The Dispatch Riders Part 25

CHAPTER XIX

Arrested as Spies

"We're safe for the present," remarked Kenneth, after the two fugitives had placed a distance of at least four miles between them and the outlying German post. "I didn't mention it before, but the belt is slipping horribly. The strain has stretched it a lot; so we may as well shorten the rubber."

"By Jove, it is slack!" exclaimed Rollo, testing the "give" of the belt. "It's a wonder it didn't let us down badly. It's a funny thing, old man, but I've often noticed that if we expect a lot of trouble we get through without hardly any bother. The last lap, when we rushed the German lines, was as easy as ABC."

"Yes," a.s.sented his companion. "I've noticed that too. It's the unexpected trifle that often leads to greater difficulties. Got your knife handy? Oh, I suppose the Germans took a fancy to that too. Can you get mine from my pocket? That's right, cut the belt through at an inch from the end."

The motor-cyclists had halted in the midst of a war-devastated area.

Farm houses and buildings were numerous, but in almost every case they had suffered severely from sh.e.l.l-fire. Not a living creature, besides themselves, was in sight. Here and there were corpses of the gallant defenders of Belgium, some in uniforms, some in civilian attire. These men, shot whilst in the act of retiring under a terrific artillery fire, had been left where they fell, showing how heavy had been the German attack; for in most cases the plucky Belgians contrived to carry off those of their comrades who had died for their country.

Close to the spot where Kenneth and his companion had stopped was a large farm wagon piled high with furniture. Yoked to it were the bodies of two oxen, while a short distance away lay a dead peasant--an old man. The wagon, on which the refugee had been attempting to remove his goods and chattels from his threatened homestead, had fallen an easy target to the German guns.

A gnawing hunger compelled the British lads to examine the sh.e.l.l-riddled contents of the wagon in the hope of finding food. But in this they were disappointed. Not so much as a sc.r.a.p of anything to eat was to be found.

Both lads were parched, Kenneth especially so. Even Rollo had almost forgotten the refres.h.i.+ng taste of the water given him by the German private. Yet, even in the pangs of a burning thirst, they could not bring themselves to drink of the stagnant water in the ditches by the roadside.

The repair completed, the motor-cyclists remounted. They were most eager to push on, even for the sake of obtaining drink, food, and rest.

It could only be a matter of a few short, easy miles before they would be safe for the time being in the country still held by their friends, the Belgian troops.

"She's pulling splendidly now," announced Kenneth, referring to the transmission of power from the engine to the driving-wheel. Both lads had now discarded the bandages over their bogus wounds, and conversation was a fairly easy matter.

Hardly were the words out of his mouth when the motor began to falter.

Then it "picked up", ran for about a quarter of a minute and slowed down again, finally coming to a dead-stop.

"No petrol," announced Rollo ruefully. "The tank is empty."

"Rot!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed his companion incredulously. "It was full when we started, and I'll swear we've done nothing like sixty miles on it yet."

Kenneth examined the gauge, then turned to his chum.

"Sorry, old man," he said. "I'm wrong. The stuff's all gone."

Further examination revealed the unpleasant fact that there was a small leak between the piping and the carburettor. Unnoticed, a quant.i.ty of the petrol had run to waste.

"It's a case of push," continued Kenneth. "How's your foot? Fit for a tramp? If not, you may as well get on the saddle and I'll run you along."

Although young Barrington's ankle was paining considerably, he st.u.r.dily refused to take advantage of his companion's offer. From experience he knew that pus.h.i.+ng a motor was no light task. Kenneth might be capable of giving him a lift, but Rollo would not trespa.s.s upon his friend's generous conduct to that extent.

On and on they plodded, Rollo resting one hand on the saddle and striving to conceal his limp. Presently a practically ruined village came in sight. Not only had it been heavily bombarded, but subsequent fires had increased the work of destruction. Thick columns of smoke were rising high into the sultry air, while above the roar of the flames could be heard the excited tones of human voices.

"The villagers are trying to save the little that remains of their homes," said Kenneth. "They'll be able to give us some information as to where we can pick up the Belgian troops. Perhaps, though I doubt it, we may be also able to procure petrol."

Suddenly a peasant, who was standing about a hundred yards in front of the nearest house, took to his heels and ran, shouting as he went.

Before he gained the village, spurts of dull flame burst from behind a heap of debris piled across the road, and half a dozen bullets _zipped_ past the two lads.

"Lie down!" exclaimed Kenneth, stopping only to place his precious motor-cycle behind a tree by the side of a ditch, before he followed the prompt example of his companion. "Those fellows have mistaken us for Uhlans. I don't wonder at it, now I come to think about it."

Although sheltered by a mound by the side of the ditch, their place of concealment was known to the peasants. The latter kept up quite a hot fire from antiquated muskets and sporting-guns. Shots whizzed overhead, and showers of pellets fell all around the two lads.

"Can't blame them," said Rollo. "Let's hoist the white flag; it's no disgrace in this case."

Kenneth produced a very discoloured pocket-handkerchief. At one time it had been a white one, but owing to the various uses to which it had been put its colour resembled that tint which the French, with a reason, call "isabelle". For want of a staff he was obliged to hold it by his uplifted arm. In return he received a couple of pellets from a "twelve-bore", which, fortunately, only inflicted two punctured wounds in his skin.

"I'm not a rabbit," muttered Kenneth, and he continued to wave the "white flag".

Presently the firing ceased, and a swarm of men, accompanied by several shrieking women, bore down upon the two supposed Uhlans.

"We're friends!" shouted Kenneth. "We're English. We've escaped from the Prussians."

He might just as well have attempted to stem a torrent with a feather.

The villagers saw only the hated uniforms of their merciless oppressors. They had no cause to grant quarter to Uhlans, for Uhlans were brutal and murderous to all with whom they came in contact when on their dreaded raids.

"A mort! A bas!" rose from the mob like the growling of a pack of half-famished animals. The two British lads were in dire peril of being torn limb from limb.

"A bas les Prussiens! Nous sommes Anglais," shouted Kenneth again, folding his arms and trying his level best to appear calm.

A stick, hurled by a woman's hand, missed his head and struck him heavily upon the shoulder. At almost the same time Rollo was. .h.i.t by a broken brick, the missile striking him in the ribs.

"Tenez!" thundered an authoritative voice. "Let us show these vile Uhlans that Belgians are civilized. We will give them a fair trial, and shoot them afterwards."

"Anything for a respite," thought Kenneth. Even in this moment of peril the Belgian speaker's idea of a fair trial tickled his sense of humour.

The man who had intervened was a short, thickset fellow, with lowering eyebrows and a crop of closely-cut hair. He was dressed in black, while round his waist was a shawl, evidently intended for a badge of office. He had donned it in such a hurry that the loops of the bows had come undone and were trailing in the dust.

Grasped by a dozen toil-hardened hands, and surrounded by the rest of the survivors of the justly exasperated inhabitants, the two lads were hurried towards the village.

"I wish we had kept on our uniforms under these, old man," said Rollo.

"We've nothing to prove our ident.i.ty."

"They're speaking in German. That proves their guilt," announced one of their captors.

Neither Kenneth nor Rollo attempted to deny the statement--somewhat unwisely, for their unsophisticated guards took silence as an expression of a.s.sent to the accusation.

The military pa.s.ses provided by the Belgian Government had been destroyed--Rollo's, when captured at Cortenaeken; Kenneth's, when the lads made their hitherto beneficial exchange of uniforms. As Rollo had remarked, they possessed nothing that they could produce to prove their ident.i.ty.

Happening to look over his shoulder, Kenneth saw a peasant kicking his motor-cycle. Unable to wheel it, since its owner had slipped in the clutch previous to placing it under cover, the Belgian was venting his annoyance upon the machine.

"Stop!" shouted Kenneth. "That's an English motor-cycle. Would you do harm to anything made by your friends the English?"

He used the word "English" advisedly, for experience had taught him that the term "British" is hardly known to the peasantry of Belgium.

Even the educated cla.s.ses make use of the expression "English" more frequently than "British".

"Aye; do not injure it, Henri," called out the man who evidently held the office of Mayor. "When the English soldiers arrive to help us to drive back the Bosches it may be useful to them. Parbleu! It is useless to us."

In front of the ruined church the villagers held a most informal trial upon their captives. From the Belgians' point of view the evidence was absolutely conclusive against the prisoners. They were in German uniforms.