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Tuesday, September 7, 2010

Knight Rupert: I

Chapter I.

The castled crag of Drachenfels
Frowns o’er the wide and winding Rhine.
-Byron



THIS IS THE STORY of something that happened a long time ago, before you or I were born. It is the story of a little kingdom, a haunted castle, a curse, a knight-errant, and the child who set everything right. It is a fairy-tale and, like all fairy-tales, it is perfectly true.

The night on which the story begins was wild and stormy with high winds which came sweeping down from the mountains, bringing a chill from the snow on their summits. The grass bowed and rose luridly in the moonlight and the leaves on the trees turned up their white undersides. The great moon itself, a fat crescent, looked like a bright fortress assailed by shadowy cloud armies, which flung themselves upon it as if they would cover it up, but they always fell away again, driven before the wind, and the moon was no less bright when they had gone.
Beneath the moon and the hurried clouds lay a long row of cliffs, so dark and solid that the pale moonlight could not lighten their gloomy faces and all that could be seen of them was a great, thick blackness like spilled ink. Along their crests like a silver vein wound the dusty white road; while beneath swept the deep and silent river, its stormy water reflecting the moon a million times over like a broken mirror.
Where the dark bluffs sank down to meet the river’s edge, amongst a confusion of dry heather and twisted mulberry trees, rose the black ramparts of Ratavaria Castle. It was darker even than the cliffs beside it, and was built of the dark stone that they were made of. While all the grass and trees bent before the storm, the castle stood as it had for seven centuries: grim, ancient, and immovable as the neighbouring mountains.
Within, pacing the flagstones of his ancestral hall, stalked Raymond, Count of Ratavaria. He was a tall, dark man who looked a good deal like his castle. He was just as gloomy and reticent and the wild wind outside affected him as little. He did not hear the whip-crack of trees against the walls, nor see the sudden leap of the fire on the hearth as the wind howled up the chimney. His eyes were fixed on the flagstones, his hands clenched behind his back, and dark thoughts gathered on his bent brow.
He seemed to be waiting for someone, for every now and then he would pause in his pacing and listen—then, hearing nothing, resume his course across the room.
At last from the courtyard came the sound of ringing hooves and booted tread. A whistled tune rose above the noise of the wind and in a moment the door was thrown open and a young man entered, removing his gloves as he came. The wind shut the door behind him with a shuddering bang that echoed through the corridors, dying away at last in the little tower room at the top of the castle.
The traveller was splashed with dust and dried mud from a long journey but he showed no sign of weariness. He took a rapid glance round the room and finding that the count and himself were the sole occupants, he strode over and took a seat by the fire.
“You received my telegram, I see,” said Count Raymond. “Why didn’t you send a reply?”
“Hadn’t the money, of course—my usual excuse.” So saying, the traveller removed his helmet, revealing a crop of curly hair worn rather shorter than was the fashion, and beneath it a face both young and handsome but which had begun already to show a trace of the Machiavellian.
“I came, as you see,” he continued. “It isn’t so often I get an invitation to my ancestral home that I can afford to ignore it.”
“You would be more welcome here if you ever came for something besides borrowing money.”
“I doubt you’d prefer that I come to steal it,” remarked the young man. “I don’t see why you’ve got to be so tight-fisted, uncle. You’ve nothing to spend your money on but yourself, and you know very well you spend as little in that direction as possible. The estate will be mine when you’re gone, so you might lend me a pittance now and again just as easily as not.”
“I don’t approve of your spending habits,” said his uncle, taking up his pacing again, which he had arrested at the start of the conversation.
“Well, I don’t approve of yours, if it comes to that. Money was never made to be an end in itself.”
“You don’t have a proper appreciation of the value of money.”
“You’re quite mistaken, I have a very good appreciation of it. I simply don’t place as high a value on it as you do. I consider money as only a means to an end. Unfortunately, as it is the means to nearly every end I consider worthwhile, I’m in sad straits without it.”
“—And so expect me to supply you with all you want,” said the count, bestowing on his nephew an un-fraternal scowl. “You squandered your father’s estate—what was left of it when he died, which wasn’t much—and have managed to involve yourself in monstrous debts. I was obliged to pull you out of them once, and here you are nearly in debt again already. I don’t know how you manage to spend so much—you’re utterly irresponsible. I helped you once for your father’s sake, but any further money you receive from me must be spent under my direction. When I’m dead, you unfortunately may do as you please with the estate, but while I live, I hope to have some influence over you for good.”
His tone told better than his words that he considered this a vain hope.
Rupert Ratavarian was, at the age of twenty-three, A Young Man In Reduced Circumstances. He had, as his uncle had pointed out, lost his father’s estate through gaming, racing, and wild living. He had never learnt to curb his expenditure and had so often exceeded it that at last his uncle had had to procure him a commission in the army so that he might support himself. He had inherited his father’s easy, careless manner, and yet, though his uncle didn’t know it, Rupert had inherited as well a large measure of his uncle’s keenness and calculation.
Rupert’s temperament was one of opposites and extremes, and this was illustrated by his third trait, which was a daring and reckless courage and audacity that had not belonged to either his father or his uncle. He raised the stakes in a bad game and rode his horse at a break-neck gallop over ground no sane man would take at more than a canter. The more difficult a situation, the sterner his resolve in the teeth of it and far from fearing danger, he delighted in it and courted it whenever possible. It was this quality that might have been the saving of him if he had only used it to its full potential, for it was the best side of his nature. So far it had only brought him into trouble. In his short life, he had already had three duels and more than one tangle with the police. Besides this, he was an expert swordsman and a wonderful shot and it had not taken him long to earn the fear and respect of all his acquaintance.
“I’m very grateful for your disinterested concern over my situation, but I can hardly believe that to be the reason for your summoning me here,” said the recalcitrant, crossing his legs.
“It is not the reason.” The count paced the length of the hearth twice before continuing. “You’ve heard, I’m sure, that the king has just died?”
“I got the news last night, about the same time I got your telegram. It wasn’t a surprise; no one expected the old fellow to live much longer anyway. Who’s the new king going to be?”
“Nobody knows yet. The king never named a new heir after his son died.”
“Well, who’s next in line? Surely there must be someone ready enough to step up—a distant cousin, or something. In fact, someone told me that the Ratavarians had some claim to the crown, but I didn’t know how far to believe it.”
His uncle was silent for a moment.
“It’s true that we have a claim,” he said slowly. “–A perfectly legitimate one, in fact. The king’s grandmother was a Ratavarian.”
“And you mean there aren’t any closer relatives?”
“Maybe not.”
“Well! You and I are the only Ratavarians left, uncle, so that makes you the new king,” said Rupert, rolling a cigarette. “Let me offer my congratulations.”
“Ours isn’t the only claim,” said the count.
“Naturally.”
“Roderic Algromond claims to be a close cousin. He’s not very close, really, and he’s only caused a good deal of confusion over something quite simple. But Marshal von Rimmel supports him.”
“Does he? I wouldn’t have expected those two to band together.”
“Von Rimmel doesn’t care about Algromond; he only wants to keep me off the throne. He’s always had some prejudice against me.”
“I wonder what you could have done to fall into his bad graces,” mused Rupert.
“Nothing that I know of.”
“How distressing it is to be misjudged!”
“Well, let him say what he likes. Our claim is the better one and there are many influential people who will support us. The throne is our right and we shall get it despite the obstacles.”
“We?” said Rupert, raising an eyebrow. “Thank you for your unwonted generosity, uncle, but I don’t much value my share of the offer. What am I going to get out of all this? An obscure duchy, as far from the capitol as possible, perhaps? No thank you.”
“You stand to gain as much as I do, as you’re my heir. You’ll be the next king.”
“True, but after all, you may out-live me; not impossible with my way of life, I should say. Besides, I don’t care much for a crown in trust. What I can’t have at once holds little attraction for me.”
“You’re a fool, that’s all.”
“Just as you say,” said Rupert with unconcern. “Every man is a fool in his own way, and if you think me a fool, I’ve always considered you one.”
“Then you don’t mean to stand with me?”
“Tell me why I should.”
Count Raymond made an impatient gesture. “Why you should! I’ve already told you why you should! You’re to be king, aren’t you? What’s your purpose in pretending you don’t care? If you mean to bargain with me, you’re wasting your time. I won’t court your assistance. I’m offering you the only opportunity you’ll ever have to repair your fortunes. What chance do you think you stand on your own? You have no money. Your friends mistrust you. Next week your name may be on the insolvency bills or the police records. If you turn down this chance, you’re not only a fool, you’re a lunatic!”
“But for all that, you do need my help to carry out your plans,” said Rupert, grinning. “You’re too cautious yourself and don’t want to take any chances. You lack the—permit me the use of a vulgar expression—‘bluff’ to carry through such a scheme. The article is mine, therefore I can exact any price I please.”
“And what price do you please to exact?” asked his uncle scornfully. “I’ve offered you the kingdom, haven’t I?”
“You promise to make me a rich man; not meaning any slight to your word, but the chances are greater that I would make myself a poor one again if you did. I don’t want power either: the kingdom’s worth about as much to me as this castle—and that’s not much. Waldovia’s only a speck on the map of Europe. We may be conquered next year or next month even. The crown carries with it the headman’s axe, you know.”
“But it’s a crown all the same,” said Raymond pointedly. “Not many men get such a chance offered them and the ones who succeed are only those who are willing to go to any lengths for it. You like danger and intrigue: here’s as much of it as you want.”
Rupert smiled, and his smile, though sly, was not unpleasant. “Promise me that, now,” he said, “—that’s something else.”
“It’s the only thing I can promise you, for we’ll have enough of it whether the plan’s successful or not.”
“What is the plan?”
“Then you’re agreed?”
“Perhaps. Let’s hear what you have in mind.”
Count Raymond hesitated.
“No,” he said, “I insist on a guarantee of your collaboration first.”
“Very well, if you say so. Shall I swear?”
“As if any oath could bind you if you chose to disregard it,” said Raymond with a sneer. “No, I only want your father’s old documents.”
Rupert looked sharply at his uncle.
“What for?”
“To make certain they don’t contain anything that could hurt our cause.”
“Such as?”
“I only want to be on the safe side.”
“No, you’re holding over on something. Come on, what is it?”
The count was silent for several minutes, looking at his nephew.
“I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” he said at last. “I meant to tell you sooner or later anyway.”
“What?”
“I’ll be quite free with you,” said the count amiably, taking a seat across from Rupert. “It’s the one problem I’ve come across in my plan.”
“Besides Algromond, you mean?”
“No, Algromond won’t be a problem. Even von Rimmel must be convinced sooner or later that my claim is the better one. It’s about my eldest brother, your uncle Nicholas.”
“Nicholas? But he died years ago—or were we told wrongly?”
“Oh yes, Nicholas is dead. I sent an agent to England to make sure of that.”
“Well?”
“He married after reaching England.”
“Did he? Funny we never heard of that. Wasn’t he rather old for that sort of thing? What was he, anyway—thirty-seven?”
“Thirty-eight. He once said that he would never marry, but it seems he changed his mind. However, the woman was sickly and he survived her.”
Rupert sat forward slightly. “—But left a child, you’re going to say?”
His uncle looked at him in surprise. “How did you know that?”
“Guessed –but go on.”
“Yes, a child; a ten-year-old girl, in fact. She’s living in England on strangers’ charity, but she’s Nicholas’s heir and therefore first in line for the crown.”
Rupert leaned back again and rested his shoulder on the stone wall behind him. “Odd that Uncle Nicholas should never have told anybody about it,” he said. “He must have been a queer old fellow.”
“He never communicated with me since the day he left. He was always like that. I’ve done my best to learn whether there’s anyone else in the country aware of the child’s existence and as far as I know, there isn’t. This is probably the first time I’ve had occasion to bless my brother’s reticence.”
“Then you mean to murder the child?”
“Murder? No.”
“It’s the surest way…”
“Yes, but it’s not necessary right now. Besides, she may be of use later.”
“How?”
“If Von Rimmel continued to oppose me, he might be more favourable to her. He was a friend of Nicholas’s. Obviously, if she were crowned, she’d be too young to decide in matters of state—”
“—And so you would advise her, is that it? Not a bad idea, uncle. Besides, it’s just as likely that she’s sickly and would leave the throne to you in a year or two. How do you intend to go about it?”
“I gave my agent instructions to bring her here.”
“Here? To this castle, you mean? You’ve audacity, uncle,” said Rupert with a shade of respect.
“I’ve brains, that’s all. No one would think to look for her here and couldn’t if he did.”
“That’s true. You could hide a regiment in this place easily enough; no one ever comes near it. –But supposing you were to get the crown? What would you do with her then?”
“I’ll decide that later. For now it’s a minor detail.”
“Infanticide a minor detail, uncle? You’re learning fast, it appears.”
“If my brother Nicholas weren’t dead already, I wouldn’t stop at fratricide to gain my ends—tell that to that straitlaced von Rimmel!”
Rupert, gazing on his uncle, felt glad that it was not himself who stood in the way to the throne. There are some who go through life well thought of by their fellow men who, if the secrets of their hearts were known, would prove the worst criminals. Such was Count Raymond. Men who looked with disapproval on the misdeeds of young Rupert would have found under the uncle’s show of virtue deeds yet blacker.
“And what of Algromond?” asked Rupert after a moment.
“Algromond isn’t a concern at present; it’s von Rimmel I distrust. You’re acquainted with Captain Hergyll, aren’t you?”
“Von Rimmel’s aide de camp; I know him by sight.”
“You’ll have a chance to improve the acquaintance. I want you to make it your business to know every move he makes; every person he sees; every scrap of information he brings to von Rimmel.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“Nothing. I choose to be cautious, that’s all. Hergyll is von Rimmel’s eyes and ears.”
“Wouldn’t cutting his throat be far easier?”
“That’s not an option at present.”
“Oh well,” said Rupert with a shrug. “You know best, I suppose. When shall I leave?”
“The sooner the better.”
“Tonight then, if you wish.”
“Very well. Hergyll is at the capitol at present. You can take my horse; it’s the fresher.”
“Right ho, then,” said Rupert, getting to his feet and stretching his limbs. “But it’s ill riding weather. Where’s that provincial wine you’re so fond of keeping here?”
“There’s a bottle on the sideboard.”
“Expected me, eh?” said Rupert, striding across the room.
The count followed him without a reply and, filling the two glasses that stood beside the wine bottle, proposed the success of their enterprise.
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather propose the endeavour,” said Rupert.
Count Raymond made no demure but merely drank his wine with his eyes fixed on his nephew. With a toss of his head, Rupert drained his glass and, replacing his helmet, turned and strode from the room.
* * *

Monday, August 23, 2010

Gaylord's Notebook:

There was a priceless treasure that once was offered me--
A little, sparkling diamond named Opportunity.
'Twas neither offered once nor twice nor thrice, but ten times ten,
And ten times ten I turned away--too busy for it then.

One day both gift and giver went silently away
And never have they come again since my last chance that day.
But now those things I valued more when it was offered me
I'd give to have my jewel again--lost Opportunity.

Monday, June 21, 2010

Gaylord's Notebook

"The advantage, the luxury, as well as the torment and responsibility of the novelist, is that there is no limit to what he may attempt as an executant--no limit to his possible experiments, efforts, discoveries, successes."

Henry James, The Art of Fiction

Thursday, May 13, 2010

Lusitania: V.

Chapter V.
After

They left Queenstown the next day. Professor Holbourn took Avis on the ferry to Liverpool. Avis was not sorry to leave, for everywhere she looked she saw something to remind her of the tragedy—notices pinned up with descriptions of missing people; people wandering about with lost looks and sea-washed clothes. Some even still had their lifebelts on. There was one bright spot, however, for Avis saw Leslie walking down the street with his brother John.
“He found him!” she said. “I am glad.”
When Avis and the professor arrived at the station in Liverpool, they were met by a pretty, sensible-looking woman, whom Avis found was Prof. Holbourn’s wife. Avis liked her at once and she could soon tell that Mrs. Holbourn was almost as fond of her as the professor.
Prof. Holbourn had decided to take Avis to stay with her grandparents until she had quite recovered from the shock of the catastrophe. It having been over a year since last they had seen each other, their reunion was affecting. Avis would have been happy if only she had been allowed to stay with them, but all too soon she had to go away to the “young ladies’ seminary”.

It was a very ordinary girls’ school—respectable, with an eye to economy. Avis was one of two hundred proper young misses shut between the uninspiring walls which marked the boundaries of their term life. She wrote home dutifully every week, but letters from her mother were irregular at least, and often lacked the little bits of home news that Avis longed for so much.
As the weeks passed, Avis began to feel lonelier and lonelier. She had difficulty making friends with any of the girls of her own age, for she was so quiet and detached that they often overlooked her. The only thing she had to look forward to were the Christmas Holidays, when she would return home.
One afternoon Avis heard her name called by one of the teachers, and answering the summons, was handed not one letter—which would have been a rare occurrence—but two. She hurried back up the stairs to read them in the solitude of the deserted dormitory.
One of them was from her mother and Avis eagerly opened it first. “Dear Avis,” it read, “I know how much you have looked forward to coming home at Christmastime, but I am afraid I shall have to disappoint you. I have tried very hard to meet expenses, but it is extremely difficult just now to pay bills. Now dear, you don’t mind staying at the school over the holidays, do you? Of course we miss you here, but it can’t be helped. We will send you a lovely parcel at Christmastime, you know, and I daresay your grandfather and grandmother would like you to visit them for a week or two. Now do be a good, brave girl and I’ll see what may be done about bringing you home next summer.
-Your loving and affectionate mother”

Avis laid the letter down on the bed and sat gazing into the air. It was more of a disappointment than she liked to admit. It had been so long since she had seen a loved or familiar face that her heart quite longed for one like a thirsty man might long for water, though she hadn’t realised it until this letter showed her the impossibility of having this longing gratified.
“It’s no use,” she said at last. “I can’t be brave all by myself. Oh, Mama, don’t you want to see your little daughter? Oh, Papa! If only you were here, I know you’d find some way to bring me home!”
A tear slid down her cheek.
“I’m too big to cry,” she said, but it was no use. Another and another came, until she gave up fighting them and threw herself face down into the bed sheets.
It was in the middle of this storm that Avis suddenly thought of something. The Lord had been with her on the ship; wasn’t He with her here at the school too? To her mind came a verse her mother had taught her long ago, “I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.” Avis had always thought it a babyish verse because it was so short and simple, but now it seemed full of meaning for her. Why, God was here, in England, as well as in Canada.
She thought of another promise, “When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up.” He would; she knew it. He was looking after her.
Suddenly Avis remembered the second letter. She picked it up from the floor where it had fallen and examined it with interest, for she could not think of anyone besides her mother who would have sent it. The address was unfamiliar, but when Avis had opened it and saw the name at the bottom of the page, her eyes brightened—indeed, to her the whole world seemed to brighten, for this is what it said:
Foula, July 18th, 1915
Dear Avis,
I hope you are not still suffering any ill effects from the sinking. We are all well here. I should have written sooner but my work has kept me very busy of late—unfortunately some valuable manuscripts of mine were lost when the ship sank. We are determined to have you here for the Christmas holidays if your family can spare you. I had an idea the other day for an adventure story which perhaps when I am less busy I shall write out and send to you. You remember you said that stories for girls are not exciting enough. They were splendid times we had aboard ship, weren’t they? However sad the memories connected with the unfortunate Lusitania may be, I shall always treasure those of the time we spent together. By the way, I hope you do not give up singing altogether. I think your father would like for you to make other people happy with it as you made him. I wonder if I might call you ‘little bird’ too? You remind me of one. I remain as always,
Your friend,
Ian Holbourn

THE END





Historical Note:
On May 7th, 1915, just three years after the sinking of the Titanic, the Cunard Liner Lusitania was torpedoed off the coast of Ireland by a German submarine and sank in eighteen minutes.
More than two thousand people were killed in the terrible disaster, and those who survived would never forget the episode. The people in this story all really existed and their stories have been told as accurately as the author’s knowledge of events permitted. Avis Dolphin and Prof. Holbourn remained close friends throughout their lives and he later wrote for her a story entitled The Child of the Moat. Leslie Morton received a medal from King George V for his efforts in saving passengers. The Captain of the ship, Capt. Turner, survived and was put in command of a second ship, but retired after that, too, was torpedoed. Alfred Vanderbilt the American millionaire, a passenger during the ill-fated voyage, went down with the Lusitania after giving away his life belt to a woman. The U-boat electrician, a conscript from the German-controlled province of Alsace, was court-martialled for mutiny because of his protest of the sinking and sentenced to prison where he later died. The submarine which sank the Lusitania, U-20, became stranded on a sandbar later in the war and had to be blown up. The submarine captain, Kapitänleutnant Schwieger, took command of another submarine, which afterwards was lost in the North Sea with all hands, probably the victim of a mine.

Thursday, May 6, 2010

Gaylord's Notebook:

A Scale of the Romance of Certain Situations

1. Dying
2. Getting Wounded
3. Getting Knocked Out
4. Getting Captured
5. Getting Tied Up
6. Being Held At Pistol-Point
7. Getting Punched
8. Getting Shot At Without Effect
9. Getting Chloroformed
10. Fainting

Friday, April 16, 2010

Lusitania: IV.

Chapter IV.
Rescue

Avis felt herself being sucked down into the darkness. The water was bitterly cold. Down down down she went, pulled along by the sinking ship. It was such a great ship and she was such a little girl that she despaired of ever getting away from the dreadful suction. She was dreadfully deep now; the water pressed heavily on her and her lungs cried out for air. But her lifebelt did its duty and fought gallantly against the pull of the water—for a moment she felt suspended and the next instant she shot up towards the light.
She broke through the surface coughing and taking in great gulps of air. She bumped against something hard and strong hands took hold of her and pulled her onto solid wood. Avis wiped the water from her eyes and blinked several times. She was in one of the collapsible lifeboats which several men had managed to salvage and make reasonably seaworthy by raising the canvas sides. They were now taking it among the wreckage of the ship, rescuing survivors. One of the men in fact was Leslie Morton.
“What! If it isn’t little Avis!” he exclaimed.
“Have you seen Professor Holbourn?” Avis asked anxiously.
“Haven’t seen anybody yet, but you. I don’t think many got off. She’s nearly gone already; look.”
Avis looked to where the liner’s stern was rapidly disappearing beneath the waves, its screws slowly turning, and several salty tears mingled with the seawater which ran from her eyes. Surely the professor could not have gotten off in time.

The hours that passed afterwards Avis tried vainly to wipe from her memory in later years. The little lifeboat filled with wet, shivering survivors with large anxious eyes, for nearly everybody was missing someone he loved and death was still so near nobody could feel as if he were safe yet. Avis was bitterly cold. There was nothing dry to be seen and the air, which had been so pleasantly cool just a few hours earlier, was now chilly. Leslie Morton tried to cheer her up.
“It’s a good thing you had your lifebelt on properly,” he said. “It saved your life, depend on it.”
Avis looked out across the sparkling water (she would always afterwards hate clear, calm water) and thought of Professor Holbourn. He had kept his promise to her, but where was he now? Oh, if only she hadn’t left the ship without him!
Avis saw Leslie and the other men looking often towards land.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
“Rescue boats,” they said.
The men were doing their best to row to shore, but the boat was so weighted down that they were making very slow progress. Everyone was cold and wet and were just beginning to become horribly thirsty. Worst of all, the boat was over-loaded and could capsize at any moment. Their terror of a few hours before now settled down to pure misery.
Suddenly Leslie cried, “Look!” and everyone sat up and followed his finger with their eyes. It was a fishing ship, coming slowly in their direction. A few feeble cheers went up. Avis was content with merely watching its slow progress towards them.
But the fishing boat passed them, the crewmen informing them by gestures that they were going to try to rescue those in the water. Fortunately the survivors’ disappointment did not last long, for other boats soon began to arrive from Queenstown. One of these met Leslie Morton’s boatload and took on the passengers. Leslie declined getting on the boat as well. Instead, he took his little lifeboat and went back to save as many people as he could. Avis, watching him push off, suddenly remembered that his brother was one of the crewmen on the liner.
“Your brother,” she shouted, “has he been rescued yet?”
Leslie just looked down and shook his head, meaning that he did not know.
The sailors on the rescue ship were very kind. They offered Avis a rug to wrap up in while her clothes dried and made her a cup of tea. Avis had never known before how nice it felt to be dry and warm, or how pleasant hot tea was. There was a fire burning in the hold and Avis curled up next to it along with the other survivors. The sailors looked at them and shook their heads. They found it as hard to believe as anyone else—that Germany would sink a ship with upwards of three thousand non-combatants aboard, that is.
The boat came into the harbour at Queenstown at dusk. The docks were lit with torches in whose dim light Avis could see other survivors of the wreck waiting to see if a dear face might possibly be among the rescued. Avis felt sorry for them. At least she did not have any family members to worry about. Only the professor…
A kind woman who lived in the town took Avis under her wing and carried her away to a hotel to spend the night. Avis had a good supper of which she could not eat much and went off to bed. Some time in the night she awoke, hearing voices. People had been coming and going at the hotel all night long looking for a place to stay or for family members, but somehow one voice alone awakened Avis.
“…a little girl of about twelve. Her name is Avis Dolphin. I asked at the Cunard office and someone said she might be here.”
“Professor Holbourn!” cried Avis feebly.
The professor appeared in the doorway. With one stride he crossed the floor and had her in his arms. Avis began to cry. “I thought you’d drowned,” she said.
“I thought you had. I saw your boat capsize. Thank God you’re safe.”
“I prayed,” said Avis simply. “Oh, I was so afraid you’d drowned!”
“Don’t be afraid,” said the professor. “There’s nothing to be frightened of anymore.”

Thursday, April 8, 2010

Le Saboteur: X.

Chapter X.
Sauvès!

Allison stood in indecision for a moment. The last car was pulling past when with a sudden resolve he started forward and swung himself onto it. He vaguely saw the little station platform disappear behind him as he scrambled onto the roof of the boxcar.
He glanced ahead. Eighteen cars between this one and the engine. Well, he could manage that distance, but it might take awhile. Then came a good bit of scrambling across roofs and climbing up and down ladders from car to car. At last he reached the tender just behind the engine and scrambled over the coal to look inside the cab.
Kearns was in there, regaling the driver and fireman with anecdotes. He was seated on his rucksack and Allison crept back to consider what to do. It was not so simple as it seemed. He could not simply inform the men that there was a firebomb on board. Supposing they believed him, they would want to know how he happened to know about it and it was not a matter he particularly wanted to explain. He might simply disconnect the first car from the tender and the ammunition would be safe, but the men in the engine would be roasted. The best thing to do, he decided, was to get them to leave the engine and heave the box of cigars overboard.
Having made up his mind, Allison scrambled forward and slid into the cab of the engine amid an avalanche of coal.
“Hullo?” said the driver, “where’d you come from?”
“Why, it’s Allison,” said Kearns. “What are you doing, Allison? Come for a cigar after all?”
“I only wanted to tell you,” said Allison, “I saw smoke and thought I’d better warn you what with all the ammunition on board.”
“Sure it wasn’t smoke from the engine?” asked the fireman.
Allison said nothing.
“Can’t be too careful, Bob,” said the driver. “Better ‘ave a look.”
“Very well.”
“Wait, I’ll come with you,” volunteered Kearns.
Allison hoped that the driver would decide to go too, but the fellow contented himself with standing on the running plate and watching his comrades’ progress. He glanced in a friendly manner at Allison.
“Aviator, are you?” he asked, noticing Allison’s uniform.
“Yes.”
“Friend of the other bloke?”
“Of sorts.”
The train jerked slightly and Allison absently adjusted the steam valves.
“Work on a train before?” asked the driver, watching him.
“Yes, several years ago.”
“I been working with trains—let me see—it must be thirteen years now. ‘aven’t been on this line long, though. Just since 1916.”
Allison’s uneasiness at this point may best be imagined. He could not get his mind away from that bomb lying so innocently inside Kearns’s rucksack. Just then the driver leaned a little further out to see how Kearns and the fireman were getting along and in the process turned his back to Allison. Allison edged nearer to the rucksack.
Suddenly there was a terrific noise and Allison was thrown violently to the floor. He scrambled giddily to his feet and found the entire interior of the cab in flames, with flames spreading to the coal in the tender. The driver had been knocked off into the grass along the tracks by the violence of the explosion and Allison scrambled onto the running plate and along to the back of the tender, beating out the flames on his clothing with one hand and hanging desperately to the rail with the other.
He reached the couplings between the tender and the first car and set himself to undoing them. His hands fumbled on the iron and he realized of a sudden that they were badly burned and would not do what he wanted them to. The coal tender was now a blazing inferno. Sparks were flying out and landing on the ammunition cars behind. Allison worked feverishly but he could feel himself growing weaker and still the couplings would not come apart! The roar of the flames filled his ears, almost drowning out the noise of the engine. A grayness filled his eyes and he could not see the couplings clearly.
But there, it was done and the buffers parted. The chain snagged for an instant, then came free and the engine surged forward, free from its heavy load. Allison sank forward, unconscious, and tumbled onto the tracks, while the train cars, borne on by their impetus, rattled by just above him.

Kearns and the fireman stared in consternation at the retreating engine.
“Lucky it came free or we’d’ve been blown to chops,” said the fireman. “Wonder wot set the coal afire like that.”
“What about Allison and your pal?” asked Kearns. “They must be frying!”
“There’s Tom back there, I don’t know where the other chap went. ‘ope ‘e made it out of the hengine.”
The two jumped down from the cars which were slowing down and ran back towards the driver who was approaching slowly, rubbing his side.
“’e took moi engine and run away with it, the blighter,” he informed Kearns and the fireman.
“Ho! There ‘e is!” cried the fireman, pointing to a still form on the tracks. Kearns turned and raced towards it. The other men followed him.
“Allison,” said Kearns, “You all right?
“He’s out cold,” he informed the other two. “Where’s the nearest hospital?”
* * * *
The major paced up and down the floor of his office. He had just received a most distressing call from headquarters and the diminutive Frenchman sitting in his office had recently arrived to confirm it.
“You say it was sabotage?” the major asked.
“Undoubtedly.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in!”
Hayes, in captain’s uniform, entered.
“I only wanted to say, sir, I think the rain may be too heavy for ‘C’ flight to go up.”
“’C’ flight?” said the major. “Just how many men do you have to take up?”
“Well, sir, there’s Clark, and you were going to send up Morgan and Garrett a second time today to fill up the gaps left by Kearns and Randolph. But now that we’re missing Renhard and Allison as well that only makes four.”
“Yes,” said the major, “I’ve written twice to HQ for a replacement for Randolph—not that he could ever be replaced, but…”
He sighed and strode to the window.
“Yes, it does look rather bad. Keep your men on the ground for now. I can’t afford to lose any more. The advance will have to go on without us. Not that there will be any Germans in the air today anyway—they’ve no gasoline for their ‘planes. Well, that’s all, captain: dismissed.”
Hayes left and the major sat down at his desk.
“So you’ve proof against Renhard?” he asked the Frenchman.
“Yes, I’ve been tracing him ever since the first incident here. I’ve learned that he is German-American, though I’ve been unable to discover anything else of his background. He isn’t the first one I’ve caught, either. New York City is a hotbed of them—most of them with orders direct from Von Rintelin.”
“Accomplices! Accomplices!”
“Unfortunately, yes. What do you expect of a country consisting mainly of immigrants? Though I mean no slight to your nationality, of course. But back to the prisoner. I hope you have secured him well?”
“Yes, I had my men tie him up and lock him in the janitorial closet.”
“Good. A force will arrive this evening to convey him to prison.”
CRASH!!
“Sounds like quite a storm,” said the major. “I hope that force of yours will be able to get here.”

In the janitorial closet Renhard was also watching the storm. Getting captured did not trouble him as much as one would have expected it would. He would have said it was an “Occupational Hazard”. Renhard was perfectly equal to the situation and sat gazing reflectively through the little closet window as the storm clouds rolled past.
Strangely enough, the other men felt rather sorry for Renhard. Oh, yes, he’d had a sticky end in store for Kearns and they all agreed that he deserved the firing squad, but he’d been a brick all the rest of the time he’d been with Squadron 11, and he’d shown downright spleen when Woodward and Garrett were tying him up, so that certain individuals were moved to secrete chocolate bars under the closet door as expressions of their condolences.
“That’s done it,” muttered Renhard, pulling his right hand free from his bonds. “Now for the feet. Thought they could tie up me, a professional spy. They must be daft!”
He stood, stretched, and lighted a cigarette while taking stock of his surroundings. The window was too small to admit a man of Renhard’s build, but there was no point in going through the window anyhow, as his togs and flying helmet were inside the barracks. He searched among the mops and brooms until he found a safety pin. With this he proceeded to unlock the door. Hayes and Morgan were in the room beyond, but the lamp was low and if he couldn’t get past them it meant he was getting awfully rusty.

“What a storm!” shouted Ross to his friend Perkins as the two crossed the barracks yard towards the nearest hangar.
The wind was now raging and drowned out all sound of the barrage going on over the trenches to the East. The heavens seemed engaged in a fearful combat of their own and made the ground battles seem puny in comparison.
“Well, there’s no point in going on,” said Perkins. “We’re not going up today, anyway.”
“Hullo, what’s that?” said Ross.
“What?”
“Listen!”
Above the thunder of the rain they heard the throbbing sound of an engine starting up.
“Who’s crazy enough to go up in this weather?” said Perkins.
Apparently the question was rhetorical, for without waiting for an answer he rushed out to the landing strip with Ross just behind him. A lone SPAD was taxiing down the field towards them, head-on into the gale. The pilot waved.
“It’s Ren—Reinhardt!” shouted Ross. “Don’t let him get away!”
The two raced after the ‘plane as it roared past, but of course it was no use. The wheels had already lifted from the ground and the malefactor was making good his escape. His pursuers stopped near the end of the field to catch their breath and gazed after the pursued. The airplane and its occupant vanished into the storm.

Allison came to slowly to find a medical officer wrapping gauze around his arm.
“Who are you?” asked Allison, startled.
“Feel any pain?” the doctor replied.
Allison groaned in answer.
“Good,” said the doctor. “The feeling’s coming back. You’re not seriously injured, but you were in shock for quite a while.” He clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll do all right, my boy. Your friend is waiting outside to see you. I’ll tell him you’re awake.”
Allison was still too confused to think who could be waiting to see him. “Friend”? There was only one person who had ever been his friend and it couldn’t be him.
Kearns entered.
“Hullo, Allison,” he said, toying nervously with his hat. “Feel all right, don’t you?”
Allison looked away in embarrassment. Here was Kearns being nice to him. He obviously didn’t know what Allison had been going to do to him.
Kearns took a seat on the bed. “I telephoned the major and told him everything,” he said.
“Everything?” asked Allison.
“Yes, all about how you saved the ammunition train, for if it hadn’t’ve been for you it should’ve blown up. The War Office was so pleased with what you’d done they decided not to punish you for fighting. The major didn’t tell them it was I who was to blame about that fight, you see.”
Allison rolled his head from side to side on his pillow in misery of conscience.
“I’ll tell the doctor to give you some more morphine,” said Kearns anxiously.
“No, I’m all right. Did they know what caused the explosion?”
“No, they’re still trying to find out. They seemed to think a boiler burst. What do you think it was?”
Kearns asked this because he knew Allison used to work for the railroad and not because he held any suspicion of the truth. Allison saw this clearly enough and could not bring his eyes to meet Kearns’s. He turned his face to the wall.
“It was a firebomb,” he said quietly. “—I knew it was there. I was trying to kill you.”
“Kill me?” said Kearns. “Then why—”
“Never mind about details,” Allison went on hurriedly, for he did not like to implicate Renhard even yet. “Suffice it to say that I knew it was there and I didn’t tell anyone. I changed my mind and that’s why I tried to save the train.”
Kearns was unnaturally silent for several moments. “It was in my rucksack, wasn’t it?” he asked presently. Allison turned to look at him and saw the comprehension of the case stealing over his friend’s open countenance. “Something about the cigars, wasn’t it? I thought the box felt oddly. Then Renhard—” he stopped and looked at Allison. “The major said Renhard had escaped. I didn’t know what he meant. So he went off and left you to take the blame?”
“I was more to blame than he was. I hated you.”
“All the same, you changed your mind, and I’m grateful. Count on it, I won’t ever tell anyone on you, Allison.”
“Doesn’t matter; I’m going to confess,” said Allison doggedly. “I’m not afraid to take punishment.”
Kearns looked at him with growing respect. “What was it that made you change your mind?” he asked. “Was it Randolph?”
Allison was silent so long that Kearns almost forgot what it was he’d asked him. At last he shook his head with a smile and said, “no, it wasn’t entirely Randolph, though I wouldn’t have done it if it hadn’t have been for him. You see, I was almost ready to kill myself with remorse over how rotten I’d been to him, and I probably would have too, but…well, I remembered some things he’d said—I can’t tell you the whole story, but the fact is, I was helped by Someone Else. I think you know Who I mean.”
Kearns thought he did.

There are just two more pieces of information important to our story. The first is that Allison did not go to the firing squad. He was quite ready to confess his guilt, as he’d said, but he was never called upon to do so. The War Office seemed quite content with laying the full blame on Reinhardt the spy and leaving it at that. It was impossible that suspicion should not fall on Allison, but the case was never looked into. This may have been due to his heroism in saving the ammunition train, which, if they couldn’t exactly give him a medal for, they could at least overlook the fact that he ought not to have been on that train in the first place. So it was that Allison returned to his squadron when his wounds had healed and stayed there until the Armistice was signed.
The second piece of information pertained to Berthold Reinhardt. He and his stolen SPAD were last sighted flying over no-man’s-land towards the Bavarian sector near Ypres. What became of him subsequently is the subject of another story.

FIN

Monday, March 22, 2010

Le Saboteur: IX.

Chapter IX.

Le Noir et le Blanc



“Gone? Gone where?”
“Gone West, that’s where. He was shot down during escort duty this afternoon.”
There was silence for a minute.
“But perhaps he made it down all right,” said Allison. “It happens lots of times, you know.”
“No,” said Hayes.
“Why not?”
Hayes made an impatient gesture.
“His ‘plane was on fire. I saw it burning as it went down.”
Allison looked at Woodward. Woodward looked away.
The door banged as Allison hurried outside. Out on the landing field the mechanics were going over the ‘planes just come in. There were four SPADs from “C” flight and one, Ross’s, from “A”. Randolph’s was gone.
Allison stared for a minute and then quickly turned and strode away from there. Crossing the yard, he met up with Perkins. Perkins looked embarrassed. “Did you hear the news, Allison?” he asked.
“Yes, I heard it.”
“Sorry for you.”
“For me?”
“Well—he was your friend.”
Perkins never knew why Allison looked at him so strangely nor why he turned and walked away without a word.
Allison entered a deserted hangar and sat down on the wing of a ‘plane. A mechanic was working at something outside. Another joined him and Allison heard their conversation through the thin board wall.
“’lo, Dobson.”
“Hello, yourself. What are you looking for?”
“Alan wrench. Did you hear the captain got his number called?”
“No, which?”
“Captain Randolph.”
A whistle. “Sorry I am to hear it; he was a good chap. One of the best.”
“That he was. Well, there’s one comfort—he made it to heaven if ever anybody did.”
“I’d say!”


Allison shook his head and tried to ignore the voices. Funny that he should be so cut up, he thought. He’d avoided Randolph for the past few days and suddenly he didn’t know what to do without him. Well, what of it? Men died all the time. They’d lost half a dozen men since Allison had first come to 11 squadron, and it hadn’t bothered him much. Randolph had just been unlucky, that’s all. Anyway, everybody dies sooner or later.
No, Randolph wasn’t so unlucky. After all, he was in heaven, wasn’t he? If there were such a place as heaven Randolph had surely gotten there. "Allison, you should be glad." But he wasn’t. Suddenly—too late—a hundred questions arose that he longed desperately to ask him.
In an instant there flashed to Allison’s mind the remembrance of Randolph as he stood in the road looking after Allison as he’d driven away that morning. What was it about the picture that made Allison abruptly bury his face in his palms and clench his hair between his fingers?
He got up at last and left the hangar. He walked aimlessly, not caring particularly where he went. His steps led him by force of habit to the barracks and up the stairs to the sleeping-quarters. Randolph’s bed was the one at the far end of the room under the window and the dim afternoon light shone down on it. Woodward had packed all Randolph’s personal effects in his rucksack to send home to the family as the last service he could do his friend.
Allison opened his wallet and took out the photograph he had picked up in town. The mother who had written that letter would like it, he thought. He took Randolph’s logbook from where it lay at the top of his rucksack and opened it to put the picture inside. There on the flyleaf was printed in Randolph’s neat handwriting, THE JUST SHALL LIVE BY FAITH.
* * *
There was a sharp rap on the door and Farnsworth put his head in.
“We go up in fifteen minutes, Allison,” he said. “See that you’re ready.”
Slowly Allison put on his flying togs and laced his boots, still struggling over the thoughts in his mind. The verses he had paid no attention to that Sunday he had knocked his chair over came back very clearly for some reason and went round and round in his head.
“For I am not ashamed of the gospel of Christ…bootlace is torn again. Ought to have bought new ones today in town. Can’t hardly even tie a knot, my hand’s so stiff. The joke’s on me if I can’t fire my guns….the power of God unto salvation to every one that believeth…would it have made any difference if I’d gone on that flight? Of course not; don’t even think about that. What could I have done, anyway?…therein is the righteousness of God revealed from faith to faith…There’s the boots. Now for my flight helmet…THE JUST SHALL LIVE BY FAITH…Dash it all! Why can’t I get that out of my head? What does it mean? And what’s the use, anyhow?
The last of the sun was tipping the horizon as the evening patrol set out. There were two battles waged on that flight. One of them nobody but Allison ever knew about—a battle between good and evil which had him by both sides of his soul just as Randolph and Renhard had once had him by both sides of his collar.

Kearns was packing up his rucksack the next morning and whistling “Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag”.
“Going somewhere, Kearns?” asked Ross, entering the barrack-bedroom.
“To visit my brother in hospital.”
“Oh, that’s right; you told me that before, didn’t you? Well, I’d like several days out of here. It seems like ages since my last leave.”
“I’m sorry you’re not coming too,” said Kearns, trying to cheer him up. If he had known a thing or two, he would not have been so sorry.
“How soon do you have to leave?” asked Hayes, who was wondering how he would get along without his best friend for several days.
“In ten minutes. Hadley’s going to take me to the station. Anything you want while I’m in town?”
“I’ve a letter you can mail,” said Hayes, “and I think Allison may be out of cigarettes. At any rate I haven’t seen him smoking lately.”
“That explains why he’s so sulky,” said Ross, looking around to see that Allison wasn’t nearby to overhear. “I’ve never seen such an ill-tempered fellow!”
“He feels badly about the captain, I think,” said Hayes. “I would never have thought he cared so much for him.”
“Does he really?” asked Kearns. “He didn’t seem like that sort of chap.”
And Allison was elevated in the men’s opinions forthwith.
“Hullo, Finny,” said Renhard cheerily, coming in just then. “I brought a present for your brother Michael.”
“A box of cigars! That’s kind of you, Renhard; Michael will be indebted to you, but how did you know he smoked?”
Allison was walking past the door just then in a brown study. He glanced up sharply as he heard the last part of this conversation.
“Renhard always knows everything,” remarked Ross wisely.
He was interrupted by a whistle in the distance.
“That’s the train,” said Hayes. “It must be early. You’ll have to hurry if you want to make it in time.”
Kearns snatched up his rucksack and dashed out. Hadley was waiting in the barrack yard with the squadron motorcycle. Kearns climbed into the sidecar and made himself comfortable.
Just then Allison came up.
“I’ll drive him,” he said.
Hadley relinquished the motorcycle without protest. Kearns, however, wondered at Allison’s sudden friendliness. They drove along for a time keeping their own counsel, for the engine was too loud to talk over.
“It was good of you to drive me over, Allison,” said Kearns when they were obliged to stop at a crossroads to let a truck convoy pass.
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Allison.
Silence.
“By the way, Allison, I’m sorry about the black eye I gave you the other day.”
“Never mind that.”
“And I’m sorry about the soda-water too.”
“Forget about it. Mind if I have a cigar?”
“Cigar? Of course, if you want one.”
Kearns dug up his rucksack and began rummaging.
“Funny,” he said, “they got down to the bottom somehow. Go ahead,” he said, as the last truck passed. “I’ll look while you drive.”
Allison reluctantly started off again. The road to the decrepit station had never seemed so short before. Before Kearns, hampered by the bumpy road, could locate the cigar box among his uniforms and socks they had reached the station platform and the train was pulling out.
“No time, terribly sorry!” shouted Kearns as he dashed forward and swung himself onto the engine. Allison was left, watching the train cars rolling past.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Lusitania: III.

Chapter III.
Sunk!!!


The days passed quickly and the end of the voyage drew near. Avis wondered how she would ever say goodbye to Professor Holbourn; the two of them had become fast friends, although he was a grown man and she only a little girl; but that was Avis’s way. She rarely ever made friends of children her own age. The two of them roved all over the ship, but their favourite place was up on the boat deck. Here there were not quite so many people and they might talk uninterrupted about all sorts of things—from the War to motion pictures. There seemed no end to the things the professor knew and could talk about.
“You ought to write a book,” said Avis. “Not just a storybook—a real book for grownups.”
“I’m writing one now,” he said. “I’ve been working on it in my spare time while travelling in America.”
“Have you really? A real book?” asked Avis with interest. “But perhaps you would rather be working on it now. I’m sorry if I’ve kept you away from it.”
“Oh no,” said the professor with a smile. “I’m taking a holiday from it right now.”
“What is it about?” asked Avis.
“Oh, archaeology—dull things, you know.”
“Oh, that is dull. But grownups ought to like it. They like those sorts of things.” Avis took up a newspaper someone had left on a deck chair. “There’s a picture of the president, again. Oh, it’s an American newspaper, that’s why,” she said with evident scorn in her voice. “I suppose he is going to send another note to Germany to keep America out of the war.”
Professor Holbourn held out his hand for the paper and she gave it to him. “ ‘May 1st’,” he read, looking it over. “You can’t blame him too much, you know,” he said, his natural generosity extending even to the recumbent Americans. “America is a large country to plunge into war. It’s his duty to be cautious. It looks as if relations between America and Germany are getting bad anyway.”
“Why?” asked Avis.
“Germany doesn’t like them selling arms to the Allies.”
“I don’t see that it matters who they sell them to, so long as we pay for them.”
“Neither do I, and anyway, Germany sold arms to the Boers in the last war.” He handed her back the newspaper, which she took and looked at in a way that showed she was not really seeing it.
“My father fought in the Boer War,” she said.
“Tell me about your father, Avis,” said the professor.
Avis hesitated. She had never spoken about her father to anybody since he’d died and she was not certain she could do it without making a baby of herself. She drew a deep breath.
“He died a year ago,” she said. “Mother had to keep a nursing home to make ends meet, but she is so busy with it now that she hasn’t any spare time, and that is why I have to go to boarding school. I don’t mind so much really, besides missing Mama. I’ve never gotten used to not having Papa there.”
“No,” said the professor. “I suppose that would be hard.”
“I have a picture of him,” said Avis slowly. “Would you like to see it?”
Of course he did, so she took a little frame from her pocket—it was the kind that springs open when you press a button on the side—and opened it to show a little photograph of a man with a kind face and merry eyes.
“He used to call me his little bird,” explained Avis. “That’s because I used to sing for him, and because Avis means ‘bird’, you know.”
“Do you like to sing?”
“I used to. I hardly ever sing now.”
Professor Holbourn fell silent and gazed out over the railing at the sparkling water. Avis thought he felt sorry for her, which was a nice thing and a rather embarrassing thing at the same time—she didn’t like to feel like a little child. But he said no more on the subject and Avis could not tell after all what he thought about it.
The next morning she was awakened early by a banging sound on the boat deck. She jumped out of bed, thinking about submarines, and ran up the stairs and out onto the deck. There she saw sailors moving the davits from which the lifeboats were suspended so that the boats might be lowered quickly in case of an emergency. The captain had decided to take this precaution, as they were nearing the war zone.
“Does that mean we may be sunk?” Avis asked one of the sailors.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “This ship is too fast to be hit by a submarine.”
That was what everyone was saying. But the very fact that they were saying it made it seem as if it were a real possibility.
That evening was the traditional passenger talent concert which was used to raise money for seamen’s charities. Some people sang; some told jokes; some did magic tricks. The famous Welsh singers performed to everyone’s enjoyment.
At the intermission the captain got up to remark as he always did. He told the passengers that they were now in the danger zone, so to keep their portholes covered and for the gentlemen not to smoke on deck. That was so the ship could not be spotted by submarines.
After that everyone was on edge and the evening wasn’t so pleasant anymore. Avis and the professor went out onto the promenade deck and walked slowly up and down it in the cool night air as the music from the band played softly.
“Do you really think we’ll be sunk?” asked Avis.
“Probably not,” said the professor. “It would be very wicked of the Germans to kill so many innocent people because they’re angry with our country.” But Avis could see that he was worried.
“Avis,” he said, after they had walked the deck in silence for several minutes, “Why is your mother sending you to England?”
“I’m going to go to school there,” said Avis.
“I know, but why not send you to a school in Canada, closer to your family?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you have relatives in England?”
“Yes, my grandmother and grandfather, but I haven’t seen them since we left for Canada.”
Professor Holbourn was silent again. He stopped and leaned over the rail, gazing out over the dark water. Avis stood beside him.
“Supposing we should be sunk,” she said.
Professor Holbourn looked at her. “I’ll look after you if we do,” he said. “Don’t worry.”
Before she went to bed, Avis made sure her lifebelt was in its usual place above her bunk.

The next morning a dense mist rolled in. The Lusitania’s foghorn blared out every so often and she was obliged to go slowly lest she should run into another ship. Avis found Leslie Morton busy about his sailor’s duties on the boat deck.
“Well, we didn’t sink yet,” she said cheerfully.
“Not yet,” he said with a grin.
“Did they even see any submarines?”
“If they did they didn’t tell me. Don’t worry. I’m on lookout duty this afternoon, so if I see any I’ll tell you.”
Avis skipped away to find the professor.
Around noon the fog lifted and the Irish coast could be seen off to port. It made Avis feel safer to have land in sight, but at the same time it reminded her that the lovely voyage would soon be over.

Several kilometres away, a submarine sat idly on the ocean’s placid surface. The captain was looking through his binoculars at a shape gradually gaining definition as it came over the horizon—the shape of a Cunarder. A pack of grease-soaked and five-o’clock-shadowed seamen stood about, waiting expectantly for orders.
In a moment the order to dive was given and the men rushed down the iron ladder into the coffin-like space below. The hatch was pulled to and fastened and the diving bell rung. With a hiss, the U-20 submerged itself beneath the water and pursued her course unseen by her unsuspecting victim.
The captain, with his face glued to the periscope, gave orders to his pilot.
“Forward at nine knots.”
“Forward at nine knots,” came the reply.
“Two points to starboard.”
“Two points to starboard.”
“Up one degree.”
“Up one degree,” again came the answer.
Through the periscope the captain saw the ship change course.
“Teufel!” he cried. He could never catch her now. Then, changing course once more, the liner turned, presenting a beautiful shot.
“Ha ha! We’ll do them yet! Prepare torpedo.”
“Don’t you mean to give them warning, Kapitän?”
“Do as I say!”
A young Alsatian electrician glanced up in amazement. “A passenger liner—Kapitän, you cannot mean it!”
“Shut up!” said the captain. “Range, 700 metres.”
“There are women and children on board, you must not sink it without giving them a chance!”
“Shut up, I say!” cried the captain. “I know what I’m doing! You’re nothing but a scurvy Frenchman* who will be drummed out of the service directly we make port.”
“I will not be party to this!”
“Very well. I’m arresting you on a charge of insubordination. Lock him up!” Then he turned again to the work at hand. “Range, 660 metres.”
“Range, 660 metres,” came the reply.
“Fire!!”

Avis was in the second-class dining room finishing her dinner. Suddenly, over the noise of multiple conversations, she heard a shout. The passengers fell silent and listened.
“TORPEDO TO STARBOARD!” It was Leslie Morton’s voice, Avis was sure of it.
The next instant a horrible feeling struck her in the pit of her stomach and a roaring filled her ears. Everyone sat stunned for a second, then with one accord they started up and rushed in a confused jumble for the stairs. Avis was left alone amid a wreckage of broken china and scattered food.
The ship had been hit! A horrible terror possessed Avis. Surely it could not be real: surely it was all a mistake. She must get out.
The thought filled her mind with terrible insistence, yet Avis shrank from the idea of going out on that deck among all those terrified people. And she was all alone.
Suddenly through the doorway a man appeared. He was dishevelled, pale, anxious, but he was the professor.
“Avis!” he said, “Come quickly!” He took her hand and led her down several corridors to his stateroom. There were three lifebelts stowed above the bunks and he took one and put it on Avis.
“Wait here,” he said, and was gone.
Avis stood still in the middle of the room, not wanting to move or think. She wanted to wake up and find everything all right. The door was open and she stared into the narrow corridor. It seemed narrower and darker than it had before. Avis looked at the floor. It seemed to be moving. It was—it was slowly tilting toward the starboard side of the ship. Avis again felt the insistent impression that she must get out onto the open deck. She thought of the boat deck, high and safe, with nothing between it and the bright sky; it seemed a wonderful place—a safe place. But Professor Holbourn had told her to wait where she was. Maybe he had forgotten about her.
Suddenly the lights went out. Avis almost screamed. She glanced wildly around the apartment and hurrying to the porthole, snatched the cloth off that covered it. There was some light in the room then, if only a little.
If only she knew what to do! Should she try to get out, or should she wait for Professor Holbourn? She sat down on the bed and pressed her hands to her face, trying to think. At once the thought came to her: she might pray!
Avis had always been taught to pray. More than that, she had been taught to think of the Lord Jesus as a friend who would always be with her wherever she went. She fell to her knees beside the bunk and prayed simply that God would protect her and the rest of the people on the ship if it were His will.
Afterwards a peace came stealing into her heart and she was no longer afraid of being alone. The sound of steps coming down the dark passage reached her and in a moment the professor appeared with the two girls, Sarah and Hilda. He found a lifebelt for Hilda and tried to put the last one on Sarah, but she protested. “No, no,” she said, for he did not have a lifebelt himself. “You have a wife and children.”
“If I can get you to a boat I’ll take the lifebelt,” he said. To this she agreed.
They went out on the deck, where everything was confusion. First they made for the lifeboats on the port side, scrambling up the deck, which was tilted dreadfully. The list of the ship was so bad that the boats swung back over the sides and could not be lowered.
Prof. Holbourn saw that nothing was to be done here, so he led them to the other side. Here there was such a crowd around the lifeboats that they could not get near. Prof. Holbourn pushed his way through the frantic people, dragging the girls along behind him until they were beside a nearly full boat. The ship was listing over so much that the lifeboat hung from the davits more that five feet from the rail. Avis looked down at the water sixty feet below and knew she was too frightened to ever jump that far.
But she did not need to. Prof. Holbourn helped the two girls in and then picked Avis up, big girl that she was, kissed her, and swung her into the boat.
“Kiss my wife and children for me when you get to Britain,” he said.
Then the boat was slowly let down. Avis watched the professor working the davits with the crewmembers. He glanced once at her as the boat touched the water but the crowds closed around him and Avis saw him no more. The men in the boat fitted the oars into the oarlocks and did their best to pull away from the ship. Avis watched the dark water eddying around the ship’s iron sides and suck at their little lifeboat as if it would pull it down too.Suddenly the lifeboat lurched. Avis caught onto the side, while the others in the boat began to cry out. The boat swayed back and forth; it seemed to be caught on something; Avis watched in horror as the water crept slowly up the side. The boat was turning over!

*The French province of Alsace, together with Loraine, was ceded to Germany after the Franco-Prussian War. Although the inhabitants thereby became German citizens, their loyalties were often divided.

Friday, February 26, 2010

Lusitania: II.

Chapter II.
A Fellow Passenger

Avis awoke sometime in the night with a pain in her stomach. She rolled over and over, trying to find a comfortable place, but it was no use. By the morning she was downright ill.
“Come along; time to get up,” called Hilda cheerfully. “It’s time to go to breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry,” said Avis. “I feel ill.”
“You do look rather peaky,” said Hilda looking at her white face. “I suppose you’re seasick.”
“I wasn’t seasick yesterday,” protested Avis.
“The sea wasn’t so high yesterday. Don’t worry; you’ll soon get over it. Why don’t you go up on deck? The breeze will freshen you up.”
“All right.”
Avis clambered slowly out of bed and made her way out of her cabin and up the three flights of stairs to the shelter deck. By the time she reached it she was so weak she could do no more than collapse into a deck chair. The fresh sea breeze heartened her up a good bit, but the swinging skyline made her fearfully dizzy.
Suddenly she had a queer feeling that someone was looking at her. She opened her eyes and saw a man standing opposite her, watching her in a thoughtful manner. Avis was generally frightened of strangers, but this man looked kind, and there was something about him that was different from ordinary people. Perhaps it was the contemplative expression in his eyes. Avis smiled shyly and sudden as the beam flashing from a lighthouse he smiled back and his eyes lost their faraway look. Avis thought he had a nice smile.
“Are you ill?” he asked politely in a slight Scot’s accent.
“Yes—seasick,” said Avis. “I’m afraid I’m not a very good sailor.”
“The best way to cure seasickness is to take your mind off of it. Why don’t you try walking up and down the deck a bit?”
“With you?” asked Avis as he stepped towards her.
“If you don’t mind my company.”
“Oh, no, of course not. I should like to very much.” Avis got unsteadily to her feet.
“Come along,” said the man kindly, offering her his hand, and although Avis thought she had outgrown such a babyish thing as holding grownups’ hands, she took it for her legs still felt dreadfully shaky.
“I’m afraid I haven’t introduced myself,” said the man. “My name is Professor Holbourn.”
“I’m Avis Dolphin.”
“How do you do?”
“Quite well, except I still feel rather funny,” said Avis.
“Do you like ships?” he asked next.
“Yes, only they make me seasick. Do you?”
“Yes I do, very much. I’ve a yacht of my own.”
“Do you? Like Mr. Vanderbilt, the millionaire?”
“Yes, only I’m not a millionaire. I live on an island, you see.”
“I should like to live on an island,” said Avis. “What is it like?”
“Well, it’s mostly all sea and sky, with a bit of sand and heather in between.”
“Did that come from a book?” asked Avis.
“Perhaps; I don’t remember.”
“Is it very pretty? The island, I mean.”
“Oh yes—the prettiest place in the world.”
“Where is it?”
“Up near the northern part of Scotland. My family has lived there for hundreds of years.”
“Is it a big island?”
“Oh no, not big at all. It’s quite small actually—only a few miles long and a little over a mile across.”
They had reached the front of the ship now. “Would you like to see the bow cutting through the water?” asked the professor. “But I daresay you’ve seen it before.”
“No I haven’t,” said Avis. “I haven’t seen very much of the ship at all yet. I wanted to, but it’s so big and there are so many people that I was afraid I should get lost.”
“I’ll show you over it, if you like,” said Professor Holbourn. “It’s a wonderful ship.”
“Oh, I should like that!” exclaimed Avis. “Do you know,” she said in surprise, “I don’t feel sick anymore!”
That was a wonderful day. Professor Holbourn and Avis rambled all over the ship, from the bow where the ship’s name might have been seen in gilt on the side, except that it had been painted over, to the stern where the great screws churned the water like antediluvian monsters, and from the bridge where the captain stood, resplendent in navy blue and brass buttons, to the engine room where the mechanics sweated away in grease and smoke. Avis saw the first class staterooms where the actresses and millionaires—like Alfred Vanderbilt—were quartered and the third class staterooms where the immigrants travelled.
As they were walking along the boat deck that afternoon they saw some sailors ahead performing a lifeboat drill. At the boatswain’s whistle they would tumble into a lifeboat and take their positions at the oars. Then at a second whistle they would all tumble out again. Avis thought it looked rather silly.
“I don’t think they’ll be much use if we ever do sink,” she said.
Prof. Holbourn didn’t think so either.
“Wait here,” he said. “I’m going to speak to the captain.”
Avis sat down in a deck chair and looked around. She saw the young sailor she had seen the day before painting the bottom of a lifeboat with grey paint.
“Hello,” she said, for she had lost much of her shyness.
“Hullo, it’s you again,” said the sailor affably. “Did you hear about the stowaways?”
“No,” said Avis excitedly, “what stowaways?”
“Three German fellows they caught hidden in a closet. Spies, most likely.”
“What were they spying on?”
“The ammunition in the hold I’ll wager. Don’t speak a word of English either, so they can’t be questioned. Highly suspicious, if you ask me.”
“What are they going to do with them?”
“Locked ‘em up in the ship’s prison. We’ll hand them over to the law when we get to Liverpool.”
“Perhaps they were going to try to sink the ship,” suggested Avis.
“Well, I don’t know,” said the sailor. “It’d be some piece of work to sink this ship, I’d say, though I wouldn’t put it past them. You never can tell what those Germans will do.”
“What’s your name, please?” asked Avis. Besides Professor Holbourn, the sailor was the only person who had been kind to Avis and she liked to think of him as her friend.
“Morton. Leslie Morton. What’s yours?”
“Mine? Oh, it’s only Avis.”
As she watched him work two little girls ran up. In fact they were the same two girls who had been rude to Avis the day before.
“What are you doing?” the older girl asked.
“You’ve eyes,” the sailor replied. “I’m painting the bottom of this boat.”
“Can I help?”
That’d be a sight, all right. I guess you can’t.”
But the little girl was not used to being told No. With a sudden movement she snatched the rag he was painting with and began daubing the side of the boat. By the time he’d gotten it away from her she was grey all down her front.
“Now see what you’ve done, you young mischief,” he said. “Look like a dead crab, you do. What’ll your mother say, do you think?”
Avis saw the children’s nurse come hurrying up and hoped they’d get a spanking.
“Oh! Naughty, naughty girl!” cried the nurse. “How could you do such a thing? Look at your beautiful dress! What will your mother say? Bad, bad sailor man to let you do it!”
But the one for whom this last reproach was intended had slipped under the rail and down onto the deck below. He knew when he wasn’t wanted.
Avis saw Professor Holbourn coming down the deck and hurried to tell him about the stowaways. He seemed preoccupied, however. The captain had not listened to him when he had asked to have a lifeboat drill and he was worried.
The days passed and the weather cleared up as Leslie Morton had predicted. Sarah and Hilda were having such a good time that Avis scarcely saw them at all. She spent most of her time with Professor Holbourn who was very good-humoured and never seemed to mind her tagging after him. Avis rather thought he liked it, for he seemed lonely sometimes.
He was a splendid storyteller and told Avis tales of faeries and bogles that inhabited his island. There are no faeries in the world so delightful as those found in the British Isles, and nobody understands faeries so well as the Gaels. Avis was delighted.
“I like your stories,” she said. “The stories people write for girls nowadays are so dull.”
“Perhaps someday I’ll write them out for you in a book,” said Prof. Holbourn.
“Oh, I should like that,” said Avis. “Then you’d be famous and rich and you wouldn’t have to go to America on lecture tours anymore.”
Professor Holbourn laughed, but then grew thoughtful.
“I suppose I shan’t recognise my little boys when I get back. It’s been over a year since I last saw them.”
“Do you miss your family a great deal when you’re away from them?” asked Avis.
“Yes, I do. A great deal,” said Professor Holbourn.
He looked suddenly at Avis.
“You’re travelling all by yourself, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Avis. “Mother couldn’t come. She’s too busy.”
“And your father?”
“My father is in heaven.”
Professor Holbourn said nothing and Avis glanced at him to see if he’d heard. He was looking at the deck and his brows were knit in deep thought.

Friday, February 19, 2010

Le Saboteur: VIII.

Chapter VIII.
Le Cigar Mysterieuse

“How long did you say it was going to take?” asked Allison the next day as Renhard brought out the little phials of acid from his rucksack.
“Twenty minutes at least. I’ll go as quickly as I can. If anyone comes all you have to do is give me the signal—whistle ‘Roses in Picardy’—and delay ‘em a bit so I have time to get things out of sight.”
“How do I delay them?”
“That’s the part you have to figure out. I suggest you start thinking of things to talk about while you’re waiting.”
“Oh, all right. But I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Renhard pushed him into the hall and closed the door. Allison pulled a piece of wood from his pocket and began to whittle. Ten minutes passed. Allison began to relax. This isn’t going to be so hard after all, he thought.
“Hullo, Allison, what are you working at?” said a voice behind him.
“Oh! Hello, Randolph. Nothing much; just whittling.”
Allison started whistling “Roses in Picardy”.
“How’s your hand?”
“All right.”
Randolph put his hand on the knob of the door.
“It’s mending fast,” added Allison. “Just a bit stiff. I think I can work a machine gun with it.”
“Good! How does it look?”
“Still pretty bad, but it doesn’t hurt much.”
Randolph turned again to the door. Allison cleared his throat desperately.
“I suppose you want me to thank you for saving my life and all that the other day,” he said.
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Randolph. He hesitated. “I didn’t do much, really—there were two of us. You saw, didn’t you?”
“It was Kearns, wasn’t it?” asked Allison.
“Yes, it was.”
“He never said anything about it.”
“Of course not. He’s not that sort of a chap—you know that. He doesn’t want you to feel obligated.”
“Well if it makes him happy I don’t feel obligated. It’s just what any one of the men would have done.”
Randolph did not think that very many of them would have done it for someone who had treated them so badly as Allison had treated Kearns, but he kept this thought to himself. “You ought to make things up with him, you know, Allison,” he said.
“Why?”
“You know the major will have to transfer one of you, and it’s seems a pity, since that sort of thing has never happened at 11 squadron before.”
“There’s always a first time.”
“There wouldn’t have to be if you two could work things out.”
“Fine chance of that!”
“Look, Allison, you don’t have to apologize, exactly—just smooth things over a bit.”
“Why doesn’t he do it?”
“Well, you started it, you know.”
“Well, I don’t care if I do get sent away. I prefer that to staying here with him.”
“Then you’re quite determined not to ‘bury the hatchet’?”
Allison said nothing and whittled viciously.
“Look here,” said Randolph, dropping his voice slightly, “I know how you feel about Kearns, but won’t you do it anyway? For a friend?”
“Humph. What friend?”
“Why, me, of course.”
You?
“Yes.” Randolph looked down. “Well, I thought I was your friend.”
“If you are it’s a one-sided friendship; I never did anything for you.”
“No, but we’re comrades, you know. I always considered you my friend.”
“Why?”
Allison surprised himself by asking the question, but he waited, wondering what Randolph would say. The fellow had always mystified him.
“Why? Well—” To his surprise, Randolph could not think of a single reason he should consider Allison his friend. “Well, I do,” he said truthfully. “Don’t tell me you don’t have any friends yourself—surely you must.”
“Well, I don’t. Anybody who’d have friends in a war like this is crazy.”
“Can’t help it, I suppose,” said Randolph, thinking of his own position. “You’re right, it is rather crazy. It’s a crazy war.” He was silent for a minute.
“I don’t see that my getting sent away makes any difference anyway,” said Allison.
“Yes it does. I’d hate to see you go.”
“Oh? You would? Well, I’m…sorry.”
“Then you won’t do it? Make it up with Kearns, I mean?”
Just exactly what he was going to do presented itself to Allison’s imagination at that moment and his conscience gave him a vicious twinge.
“Ah, go to—____”
He actually did say it, and Randolph, although he did not go there, walked sadly away, his errand forgotten.
Renhard opened the door.
“Nobody about? Good. Come in here. I’ve got it all finished. Have a look.”
Allison looked. The bomb appeared to be an ordinary cigar. It was wrapped in a thin outer layer of tobacco and had a brand label around the center like a genuine Havana.
“Looks good enough to smoke, eh?”
“It’s heavy,” remarked Allison.
“That won’t be noticed if it’s in a box with a lot of others. All the hard part’s done now, which I’m sure will be good news to you.”
“So now we can relax?”
“Certainly not. Not until it’s on the train, but we’ve only tomorrow and half of the next day to get through and then the thing’s done.”
“When do we get out of here?”
“As soon as we safely can. I’ve got the passes forged and everything’s all ready.”
“Good. It won’t be too soon for me.”
“Scared, huh?”
“No, I’m no fraidy cat.”
But he didn’t tell Renhard why he was so anxious to leave the airdrome. He wasn’t entirely sure why himself.

“What’s the job today?” asked Hayes the next morning, coming up behind Farnsworth who was reading the bulletin.
“’C’ flight? Let’s see, ‘escort duty’.”
Allison, overhearing him, groaned.
“Why don’t they send ‘B’ flight?” he asked.
“We haven’t had escort duty for almost a week,” said Clark, the man who had replaced Anderson.
“It’s about time we took a break from balloon-strafing, anyway,” said Hayes.
Despite their efforts to mollify Allison, all of the men shared his dislike of escort duty. The fighter squadrons were required to guard bombing ‘planes as they carried out their missions but as the enemy rarely attacked ‘planes with an escort the job tended to be rather dull.
Allison rubbed his cheek and then had an idea.

“Dentist, eh?” asked the major as Allison stood before his desk later that morning. “Couldn’t you wait until after your mission this afternoon?”
“I don’t think so, sir,” said Allison, pulling a grimace. “It’s been bothering me for several weeks now—just ask the other men.”
“Let me have a look at it,” said the major. “Which one is it?”
“Thish one.”
“It looks all right to me.”
“Oh, it hurts just awful, sir.”
“Well, if that’s the case,” said the major, “I suppose I could send Ross in your place and you could go up with ‘A’ flight this evening for Ross.”
The major was hesitant to make this decision for he disliked switching men to different flights. They worked best when they flew with the men they were used to. However, in the end he wrote out a leave for Allison and gave him the use of the squadron motorcycle.
Allison was elated. Yes, he had to go to the dentist and have his tooth pulled, but after that he might spend some time in town and use up his month’s pay.
He was just climbing onto the motorcycle when Randolph came out of the barracks and hurried towards him.
“I heard you were going into town,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Would you mind picking up that picture that fellow took of us?”
“All right.”
“Thanks. Good luck.”
He shook Allison’s hand. “Oh sorry,” he said, remembering the bandage.
“Never mind; goodbye,” said Allison kicking up the stand and cycling off in a hurry.
He glanced back once and saw Randolph standing there looking after him.

Allison spent several hours in town and returned to the airdrome in high spirits. Everyone was very quiet as he entered the barracks.
“What’s the matter with everybody?” he asked. “Did you have beans again for dinner?”
No one smiled. No one even answered.
“What’s wrong?” asked Allison.
Kearns looked up.
“Randolph’s gone,” he said.

Monday, January 11, 2010

Le Saboteur: VII.

Chapter VII.
Un Sinistre Gredin

“Do you know anything about chemistry?” asked Renhard.
Allison shook his head.
“Then you don’t know what happens when you mix pyric and sulfuric acid?”
“No.”
“They react violently—combust, in fact.
“This,” he said, taking a hollow metal tube from his pocket, “is made of lead, the size of an ordinary cigar. It is separated into two chambers by a thin copper disc. You put the pyric acid in one chamber and the sulfuric in the other and plug up the ends with wax. The acid corrodes the copper until a hole is eaten in it. When the chemicals mix they combust, instantly melting the lead casing. Very neat, eh?”
“A firebomb!” said Allison in admiration.
“Exactly. A time bomb too, for the thickness of the copper disc regulates how long it will take for the bomb to go off. This one will last approximately forty-eight hours.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Blow up the ammunition train that goes through here in four days.”
“And how do you intend to get it aboard?”
“Ah ha!” said Renhard. “That’s where it gets fun. Kearns is due for leave, you know. He’ll get a letter from his brother—forged, actually—saying he’s in hospital and wants Kearns to visit him. So far so good. Kearns will be put on that train as it’s the only one going in that direction.”
“Tapping telephone wires pays off, eh?” asked Allison.
“To continue. Kearns will have with him a box of cigars—you follow me?”
“The only thing I don’t understand is where I come into all of this.”
“I need you to guard the barrack-bedroom door while I put the bomb together.”
“Why do it in the barracks? Why not here in the armory? Nobody ever comes here, so you wouldn’t need a guard.”
“The armory, eh?” asked Renhard. “It’s a firebomb, you know. One slip with those chemicals with all this ammunition about and Pouf!”
“Well, what about the bathroom? You could lock yourself in there without making anybody suspicious.”
“It’s a delicate process—takes at least twenty minutes to get it put together. I don’t want to be shut in the bathroom all that time.”
“Oh, I suppose not,” said Allison.
“You see, I’ve already done all the thinking so you don’t need to do any of your own. All I need for you to do is keep an eye out while I’m about the dirty work.”
“Well, after we blow up the train, then what? Won’t they be after us?”
“Oh, of course, but it will take them a while to trace it back to our squadron. We’ll be long gone by then.”
“Where do we go? Germany?”
“Or Holland or Switzerland or some neutral country.”
“I don’t suppose we’ll ever be safe in America again?”
“No, but who cares? What is there for you in America? Unless you want to go into cattle farming.”
Allison looked up in surprise.
“How did you know about that?” he asked.
“I was listening at the door,” replied Renhard unblushingly.
“Berthold, you snoop!” said Allison.

Conscience is a difficult thing to hide. When it has an ugly mark on it, it will show if you do not take the proper precautions and even these are not always to be relied upon. Every word, every action, every expression of the face, every thought even, must pass through the filter of “will this give me away?”, requiring constant vigilance on the part of the wrongdoer. One slip and all is lost—or seems to the tortured sensibilities to be so. Pity then, Allison’s condition, albeit brought on himself. Renhard as a professional spy had managed to eradicate his conscience almost entirely, however Allison had not reached that level of expertise and found the easiest way to escape detection was to hide himself along with his offending secret away from the other men.
“Oh, there you are, Allison, I’ve been looking all over for you,” said Randolph coming across him in one of the hangars the next morning.
“You have?” asked Allison, startled. “Why?”
“I’ve a letter for you. Thought it might be something important.”
“Oh.” Allison took the letter. “No, it’s just back taxes. I never get letters.”
He put it in his pocket.
“Well, I just wanted to remind you, we’re going out again at two—balloon job.”
“OK, OK,” said Allison.
“Um, Allison,” said Randolph. “You know we’re rather short of men just now. If you have any trouble, don’t hesitate—get back to the airdrome if you can. A balloon isn’t worth losing your life over.”
“I guess I can take care of myself,” said Allison.
“All the same, just be careful, will you? Can’t afford to lose you!”
“Huh.”
“How’s the old Hispano-Suiza look?” asked Randolph, running his hand over the fuselage. Allison glanced up at him.
“It’s all right; I’ve gone over it once already.”
“Want me to look over it again for you—just in case?”
I don’t care.”
“All right, then.”
Randolph opened up the engine and tried the pressure on some of the valves.
“Looks like you could use some valve work,” he said, but when he turned around Allison was gone.
The afternoon arrived with bright, clear July weather. The guns opened up at a quarter to two in an endeavor to keep the Bosches’ heads down while the ‘planes went for the balloons. There were three in that area.
Randolph had gotten his down already and came around just in time to see Allison plunging at another. At that moment two German Fokkers—there were always some about, protecting the observation balloons—materialized out of the air over Randolph’s head and flashed down on Allison’s tail. Their victim was too intent on the delicate business of pulling out of his dive directly after firing a burst of incendiary into the gasbag and immediately before colliding with it to notice the peril he was in. Randolph saw only too clearly.
“ALLISON!!!” he shouted, but the cry was futile for his voice was drowned out by the roar of the engine and Allison was too far away to hear anyhow.
In an instant Randolph could see the German ‘planes firing bright incendiary ammunition into Allison’s helpless machine, and Randolph suddenly realized how much he thought of his fellow pilot.
“Villains!” he muttered and pulled open his throttle.
Allison was at last aware of the danger and pulled up under the balloon to put it between him and his attackers. But they were back on his tail again in an instant and now the anti-aircraft guns were popping away at him on all sides. Allison dove, shot up again, banked—tried every trick he knew and could execute with his machine, but still the two German ‘planes held their positions just to the rear and above him, firing lead into him mercilessly. One of their bullets exploded and a piece of it struck him in the hand.
Suddenly one of the enemy ‘planes spun out of control and crashed into a gun emplacement on the ground. Allison twisted his neck around to see the cause and saw a SPAD pulling out of a dive and turning for a go at the other machine. Another Allied ‘plane appeared—Allison could tell by the streamers on its struts that it was the captain’s—and fixed itself on the tail of the same Hun ‘plane. Allison tried to help, but his hand was too hurt to work his machine gun. He turned and sped for his lines.
The men all arrived back safely somehow. Randolph and Hayes helped Allison out of his airplane and bandaged his wound.
“Good thing the bullet only grazed your hand,” said Hayes. “You were that close to being invalided home.”
“It’s not a bad wound,” said Randolph, hoping to console him. “You’ll be able to fight again in a day or two, I’d say.”
“Thanks a lot,” said Allison ungraciously and went off without a word of thanks to Randolph for saving his life. Randolph thought he’d gone off in rather a hurry, almost as if he were afraid to be near them.
“At least he won’t be doing anymore scrapping with the other men,” remarked Hayes.

Randolph found himself wondering what had gotten into Allison. He was no crosser than usual, but he seemed more silent and preoccupied. Stranger still, he avoided Randolph’s company. Now Randolph was not vain, but he had thought that Allison liked him—if only just a little. He had always seemed to prefer his company to that of the other men’s and an understanding had arisen between them since their conversation in chapter V. However he was not one to force his society on anybody, so he left Allison to himself and instead worried about the fellow from a distance.
He did not get to speak Allison again until the next day as he was walking around the airdrome with Woodward and having a rather one-sided conversation. He came across Allison sitting on a biscuit crate beside the barracks with Renhard standing by his side, leaning against the wall.
“Did you see the chaps with the cinematograph?” asked Renhard as they passed.
“Yes, we were just over there, in fact,” replied Randolph.
“Well, what are they up to?”
“They’re taking pictures of ‘A’ flight taking off.”
“What for?”
“Oh, I expect they’ll show them for the folks back home. Here comes one of them now, only he has an ordinary camera.
“Here, you two,” said the fellow, “care to get your picture taken?”
“What about it?” Randolph asked Woodward.
“If you like.”
“Get all four of us,” said Randolph. “For that matter, let me get a couple of other fellows while we’re at it.”
“OK,” said the cameraman (a true American).
“Here; Kearns! Hayes!” called Randolph, spying the two friends over watching the cinematographers. “Come over here; we want you for a minute.”
“What’s the order?” asked Kearns.
“We’re going to sit for a photograph.”
“All right,” said Hayes amiably.
Allison got up, muttering something about “camera fiends” but Hayes caught him by his belt.
“No you don’t,” he said.
“Let go!” said Allison.
“Getting a picture taken never hurt anybody,” said Woodward quietly.
“Just look at me,” said Renhard. “I always look awful in pictures but I’m not complaining.”
“If that’s what you object to,” said Randolph, “Frank and I never look good in pictures either, so you won’t be alone.”
Hayes and Kearns looked smug. They belonged to that fortunate class of people that always look well in photographs.
Randolph pushed Allison onto a biscuit crate.
“Come on, now,” he said, “’smile, smile, smile,’ and all that, you know,” and he set an example.
“OK,” said the cameraman. “More towards the center, now. That’s it. OK, all done now. It’ll be ready in two or three days.”
“Much obliged,” said Randolph, polite as always.
The men split up and wandered off.