My Home In The Field of Honor by Frances Wilson Huard (page 3)

I looked at Soeur Laurent, who was preparing to answer the summons, much to the dismay of the soldiers.

“I’ll go,” I called, and hurried out into the vestibule and down the wide white marble steps. As I threw back the huge oak door someone brushed past me, calling “Two men and a stretcher,” and there in the brilliant moonlight I beheld the most ghastly spectacle I had as yet witnessed.

Thrown forward in his saddle, his arms clasped about the horse’s neck, was the form of a dragoon. The animal that bore him had once been white, but was now so splashed with blood that it was impossible to tell what color was his originally. Both man and beast were wounded, badly wounded, and how they had come here was a miracle.

The alarm had reached the kitchen and hurrying forward, the troopers soon lifted their comrade from his mount and carried him in. A lance had pierced his thigh and the horse’s flank, which meant that it had been a hand-to-hand fight, and the blood still flowing freely, proved that the combat was not an hour old!

Madame Guix and I were doing our best when the white face’s of my notary and his wife appeared at the door of the dispensary.

“Madame Huard, we’ve come to tell you you must go!”

“Go?”

“Yes, it is two o’clock and the general who was quartered on us slept four hours and has gone. When leaving he warned us that the battle would be on here by morning. We who have a motor are safe, but you who have but horses must flee at once!”

“But I can’t leave the wounded!”

“But you must. The worst that can happen to them is to be made prisoners–more than likely they will be carried away by one of our emergency ambulances. But think of all the young people who look to you for protection! You cannot desert them; you must go!”

I looked at Madame Guix.

“Go, Madame Huard, you must. You owe it to the others. None of you need me and I can be of service here, so if the sisters will keep me I’ll stay.”

Reluctantly I shook hands with my nurse, and hastened down the steps. Maitre Baudoin and his wife took leave of me at the comer, and I elbowed my way between the horses of a cavalry regiment, whose riders were sound asleep on the hard cobble pavement beside them.

On the further side of the square noisy rolling sounds told me that the artillery was crossing the city, and mounting a doorstep, I beheld battery after battery of the famous Seventy-fives clattering out of sight over the road we had come by in the morning. When I got down, I found my way blocked by the 18th Chasseurs a cheval, who, four abreast and lance in hand, were setting out for battle. They were anything but a beaten army–most of them were softly humming some popular song, while others were calmly filling their pipes and still others catching forty winks in their saddles. One or two I noticed wore no caps, and their heads were bound in blood-stained bandages.

There seemed to be no end to them and I was beginning to get anxious about our departure. Plunging my hand into my coat pocket I touched a piece of stale bread and a bit of chocolate, forgotten since the day before, and hunger having seized me, I began gnawing my crust.

“Say, sister, give us a bite,” called one young chap from his horse as he passed.

“Are you really hungry?”

“You bet!”

Without hesitating I offered my crust.

“Hurray for the girl with the red scarf!” called another. “Come on with us. We’ll make room for you.” “We need a mascot,” and other similar jolly phrases passed from mouth to mouth as gaily the flower of young France went forth to death.

When finally they had disappeared I rushed across the street to find George and Emile (H.’s messenger) engaged in a conversation with the driver of an army supply wagon drawn up within an inch of the bakery steps. Beside him on the seat sat a huge dragoon, his bead done up in a blood-stained towel.

“We’re lost,” he was explaining. “Been cut off from our regiment for three days.”

“Poor regiment!” I murmured, and calling the boys, I told Emile to wake the others and come down quickly to help hitch the horses. He was only gone a second, and I could hear him calling.

“_Allons, allons, Madame part de suite._”

Then he reappeared carrying a lantern.

“Where the devil did you get the light?” growled George.

“In their room.”

“Then how in the name of heaven do you expect those people to dress and roll up their belongings in the dark?” I scolded. “Here, George, go back with the lantern.”

George obeyed orders, and Emile, rather sheepishly, skulked away in the direction of the stable yard. I heard a sliding door pushed open, followed by a long low whistle, and a second later Emile reappeared, his eyes popping out of his head with astonishment.

“There’s a horse missing–been stolen!”

“No! Impossible!”

“The stable’s empty!”

I hurried to the spot, and found that he told the truth.

“George!” I called, as my boy came around the corner of the house. “George, Cesar’s been stolen!”

“Who says so, Madame?”

“Emile–the stable’s empty.”

Calmly and easily George walked over towards Emile, and taking him by the collar, shook him violently. “Look here, you! What do you mean by frightening Madame like that? Are you her servant? No! Well, then, mind your own business!”

And opening a second door alongside the other, we found Cesar and Sausage munching their oats.

It was no easy job harnessing in the dark and backing the heavy carts out of the narrow yard into the still narrower street. But in ten minutes our caravan was again en route.

We crossed the public square, now almost empty of men, horses and motors, and took the only road leading south.

The first gray streaks of daylight lighted the east as we turned the corner, and we were obliged to pull suddenly to the extreme right, for a heavy Parisian motorbus swung round the bend and rushed on past us.

Straining my eyes, I perceived that there was not one but hundreds of them, following each other at top speed down the hill. There were armed men standing inside them, armed men on the platforms and steps, armed men even on the roofs and it was indeed a strange sight to see _Madeleine-Bastille_ and the _Galeries Lafayette_ out here in the open country, jammed full of grim infantrymen preparing for the fray.

Suddenly a tremendous explosion rent the air and shook the ground so that the horses stopped and trembled.

“There goes the bridge at Nogent!” cried George. “No–the power house at La Tretoire!”

“_En avant!_” I called, knowing that the signal for battle had now been given.

VI

We had gone about two miles when the sight of my greyhounds tied behind the farm cart made me think of my little Boston bull.

“Where’s Betsy?” I asked of those perched on the hay.

Julie, Nini and Yvonne grew white.

It took little time to discover that no one had seen her that morning. It was evident she had been forgotten–left to die tied to the brass rail inside an abandoned bakery, for it was there I had fastened her on arriving the night before. Pedaling ahead till I reached Leon who led the procession–

“Keep straight on this road. If it should fork, take the direction of the La Ferte Gauche. I’ll be back in no time.” Then turning about, I started a parallel race with an autobus, much to the delight of the occupants.

Useless to say that my adversary gained on the up-grade, turned the corner, was gone, and was followed by another long before I reached the public square, breathless and full of anxiety.

Rebais was empty–not even a tardy refugee straggled by the wayside, and before I reached the bakery I could hear the plaintive howls of my little brute.

What a joyful welcome I received. What hilarious waggings of that little screw tail! But, there was no time to be lost, for the problem now was how Betsy was to catch up with the procession. She was too heavy for me to carry under my arm, and too old and puffy to be expected to follow a bicycle–but it was one or the other, and tying her leash to the handle bar, off we started, after an encouraging pat on the head and the promise of a lump of sugar if she would only “be a good girl.”

On we sped, past the huge lumbering motorbuses, which terrified the poor animal who tugged vehemently at her string, at times almost choking herself.

In half an hour we had caught up with the caravan, and as I lifted poor exhausted Betsy on to the hay, Nini roused from her dozing and pointing to the east, said, “Oh, look! what a big fire!”

“You silly child, it’s the sun rising; go back to sleep,” I said, terrified by what I had seen, but unwilling to alarm the others uselessly.

At the skyline of an immense plain that stretched on our left, huge columns of flame burst heavenward, covered a moment later by dense black smoke. Fortunately, however, the sun peeped over the horizon almost instantly, thereby diminishing the intensity of the conflagration. But Nini was not to be thus hoodwinked.

“See,” she continued, “what funny little fluffy clouds those are!”

“Nini, if you don’t go to sleep at once you’ll have to get down and walk, and let one of the boys take your place. They’ll be only too glad to, I know.”

Nini obeyed instantly. She had come away with but one pair of shoes (in spite of my admonition to take all the footwear she possessed) and that pair of shoes pinched.

Funny little fluffy clouds indeed! The shaking of the earth beneath my feet and a second of reflection told me, they were not clouds, before they would be directed westward was but shells–and how long it would be a question that chilled the blood in my veins.

The town we were heading for–La Ferte Gauche–lay southeast. Though I had no glass, it was evident that it was now under the enemies’ fire, and we might just as well run our necks into a noose as keep on in that direction. It was southwest–or nothing.

Without offering any explanation I rode ahead and told Leon to follow me. Then turning abruptly to the right, I took the first side path that was wide enough for our cart wheels, and in and out, up and down, we followed it for over an hour, until coasting down a steep incline, I found myself in the midst of a delightful little village, nestled between two hills on the border of a river.

The shops were just opening and people were going about their work as if nothing unusual were happening. They gazed in astonishment at this hatless bicyclist, who wore a Red Cross armlet, and when I went into the baker shop, I was filled with joy at the sight of all the crisp loaves lined up in their racks ready for delivery.

Refugees?

They hadn’t seen any. Someone had heard an unaccustomed movement of wagons during the night, that was all.

A signpost, as I turned into the square, told me that I was at Jouy-sur-Morin, and a few moments later, I came upon a group of gentlemen in frock coats standing talking on an embankment below the church. If it had been in the afternoon instead of five A. M., I should have thought this assembly perfectly in harmony with the landscape. In fact they looked so much like H.’s caricatures of his provincial compatriots that I couldn’t help smiling as I passed. This mutational gathering of the municipal council was the only outward sign of anxiety to be found in this picturesque township.

The arrival of our caravan produced quite a sensation among the early risers at Jouy, thought the enthusiasm for telling their story had somewhat subsided among my servants. They were footsore, sleepy, and hungry.

The gentlemen in frock coats were too busy in their own affairs to give us much attention, and I was about to leave when one of them called me over and asked a few questions. Anxious to be off, I answered briefly. The man probably took me for a poor demented female; how could he think otherwise down here in his little valley, where not a sound of gun and shell had penetrated as yet?

History will tell you how, a few hours later, Jouy-sur-Morin was the scene of one of the bloodiest battles of the Marne.

At the dairy, my appearance aroused much curiosity, and when I brought out the money to pay for my milk, the woman held up her hand. “No, never; I couldn’t take pay from such forlorn creatures as you!”

This unexpected pity brought the blood to my cheeks. I was hot with indignation. Until now we had wanted for nothing, and with gold in my pocket charity was an insult. I straightened my tie, looked at my dusty boots, and realized for the first time that my face was drawn with fatigue and anxiety–that my hair, though tidy, was sadly out of curl. Leaving my change on the table, I turned on my heel and departed. Explanations were tiresome and useless.

We crossed a railroad track and then the river–the Grand Morin–and in a grass-grown granite quarry halted for breakfast, sheltering ourselves from the blistering sun in the shade of the immense rocks.

The boys took the horses down to the river to drink and bathe, and a few seconds later came back for towels and soap.

What a happy idea! A quarter of a mile higher up the bank I found a well secluded spot, and plunged into the refreshing current. It was the first time I had had my boots off since leaving Villiers. Thanks to a small pocket glass and a fresh white blouse, I made myself quite presentable and as I approached our camp, the appetizing odor of fresh fried country sausage tickled my nostrils and made me glad to be alive.

Hot coffee accompanied by buttered toast had been prepared by the girls during my absence, and we needed no coaxing to persuade us to do the meal justice. Already accustomed to this gypsy life, George’s dry humor began to show itself, and now and again the silence would be broken by peals of laughter, caused by some quaint joke.

We lingered lovingly over the repast, and I was trying to decide whether or not we would push on at once or wait and rest until afternoon when suddenly my question was answered for me.

While we had been clearing up and loading the carts a long train of freight cars had noiselessly glided down the rails opposite our quarry, and had halted without pulling into the station. There was nothing abnormal in this, and from where we sat a trifle below the level of the track, we could see but little of what was going on on the opposite platform. Standing upright in my charette, carefully folding a blanket so as to take up the least possible space, my eye was attracted by several red specks scurrying up a steep incline. A moment afterwards my gaze drifted downward and I realized that from the innocent looking freight cars hundreds of armed soldiers were disembarking and spreading themselves out, _en tirailleurs_, preparing an attack in ambush. I had seen this same pretty feat successfully accomplished at the _grand manauvres_, the year before, but it was another thing entirely when one grasped that these men were in dead earnest.

Just then a buggy, containing a disheveled woman and collarless man, galloped over the crossing and sped westward. The occupants, whom I hailed, did not deign a reply, but beckoning with their arms, enjoined me to follow them.

“It’s time to break camp,” I said, “if we intend to reach the next town before it gets too hot.”

So off we started, preceded by a heavy delivery wagon, a _Familistere_ from the north, which crossed the rails just as we were pulling onto the road. It was a big covered affair, filled to overflowing with bedding and household utensils–and even the top was loaded with huge boxes and baskets of provisions. Behind it walked, or rather trotted, three stout women and a man, the former half-crazed with heat and anxiety, mopping their brows and their tears as the _cortege_ advanced.

An hour and a half of steady climbing quite exhausted them, and when we reached the level, the three graces collapsed by the roadside, still weeping copiously. I observed this as I approached, and presently saw their companion mounted on the high hind wheel of their wagon, gazing intently towards the east through a pair of field glasses.

“What can you see?” I asked as the _charette_ passed by them.

“Come and have a look. It’s worth while. My wife and family are too frightened.”

I halted, and climbing up by the spokes reached the top, and steadying myself with my left hand, took the proffered glass with my right.

From one extremity to the other of the wide plains, from which we were separated by the valley of the Grand Morin, those same long columns of dense black smoke rose lazily in the brilliant sunlight. Into some determined spot the enemy was pouring a perfect rain of shot and shell, and the dust rising after each explosion formed a curtain that blotted out the rest of the landscape. Below, the _Senegalais_ had disappeared in ambush, but now and again the distant clattering of the _mitrailleuse_ told us they were at their deadly work. And to think, all this was happening on ground we had traveled over only a few hours since! And I had been fool enough to go back to Rebais–alone to recover my dog!

I shuddered as I got down. What was the use of trying to hurry? We couldn’t go any faster than the horses, and if we overworked them now we would have to rest longer later on. So, urging our poor old nags, we trudged along the sun-baked roads between the high grown wheat fields of the Brie country.

Still another couple of hours and we had reached Choisy-en-Brie, found a stable for our animals, and we ourselves stretched out on our blankets beneath the friendly shadow of the big stone church.

I had finished luncheon and was just dozing off when a motor horn roused me from my lethargy. A second later I recognized Maitre Baudoin and his wife, the latter holding their four-year-old daughter on her knees, her grandmother sitting alone in the back seat which was piled high with important documents, and their maid strapped to the steps of the car.

We set up a shout which stopped them. “We stayed until a shell burst on the house next door, then we thought it was time to go,”‘ explained Maitre Baudoin.

“What time did you leave Rebais?”

“Forty minutes ago. You’d better be moving, too.”

“Sorry, but I can’t. The horses must rest.”

“Well, don’t wait too long. Adieu.”

“Adieu,” and they were off.

I returned to my blanket and again was just closing my eyes when the unexpected sound of Gregorian chant made me sit up. Nearer and nearer it drew, louder and louder rose the priests’ voices, and then a much-befringed and flower-laden hearse, preceded by the clergy and followed by the mourners (the men in evening dress and the women in their Sunday clothes), rounded the corner, passed in front of us, and halted before the main door of the church.

I couldn’t help smiling. The incongruity of this pompous _enterrement de premiere classe, en musique_, when the city was imminently menaced by a German bombardment, bordered on the pathetic and the ridiculous. However, the family of the defunct did not think so, and their deceased parent was chanted to eternity with all the rites and ceremonies that his will had provided for.

Personally I was delighted at the idea of going to sleep to the sound of the organ, which pierced the thick granite walls and almost drowned the rumble of the cannon, to which we had now become so accustomed that we had ceased to be alarmed.

“_Des soldats!_” cried someone.

In a second I was on my feet.

“Where?”

“Two-on bicycles, going into the hotel opposite.”

I reached there as soon as they did. Their story was brief.

“We’re the forerunners of a cavalry depot, being transferred to Rozoy from Montmirail. It’s getting too hot down there! How far is it to Rozoy?”

I pulled out my map.

“Seventeen kilometres.”

“Oh, Lord!”

And the poor fellows wiped the great beads of perspiration from their dusty necks and faces.

“Bring up a bottle of wine. I’ll stand for the drinks,” called a man from a corner of the cafe.

“What regiment do you belong to?”

“_L’Escadron du train._”

My heart leapt with expectancy.

“Do you know a man named H.?”

“No.”

My disappointment was even greater than my joy.

“How many horses are you taking to Rozoy?”

“Two hundred and some.”

“At what time will they pass here?”

“They’re due in half an hour, if they don’t get cornered by the Boches on the way. We had a close call ourselves.” And swallowing their glasses of white wine and water, they were on their bicycles and gone, before we could get any further details.

I had now had enough experience to know that it was high time to take to the road if we didn’t wish to be captured. Yet it seemed unfair to go and leave some two-score innocent people praying for the soul of their dear departed to a long drawn-out musical accompaniment. So while the boys were harnessing I entered the sanctuary and approaching the chancel by a side aisle, beckoned an altar boy and whispered in his ear words to the effect that the curate would better hurry his mass and thereby give his flock time to escape the invaders.

I said this calmly, and hoped he would follow my example in delivering my message, but imagine if you can the effect produced by this frightened individual, who, lifting his hands in the air, cried out in terror, “_Vite, vite, Monsieur le Cure’! Voila’ les Prussiens!_”

I didn’t wait to see what happened, but went out and joined my group, which was making ready to start. How far advanced was mass when I entered the church I did not observe, but what I do know is that it finished abruptly after my warning, and the poor hearse horse never before galloped towards the cemetery of Choisy at such a pace nor in such an undignified manner. As to the mourners, they fairly flew beside it, greatly diminished in number, the others scattering like chaff before the wind.

The half-hour’s interval allowed by the cyclists for the horses to arrive was far overlapped by the time we once again took the road, but the sound of the cannonade had gradually grown closer.

Wearied by this constant changing of camp, I made up my mind to go far enough in this next move to be able to really rest for a day or so. Consulting my map, I discovered Jouyle-Chatel to be at what I judged a safe distance–nearly thirty kilometres and considerably south of Paris. The afternoon was still young, so we would have time to make the town before dark. At any rate, I told George to accompany me and explained that he and I would ride ahead full speed, and arrange for beds and a dinner by the time the others should arrive. They were instructed not to let the dark halt them, but to come on. Secretly I hoped that this would be our last stretch and that we would be able to remain at Jouy until it was wise to start homeward.

It was an uneventful trip from Choisy to Jouy. The roads were excellent, though very undulating and the only incident that marked our journey was an intoxicated individual who jumped across our path and, putting his hand on my handle bar, demanded tearfully what I had done with his wife and children.

I declared myself innocent in the matter, which angered him considerably.

“Now I know you’re a spy! Get down–” George did not give him time to finish the phrase, but with a well-measured blow, sent him sprawling in the brambled ditch and we beat a hasty retreat without looking back.

It was night by the time we reached Jouy, and at the entrance of the city I enquired for the best hotel.

“_Le Grand Turc_–but the proprietress is closing up, making ready to leave.”

“What! Here? You don’t mean to say the scare has reached this place, too?”

“Well, we’ve had so many refugees these days that the women got frightened and want to go.”

George and I parted company, he to see what he could find since the best hotel was denied us, and I, undaunted, started off to try to persuade the proprietress to let us in.

After much rattling at the door handles and pounding on the shutters, an acrid female voice enjoined me to be gone.

“I’m closing up and leaving.”

“Leaving? What for?”

“To escape the Germans!”

“How foolish! They’ll never reach here. I’ve just come from the Marne and expected to find board and lodgings for my staff until the war is over.”

That encouraged her and cracking the door, she put her head out.

“I belong to the Red Cross. Here’s my badge and my _carte didentite_. Don’t you think you could find room for me?”

“Well, we’re packing up, but we’ll have to wait for our horses, which are at a farm seven miles from here. The farmer said he’d come if there was any danger.”

“Well, you see there isn’t or he’d be here by now.”

My hostess seemed convinced and opening the door a little wider, let me pass.

“How many of you are there?”

“Fourteen.”

“Good heavens! Fourteen rooms? Never!”

“I don’t ask that, my good woman. If you can find a bed for me and happen to have a bay loft or covered shed, the others will be glad enough to sleep there. As to the meals, we have our own provisions and will cook outside. It’s a little late to-night, however, so if you could manage to give them a cup of hot soup and an omelet when they arrive, I’d make it worth your while.”

She consented to the compromise, and sent one of her daughters to prepare my room. I then dispatched George, whose bicycle bell I heard ringing in the street, to the city gate to await and conduct the remainder of our party. In the hour that elapsed before their arrival I gained in the hostess’s good graces by lancing a festered finger and bandaging her small daughter’s skinned knee.

When the others arrived, George, who had not been idle during his wait, told me that Jouy was almost empty of inhabitants, and that most of the people from Mery-sur-Marne, a village near Villiers, were lodging for the night on bales of hay in the school house and town hall.

Our meal over, none of us needed persuading to retire and the idea of a bed lured me early to my room.

Naturally a light sleeper, I was constantly awakened by the coming and going and the conversation of our proprietress, who kept on packing right through the night. Another time I was roused by a bell ringing up and down the street, which passed beneath my window, and a deep masculine voice that enjoined all the people from Mery to hurry to the town hall. The wagons were leaving in a quarter of an hour.

“Poor fools,” thought I, and rolled over in my bed.

As it grew light, I could gee the interminable stream of refugees passing up the road, and when I had dressed and hastened to the courtyard I found the others had already kindled a fire and tea was awaiting me.

“At what time should we start, Madame?”

“Start where?”

“I haven’t the slightest intention of going any farther. Haven’t you all had enough of this kind of traveling?”

The reply was affirmative and unanimous!

“The noise of the cannon is hardly audible this morning, which is a very encouraging sign, I’m sure, so we’ll try to make ourselves comfortable until it’s safe to go home.”

And leaving Julie in charge, I set off by myself, glad of a moment’s solitude.

In my wanderings I found the church door open, and entering, rejoiced in the peace that reigned within. It calmed my anxiety and as I withdrew my thoughts were clearer, and the burden of my responsibility seemed lightened.

On my way to the hotel I was accosted by a woman who, with a baby in her arms, was leading a cow behind her.

“Don’t you want some milk?”

“I hardly think so.”

“Please take it. You see, I’ve only saved my baby and my cow, and I have to milk the latter twice a day. I can’t carry all she gives, so I keep what’s necessary and throw the rest away. It seems like such a waste.”

I agreed with her, and directed her towards the hotel court. She would take no remuneration and thanking me, hastened on her way.

As I watched her go someone touched me on the arm and asked me if I would go to the town hall; there were two refugees who needed assistance. There I found a very old couple, brother and sister, the eldest aged ninety-two, the other two years younger. They were from Mery, had lodged in a private house in Jouy, and were so decrepit that they had not arisen in time to catch the wagons which bore away their fellow townsmen the night before. That had so upset the old man that he had broken down and lay moaning on the straw, while the mild little woman explained that the being left behind was not what troubled her, but it was her purse and belongings that had been carried off in the carts.

I comforted them as best I could, promising to send them hot milk and biscuits, and wondering what else I could do for them. Any way they should not starve, as long as we remained in Jouy.

Luncheon was well under way when I returned to the hotel. In a pot, standing on an iron tripod in the middle of the paved court, a rabbit was gently stewing. In another, a fricassee of chicken smelled temptingly good. The women and girls were peeling potatoes and onions, which were to cook in the sauce and a peal of laughter went up from the merry group when a few moments later George and Emile appeared, covered with flour and dough from head to foot, and each bearing a bottle of white wine under his arm.

“What on earth have you boys been up to?”

“Behold in us the city bakers!” said George with a wave of the hand and he and his companion struck an attitude which again drew forth much hilarity from the onlookers.

“It’s no joke–there wasn’t a baker left in the place, so we found an old fellow who said he’d show us how, and the dough is now setting. By three o’clock we’ll have fresh bread, you see if we don’t!”

From the window the proprietress and her daughters watched our impromptu kitchen with interest. We formed such an amusing group that, handing my kodak to Leon, I told him to catch us as I bent over to taste the sauce.

Snap went the shutter!

At that same instant a shriek rose from the interior of the hotel. Looking up I saw that the proprietress and her two daughters had disappeared.

“_Au secours! Au secours!_”

The boys and I made a rush for the house. As we entered the _grande sale_, we saw a man bearing a human form in his arms staggering through the door. Through the blood and dust that smeared the unfortunate boy’s clothing, I recognized the uniform of a chasseur. Not even an emergency bandage stopped the stream that was flowing from his cheek.

“Quick–a mattress!” I shouted.

The proprietress stood as though nailed to the doorway leading to the kitchen.

“Is he wounded?”

“No matter–a mattress!”

“But he might soil it–“

“Then I’ll pay for it–but for the love of heaven, be quick!”

Just then the boy’s head lurched forward and the blood poured from his mouth. Leon jumped to help the old man who was holding him, and I had just time to catch the proprietress as she swooned on the floor.

“Put the boy on the billiard table and stuff this blanket under his head,” I said, grabbing the article mentioned from the top of a bundle near by. “Come in here!” I called to the two daughters who were blubbering in the next room, terrified at what they had seen. “Come in here–lay her flat, loosen her clothes, and dash some cold water over her. She’s not dead and I’ve no time to bother with her.”

While others laid the wounded man out on the table, I rushed for my emergency case which I had fortunately thought to bring along.

With a sharp pair of scissors, I cut away the bloody garments and with a little warm water washed my patient so I could see what was the matter. He was but half conscious, and his eyes rolled wildly and his hand grasped mine and wrung it in agony.

I discovered a tiny cheek wound and was congratulating myself that perhaps the bullet had lodged in the flesh, when on turning his head gently to one side, I was almost nauseated by the terrible wound that greeted my eyes.

Either a Mauser pistol or an explosive bullet fired at but short distance had entered the cheek and gouged its way through the lad’s head, carrying away part of the ear and well–let us not go any further.

“Is there a doctor in the place still?” I called to the cook who stood looking in at the door. “Run and see if you can get him–for I’m incompetent here. Quick! It’s life or death!”

And while she was gone I stuffed cotton and iodine into the tremendous cavity, hoping to stop the hemorrhage. As I bandaged, I questioned the man who had brought him.

“Where did you pick him up?”

“Amillis–a mile and a half from here. The Uhlans fired into me, too, when they saw me help him. Look at the sole of my shoe! They’re following close on behind.”

I stepped to the window. “George and Leon! Quick! Drop everything. Hitch and get out of here like lightning! I’ll follow in this man’s cart. Hitch and I’ll tell you where to go.”

Fricasseed chicken and rabbit stew were forgotten and I could hear my people running wildly about the court, obeying orders.

The doctor appeared. I explained. “Shall I unbandage?”

“Useless.”

“Then don’t say so out loud, as he’s not yet unconscious.”

The poor fellow gripped my hand as proof. The physician blushed scarlet.

“I’ll give him an injection of ether and then you take him in your cart to the nearest hospital–it’s Provins–twenty miles from here.”

He jabbed in the needle, and then handing it with a phial to me: “Here–take this. I’m clearing out. Got a wife and baby to save. Keep his heart going–there’s a ghost of a chance. Adieu!”

I stood petrified.

“Take him away, I’m closing up! Take him away–” screamed the hostess, who had recovered from her swoon.

I looked at the old man who had brought the boy.

“Where are you going with your cart?”

“To Coulommiers–to save my sister-in-law and her children.”

“Good God, man! Can’t you see that if this boy was wounded at Amillis your road to Coulommiers is cut off!”

“It may not be.”

“There’s no time to argue. My wagons are full to overflowing. Are you going to let this boy stay and be finished by the Germans, or are you going to let me put him in your cart and drive to a hospital?”

“But Provins must be occupied by this time. It’s east of here.”

“I never had any intention of going there. I’m heading for Melun.”

“Melun?”

“Yes.”

“Good heavens! That’s seventy kilometers! My poor sister-in-law! My horse!” wailed the old fellow.

“Now then–one, two, three–” said I, gently patting my Browning which I had drawn from my outside pocket. “Will you do it gracefully? That’s right. Now stop your crying. I’ll release you as soon as I can find someone else to take me on. The important thing is to get out of here and quick! It may be too late now.”

The boys had fetched a mattress, had found pillows and a sheet, somewhere, and gently we laid the dying man on the old farm cart.

“You boys take your bikes and go ahead. Tell the refugees you meet to pull to the right and not encumber the whole road. We’re rushing a wounded man to the hospital. When I think you’ve got the way clear I’ll drive on full speed. Tell our carts to head for Melun and keep on going till they get there. I can’t bother with them. We’ll meet at the first bridge over the Seine.”

They departed, and climbing in beside my patient, who writhed in agony, now lurching from one side, now rolling to the other, I tried to make him as comfortable as possible. All the other carts had departed ere we got away, and my tearful driver kept on grumbling and lamenting.

Two hundred yards from the hotel, where the road makes a sharp turn, we halted abruptly, for we had come upon a group composed of my boy George and three French chasseurs. Two were on horseback, their naked swords glittering in the sunlight; the third on a bicycle–and all three, as well as George, were shrieking excitedly at a phlegmatic Tommy Atkins who, seated on a milestone, was calmly smoking his pipe. Behind him, his horse was peacefully nibbling grass. At the sight of my armlet and the agitated white sheet in the wagon, the chasseurs approached in haste.

“What have you got there? Our comrade, Ballandreau?”

“Yes.” (I had seen the boy’s name in his military book.)

“Is he dead?”

“No.”

“Badly wounded?”

“Yes.”

“_Parlez-vous anglais?_” they fairly bawled, all three at once.

“Yes.”

“Then, for God’s sake, tell that blockhead sitting on the stone and whose horse has gone lame, to seize the bicycle of that peasant standing there, and follow us.”

I translated politely.

“Why?” queried the Englishman, drawing on his pipe.

“Why?” I demanded of the chasseurs.

“Why? Do you see that?” said one on a bicycle, wheeling around and pointing down the road behind us. “Do you see that? That’s the Uhlans. The ones that got Ballandreau a half-hour ago, the ones that got my horse and the ones that will get us all if we stop here much longer.”

“The Uhlans!” I cried to Tommy, showing him the advancing forms of a half-dozen cavalrymen, whose black leather helmets shone in the sun a mile up the road.

“There are seven of them–on patrol–seven hundred following! Come, old fellow, it’s now or never!”

“And I–where shall I go?” I said, jumping into the cart, George following.

“To the devil if you like, but quick!”

The warning came none too soon. We had been seen, and sharp, whizzing noises in the grass, and over our beads told us that our German pursuers had no intention of letting us get away.

“Down on your knees, man!” I yelled, pulling the old fellow with me as we ducked to the level of the dashboard. And unfastening a breastpin, I jabbed it mercilessly into the flanks of our nag, who bounded forward, nearly, throwing us out.

Whizz! Whizz! Whizz!

It was as if a cloud of locusts were bumming about us.

Then when I lifted my eyes, on top of the steep incline we were ascending, I could see several uniformed horsemen and back of them a huge column of smoke.

“Heavens!” I gasped, “we’re caught this time–but it’s too late now to turn about. We’re prisoners for sure!”

Two cavalrymen then appeared and calmly started down the road in our direction. A second later I recognized the British uniform and breathed again.

“Go back!” I yelled. “Go back! The Germans are on our heels!”

Astonished at bearing their native tongue, the men approached.

“Thank heaven, here’s someone to direct us,” they said as they came alongside and saluted.

I replied with a nod.

“We’re lost,” they said, “cut off from our brigade.”

“That’s nothing. How many of you are there? Enough to fight? The Germans are coming on hard and fast.”

“We’re only two and our horses are done for. We were driven out of Coulommiers this morning.”

My driver threw up his hands and sobbed.

“Our friend John’s horse went lame and we left him at the bottom of the hill while we came up to reconnoiter. We can’t leave him down there all alone.”

“He’s gone–gone–I swear it. Followed the French chasseurs on my bicycle, leading his mount!”

“Thank God!”

“Now then, how far the Germans will come is a question. They’ll probably go in and occupy the town, and there’s just one thing for us to do–bolt.”

Whizz! Whizz! Whizz–the lead fairly splashed around us!

Leon and Emile rode back to say that the road ahead was clear.

“Les Boches,” I said, pointing down the hill.

“Come on, you cowards!” yelled my boys defiantly, George brandishing the rifle of my wounded man.

“Oh, Madame, ask the Englishmen for their revolvers. They’ve got their rifles–that’s five of us armed, and Monsieur’s revolver makes six! It’s almost man to man. Ah, please, Madame!” they implored.

In the excitement of the moment I nearly lost my head and consented. I was worked to such a point that any solution would have seemed a relief. The Britishers saw me put my hand in my pocket.

“No! No!” they pleaded. “You can’t–if we’re caught you won’t be killed–but murdered, tortured! We’re the only ones who have a right to fire!”

“But they’ve been peppering my cart regardless of my sex!”

“That’s perhaps their way of waging war, but not ours. Now then, off you go–quickly.”

We disappeared behind a clump of trees and tore down the clear road as fast as our horses would carry us. George sneaked back on his wheel to see if our aggressors were following, and came back radiant to announce that after coming halfway up the bill, they had turned about and were cantering to take possession of Jouy–as I had predicted.

“Where’s our nearest barracks?” enquired one of the Scotsmen. (I now saw that I had to do with the Scots a little.) We slowed down a little.

“Where is our nearest barracks?” enquired one of the Scotsmen.

“How on earth do you expect me to know? Up until I met you I hardly realized there were any British troops on the continent!”

“Where are you bound for?”

“Melun. There’s a big French garrison there in time of peace. You’ll always be sure of getting orders there–unless we meet someone on the road.”

They thought that was the best idea, and fell back, cantering behind my caravan with which I had now caught up.

On we trotted-up hill and down dale for several hours, my poor wounded boy still writhing on his bed of agony.

Towards four o’clock we had reached a long smooth stretch where we could see right and left for several miles over the plains. Presently, on a crossroad that ran perpendicular to ours, I spied a motor wagon. It was soon followed by another and then another, and pressing forward we reached the crossing in time to see Harrods’ Stores, Whitley’s, Swan & Edgar, and an interminable number of English Army supply motors coming straight towards us.

Knowing that it would be impossible to pass before the whole long line had gone by, I crossed over and now saw that the Scots Grays would soon find friends. I called Leon and pulling out a card, told him to pedal back and dig out a bottle of champagne I had hidden in our hay cart, and to present it to our soldier friends as a bracer and a souvenir. And then we pushed ahead.

Two minutes later, to my utter surprise, a heavy motor horn tooted on the road behind me and looking back, I saw a private car emerge from behind one of the English motors, and whirl down in our direction. It was a four-seater affair with but two occupants, a chauffeur and a woman wearing a streaming white veil.

“Quick!” I shrieked, grabbing the reins and pulling our cart full into the middle of the road. “They’ve got to take me and the boy to Melun!”

Seeing his deliverance so near, my old friend obeyed at once.

The motor, stupefied by our actions, slowed down.

“Get out of the way!” yelled the chauffeur. “Are you crazy! Out or I’ll run you down!”

“Never! Look here. I don’t care where you’re bound for, but you’ve got to make room for me and a dying man in your machine. It’s Melun–or nothing!”

“Wounded! Heaven, the Germans! We’re caught! Go on, quick, quick, I say!” shrieked the woman.

The chauffeur made a movement as though to skid past us.

“No, you don’t,” I said, once again producing my trusty Browning.

The woman hid her face in her hands.

“Now then, either you can make room for us or I’ll blow off your tires and you’ll have to get down and walk like all the rest of us!”

My gray-headed driver was jubilant.

“That’s right, Madame, you’ve hit it!” he encouraged.

There just wasn’t any choice. The chauffeur got down and began piling the gasoline cans behind on the back seat to one side. Then, each of us grabbing a corner of the mattress, we hoisted the sufferer onto the machine, covering him with a sheet. Try as we would, though, we could not get him to bend his knees, and in consequence all during the trip the poor chauffeur received constant kicks from the agonized soul we were rushing towards surgical aid.

“Now then,” I said, turning to my old driver. “Thank you for your cart, and bon voyage to Coulommiers. George, tell my people to meet me in Melun.”

And hatless, coatless, with but one golden louis in my pocket (I had confided my bag to Julie when the wounded man had arrived at Jouy), I started on our record-breaking trip to Melun.

VII

It was an exciting trip, that race for life and death–for every moment I knew my wounded boy was growing weaker, and every convulsive kick meant the disappearance of so much life blood. During the numerous adventures which befell us between the time we left Jouy-le-Chatel and our encountering the motor, my hypodermic needle had received such violent treatment that it refused service. So when we turned into Mormont at top speed, I was obliged to ask my driver to slow down and inquire for a doctor. We were directed by a couple of gaping women on the borders of the little city, who didn’t quite understand our mission. However, they must have been soon enlightened, for as we crossed the public square the British Red Cross ambulances were pouring in and lining up in battle array. Behind them came a steady stream of ammunition wagons, both horse and motor trucks, and from Mormont to Melun the line was unbroken.

The doctor was absent, but his wife willingly filled his place and with new hope dawning we backed out of the yard and sped southward.

What was the landscape we passed through I really couldn’t say. I had a dreamy sensation of having run down a refugee’s dog, and hearing its owner wishing us in warmer climes–as well as the feeling that my blood-stained apron and the agitated white sheet beside me created much curiosity among the drivers and occupants of the A. S. C. motors that took up all one side of the road.

One by one the mile posts whizzed past and finally we came into Melun.

“Where’s the nearest hospital?” I enquired of a group of soldiers loitering outside a barracks.

“Give it up! All evacuated!”

Our driver needed no more–and so we pushed on into the town, while I pantomimed to those behind that I had a wounded man in my arms.

In front of the city hall stood a noisy gathering, and in reply to our questions, a middle-aged man jumped on to the step.

“Go ahead–I’ll guide you. All the seven hospitals in Melun were transferred to Orleans this morning. The mixed hospital is all that is left.”

After what seemed an interminable time we finally pulled up a long hill and after much parleying I succeeded in turning over my patient to the medical authorities.

Through the half open door of the little stuffy office where I was conducted I could see a white-aproned doctor and a nurse properly bandaging my boy. When my _compagnons de route_ had departed, I walked out into the ward and straight up to the bedside.

“Is there any hope?”

“Not one chance in a million! Would to heaven we had the right to spare them such suffering! Morphine is no longer helpful in his case!”

It was a shock to hear this. The lad, who a couple of hours before was unknown to me, suddenly became very dear. I turned about to hide my emotion, but was startled out of it by the double line of white beds on which were writhing men and boys in the most awful agony, yet not a sound broke from their lips. In the middle of the room a second doctor, a slight man with a pointed beard, stood washing his hands and then began drawing on a pair of long rubber gloves. He crossed over to a basin and, after sterilizing his instruments, looked around for an aid.

“Can I do anything for you, doctor?”

Not in the least surprised by my audacity he asked, “Are you a nurse?”

“No.”

“Have you ever seen an operation.”

“Yes.”

I lied.

“Have you a good temperament?”

“Yes.”

“Then come over here and hold this basin.” I obeyed, and then Doctor Jean Masbrennier began a series of operations which will remain graven in my memory forever.

As he worked he talked–and informed me that the Red Cross Society had been hastily evacuated in the morning, doctors and all. Only those who were unable to be moved had been left behind, and only two civilian doctors were left to attend them. But one nurse remained to do all the bandaging. That was why I had been rung into service. It took but little time to find a mutual acquaintance in the person of Elizabeth Gauthier, and the doctor had long been familiar with H.’s work.

It would be useless to describe the horrors that I witnessed, or try to do justice to the heroic way those first glorious wounded of this lengthy war accepted their fate. I cannot, however, resist mentioning the endurance of a big black Senegalais, who won the admiration of both doctors and neighbors by refusing morphine or cocaine, and insisting on having the seven bullets that were lodged in his neck and throat withdrawn thus–never uttering a murmur!

When it was over, and we finally laid him back on his pillow, the tears were rolling down his cheeks and he squeezed my hand in his big black paw and then gently drew it to his lips.

How many wounded were there? I did not count. All I remember was that I promised to come the next day and write letters to wives, mothers and sweethearts of at least a dozen men and boys.

It was late when the last basin was emptied and Dr. Masbrennier untied his apron.

As we were washing up, I asked if he would be good enough to guide me out of the hospital and tell me where there was a respectable restaurant to which a woman might go alone.

“I have neither hat, coat, nor gloves. They’re coming in the carts.”

“That’s so; perhaps you haven’t had anything since lunch and I’ve been making you work on an empty stomach!”

“Worse than that!” I laughed.

“What?”

“Nothing since breakfast at Jouy-le-Chatel.”

“Good God, woman!” And taking me by the arm, he hurried me down the hall.

As we passed out of the entrance door, a superior officer stopped Dr. Masbrennier and though I advanced out of earshot the words, “evacuation” and “to-night” were distinctly audible. A second later my companion caught up with me.

“So sorry I can’t accompany you, but the whole hospital goes to Orleans immediately. Must make room for the new-comers! I’ll ‘phone home. The _gouvernante_ will make you comfortable.” And he continued to give me explicit directions how to reach his house.

“You’d better come to Orleans where we can look after you.”

“Sorry, but I’ve gone far enough south.”

“_Alors au revoir et grand merci._”

“_Au revoir._”

And a second later I found myself outside in the chilly darkness.

For the first time in my life I had the sensation of being utterly alone. No one on earth knew where I was and if I had not had faith in Dr. Masbrennier’s promise of a warm dinner, I should gladly have indulged in a little fit of despair. And so I wandered on down the dingy, black streets of Melun, where not a lamp post nor shop window was lighted, not a human being seemed astir. Where was my little troupe? How and when would we all meet?

Thus ruminating I came to a bridge. A sentry flashed a pocket lamp in my face.

“_On ne passe pas!_”

I showed my armlet and he stepped aside.

Halfway across I distinguished two human forms leaning over the railing, and following their example I perceived a half-dozen _hommes du genie_ hard at work mining the foundation of the center arch. So these bridges were to be blown up, too! What was I to do? Stay on the other side and wait for my caravan or cross over and risk my chances alone? A reflector from below swung upward, illuminating the bridge.

“George!” I gasped.

One of the two figures straightened abruptly! In a second the boys had recognized me. “What are you doing here? Where are the others?”

I poured out a dozen eager questions, not giving them time to reply. When almost breathless I stopped and they explained that the caravan had been halted on the outskirts of Melun. No refugees were allowed in after nightfall. Fortunately the boys bethought themselves of my wounded man’s clothes and arms, and thanks to these they were allowed to pass and deliver them to the gendarmerie. Remembering that I had friends at Barbizon they had sent the others there by a round-about route, and had come on to find me.

“But how did you get here?”

“Cesar brought us.”

“Where is he? And Betsy?”

“Oh, we found a dentist who had an empty stable. He took them in. Betsy refused to leave the cart. She’s never had such a picnic in her life: been traveling all day in a ten pound box of lump sugar!”

All worry had vanished, now that I found my line of conduct traced for me. The chief thing at present was to get something to eat. So we pushed ahead up the hill in the ever-deepening obscurity. We walked on in silence for what seemed an interminable distance. Once I fancied I had mistaken directions and was about to despair when the tramp of feet coming toward us revived hope. A second later a brawny arm turned a lantern into my face and a huge police dog growled close to my heels.

“Are you the person who is going to Dr. Masbrennier’s?”

“Yes.”

“_Tres bien_. Are these boys with you?”

“Yes.”

“Then follow me. We’re closing up the doctor’s house, but I’ll look after you.”

Without further ado we trudged on behind our guide, who after another hundred yards, turned into a gateway and led us up the stone steps of a sumptuous dwelling. Opening the door, he lit the electric light and stepped into the vestibule.

“Come in,” he said. “I’ll be back in a moment.” And he disappeared.

There we stood, Leon, George and myself, waiting for something to happen, for someone to appear. Five–ten–fifteen minutes must have elapsed–still not a sound anywhere. I was just beginning to wonder if we had not been the dupes of some practical joke, when from a room opening into the vestibule a light shone forth. The curtains parted and our friend of the highroad appeared.

“Isn’t much–but such as it is you’re welcome. Sit down and make yourselves comfortable.” And again he disappeared.

On a snowy white table cloth three covers were laid and a tempting supper composed of bread and butter, cheese, a bottle of white wine, and a huge basket of most luscious hothouse grapes and pears–gladdened our hungry gaze. We did not need a second invitation! We fell to with a vengeance and at the end of a quarter-hour hardly a crumb remained.

“When you’ve finished, come upstairs; Madame will take the first door to the right. You boys come up a flight higher,” called a voice from above.

We obeyed, and before retiring I waited a good half-hour hoping our friend would reappear. But no one came–so bolting my door, I offered up a prayer of thanks and was soon fast asleep.

Sunday morning, September sixth, the sun was high in the heavens when I peeped from beneath my lace-bordered sheets and cocked my ear at the familiar sound of the cannon. It was a long continuous roar, and now that I had become accustomed to distancing I estimated that the battle was on at Mormont. And I was not mistaken. A little later official news confirmed my guess.

Finding no bell in my room, I opened the door to see a pitcher of hot water sitting before it, and on a chair beside it, a new comb, a clean linen duster, and a pocket handkerchief. A brief note told me that I would find breakfast in the dining-room, and requested that I leave word on the table saying at what time I would be in for luncheon. Decidedly the mystery deepened–for not a sound could be heard save in the garden where I spied George and Leon, who informed me that the house was empty, and “a gorgeous house, Madame!” they ejaculated in admiration.

Though partially abandoned, Melun was full of life, thanks to the presence of numerous British troops and that same long line of A. S. C.’s now quadrupled on the highroad–two lines going, two lines coming.

As I picked my way between them, and crossed the street, my attention was arrested by a French peasant who was conversing by means of the sign language with the handsome driver of one of those vans, while several children were clamoring to be allowed to sit on the seat a moment, “just to see how it seemed.”

“Can I be of any assistance?”

“Rather! Seems good to hear English, thank you.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Might I ask where you come from?”

“The States.”

“Do you know Cleveland?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’ve got a mother and three brothers buried in that cemetery. Colonials, you know. I’m English–from Bath–oldest son. Couldn’t see things their way. Done better perhaps if I’d joined the others out there.”

I smiled at this unexpected and impromptu confession. The boy saw it and reddened.

“Is there anything particular you want me to say to this man for you?” said I quickly, to cover his embarrassment.

“No, thank you. But there’s one thing you might be able to tell me.”

“What?”

“Do you think we’ll be ‘home’ in time to eat Christmas dinner?”

“Rather!”

“Thank you so much! Good-bye.”

“Good-bye and good luck to you.”

And after snapping his photograph I started on down the street in haste, for I could see George and Leon, who had gone on ahead, now running towards me.

“_Vite_, Madame. They need you!”

“Who?”

“The English. They can’t make people understand.”

I pressed forward, and came upon a crowd of gapers standing outside a shop. Within two English officers were arguing in their native tongue with an irate butcher, who waved one arm wildly in the air, and brandished a huge knife in the other, shouting frantically all the while,

“La’ voila-la voila!” said George and Leon, almost dragging me forward, proud to exhibit my accomplishments. “_La voila! Vous etes sauves._”

My greatest desire was to turn about and run, but the crowd parted to let me through.

“Would you mind, Madame?” pleaded the lieutenant. “We need your assistance to make this man understand that we’re drafting meat for the army. We’ll pay cash, but be might just as well give it gracefully, for we have the right to force his ice box if he refuses.”

I explained gently, and when things were calm was about to slip away. The officer touched me on the shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Madame, but I’m afraid we’ll have to draft you, too. Our time is limited and if a scene like this happen at every shop we’ll be punished for tardiness! Here’s my order to draft an interpreter,” and he put his hand into his pocket.

I was somewhat abashed.

“Might I ask when you will release me?”

“Just as soon as we’ve the supply we need.”

“Will you give me ten minutes to arrange my affairs here?”

“Certainly. But remember you’re on parole!”

Outside I explained the situation to George and Leon, and scribbling a note to friends in Barbizon, told the boys to drive over and reassure the others–make them comfortable at the _Clef d’Or,_ and tell them to expect me that evening.

“Whatever happens, wait there until I come. There’s no danger of the Germans reaching Barbizon, I fancy!”

And that is how from nine in the morning until late in the afternoon I sat perched on the front of a British Army Supply truck, much to the amusement of the other Tommy Atkins we encountered in Melun and the neighboring villages.

My officer friends very courteously drove me to the hospital where I learned that my poor wounded _chasseur_ Ballandreau had passed away in the night, and towards five o’clock, when their task was completed, they offered me tea and proposed to drive me to Barbizon. As we jolted down the hill towards the railway crossing our attention was attracted by a huge gathering of citizens and soldiers, and above the roar of our motor, we could hear the rolling of a drum. Silence reigned instantly and an officer in uniform in the middle of the group read out a short message from a paper he held in his hand. What he said we could not hear, but the mad shout of joy that went up when he had finished made us eager to learn the news. Like lightning “Paris saved–the Germans retreating” ran from mouth to mouth, and the delirious excitement that seized that crowd was absolutely indescribable. Young and old, English, and French, peasant and bourgeois, fell on each other’s necks and exchanged a joyous embrace. The awful tension of the last month was broken and the word victory was uttered by thousands of throats, suddenly grown husky with emotion.

My arrival and the news I bore created a sensation among my servants and the remaining inhabitants of Millet’s famous village. Barbizon was dead–literally deserted, for not a single member of that delightful summer colony remained, several hotels were closed, and the others as empty as in the heart of winter. The proprietress of the _Clef d’Or_ made me a very tempting offer for a _sejour_, but I judged, and rightly, that since the German retreat had begun, we would best follow on close behind the victorious army, for if we waited until order was restored, patrols would be organized and we who had no papers to identify us would not be allowed to pass.

Before retiring I announced my intention of starting homeward, and the joy that illuminated those anxious faces somewhat calmed my own misgivings, for now that our adventure was safely over, I couldn’t help worrying about the absent.

When I touched my bed, I bethought me of my lodging the night before, and realized that I knew neither the name nor address of the generous person in whose sumptuous domicile I had been so cordially received and graciously cared for. How and whom was I to thank?

Leon, Emile and a sturdy butcher boy from Charly who had joined the others on the road, had now determined to enlist–so I could but encourage their patriotic sentiments, and went with them to the recruiting office to furnish proof of their identity.

Evidently many other youths under military age had been inspired with the same idea, for there was a long line outside the door, and as we stood and waited, we examined with interest the mounts of the English cavalry regiment lined up in the street awaiting their riders. George and Leon were eagerly fingering a long coil of rope thrown on the pommel of one saddle, when a deep voice from behind them ejaculated,

“Guess you ain’t ever seen the likes of that before. That’s a lasso.”

I explained, and then looking round, beheld a long, lanky individual, his hands on his hips, literally taking us all in.

“Do you think you can tell ’em what that is, sister?”

“I fancy so.”

“Then you must be from home!”

“If you mean the States–yes.”

“To h–with the States! The State–Texas!”

I didn’t find it necessary to translate that. “Say, you haven’t by any chance got a razor about you?” he inquired. I replied that I was not in the habit of carrying such articles on my person.

“No offense meant–but since you speak this language, perhaps you could persuade one of them kids to go and buy me one.”

I said I thought I might, and my compatriot producing an American double eagle, enjoined Leon to be quick and he’d make it worth his while.

“You see,” he explained, “a razor is all I need to complete my outfit. Got a Winchester, two revolvers, a Bowie knife, a lance and a lasso. Razor’s flat and easy to carry. Might be useful, too. Nothing like being properly armed. If I’ve got to sell my hide you bet I’ll sell it dear!”

Leon returned and I was about to ask my friend to give us a little exhibition of his skill with the rope, when the call to arms obliged him to leave. So enjoining me to give his regards to Broadway, he departed much pleased with the world in general and himself in particular.

From various sources, though none of them official, I learned that the road as far as Coulommiers was clear. That was all we wanted to know, so after seeing the boys off for Orleans, a very much diminished caravan started on its homeward journey. The horses, after two days’ rest, were quite giddy, and the carts being light, they carried us on the new road north as far as Pezarches with but few halts. The country we passed through, though abandoned by its inhabitants, showed no traces of invasion. The Germans had not been able to push so far west. I counted on making Coulonimiers to sleep, but night closed in early and with it came a chilly drizzle, which sent us in search of lodgings. Not a soul was to be seen anywhere, and as all the houses were shut, I deemed it unwise to force a door. So we pushed ahead into the border of the forest, hoping that the rain would soon cease.

Presently someone discovered an abandoned hermitage, through whose low doorway we crept, and spreading out our blankets on the floor, prepared to make a night of it–glad of shelter from the dampness.

“Hark!” hissed George, just as we were dropping off to sleep.

We all sat up.

“There! That’s the third bullet that’s landed on this roof!”

Ra-ta-pan-Ratapan! There was no mistaking the sound–even through the wind and rain that raged outside.

George crawled on his knees toward the opening, and a second later jumped back, clapping his hand to his head with a low shriek.

“He’s shot!” cried Julie.

I leaped forward, grabbed the lantern, and holding it to the spot, opened the boy’s clenched fingers. As they parted, a heavy horse chestnut burr fell to the floor with a loud thump!

We were too nervous to appreciate the humor of the situation, and had some little difficulty composing ourselves to rest.

As we approached Coulommiers the next morning the horrors of war became more and more evident. On both sides of the roadway the fields were strewn with bay and straw. Every ten paces the earth was burned or charred, and in some places the smoke still rose from dying campfires. Bones, bottles and tin preserve cans in extraordinary quantities were strewn in every direction, and a half mile before we reached the town itself, a dead horse lay abandoned in a ditch.

At this point we were hailed by a party of bedraggled refugees who warned us that it would be useless to try to enter Coulommiers.

“We’re from Neuilly–St. Front, on our way home, but there doesn’t seem much chance of our getting any further. The place is in the hands of the military authorities–with orders to let no one pass.”

We halted, and George went on ahead and interviewed a sentry, returning with a negative reply, and the information that Coulommiers was in a pretty mess after the looting.

“It can’t be worse than _La Ferte Gauche._” And above the almost deafening roar of the cannon an elderly man told us bow his caravan had been caught by the Germans, stripped of everything they possessed, separated from their women folk, and with armed sentries back of them had been forced to work at the building of a temporary bridge to replace the one the French had blown up.

“I got off easy–with only a few welts from a raw-hide,” he murmured, “but my brother (and he pointed to a very stout masculine figure rolled in a blanket and sitting motionless on the steps of an abandoned road house)–“my brother’s nearly done for! You see he’s near-sighted and not used to manual labor, and every time he missed his nail with the hammer, the German coward would jab him in the ribs with the point of his bayonet. Seventy-two wounds!”

“And your women?”

“God knows what they did to them! My wife hasn’t stopped sobbing since we met. She’s dazed–I can’t make her talk.”

As he rambled on with his haphazard story, glad of fellow sympathy, I spied a line of British Army Supply carts advancing up the road. The leader came to a halt and getting down, the driver entered the first of the abandoned dwellings before which we were standing. Presently he reappeared.

“Just my luck! I say”–(and this addressed to our group with a sort of blank, hopeless expression) “I don’t suppose any of you Frenchies know where I could get a cup of tea!”

I laughed outright, much to his astonishment.

“Not anywhere around here, unless you’re willing to wait until I can build fire enough to make you one!”

The man blushed crimson.

“Ah–I couldn’t think–“

“No trouble. Get one of your men to make a blaze, and, boasting aside, I’ll brew you a cup such as you haven’t had since you left England.”

No sooner said than done, and quarter of an hour later, a half-dozen Tommy Atkins were sipping hot Kardomah with sugar and condensed milk from tin mugs.

“You’re certainly right–the French don’t know how to do it, at least in these parts. I had a teapotful yesterday morning that was as near a mixture of stewed herbs and Hunyadi water I ever hope to taste. And now, isn’t there something we can do for you?”

“Tell me where you’re bound for?”

The man brought out a note-book and pointed to a name.

“La Ferte-sous-Jouarre?”

“Yes, that’s it. I wouldn’t dare tackle it.”

“Is the road clear? Can we go there? It’s only fifteen kilometers from my home.”

“I don’t know if they’ll let you by–but if you’re clever and follow on close behind us with your Red Cross armlet, there’s just a chance–that’s all.”

I didn’t need a second bidding and after warning my people not to talk if we met sentries but to have faith in me, we pushed ahead. Our army friends with better horses soon left us in the rear, but undaunted we proceeded, finally reaching the heights that overlooked La Ferte–and led into the village, Jouarre, perched on the side of the hill running towards the Marne.

Oh, the pitiful sights that met our gaze as we wended our way along those glorious roads, now full of ruts and knee-deep in mud! As far as eye could see the entire country had served as a huge camp for the invader, and when forced to flee he had sacked and destroyed everything within his reach. The wonderful fertile fields had been soiled, polluted, and among other damning evidences of their fury, the smoking ruins of every farm house stood like specters in the brilliant sunshine.

At the entrance to La Ferte our road was barred by two sentinels, elderly peasants, by their looks. I played mum and tapped my Red Cross armlet.

“_Non, on ne passe pas!_”

I beckoned them and fumbled among my papers for my _carte d’identite_. They approached the cart, but as they did so, my faithful Betsy let forth an angry growl.

“Down!” I commanded in English. “Down! I say! They’re not going to hurt me!”

Those phrases were my undoing!

“Oh, ho!” said my interlocutors. “And after that you think you’re going to get past us? We’ve had enough Boches in this place. You can come in–but between us!”

And jumping up on either side of me, one of them took the reins and started forward. This being taken for a spy was an altogether new and very disagreeable sensation.

“But, gentlemen,” I protested calmly, “I’m known in this place. If there’s an inhabitant left I’ll be identified in a second. How green you’ll feel if you drag me before an officer and find you’re mistaken!”

They were unrelenting.

I invoked my identity card.

No, they had heard me speak in a foreign tongue and all foreign tongues to them were German!

And so we entered La Ferte.

Doors and windows no longer existed–the former had been dashed to splinters by the butt ends of guns, while the latter were shattered to powder and from their apertures swung bed clothing, personal adornment and household belongings in shreds and tatters–all willfully soiled by mud and filth.

It was useless to try to drive our cart up the main street, so calling a passing comrade, my detainers bid him hold my horse until they returned after having _fait leur affaire_, as they expressed it.

The plate glass windows of every store lay in thousands of pieces below their sashes, and the entire stock of merchandise whether furniture or drapery, groceries or dairy products, had been hurled through them into the middle of the thoroughfare. Above these were piled pell-mell bedding and chairs, wardrobes and wash basins, all splintered and broken–the whole making the most pitiable conglomeration I ever hope to witness. One plucky dealer was already boarding up the great yawning cavities that were once show windows, and here and there a frightened female face peeped out from behind the ruins of her commerce.

“Madame Huard!” cried a familiar voice behind me. “_Mon Dieu_–you!”

I turned and recognized my pastry baker’s wife.

“_Oui, moi; arretee._”

“Arrested!”

“Yes, unless you will be good enough to inform these gentlemen who I am?”

“_Est-il possible! Est-il possible!_ Why, of course, I know you–how dare they!”

“You see,” I said, turning to the _auxilaires_.

But they were inflexible, bidding my friend follow on if she could swear to my identity. She obeyed, but our group had attracted the attention of a couple of small boys who darted out of an alley way like rats from a cellar, calling, “_L’espionne–l’espionne!_”

Thank fortune, at that instant we came upon an officer, whom I accosted at a distance, explained my case and produced my card and my pastry baker. He understood in a moment, and hastily discharged my custodians.

“I cannot scold them. They’re over zealous, but we’ve been so horribly betrayed all along. You understand, I’m sure. Please accept my apologies, Madame!”

I bowed and he departed. Then I turned to my friend.

“You’ve heard the news, I suppose, Madame?”

“No–what?”

She suddenly grew white.

“Quick–out with it, woman!”

She hesitated.

“Is H.–?”

“_Non_, not that, Madame, but a quarter of an hour ago it was noised about that the enemy are still retreating, and that we were pounding into their headquarters–le chateau de Villiers.”

I felt myself whitening. The woman saw it, and catching me by the arm. “Come, come,” she said. “You’re tired; perhaps it isn’t true, so many false alarms have been launched. Come and have a cup of coffee–you’ll excuse our back room–it’s all we have left.”

I gladly followed her, picking my way through what had once been one of the most enticing of provincial pastry shops, the good soul apologizing all the time, as if she had been responsible for the damage. As she prattled on, though my own brain was swimming I now and then grasped such phrases as three days of looting, two days’ bombardment. As she passed me a cup of coffee, she explained that the invaders had not been satisfied with violently appropriating all personal articles which they had found to their liking, but after having drunk all the wine in the cellars, they had willfully cut open the bags of flour and thrown it pell-mell in every direction.

“And, Madame, they got into my reserve of eggs–five thousand of them–” she wept, “five thousand! All my winter’s store. I wouldn’t have minded if they had eaten them but to see them purposely crushed and wasted. Two of those wretches spent half a day bringing them up from the cellar in their helmets, and then dragging me out, would hurl them at the walls and windows, savagely rejoicing in my distress!”

I couldn’t remain indoors–I had but one thought–get to Villiers or see someone who knew for certain what had happened there.

Again I crossed the shop, paddling through that sticky yellow slime in which bits of furniture and clothing floated like croutons in a gigantic nauseating omelet.

Outside, towards the end of the street that opened on to the quay, great animation reigned. A bugle sounded and I could hear the tramp of soldiers’ feet.

“Look!” cried my friend. “Look, all that is left of the Institut St. Joseph, the pride of La Ferte.”

Across the river between the broken spans of the bridge, my eye fell upon the gutted remains of what had once been a most exquisite bit of eighteenth century architecture. The mansion which had sheltered Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette on their eventful return from Varennes, was now a smoking pile of ashes!

“And to think we had to do it! Oh, curse their hides!” muttered an elderly man close to my elbow.

“We?”

“Yes.”

“?”

“Why, when they had to get out of here they crossed the Marne, destroyed the bridge and entrenched themselves in the houses along the bank. The English caught them like rats in a cage, but at what a price! One fellow that’s rowed across says he can bear them moaning, but you bet they can rot there before we’ll go to ’em. Begging your pardon for the language!”

A dozen men of the _genie_ were busy constructing a temporary arch between two spans, and just as soon as a plank was laid a regiment from Cherbourg (almost all reservists) filed over one by one. The population gave them an ovation, and it was a curious sight to see these care-worn, haggard-faced people simply going mad with joy, while around them was heaped desolation.

“I hope you haven’t come for your tea service, Madame?”

I turned and recognized my china dealer, who smiled cynically as he motioned towards his shop.

“It doesn’t pay to be a glass merchant these days. It only took two shells to send twenty years’ earnings into splinters! There’s not a whole goblet or plate in the entire establishment! But I wouldn’t have cared if they hadn’t maltreated the women. I–“

“Come and see!” cried another. “Durant’s house has tumbled down and his wife and family are smothering in the cellar. Quick!”

There was a general rush in that direction, but I pushed on towards the bridge. It was evident my carts could not cross, but there was just a hope that they would let George and me through with our bicycles.

I accosted the sentry who stood mounting guard beside a motor which was thrown up on the side of the road, twisted and distorted like a tin toy one has walked on.

No, the bridge was for the army only.

I insisted.

An officer came to my rescue, but could only confirm the sentry’s orders.

“You’re not safe even here. This is the firing line. We don’t know yet for certain whether we are going to hold the ground we gained. Villiers? Still in the Germans’ hands.”

I sighed and was about to turn away. “Then where’s the nearest bridge across?”

“Meaux.”

“But that’s thirty kilometres west! I’m only fifteen from home here!”

“I wish I could help you, but there’s no use trying to leave here unless you go that way.”

Then Meaux it must be, and though our trip was considerably lengthened, anything was better than inaction.

VIII

It was with much reluctance that we turned our backs on La Ferte the following morning and headed our horses westward.

Naturally the right of way was reserved for the army, and the roads bordering the Marne were now lined with soldiers, guns, ambulances and supply vans rushing to the front. After being side-tracked and halted no less than two score times, we finally reached Trilport, where the invaders had done but little material damage. The terrified civil population was even exultant, for two nights previously an automobile containing four German officers sped through the town, in the direction of Paris, and ignorant of the fact that the English had destroyed the bridge, had been precipitated into the river. The affair seemed to be considered as a huge joke, and the chief amusement now consisted in hanging over the broken side and contemplating the gruesome spectacle of a half-submerged motor, and four human bodies lying inanimate on some rocks, rapidly swelling, thanks to heat and the current.

“When we’re sure they’re good and dead, we’ll bury ’em,” explained a man whom I questioned.

As I write this phrase, now that more than a year has elapsed, it seems cruel and heartless, but on the spur of the moment, and after all that each one had endured, it was but justice.

Though barges were being rapidly brought into position so as to form a temporary bridge, I felt it would be a good two days before we could get across, and so following the course of the river, we wended our way in and out, round about, this time through peaceful country, until we reached Meaux.

My heart leaped with joy when on approaching I saw the cathedral standing unharmed, like a guardian above the peaceful little city.

The Germans had made but a brief stay here, merely an _entree_ and _sortie_, and had been received by Bishop Marbeau, in such a fashion as is likely to be recorded in history and place his name beside that of his famous predecessor, Bossuet.

One or two stray shells had fallen into the place, but the harm done was insignificant. The most picturesque and melancholy sight was along the river front, where to head off the enemy’s approach the French had been obliged to blow up those ancient bridges, landmarks of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, for, like the Ponte Vecchio at Florence, they were lined with houses and mills, whose pointed roofs and apparent beams had weathered nearly five hundred years! Strange as it may seem, it was they that resisted the most, and, though the dynamite had severed their connection with land and shattered their pale-blue window panes, not a house had collapsed, and as they stood in the sun’s dying blaze, they seemed to say, “Touch me, if you dare!”

Washboats, rowboats, barges and every available means of navigation had been sunk or put out of working order and though the enemy was hardly ten miles distant, men and women were busily engaged in setting them afloat.

Once again all we could do was to stand and gaze at the opposite bank and after assuring ourselves that there was no possible way of crossing, we hastily departed for Lagny.

That night we slept in a shed hospitably offered by a lone peasant woman, and the next morning triumphantly crossed the river and set our faces homeward.

Branching northward into the open country we chose all the by-roads and short cuts where our carts would pass, in order to avoid the long streams of ambulances and ammunition vans, as well as in the hope of finding better thoroughfares. A drizzling rain had set in the night before, making the roads, which up until now had been covered with a thick layer of dust, slippery and uncomfortable. Highways which heretofore had been seldom trodden, were full of ruts and bumps, and from Langy to Villiers there was hardly a corner but what showed signs of the invaders’ passage. Over these green and fertile fields whose crops had proudly waved their heads about the lovely Marne, were strewn straw and empty bottles in unimaginable quantities. Thousands of blackened or charred spots dotting the countryside, told of campfires and hasty bivouacs, and as we silently plodded on towards Charny, the growing evidences of recent battle met our saddened gaze.

Here a shell had burst on the road, in the midst of a bicycle squadron, scattering men and machines to the four winds of Heaven. A little mound, a rough-hewn cross, marked the spot where some sixty soldiers lay in their last peaceful sleep, while the _melee_ of tangled wire and iron which had once been machines, as well as blood-stained garments, bits of shell, and even human flesh, made a gruesome and indescribable picture.

Souvenirs? The idea never entered my head. And my kodak, which I had been so prompt to use to commemorate various events, seemed a vulgar, inquisitive instrument, and was left unheeded in the bottom of the cart. Each step brought us face to face with the horrors of warfare. Towards Villeroy a number of battered Parisian taxicabs gave us the first hint of General Gallieni’s clever maneuver which helped save the capital–and then the wind brought towards us a nauseating odor, which paralyzed our appetites, and sent us doggedly onwards: the stench of the battlefield.

The girls in the cart drew closer together, shivering, though the air was warm and muggy. Even old Cesar seemed to feel the awe of that Valley of Shadow, and no one murmured as we passed the first bloated carcasses of dead horses and came upon that far more horrid sight–human bodies–swelled to twice their natural size, lying as death had met them, some in piles, others farther apart–all unrecognizable, but once proud mothers’ petted darlings. I think they were our enemies. I did not stop to investigate; the flies bothered us so terribly, and long low mounds with red kepis piled upon them told of the graves of France’s defenders. Far ahead I could discover groups of men with shovels, hastily burying those who remained. To the right a lazy column of dense smoke rose reluctantly in the heavy air. I fancied it came from a funeral pyre; we certainly smelled tar and petrol. The ground beneath rocked with the thundering of the distant cannon, and as one peal burst louder a flock of jet black crows mounted heavenward, mournfully cawing in the semi-twilight.

So we continued, a silent, foot-sore, rain-soaked community. With the growing remoteness of imminent danger came the reaction of all we had passed through, and deep down in our hearts we welcomed the idea of entering a village.

A village! Alas! As we reached the road leading to Barcy, there was a rift in the clouds, and a long golden ray shot through an enormous breach in the church tower, flickered a moment upon a group of roofless houses, and was gone. Night closed in.