The Forest of Swords: A Story of Paris and the Marne by Joseph A. Altsheler (i like reading TXT) 📖

you know, Fleury, that my greatest fear about getting killed is that then I wouldn't know how this war is going to end?"

"I feel that way myself sometimes. Look, there's the Marne! See its waters shining! It's the mark of the first great stage in the German retreat."

"I wonder how we're going to cross. I suppose the bridges will be crowded with artillery and men. It might pay the Germans just to let us go."

"They won't do that. There's nothing in their rules about liberating prisoners, and they wouldn't hear of such a thing, anyhow, trouble or no trouble."

"I see some boats, and I fancy we'll cross on them. I wonder if we couldn't make what we call in my country a get-away, while we're waiting for the embarkation."

"If our gunners become much more accurate our get-away, as you call it, will be into the next life."

Two huge shells had burst near, and, although none of the flying metal struck them, their faces were stung by fine dirt. When John brushed the dust out of his eyes he saw that he was right in his surmise about the crossing in boats, but wrong about probable delays in embarkation. The German machine even in retreat worked with neatness and dispatch. There were three boats, and the first relay of prisoners, including John and Fleury, was hurried into them. A bridge farther down the stream rumbled heavily as the artillery crossed on it. But the French force was coming closer and closer. A shell struck in the river sixty or eighty feet from them and the water rose in a cataract. Some of the prisoners had been put at the oars and they, like the Germans, showed eagerness to reach the other side. John noted the landing, a narrow entrance between thick clumps of willows, and he confessed to himself that he too would feel better when they were on the farther bank.

The Marne is not a wide river, and a few powerful pulls at the oars sent them near to the landing. But at that moment a shell whistled through the air, plunged into the water and exploded practically beneath the boat.

John was hurled upward in a gush of foam and water, and then, when he dropped back, the Marne received him in its bosom.

CHAPTER VIII THE SPORT OF KINGS

John Scott, who was suffering from his second immersion in a French river, came up with mouth, eyes and nose full of water. The stream around him was crowded with men swimming or with those who had reached water shallow enough to permit of wading. As well as he could see, the shell had done no damage besides giving them a huge bath, of which every one stood in much need.

But he had a keen and active mind and it never worked quicker than it did now. He had thought his chance for escape might come in the confusion of a hurried crossing, and here it was. He dived and swam down the stream toward the willows that lined the bank. When he could hold his breath no longer he came up in one of the thickest clumps. The water reached to his waist there, and standing on the bottom in all the density of willows and bushes he was hidden thoroughly from all except watchful searchers. And who would miss him at such a time, and who, if missing, would take the trouble to look for him while the French cannon were thundering upon them and a perilous crossing was to be made?

It was all so ridiculously easy. He knew that he had nothing to do but stand close while the men pulled themselves out of the river and the remaining boats made their passage. For further protection he moved into water deep enough to reach to his neck, while he still retained the cover of the willows and bushes. Here he watched the German troops pass over, and listened to the heavy cannonade. He soon noted that the Germans, after crossing, were taking up strong positions on the other side. He could tell it from the tremendous artillery fire that came from their side of the Marne.

John now found that his position, while safe from observation, was far from comfortable. The chill of the water began to creep into his bones and more shells struck unpleasantly near. Another fell into the river and he was blinded for a moment by the violent showers of foam and spray. He began to feel uneasy. If the German and French armies were going to fight each other from the opposing sides of the Marne he would be held there indefinitely, either to be killed by a shell or bullet or to drown from cramp.

But time passed and he saw no chance of leaving his watery lair. The chill went further into his bones. He was lonesome too. He longed for the companionship of Fleury, and he wondered what had become of him. He sincerely hoped that he too had reached a covert and that they should meet again.

No rumbling came from the bridge below, and, glancing down the stream, John saw that it was empty. There must be many other bridges over the Marne, but he believed that the German armies had now crossed it, and would devote their energy to a new attack. He was squarely between the lines and he did not see any chance to escape until darkness.

He looked up and saw a bright sun and blue skies. Night was distant, and so far as he was concerned it might be a year away. If two armies were firing shells directly at a man they must hit him in an hour or two, and if not, a polar stream such as the Marne had now become would certainly freeze him to death. He had no idea French rivers could be so cold. The Marne must be fed by a whole flock of glaciers.

His teeth began to chatter violently, and then he took stern hold of himself. He felt that he was allowing his imagination to run away with him, and he rebuked John Scott sternly and often for such foolishness. He tried to get some warmth into his veins by jumping up and down in the water, but it was of little avail. Yet he stood it another hour. Then he made one more long and critical examination of the ground.

Shells were now screaming high overhead, but nobody was in sight. He judged that it was now an artillery battle, with the foes perhaps three or four miles apart, and, leaving the willows, he crept out upon the bank. It was the side held by the Germans, but he knew that if he attempted to swim the river to the other bank he would be taken with cramps and would drown.

There was a little patch of long grass about ten yards from the river, and, crawling to it, he lay down. The grass rose a foot high on either side of him, but the sun, bright and hot, shone directly down upon his face and body. It felt wonderfully good after that long submersion in the Marne. Removing all his heavy wet clothing, he wrung the water out of it as much as he could, and lay back in a state of nature, for both himself and his clothing to dry. Meanwhile, in order to avoid cold, he stretched and tensed his muscles for a quarter of an hour before he lay still again.

A wonderful warmth and restfulness flowed back into his veins. He had feared chills and a serious illness, but he knew now that they would not come. Youth, wiry and seasoned by hard campaigning, would quickly recover, but knowing that, for the present, he could neither go forward nor backward, he luxuriated in the grass, while the sun sucked the damp out of his clothing.

Meanwhile the battle was raging over his head and he scarcely noticed it. The shells whistled and shrieked incessantly, but, midway between the contending lines, he felt that they were no longer likely to drop near. So he relaxed, and a dreamy feeling crept over him. He could hear the murmur of insects in the grass, and he reflected that the smaller one was, the safer one was. A shell was not likely to take any notice of a gnat.

He felt of his clothing. It was not dry yet and he would wait a little longer. Anyhow, what was the use of hurrying? He turned over on his side and continued to luxuriate in the long grass.

The warmth and dryness had sent the blood pulsing in a strong flood through his veins once more, and the mental rebound came too. Although he lay immediately between two gigantic armies which were sending showers of metal at each other along a line of many miles, he considered his escape sure and the thought of personal danger disappeared. If one only had something to eat! It is curious how the normal instincts and wants of man assert themselves even under the most dangerous conditions. He began to think of the good German brown bread and the hot sausage that he had devoured, and the hot coffee that he had drunk. One could eat the food of an enemy without compunction.

But it was folly to move, even to seek dinner or supper, while the shells were flying in such quantities over his head. As he turned once more and lay on his back he caught glimpses as of swift shadows passing high above, and the whistling and screaming of shells and shrapnel was continuous. It was true that a missile might fall short and find him in the grass, but he considered the possibility remote and it did not give him a tremor. As he was sure now that he would suffer no bodily ill from his long bath in the Marne he might remain in the grass until night and then creep away. Blessed night! It was the kindly veil for all fugitives, and no one ever awaited it with more eagerness than John Scott.

The sun was now well beyond the zenith, and its golden darts came indirectly. His clothing was thoroughly dry at last, and he put it on again. Clad anew he was tempted to seek escape at once, but the sound of a footstep caused him to lie down in the shelter of the grass again.

His ear was now against the earth and the footsteps were much more distinct. He was sure that they were made by a horse, and he believed that a Uhlan was riding near. He remembered how long and sharp their lances were, and he was grateful that the grass was so thick and tall. He longed for the automatic revolver that had been such a trusty friend, but the Germans had taken it long since, and he was wholly unarmed.

He was afraid to raise his head high enough to see the horseman, lest he be seen, but the footsteps, as if fate had a grudge against him, were coming nearer. His blood grew hot in a kind of rebellion against chance, or the power that directed the universe. It was really a grim joke that, after having escaped so much, a mere wandering scout of a Uhlan should pick him up, so to speak, on the point of his lance.

He pressed hard against the earth. He would have pressed himself into it if he could, and imagination, the deceiver, made him think that he was doing so. The temptation to raise his head above the grass and look became more violent, but will held him firm and he still lay flat.

Then he noticed that the hoofbeats wandered about in an irregular, aimless fashion. Not even a scout hunting a good position for observation would ride in such a way, and becoming more daring he raised his head slowly, until he could peep over the grass stems. He saw a horse, fifteen or twenty feet from him, but without rider, bridle or saddle. It was a black horse of gigantic build like a Percheron, with feet as large as a half-bushel measure, and a huge rough mane.

The horse saw John and gazed at him out of great, mild, limpid eyes. The young American thought he beheld fright there and the desire for companionship. The animal, probably belonging to some farmer who had fled before the armies, had wandered into the battle area, seeking the human friends to whom he was so used, and nothing living was more harmless than he. He reminded John in some ways of those stalwart and honest peasants who were so ruthlessly made into cannon food by the gigantic and infinitely more dangerous Tammany that rules the seventy million Germans.

The horse walked nearer and the look in his eyes became