Part 7

"It is, by Jove! and there are more of them. Look at that lot behind there. They'll be here in three or four minutes--no time to plaster the crack and get away."

"We had better scuttle our plane and dive into the woods. There's just a chance of our getting across the Maritza into Bulgaria."

"That means internment. Besides, it would be simply rotten to destroy the machine if we can help it. Perhaps there's some other way. In any case we must get back. Put on a sprint."

They raced back to the spot where they had landed, the knoll concealing them from the Turkish search-party. The sight of the body of the German pilot suggested an idea to Burton.

"Look here, we must trick them," he said rapidly. "There's a bare chance of saving our machine, and I doubt whether we've time enough even to destroy it. For the next quarter of an hour I'm a German, and you're my English prisoner. We are done if there's a German among them, but that's our chance."

Removing his own cap, he replaced it with that of the German pilot, borrowing at the same time one or two small articles of his equipment. Then he bound Hunter's hands and feet.

"Slip-knots, old man," he said. "You can free yourself in a jiffy. But don't do it too soon. Just in time! I hear them coming. Here goes!"

He uttered a loud shout. In a few moments the horsemen appeared on the crest of the knoll. Burton waved his left hand, with his right holding a pistol pointed at Hunter's head. The horsemen, led by an elderly Turkish officer in grey uniform and fez, galloped down towards them. While the officer was still several paces distant, Burton saluted and addressed him.

"Sprechen Sie Deutsch, mein Herr?"

No one would have guessed with what anxious trepidation he awaited the answer. He had used almost all the German he knew. His heart leapt when the Turk shook his head.

"Vous parlez Francais, monsieur?" said Burton.

"Oui, certainement. Qu'est-ce que c'est que ca?"

"You have come in good time, monsieur le capitaine," said Burton in French. "I regret that I do not speak Turkish, and that our conversation must proceed in a language which, no doubt, you cordially detest. Our good Kaiser will soon forbid the use of it in Europe; German and Turkish are the languages of the future. Meanwhile! ... You see, monsieur le capitaine, there has been a duel in the air. My pilot was, unhappily, shot by the enemy. We both had to descend; the enemy, no doubt, had difficulties with his engine. No doubt he expected to find both the pilot and myself dead or disabled. But a true German, like a true Turk, is a hard man to kill. Single-handed I attacked the enemy as they landed. Imagine their consternation and fear! One of them, using the long legs which serve the cowardly English so well, fled into the wood. The other lies here."

The Turkish captain bent over his saddle to inspect the captured Englishman. For his benefit Hunter assumed an expression of sullen ferocity.

"It was well done," said the Turk in French. "He looks a terrible fellow. I make you my compliments, monsieur. It was a brave deed to attack two men single-handed."

"Oh, that's nothing to us Germans," said Burton airily. "We never think of odds. We are like that; the greater the adverse odds, the better pleased we are."

"That is indeed the characteristic of your noble nation," said the Turk politely.

"Still, it is as well to reduce the odds when we can," Burton went on. "Half the enemy's force has escaped. Could you spare a few men, monsieur le capitaine, to scour the woods?"

"Certainly, though I have little time to spare. I am engaged, you will be glad to know, in escorting a fellow-countryman of yours, monsieur--a German in the secret service, who has just landed at Enos--with important information for headquarters at Keshan."

He broke off to give his troopers orders to hunt about in the woods for the escaped English airman. They were to return, even if unsuccessful, at the sound of his whistle. Meanwhile, Burton and Hunter had exchanged uneasy glances. The German could not be far away. No doubt he was coming up with other members of the escort. The sight of the falling aeroplanes had drawn the officer in advance.

The troopers galloped off. The officer turned once more towards Burton, whose expression of countenance gave no sign of the agitation within.

"It will be interesting to meet a fellow-countryman in this lonely spot," he said calmly. "May I offer you a cigarette, monsieur?"

The Turk took one from the opened case, thanked Burton, and turned the cigarette over in his fingers.

"Made in Cairo, monsieur?" he said.

"Yes, it is a privilege of us airmen to levy upon the enemy. Refugees have no need to smoke. With the airman it is a necessity--it steadies the nerves."

"True. And they make good cigarettes in Cairo." He lit the cigarette from an automatic lighter. "The Englishman looks frightened."

"He expects to be killed, I suppose, not knowing our German humanity. But you will excuse me, monsieur, if I examine the English aeroplane. It will come in useful."

Burton returned to the machine, and, after feigning to examine it, proceeded to plaster the crack with nervous haste. The Turk had followed him, and, remaining in the saddle, watched his operations with much interest.

"It was this injury that caused the Englishmen to descend," Burton explained. "German bullets never fail."

"An English bullet was more successful, however," said the officer, glancing at the dead pilot.

"Not more successful, surely, monsieur. We have scores of good pilots, we can replace every man that falls; but the English cannot afford to lose a single machine. And do not our German newspapers tell us that they have hardly any left? The earth is the Kaiser's; the sea is his; the air is his also. Turkey will flourish again in German air."

Having filled up the crack, Burton proceeded to pour petrol into the tank.

"This fellow-countryman of mine?" he said.

"He will be here soon, no doubt. He is a trifle stout, and a poor horseman. Consequently he travels slowly. When he saw the aeroplanes descending he insisted on our pushing on to render assistance to his fellow-countrymen. He cannot miss the track, there is only one. But he should be in sight."

The Turk looked backward over the track, then saying, "Excuse me," he wheeled his horse and began to trot towards the knoll. Burton had by no means completed the replenishment of the tank. He felt that something must be done.

"Monsieur le capitaine!" he shouted.

The Turk pulled up. Burton went towards him with an air of mystery.

"Your men are at fault, monsieur," he said. "It would be a pity to let the Englishman escape, and you have no time to waste. Perhaps if I show the way!"

He walked on up the knoll, the Turk riding by his side.

"There, monsieur, you see that big tree on the far side of the bay? If you do not find the fugitive thereabout you won't find him anywhere."

The Turk hesitated. Perhaps he was considering whether it comported with an elderly captain's dignity to take a personal part in the search. Burton eyed him anxiously, hoping that he would go, meet the approaching German, and take him with him. The pause was brief. The temptation to catch a live Englishman overbore all considerations of dignity. With a word of thanks to Burton the Turk cantered on towards the big tree.

Burton breathed again. He hurried back to the seaplane.

"Slip the knots, Dick," he said, "but don't get up. I'll give you the word. I hope I've got rid of the Turk for a while."

He was in the act of pouring petrol into the tank when a figure appeared from round the western base of the knoll. It was a big Sancho-Panza-like person, mounted on a mule.

"Great Scott!" murmured Burton.

Dropping the empty tin, he hastened to the aviatik for another.

"I say, Dick, do you recognise that fellow?" he asked.

"Christopoulos!" Hunter whispered.

"As large as life! What on earth are we to do? He will recognise us directly, even if he hasn't done so already."

"Shoot him and scoot!"

"I haven't enough petrol yet. The tank still leaks, though not so badly, and if we shoot, the Turks will swarm up before I can fill up and get away. I think I had better go on with the job, let him come up, and trust to luck."

Keeping his back to the pseudo-Greek, Burton carried another tin to the seaplane. Before he had emptied it into the tank the spy came within hailing distance and let out a jovial greeting in German. No doubt he had recognised the German airman's cap, and, without misgiving, hailed his supposed compatriot.

"Good-morning, my friend," he shouted. "I congratulate you. Another German victory!"

Burton, his back still towards the spy, finished pouring out the petrol, and placed the tin on the ground. As he straightened himself he discreetly drew his revolver and suddenly turned round. The spy was now within half a dozen paces of him.

"Thank you, Mr. Christopoulos," he said. "Another victory--but not a German victory. We shall presently see who is to be congratulated. Meanwhile, you will dismount."

The German, who had reined up at the first glance at Burton's face, turned a sickly colour and half-opened his mouth as if to shout.

"Silence!" cried Burton peremptorily. "If you make the slightest sound I will shoot you on the spot."

He held his revolver carelessly in his left hand, not pointing it at the German lest any of the Turks should come within view. The spy showed more alacrity than skill in dismounting. He clumsily clambered from his saddle, without daring to turn his head in the direction of the Turks, who could now be heard calling to one another beyond the knoll. Burton went up to him.

"Hand over your revolver," he said.

"I haven't got----" the spy was beginning. Burton cut him short.

"No nonsense! Hand it over. Quick. At the word 'three' I fire. One--two----"

With an agonised look the German made a dive for his revolver. Burton took it with his right hand before it was released from the spy's tight pocket. From a distance they might have appeared to be shaking hands.

Burton had been rapidly casting about for a means of disposing of the German. He could not shoot him in cold blood; there might perhaps be time to tie him up, but he would then still be able to convey to the Turkish headquarters the information he had gathered at Tenedos. That must certainly be prevented. There was only one thing to be done: they must take him with them.

Just as Burton had reached this conclusion, a Turk appeared on the knoll.

"Come with me," said Burton sternly.

The German accompanied him to the seaplane. He might be supposed to be indulging his curiosity. Standing between him and the knoll, Burton said--

"You are interested in aviation. Seat yourself on the right-hand float."

The spy made as if to turn round. Burton lifted his revolver.

"Don't waste time," he said.

With a groan the spy sat on the spot indicated.

Burton seized the strap that bound him to his seat, and rapidly tied the German to the upright connecting the float with the body of the seaplane, calling to Hunter--who, still lying on the ground, had watched these proceedings with excitement--to cover the spy with his revolver.

The prisoner had hardly been secured when the Turkish captain cantered over the knoll, followed by two or three men.

"Now, Dick!" cried Burton.

Hunter sprang up and rushed to his place.

"Not there!" said Burton. "Get on to the left-hand float to balance the machine."

Meanwhile he had started the engine, in desperate anxiety lest it should not have gathered momentum before the Turks came up. The spy had heard the thudding of their horses' hoofs as they, seeing the supposed English prisoner spring up, galloped down the knoll. Turning his head, he let out a frenzied shout. But it was too late. Burton had vaulted into his seat, and, just three seconds before the amazed and furious Turks reached the brink of the water, the seaplane was skimming the surface.

The spy was now filling the air with his frantic cries. Burton afterwards said it was like the booming of a buzzard. The Turks dismounted, and from the edge of the lake fired at the fast-receding machine. One or two shots pierced the planes, and from a shrill cry of terror from the German, Burton supposed that he had been hit. But he was too busy to think of him. Forcing the engine to the utmost he was already manipulating the elevator. The machine rose steadily. At the first possible moment Burton swung it round to the west. In a minute or two he crossed the Maritza. Climbing ever higher, he shifted his course a point or two to the south, and within twenty minutes the machine swooped down beside the cruiser, a few miles out in the bay, and a number of laughing bluejackets hastened to assist two dripping objects to climb on board.

IV

The cruiser made all speed back to Tenedos. There the spy, a forlorn, chapfallen individual, was taken ashore under an escort of marines. Within a short time a drum-head court-martial was constituted. Papers found on the prisoner left no doubt of his occupation; his protest that he was a subject of King Constantine availed him nothing. When the sentence had been pronounced, he recovered his courage and confessed himself a German, and it was as a German soldier that he paid the final penalty.

Burton's exploit was reported to the Admiralty, and some weeks later, when he returned one evening from reconnoitring the Turkish trenches after the landing on the Gallipoli peninsula had been so magnificently accomplished, he was welcomed with the news that he had been awarded the Distinguished Service Medal by the King.

THE WATCH TOWER

I

A rough, lumbering ox-cart was crawling slowly up a steep winding hill-track in Southern Macedonia. The breath of the two panting oxen formed steam-clouds in the frosty air; slighter wreaths of vapour clung about the heads of the two persons who trudged along beside them. One was an old man, tall, broad, and vigorous, his hair straggling beneath his fur cap, his long white beard stiff with the ice of his congealed breath. The other was a boy, whose face, ruddy with health and cold, showed scantly under a similar cap much too large for him, and above a conglomeration of warm wrappings reaching to his feet and giving him the appearance of a moving bundle, thick and shapeless.

"I am tired, grandfather," murmured the boy, pausing at the foot of a steep ascent.

"Tchk!" the old man ejaculated, emitting a puff of white breath which the north-east wind from behind carried over the head of the nearest ox. "Put your shoulder to the wheel, Marco. Show yourself worthy of your name."

The boy obediently went round the cart and set his shoulder to the heavy wooden wheel on the off side. His grandfather shoving at the other, they helped the labouring oxen to drag the vehicle up the ascent, and then stopped to rest.

"That was well done, little son," said a woman of some thirty years, sitting in the forepart of the cart. She handed the boy a cake. Behind her the cart was piled high with bits of furniture and bundles of household gear. The boy seated himself on a rock and nibbled his cake. The oxen moved their heads about as if in search of provender. Straightening his tall form, the old man turned his back, and in the full blast of the bitter wind scanned the country to the north-east. A faint boom sounded far away in that direction. The woman started.

"Do you see anything, Father?" she asked, anxiously.

"Nothing, Nuta. But we must on. It will be two hours or more before we can call ourselves safe."

Smacking the heaving flank of the near-side ox, he set the beasts in motion, and the cart creaked and jolted on over the rough track. This was lightly covered with snow, which showed traces of those other travellers who in this December of 1915 had journeyed over the same route. Snow lay deeper in the hollows on either side, and on the heights in the distance. It was a bleak and desolate landscape, its rugged features somewhat softened, however, by the blanket of snow. Here and there dark patches stood out in the surrounding white, representing bushes or trees; but there was no house or cottage, no sign of life.

Old Marco, a small Serbian landed proprietor, had postponed his flight from before the invading Bulgars until all the other inhabitants of his village had departed. To the last he had hoped that the French and British forces would arrive in time to save him. His son was away fighting, as were all the men from the little estate. Having loaded all his portable possessions on to the cart, he waited with his daughter-in-law and grandson until the ever-approaching boom of guns warned him that further delay would mean ruin, and then set off southwards, to gain, if possible, protection from the Allied forces that were said to be retreating on Salonika.

The old man's pride was wounded. He traced his descent from that Marco Kralevich who, towards the end of the fourteenth century, struggled to maintain the independence of Serbia against the Turks, and whose name and knightly prowess live to-day in song and story. He had never tired of relating to young Marco the heroic deeds of his great ancestor, and it cut him to the heart that he was compelled, in the wreck of his country's fortunes, to abandon the homestead where he had kept alive the traditions of Serbian valour. Even now, old as he was, he would have borne a part in the national struggle but for the claims of his dear ones upon his protection.

The cart lumbered slowly on. From time to time the old man glanced anxiously behind, appealing to the boy--did he see anything moving there, or there? On one such occasion, when they stopped to rest themselves and the oxen, and the old man was looking to the rear, young Marco suddenly pricked up his ears, and stood intently listening.

"A strange sound, Grandfather," he said. "Where?"

The boy nodded towards the east. "What is it?"

"Like the hum of a bee far away."

The old man came to the boy's side and listened.

"I cannot hear it," he said after a few moments, adding impatiently, "Tchk! This is not the time of bees."

"But I hear it still," persisted Marco. "It is louder."

He looked around, puzzled to account for the unaccustomed sound.

"I hear nothing," said his mother.

"Look!" he cried, pointing excitedly into the grey sky.

The eyes of his elders followed his outstretched hand, but they saw nothing.

"It has gone," sighed the boy after a little. "But I did see something. Perhaps it was an eagle. I think it flew just behind the hills there."

His eyes ranged the horizon, where the rugged line of white indented the sky. A spot of blue appeared in the pale vault, and a ray of sunlight trickled through.

"Look!" cried Marco again, stretching out his hand this time to the north. "There is something moving on the snow."

The old man gazed northward, rubbed his eyes, shook his head.

"Can you see anything, Nuta?" he asked.

"Dark specks, miles and miles away--yes, Father, they are moving. There are more of them. They are like ants."

"The Bulgars!" muttered the old man. "Come, we must haste."

Returning to the cart, he whipped up the oxen, and the patient beasts, heaving their load out of the drift into which its wheels had settled, hauled it, creaking and groaning, towards the brightening south.

II

Meanwhile, in a broad gully not far away, a different scene was being enacted.

Across the gully lay the tangled ruins of a biplane. From the midst of the wreckage crawled a long figure, in the overalls, helmet, and goggles of a member of the Flying Corps. His goggles had been partially displaced, and lay askew upon his nose. There were spots of blood, already frozen, upon his cheek. His movements were slow and painful, and when, having emerged from the shapeless mass of metal and canvas, he tried to stand erect, he reeled, saved himself from falling by an effort, and dropping upon an adjacent rock, rubbed his eyes, groaned, and sat as one dazed.

His immobility lasted only a few moments. Staggering to his feet, his features twisted with pain, he walked unsteadily to the ruins of the aeroplane.

"Enderby, old chap," he called, bending down.

There was no answer.

Swiftly he pulled away the broken wires and fragments of the shattered framework, beneath which the form of his companion was pinned, then knelt and laid his finger on the wrist of the unconscious man.

"Thank Heaven!" he murmured.

Taking a flask from his pocket he poured a few drops of liquid between the half-open lips, then lifted the man carefully out of the wreckage and laid him down on the slope. Upon his brow he placed a little snow; he repeated his medicinal dose, and watched anxiously. It was some minutes before the eyelids opened, only to close again as a spasm of pain distorted the injured man's features.

"Where is it, old man?" asked Burton.

"My leg."

The answer came faintly.

"It doesn't hurt you to breathe?"

Enderby shook his head.

"Arms all right?"

And when Enderby had lifted them one after the other, Burton placed the flask in his comrade's right hand.

"Take another pull at that while I have a look at you," he said.

Removing the puttees and cutting away the stocking beneath, Burton saw that his friend's right leg was broken. He felt him all over, causing him to wince now and then as he touched a bruise. There was no other serious injury.

"Your leg's badly crocked, old man; but I'm jolly glad it's no worse. When that shell winged us I made sure our number was up."

"What about you?"

"I'm just one compound ache--must be bruised from top to toe. Our luck's out to-day. Just clench your teeth while I see what I can do in first aid. The machine's smashed to smithereens. How I'm to get you back to the M.O. beats me."

"Whereabouts are we?"

"Somewhere in Macedonia! In a gully, with hills all round, not a living thing in sight. I hoped we'd be able to flutter back to our lines, but it wasn't to be. Our troops must be miles away, and getting farther every minute, worse luck! What fate dogs us, that we must always be retreating? Ah! that made you squirm; sorry, old man, but you'll be easier now."

He had bound up the leg, and now brushed away the beads of sweat which the exertion, in his own sorry state, had brought out upon his brow.

"Now, look here, Enderby," he said, "the best thing I can do is to trudge off after our men and get a machine to bring you in. And the sooner I start, the better. You ought to be safe enough here. You're well hidden; the Bulgars' advance won't bring them past this spot, there's no road. But if I lose any time they'll be somewhere in the neighbourhood before a machine could arrive, and then it'll be hopeless. I'll rummage out some food from our wreck, and leave you that and my flask----"

"You'd better take it; you've a long tramp before you, and may come across some advance patrols of the Bulgars for all you know. Besides----"

He paused. Both men pricked up their ears simultaneously. Each looked an anxious inquiry at the other. From somewhere not far away came a rhythmic sound--a succession of strident, scraping sounds--which in a moment they recognised as the creaking of a cart.