Courts of Idleness (10 page)

“Doll,” he said.

Her lips formed the word “Yes?”

“Doll, I’m going away for a while, but I’m coming back, and then we’ll have better times than ever we had before. And – oh, Doll, I love you better than anything in the world. I always have. And I want to marry you when I come back…” He stopped, dropped a hand from her shoulder, and turned to gaze at the woods and the glen and the sinking sun. And a great smile swept into his face, a boy’s smile, the smile of a child. “There!” he went on triumphantly. “I’ve wanted to say that for years, and somehow I never could.”

He seemed to speak with pride, almost with defiance.

The Hon. Dolly Loan never moved.

“You’ve – wanted – to say that – for years,” she repeated dully. “You’ve wanted… Oh, why–” She checked the wail in her voice suddenly. “Bill, you mustn’t speak to me like this. Not now, or ever again. You see, I just can’t, Bill. Not marry you. I’m awfully fond of you, but… It’s difficult to explain. I’ll tell you one day, and then you’ll – you’ll understand. I mean – oh, Bill, I’m so sorry.”

The words came with a rush at the last, anyhow.

Courtier stood motionless, staring into the distance, his one hand still on her shoulder. Then he took a deep breath. She could feel him pull himself together. A moment later the hand slipped away, and he turned.

“That’s all right, Doll,” he said simply.

“Oh, Bill.”

He laughed easily.

“Anyway,” he said, smiling. “I’ll write to her. On a drum, too.”

The gruff hoot of a motor-horn came from the other side of the lodge.

Very gently he raised her slim right hand to his lips, smiled and nodded. Then for a moment he held the fingers tight.

“Goodbye, dear,” he said.

As he turned:

“Bill,” said Dolly.

“Yes, dear?”

“I’d like you to kiss me, all – all the same.”

He would have kissed her cheek, but she put up her warm red mouth and slid her arms round his neck.

The stuff had to be fetched somehow. That was clear. And there it was, waiting at Lence, twenty-three kilometres away. Nitro-glycerine.

“Let me go, sir,” said Courtier. “It’s an officer’s job, and you can’t ask a raw chauffeur chap to take it on. Not that he wouldn’t, every time. But… And Ewing’ll come with me. He’s a better mechanic than I am, supposing she did break down.”

“My two Englishmen?” said the French general. “How should I spare you?”

“For less than an hour and a half, sir.”

“I would have sent Pierrefort,” muttered the other. But the daring driver lay face upwards in the white moonlight, with one foot twisted under him and his eyes wide and staring as never in life. Beside him sprawled the ruin of a great automobile.

“We ought to go now, sir, if we’re to get it tonight,” said Ewing.

For a moment the general stared at the two young Guardsmen who were attached to his staff. Then:

“After all,” he said slowly, “it is Englishmen’s work. Listen. I am not sending you. Only I give you the leave to go. But I bid you return safe. That I command. Take Librand with you. He is a good soldier, though he does not know the front from the back of a car.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The Frenchman rose to his feet suddenly.

“After all, the good God is in heaven,” he said.

The forty-horse-power Clement had seen better days – merrier ones, any way. Once she had carried a great touring body, rich in leather upholstery, its panels gleaming, the sheen of its fittings matchless – a dream, all blue and silver. Beauty had been handed out of her doors. Gallantry had sat at her wheel. Laughter and dainty voices had floated from under her hood. More than once love had been made above her floorboards. At Biarritz she had been the car of her year. So, for a while, she had flashed through life handsomely. To be exact, for some thirty months, and miles without number. Thereafter she had been purchased by a garage at Lyons. She had been given a landaulette body, built for another car, and the syndicate hired her out, as and when she was wanted. That was often. Never silent, she had become noisy, but she still went like the wind. Sometimes she was greedy, but so long as they gave her her fill, she never went wrong. So, for two years. Then one day they put a van-body on her, and she went to the war.

“What about head-lights?” said Courtier suddenly. “The moon—”

“Maybe able to do without them coming back,” said Ewing, wiping his hands on a rag, “but going – no; must have them. As for their attracting attention, they’d hear us, anyway.”

Courtier laughed.

“Right-o,” he said. “And here’s Librand.” The man came up panting. “Sergeant,” he added in French, “give me a hand with this petrol. No. Go and get some water in a can. We must give the old lady a drink.”

Ten minutes later they swung out of a side-street on to the Lence road. Somewhere a clock struck the half-hour. Half-past three. Three minutes later they were clear of the little town.

If the French could hold Otto, as they were holding Lence, for another three days, all would be very well, and the allied forces would be up to and in possession of the twenty odd kilometres of country that lay between. At the moment the enemy were attacking both the towns vigorously, for they were seemingly more than reluctant to advance between them – though there was nothing to bar their way – till one of the two, at any rate, had been reduced. For the time being, therefore, the road from Otto to Lence was no man’s land. In three days it would probably be in the hands of the Allies, anyway. Till then there was nothing to prevent the enemy taking it, if they pleased. According to aviators, they had not pleased up to six the evening before – nine and a half hours ago.

It was awfully cold. That was thanks to the pace at which they were going, as much as the night air. Courtier was ‘putting her along’ properly. By his side sat Ewing, his hands thrust deep into his greatcoat pockets, his eyes fixed, like the other’s, on the broad white ribbon of road ahead of them, straight for miles at a stretch. The sergeant sat on the foot-board, with his feet on the step. A strap had been buckled across to keep him in.

“Isn’t it glorious?” said Courtier suddenly. “Just the night for a joy ride. Wish I’d got some thicker gloves, though.”

“Joy ride?” said Ewing indignantly. “This is, without exception, the most horrifying experience I’ve ever had. I know you’re supposed to be a good driver, but why – why exploit the backlash? Why emulate the Gadarene swine? For Heaven’s sake, steady her for the corner, man.”

“No corner, old chap. It’s the shadow that cottage is throwing. See?” They flashed by the whitewashed walls. “And now don’t make me laugh, Tag. We’ve got to get there, you know.”

“That,” said Ewing, “is exactly my point. Besides, it’s all very well, but I came out here to be shot, not to have my neck broken. This isn’t Coney Island, you know.” Here they encountered a culvert, and the van leaped bodily into the air. “I warn you,” he added severely, “that if you do that again, you may consider yourself under arrest.”

He stopped. Courtier was shaking with a great silent laughter. Consciously or unconsciously his usually serious brother-officer was in form this night of the nights. At length:

“Oh, Tag,” he gasped, “you are a fool. How’s the sergeant getting on?”

“Died of fright at the culvert,” said Ewing gravely, “about three miles back. Thank Heaven, here’s a bit of a rise.”

They flew by cross roads and on up the long, slight gradient. It could not be called a hill.

“That’s the main road to Very,” said Courtier with a jerk of his head to the right. “I remember this part well. It’s flat again in a moment for about half a mile. Road runs through a wood. There you are. Then there’s a fairly steep hill with another wood at the top. There’s a corner there, I know.”

“Where?” said Ewing.

“On top of the hill in the wood. Not this one. We’re just about half way. Hullo!”

The thud of a big gun sounded in the distance. For the first time Librand shifted in his place on the foot-board.

“Having another smack at Lence,” said Ewing. “Or was it behind us?”

Courtier shook his head.

“No. It was Lence way all right. Listen.”

Two more thuds followed each other in quick succession. There was no doubt about the direction this time. The attack upon Lence had been renewed.

And now they were out of the wood and taking the hill with a rush. Half way up, Courtier slipped into third, and the van roared out of the moonlight and into the next wood grandly. The land lay exactly as he had said. As they rounded the corner, Librand shifted again and peered into the darkness beyond the scudding beam of the head-lights. He was looking a little towards the left.

“What is it, sergeant?” said Ewing, speaking in French. “You’re the wrong side for the Germans, you know.”

“Ah! My lieutenant will forgive me. I was not thinking of the enemy. There is somewhere here a sudden gap in the wood. In daylight one stands there and looks away down into the valley. There one can see a little farm. I have seen it so very often, but not now for thirty-seven years. It is the farm where I was born, my lieutenant,” he added naïvely, as if everyone was born at some farm or other.

“Thirty-seven years, and now it’s too dark,” said Ewing. “What a shame! You must look out for it on the way back.” And he pointed to the grey look in the sky over towards the east.

“But no, my lieutenant,” said the Frenchman. “It will be too dark still. Besides, I shall be on the other side then. It does not matter at all. I shall see it again one day. Two fortune-tellers have said this. I am to die there, where I was born. It is a good thing to know,” he added contentedly.

For a moment there was silence. Then:

“So?” said Courtier. “Thanks very much. I know you’re not superstitious, Tag, but I rather think we look out for this precious wood on the way home.”

“I hope you will,” said Ewing. “That corner’s just the place for a nasty skid.”

The van fled on over the broad highway. Here, for a quarter of a mile, tall silent poplars lined it on either side, their shadows ribbing the pale road with darkness; and here low, thick-growing bushes marked the edge of a stream that ran by their side for a while, and then curled capriciously off under their feet, so that the way rose and fell to suffer its passage. Now they swept through a village, whitewashed houses – deserted – on either side. In the short street the steady mutter of the engine swelled into a snarl, that shore through the silence fiercely. By rights, dogs should have bayed the matter furiously… And so again out into open country. Under the still moonlight the landscape slumbered very peacefully – untroubled slumber that even the dull thunder ahead could not ruffle.

Five miles later they slowed down for the Lence outposts.

As they ran into the town:

“Twenty-one minutes to the tick,” said Ewing, looking at his watch. “And not a sight of a German all the way. If we don’t strike the blighters on the way home, I shall ask for my money back.”

By the time the van had been laden with its grim cargo, cock-crow had come and gone. A faint grey light had stolen into the sky, spoiling the moon of her splendour, lending to ways and buildings a look of dull reality in place of the illusive livery of black and silver they had worn before. Men and things were invested with a stern workmanlike air. Which was as it should be, for there was vital work to be done, and done quickly.

Smoking easily, Courtier and Ewing stood talking with three French officers, the better for the hot
café-au-lait
with which they had just been served. On the other side of the van, Librand was exchanging experiences with two or three comrades-in-arms. From time to time he applied a can of hot coffee to his lips with evident relish. Under the supervision of a sergeant, French soldiers were putting the finishing touches to their bestowal of the explosive. It was not the sort of stuff to have slipping and sliding about at every bend of the road.

At length the packing was over, two soldiers scrambled out of the van, and the sergeant closed and fastened the high back doors, lifting the crossbar into its place and thrusting the pin through the staple. The Clement was ready for the run of her life.

“The carriage waits,” said Courtier, throwing away his cigarette. “Come along, brother, or we shall miss the curtain-raiser.”

He spoke in French, and the three officers laughed wonderingly.

“You are brave fellows,” said one of them. “It is not everyone who would escort Madame Nitro-Glycerine to the theatre.”

“She is no worse than other women,” said Courtier. “You take a girl to the theatre. If she does not like the play, she blows you up.”

The next minute he had started the engine.

As he was settling himself at the wheel:

“Better let me have your revolver,” said Ewing. “You wouldn’t be able to use it any way.”

With a sigh the other handed over the weapon.

“Now I really feel like a chauffeur,” he said disgustedly. “Is the sergeant all right?

“Yes.”

Crying their good wishes, the French officers stepped back from the van. Courtier let in the clutch, and she began to move.

“
Au revoir. Bon voyage
,” called the Frenchmen.

“
Au revoir
. So long,” came the reply.

Then they swung out of the sentried yard into the cobbled street.

The firing had slackened a little. At one time, whilst they were waiting at Lence, it had been very heavy. The town’s reply seemed to have silenced one of the enemy’s guns, but, beyond a shattered searchlight, the defenders had suffered little or no damage.

“What’s the time?” said Courtier suddenly.

“Five-and-twenty to five,” said Ewing. “I didn’t think the loading would have taken so long.”

“Nor did I. However.” They turned out of the market-place on to the Otto road. “S’pose I mustn’t go all out now,” he added gloomily. “Not with this soothing syrup on board.”

“As long as you’ve got her in hand,” said Ewing. Then: “Did you mark where the culverts came?”

The other nodded.

“Three, weren’t there?” he said.