The Guns of Europe Part 25

But John minded neither darkness, cold nor rain. Sensitive and quiet there was some quality in him that always responded to the call of high adventure. His mind was never keener, never more alert, and all his strength of body had returned. Wharton and Carstairs rode on either side of him, and he felt already as if they had been friends of years, knitted to him by a thousand dangers shared.

He looked back once at the intrenched camp, but the descent and curve of the road already hid it in the darkness. He saw nothing but the black outline of the hills, and low clouds floating across the whole horizon.

Ahead was a blank. He was in one of the most thickly populated regions of the world, crowded with cities, but in the darkness and storm it looked like a wilderness.

Neither of his comrades spoke for a long time. He stole a look at his watch, and saw that it was three o'clock in the morning. They crossed two small rivers, foaming like torrents, and at the bridges reined into a walk, lest the hoof-beats be heard too far. But they did not meet any human being. Save for the road and the bridges the aspect of a wilderness was complete. John knew that numerous villages lay near, but in such a world war the people would put out their lights and keep close in their houses.

They turned after a while into a smaller road, leading more toward the north.

"The Uhlans may be in our rear," said Carstairs. "They seem to be everywhere, and we don't want to be cut off just at the beginning of our ride."

"Rein in," said Wharton. "I hear cavalry pa.s.sing on the road we've just left."

"Speak of Uhlans, and they appear," whispered John.

They were Uhlans, no doubt. John recognized the helmets, but the men were riding back toward the armies. He and his two comrades kept their horses in the shadow of the bushes, and were in dread lest some movement of their animals betray them, but the droning of the rain was the only sound made. The Uhlans, about forty in number, rode on and the darkness swallowed them up.

"Since they've gone about their business we'd better go about ours,"

said Wharton.

"Those are the first wise words I've heard you speak in a half hour,"

said Carstairs.

"It's the first time I've spoken at all in a half hour," said Wharton.

"Which way do we go now?" asked John.

"Over a hill and far away," replied Carstairs. "To be more explicit we're coming to the hill now, and about daylight we'll reach a little village, where I think we'd better get food and news. You'll like the country, John, when it stops raining and the sunlight comes. Oh, it's a fair land, this land of France."

"I've seen enough of it to know that," said John. "Lead on, and I'll be glad to reach the next village. A wind has set up, and this rain cuts cruelly."

Carstairs rode in front, and for more than an hour they breasted the storm almost in silence. They climbed the hill, pa.s.sed down the other side, crossed numerous brooks, and then saw reluctant daylight appearing through the rain.

John with the new caution that he had learned looked up. But the clouds were so heavy that he saw nothing there, not a dirigible, not a Taube, nor any form of aeroplane. Traveling, even on the business of an army, was still better on land.

"There's our village," said Wharton, pointing to a pleasant valley in which tiled roofs and the spire of a church showed.

"And there we'll be in fifteen minutes," said Carstairs. "I'm full of enthusiasm for the mission on which we ride as you two are also of course, but it will fairly overflow after I have a good warm breakfast."

Despite the earliness of the hour peasants were up and they watched with curiosity the three hors.e.m.e.n who approached. But enough of the uniform of the strangers showed, despite their cloaks, to indicate that they belonged to the French army, and they were welcome. An old man with a scythe, pointed toward an inn, and the three, increasing their speed, rode straight for it.

"I hope they'll have good coffee," said John.

"And fine bread," said Carstairs.

"And choice bacon," said Wharton.

"And plenty of eggs to go with the bacon," said John.

It was but a little village, forty or fifty houses, set among the hills, but in times of peace many people must have gone that way, because it had one of the best road inns that John had ever entered. They were early but the landlord soon had the flames going in a wide fire-place, before which the three stood, warming themselves and drying their clothes. And the heavy aromas arising promised that the coffee, bacon and all the rest would be everything they wished.

A boy held their horses near the main door which stood open that they might see. The three were a unit on this precaution. If by any possible chance their horses were lost their mission in all likelihood would be lost too. John, new recruit, nevertheless felt the full importance of watching. He stood with his back to the fire, where he could see the st.u.r.dy French boy, the reins of the three horses in his hands.

But he did not forget how good that fire felt. The great cape had not been able to protect him wholly from the rain, and, despite the excitement of their ride, he had become conscious that he was cold and wet. Now the grateful warmth penetrated to his bones, and vitality returned.

As he remained there, turning about a little before the fire but always keeping his eyes on the door, he saw the villagers come down in the rain and look in, some at the open door and some at the windows. None of them spoke, but all gazed intently at the three in French uniform who stood before the fire.

John knew why they had come and he was singularly moved by their silent, pathetic stare. They were hoping to hear good news, at least one little bit of it--these good French villagers whose soil was trodden again by an enemy who seemed invincible. Just as the breakfast was being laid upon the table the landlord said to them:

"Have you nothing for these brave people of ours, who, as you see, wait at the windows? They are the old men, the very young and the women. All the others are gone to the war. Yesterday we heard the sound of guns for a long time. Have you no success to report for France?"

The three shook their heads sadly and Wharton replied for them.

"Not yet," he said. "We belong to the French army engaged in the battle that you heard yesterday. But it was driven back again. The Germans come in overwhelming force, and we cannot withstand their numbers, but we were able to draw off with all our guns and leave them no prisoners."

The landlord said nothing in reply, but presently all those wistful and waiting faces disappeared. Then the breakfast was ready, and a fourth traveler, wet and cold as they had been, arrived. John saw him give the reins of his horse to the waiting boy before he came to the door, where he stood a moment, awaiting the landlord's welcome.

The stranger was in a French uniform, faded and dripping so much water that he must have been in the rain a long time. He was about thirty, medium in height, his face covered with much black beard, and John saw that he was staggering from weakness. But Monsieur Gaussin, the landlord, a man of kindly heart, had perceived that fact also, and he stepped forward quickly.

"Thank you for your arm, good host," said the stranger. "I am weak, but if I am so it is because I've ridden all night in the rain for France."

"A French soldier," said Monsieur Gaussin, opening wide his heart, "and you ride for France! Then you are not alone on such errands. Behold the three young men who are about to honor me by eating a breakfast, for which I shall take no pay."

Gaussin too was not without a touch of the dramatic instinct, and he proudly waved his arm, across which the white napkin lay, toward John, Carstairs and Wharton.

"When you have warmed and dried yourself a little and have drank a gla.s.s of this fine old liquor of mine," he said benignantly, "you shall join them."

"And we shall welcome you as a comrade," said Wharton. "We are not French--two Americans and one English--but we fight with the French and their cause is ours. My friends are Carstairs and Scott, and my own name is Wharton."

"And mine is Weber," said the man, "Fernand Weber, an Alsatian, hoping and praying that Alsace and all Alsatians may now be restored to France."

The good Monsieur Gaussin murmured sympathetically.

"But we must suffer and do much before we regain our lost provinces,"

Weber said.

"Will you not join us at the table?" asked Carstairs politely.

"Gladly, as soon as I have removed this wet coat," replied Weber.

As soon as he took off the outer garment they saw a stain of red across his left sleeve, and the good Monsieur Gaussin again murmured sympathetically.

"It's nothing," laughed Weber. "The Uhlans are abroad, as you may have discovered for yourself. They ride over the whole country, and in the night I was chased by them. The bullet creased my arm, but I carry the emergency bandage. One, two, three, I made it fast, and here we are."

There was something attractive in his manner, his frankness, and the light way in which he dismissed his adventure. The hearts of the three warmed toward one who rode perilously for France as they were doing.

"Come," said John, "you must be starving to death. We certainly are, and if I'm kept any longer from this heavenly coffee there'll be a rebellion."

Annette, the neat maid who was serving them smiled, and Monsieur Gaussin smiled also. But Weber did not keep them waiting. He slid into the fourth chair that had been placed, and, for a little s.p.a.ce, gastronomy of the most harmonious kind prevailed.