Читать книгу Two American Boys with the Allied Armies - Sherman Crockett - Страница 7

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“Whew! that’s a tough deal, I should say, Jack!” muttered Amos, evidently somewhat staggered by this new and alarming situation that had arisen in their fortunes.

“Keep still,” Jack told him. “Leave it to me. I will fix it all up in good shape when they give me half a chance to explain.”

Meanwhile the colonel and some of his officers were discovering new features in connection with the hastily made map. They could be heard expressing their wonder at its accuracy. Loudly did they declare that its possession by the enemy would be of incalculable injury to the cause of the Allies, particularly the British forces in Belgium, and along the French sea coast near Dunkirk and Calais.

The colonel turned upon the two boys. His frown had become heavier than ever, and that eagle eye of his seemed to be trying to see all the way down into their very hearts.

“You claim to be Americans,” he thundered, shaking his fat forefinger at them; “then how is it we find this map covering the disposition of our concealed batteries, supply stations, reserves, and everything else upon your person? Can you explain how it comes?”

“Certainly we can, sir,” said Jack promptly. “I was intending to hand you that chart; indeed, it was partly to do this we headed directly this way instead of trying to pass around.”

“It looks very suspicious, you must admit, boy!” continued the other, shaking the paper until it rattled. “Which one of you made it? A clever piece of work, but one that may cost you dearly.”

“That paper, sir, was dropped by the man in the Taube when his machine came to the ground, and he jumped out. We helped bind up his hurts because he was suffering. Unknown to him I picked this chart up nearby, where he had been hunting for it as we came up. I suppose he made the map while hovering over the lines of the Allies. As you say, it is a smart piece of work, so we decided that rather than destroy it we ought to place it in your hands.”

The officer looked at him keenly. He was not yet wholly convinced, though the air of candor with which Jack spoke went far toward making him feel less harshly toward the pair of lads. Besides, with his own eyes and through his field glasses he must have witnessed the abrupt descent of the German machine; and the boys had certainly come from that direction.

He turned and talked with his officers in low tones. Some of them seemed to be ready to believe Jack’s story, while others looked skeptical.

Seeing this, Jack realized that it was time to make a move on his own account in order to shift the tide his way. He quietly drew out a little pocket case of morocco leather in which he carried several papers that were of especial value. One, which was already well thumbed, he selected. The colonel was watching him curiously, and that gleam of suspicion had not vanished entirely from his heavy, florid face.

“Would you mind glancing over this paper, sir?” remarked Jack, apparently in a careless manner. “It will explain who we are to some extent. Perhaps the name at the bottom, an old friend of my chum’s father, may be of interest to you.”

That magical document had already eased them over numerous difficulties, and Jack had faith to believe its usefulness was not yet past. This is what the colonel of the territorials read:

“The two boys who bear this letter from me are under my especial charge. I hope that all officers in His Majesty’s service in Belgium, France, or elsewhere will do whatever they can to assist them to find the person for whom they are searching, and who is believed to be in the British ranks serving under the name of Frank Bradford.

(Signed) “Kitchener.”

No wonder the officer stared, and then bent closer to scan that wonderful name again. It represented the whole hope of the British nation just then. K. of K., standing for Kitchener of Khartoum, the hero of the Soudan campaign, as well as the fighter who had stood shoulder to shoulder with General Roberts—“Bobs”—in winning the fight for the country of the Boers in South Africa—to actually have the head of the army asking as a personal favor that these two American lads be treated in a friendly way was something quite out of the common.

“We win!” whispered Amos, who had been watching the red face of the consequential officer steadily as he read the contents of the paper Jack gave into his charge.

Indeed, a wonderful change had seemingly taken place in the colonel. Why, he actually smiled upon them as he handed the paper to one of his subordinates to read, and then thrust out his plump hand to Jack. If these lads were in the good graces of Lord Kitchener it might be of advantage to any soldier to do them a favor. Somehow, Amos decided that when he chose to unbend his dignity the stout colonel was rather inclined to be a genial sort of man after all.

“I am Colonel Atkins,” he said, affably. “Would you mind favoring me with your names? A hint over that signature is as good as an order to any British soldier. You must forgive my suspicions. We are in a strange country, and are compelled to look upon every one as an enemy until he proves his right to be called a friend. Those Germans are full of tricks, we have been told.”

“My name is Jack Maxfield, and that of my cousin, Amos Turner. His father was a noted military authority in his day, and somehow became very friendly with Lord Kitchener, I believe out in India, or in Egypt, long ago. When we came across the water on this errand of ours, the first thing we did was to see K. of K., who readily gave us this letter, and wished us every success.”

“As I understand it you are looking for some one; is that correct?” asked the territorial officer.

“An older brother of my chum, Frank Turner,” replied Jack. “Some years ago he had an unfortunate rupture with his father, who is a martinet in his way, and since then Frank has been traveling in many corners of the world. It has now been discovered that the boy was unjustly accused, and his father is fairly wild to see him again so as to make amends for the sad mistake of the past.”

“But what reason have you to suspect that he may be over here in Belgium where all the fighting is going on?” questioned the soldier. “There have been quite a number of Americans enlisted in a French Foreign Legion, I understand. They tell me there are scores if not hundreds of them among the Canadian recruits drilling at Salisbury Plains over on the other side of the Channel; but I do not think you will find many actually in the British army in Flanders.”

“In the first place my brother resembles my father a great deal,” spoke up Amos, with a touch of pride in his voice. “He has the soldier spirit in him; it is bred in the bone, you see. So I was not at all surprised on getting a few lines from him telling that he hoped to find a chance to enlist on the side of the Allies. He was in London at that time; and as I knew Frank’s determined ways I never doubted but what he carried his point and joined the army of Kitchener.”

“So much to his credit then,” declared the other. “If our kin beyond the water really knew what this war means for the whole English-speaking world they would give us even more of their sympathy.”

“You do not want to have us searched further then, Colonel?” asked Jack, with a gleam of amusement in his blue eyes.

The portly officer hemmed and hawed a little to hide his confusion; then he chuckled.

“Oh, I imagine there is no necessity for that,” he observed, presently. “Anyone who is carrying a paper signed like this ought to be above suspicion. You have done us all a service in securing this valuable chart. If that Taube pilot escaped, bearing such a document with him, it would be signing the death warrant for hundreds of brave boys in khaki before another day had rolled around.”

“We are heading for the front in the direction of Ypres. If you are going that way we would be very glad to accompany you, Colonel,” said Jack, as he received back the precious document from one of the officers, carefully folded it again, and replaced it in his bill book.

“Sorry to say that is not our present destination, my lad,” replied the colonel. “We are under orders to take our stand in another part of the line where stiffening is needed badly. All of us are eager to get our first taste of the real fighting. But if we can be of any assistance to you in other ways you have only to mention the same.”

He had said something aside to one of the other officers, who walked away to give some sort of order. Almost immediately a file of soldiers left the roadside camp and started off across fields, heading exactly in the direction whence the two American boys had just come.

Amos saw all this, and believed he could understand what it meant.

“They’re going to take a look in the brush for the wounded Taube man,” he told himself. “For one I hope they don’t run across him. Without his chart he isn’t so very dangerous. I reckon the colonel is afraid he may be able to draw a duplicate of the same from memory. A soldier takes as few chances as he can of letting the other side get valuable information. Yes, the colonel is right, I suppose.”

“The only favor we could ask would be in the line of making inquiries about the one we’re looking for,” Jack was saying.

“What name did you tell me he was going under?” asked the soldier. “I failed to pay much attention to that in the paper, for my eye had meanwhile caught the signature below, which almost took my breath away.”

“My friend’s mother was named Bradford, and he chances to know his brother was calling himself Frank Bradford, for reasons of his own.”

Jack had hardly spoken when he saw a look of sudden eagerness flash over the rosy face of the Englishman. It gave him a thrill, for he seemed to feel that it spelled new hope. Even Amos noticed that lighting up of the colonel’s eyes, and the uplifting of the heavy eyebrows.

“My word! now, that is a remarkable thing!” they heard him say, half to himself.

“Are we to understand from that, sir, you can give us a clue that may carry us to him whom we are so anxious to find?” demanded Jack, boldly, believing it wise to strike while the iron was hot.

“I wonder if it could be the same party?” the officer went on to say. “I was informed his name was Frank Bradford and that he owned up to being an American. My word! but this is remarkable. Tell me, did your brother ever serve his time as an air-pilot, young fellow?” turning to Amos.

“Not before he left home,” returned the boy; “but he was always intensely interested in aeronautics. If a chance ever came up, I’m sure he would have made a mighty good birdman.”

“If this is the same Frank Bradford,” muttered the soldier, shaking his head, “he has already jumped into the front rank of British aviators. They censored his name in the newspaper accounts, but I chanced to hear it from one who had met him on the field. It was after he made that wonderfully daring trip of seventy miles up the Rhine country, dropping bombs on many fortresses by the way, and striking a note of fear into countless thousands of German hearts.”

“Oh, I read that story myself, and was thrilled with it,” cried Amos, excitedly. “Little did I dream it could have been my own brother Frank who was the reckless aviator of the Allies. Wait, I have his picture here with me, taken some years ago; perhaps your friend may have described this man to you so that you could recognize him.”

With trembling hands he held up a small photograph taken with a kodak. The colonel looked closely. Then he nodded his head in a significant fashion that made the faithful heart of Amos Turner beat like a trip-hammer. It seemed as though by the greatest of good fortune he had come a step nearer success in his mission.