or elsewhere in the shadowy landscape the cause of Bon Ami’s disturbed action.

Even if the boys had suddenly made up their minds to run to cover, they would not have had time to go very far, for in the instant a scout troop rode out of the woods and straight at them.

The cavalrymen spread in fan shape, and in a moment Billy, Henri and Bon Ami were completely surrounded.

In good but gruff English the ranking officer of the troop commanded: “Come here and give an account of yourselves.”

Billy and Henri made haste to obey, and looking up at the officer on horseback offered their smartest imitation of a military salute. Peering down at them the cavalryman exclaimed:

“So help me, they’re mere boys. Who let you out, my fine kiddies, at this top of the morning? Here, Ned,” calling to one of the nearest troopers, “bring the hot milk and the porridge.”

Billy was becoming slightly nettled at this banter. He had no desire to be taken seriously, but yet not quite so lightly.

“I am an American citizen, sir, traveling, with my friend, on personal business.”

“Will you listen at that now?” laughed the cavalryman whom the first officer had called “Ned.”

“Do you know or have you thought that ‘personal business’ is just now rather a drug on the market in these parts?”

The chief was again addressing the boys, or, rather, Billy, who had elected himself spokesman.

“It does appear that the soldiers have the right of way here,” admitted Billy, “but we came in such a hurry that we couldn’t stop to inquire in particular about the rules.”

“That’s a pretty good horse you have.” It was light enough now for the officer to take in the fine points of Bon Ami. “Where did you get him?”

Billy explained the circumstances.

“Well, you are plucky ones,” commented the officer. “Now,” he continued, assuming again the tone of command, “saddle your steed and fall in.”

The troop wheeled back toward the north and the boys rode stirrup to stirrup with the bluff captain.

At the noon hour the riders reached the field working quarters of the British commander. A small headquarters guard lounged on the grass around the farmhouse that sheltered the general and his staff, a dozen automobiles and motorcycles were at hand and grooms were leading about the chargers of the officers.

The scout troop halted at a respectful distance and dismounted.

“Put on your best manners,” suggested the troop captain as he preceded the boys in quickstep to headquarters.

After a brief conference with an orderly, the boys were ushered into the presence of several officers in fatigue uniform seated at a table littered with papers. At the head of the table was a ruddy-faced man, clean-shaven, with iron-gray hair, to whom all heads bent in deference.

“We have visitors, I see.” The general’s tone and manner were kindly.

The boys stood speechless, their eyes fixed upon the little Maltese badge of honor suspended from the left breast of the general’s coat by a crimson ribbon. It was the Victoria Cross!