CHAPTER XVII

WESTWARD HO!

Until we got out into the open country I was to walk in front, carrying the portmanteau, which was a little too bulky a load for a man of smaller stature than mine. Wallace was to follow twenty or thirty paces in the rear, but not to lose sight of me.

Into the town and the market-place it was plain sailing. Without looking at the sign “To Wesel,” the existence of which I had forgotten, I turned into the right lane, recognizing it from its general aspect. Nevertheless, the darkness made the ground which I had traversed in daylight look different.

At the cross-roads a long procession of street lamps disappeared down the street which ought to have been the right one. On my first escape I had failed to notice these standards on what then looked like a country road. They are not very conspicuous in daylight. I had had my eyes fixed upon the landscape generally, rather than upon details close to me, which had no meaning for me at that time. Furthermore, I had very soon taken a path on the left.

For the moment I was confused, and, not being able to take bearings in the dark, I walked ahead, up a lane, pondering the situation. Here were no lights, which was inviting. A woman passed me, and a moment after Wallace closed up rapidly.

“Did you see that woman?” he asked. “She turned and looked after you. She’ll inform the police. We’ve got to get off the road!”

“All right! It’s dark enough for anything. There is no danger. Just let’s get off the road and see whether anything happens.”

We waited some time, but nothing occurred. Nothing could, as a matter of fact, for we didn’t wait long enough.

“I can’t recognize this road,” I complained. “The darkness makes everything look different. We’re too far east. That road with the lamps along it is the right one, after all.”

“You’re absolutely wrong,” came the quite unexpected opposition from Wallace. “We’re too far west.”

I had only been soliloquizing aloud, to give Wallace a chance of understanding every step we took.

“How can you know that?”

“I saw a sign, farther back, ‘To Wesel.’ That means we are too far west.”

“Are you sure you saw the sign, and did we pass along the road in its direction?”

“Absolutely certain!”

“I can’t understand it at all. We simply can’t be too far west!” Wallace had seen the sign in the market-place. This being the starting-point, his conclusion was not warranted. But he could not know that. I, on the other hand, was sufficiently doubtful on account of the lamp standards, and Wallace’s opposition turned the scales.

“All right,” I conceded ungraciously, for I am rather touchy about my woodcraft, “if you’re so sure of it, we’ll walk straight north. In that way we’ll come across the road we are looking for, if you’re right. If not, we can turn back. Now we’ll find a place to pack our knapsacks and get rid of this beastly bag.”

We left the road definitely now, close to a church which stood dark and lonely among open fields. We were still near Haltern, but the night increased the distances.

A drop of rain struck my face. Delighted, I turned to Wallace, who was behind me: “I say, I believe it’s coming on to rain. It would be fine if the weather got mild again!”

Behind a wall, which enclosed a churchyard, we stopped to get ready for the road. We packed our knapsacks as best we could in complete darkness, for our only flash-lamp refused to act. While we were doing so, it really began to rain, and we slipped into our oilsilks. Then we started out across-country, due north, walking by compass.

The going was terrible. The ground was frozen hard and the rain on coming in contact with it congealed to ice, which caused us to slip and stumble on the unyielding ridges between the furrows, and now and again to come down hard. The exertion kept us warm. When I took off my hat for a moment, to wipe my forehead, I found the brim full of solid ice.

We proceeded for about half an hour, up-hill all the time. Then the edge of a wood stopped us. That decided me: I knew now that we were following the wrong course.

“Look here, Wace, there’s not a shadow of a doubt in my mind that we are too far east. Haltern is bearing south. If we were anywhere near the right road, it ought to lie in a southeasterly direction. If we had been too far west, we should have come to the woods much sooner. We can make one very decisive test. We’ll go east, until the eastern extremity of Haltern bears south. Then we shall know that we are too far to the east!”

We altered our course accordingly and proceeded in this new direction. Suddenly the ground disappeared from underneath my feet, and I fell headlong down the banks of a deep, hollow road. Wallace was saved by being last. Up the other side and across more fields we came to another road. Here we almost ran into a man, whom our sudden appearance frightened out of his wits, to judge by the way he hurried off toward the town.

“Now, then, Haltern bears almost southwest now. Back we go to the cross-roads. Southeast will take us there in a straight line. Come along.”

On the way back I noticed for the first time a change in my companion. His steps, all of a sudden, seemed to have lost their elasticity, while I grew stronger and more contented every minute.

“What’s the matter with you?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“Of course there is. I know it from the way you walk!”

“I don’t feel extra well. Something wrong with my stomach. It’ll pass soon, I expect.”

That was bad news. We came to a lonely wooden hut, like a very small barn. I stopped. “Tell me frankly if you think you can’t go on. In that case we’ll break in here. We’ll have a certain amount of shelter inside. There is no danger. To-morrow will be Sunday and nobody is likely to come near us. It is much better to stop in time, before you have drawn too much upon your reserve strength. The situation is not precarious enough for that. You’ll want that later on.”

“No,” he insisted; “I can go on.”

At last we turned into the road we were looking for. The rain had changed to sleet. The road was slippery with ice. Progress would have been slow under any circumstances, but it was slower on account of Wallace’s failing strength. He was plucky, however, and he kept going.

The usual thirst began to trouble us. Fortunately we had filled our water-bottles at the hotel in Hanover. To husband our supply on Wallace’s behalf, I contented myself with sucking the ice which I peeled in lumps from my hat brim.

In due course we came to the first clearing. The outlines of a barn on the right, and a house on the left, seemed familiar. “Let’s rest a bit,” I proposed to Wallace, for he seemed almost done. He propped himself in a sitting posture against the wall of the barn, while I scouted around.

There was a farmyard behind the structure. The barn itself consisted of a loft, reared on strong uprights. Only half the space below was enclosed by boards, and filled with compressed straw. The other half was open, and contained a big farm wagon. Between its wheels and the straw a number of clumsy ladders were tightly wedged. In the gable of the loft an open door showed a black interior.

“There will be straw up there,” I said to Wallace. “The cattle were given a fresh bed to-day, probably. Nobody will want to fetch straw on a Sunday. We’ll be quite safe.” And I went through the same argument as before.

Wallace was undecided for a moment, I believe. But, to tell the truth, I had spoken rather too sharply to him a little time before. My only excuse is that I was exceedingly worried. Rotten as he felt, he was bound to be nettled. “No,” he said; “I will go on.”

It was obvious that he was suffering from an attack of something akin to indigestion. I was unable, though, to make head or tail of his attack. When I pressed him for information, he told me he had swallowed some shaving-soap, mistaking it in the dark for chocolate. He had hardly any pain, but our pace decreased gradually to a crawl as we neared the crest of the spur of hills, where the path which I had used on my first escape branched off. Not having a torch, I missed it, but discovered my mistake about two hundred yards beyond. We had come out of the forest. Plowed fields on our right had given me the first hint of my error.

“We’ll have to turn back. I’ve missed the path,” I informed my friend.

“I can’t move any farther. I must lie down,” answered Wallace indistinctly, swaying on his feet.

Too miserable to say anything, I led him back, and some way into the timber got out his flimsy sleeping-bag, and put him inside. Then I felt his pulse. It was going at the rate of about one hundred and thirty a minute.

“How do you feel?” I asked.

“Done for, old man. But don’t you worry. You go on. No use spoiling your chance. You leave me here. I’ll be all right.”

“I’m not going to leave you, except for a few minutes. I want to find that path. I’ll be back in a quarter of an hour. You’ll be all right that long, won’t you?”

I was still hoping for a miraculous recovery, although Wallace’s rapid pulse had upset me sorely. My mind was tenaciously holding to the idea of “carrying on,” and I wished to know how to get my companion on the right road without wasting his precious strength.

It took me less than ten minutes to find the path. The groping about in the darkness of the wood had taken my mind off the real issue. Now, on my way back, I had to face the ugly situation we were in.

I had not enough medical knowledge to gage the insignificance of the accelerated heart action, and thus almost feared the worst. If only he could be sick! Perhaps he was going to die on my hands! If he lived through the night, could I hope that his strength would return to him on the morrow and allow us to proceed?

One thing was out of the question: I could not leave him alone, even if he was out of danger and in shelter, for we were both fully persuaded that, in the event of capture, we should be sent to a penal prison. But what was to be done? Wallace could not lie out in the cold the rest of the night and all the next day. The only shelter reasonably near was the barn, which we had passed some time before. We should have to go back to it. We had to reach it, even if I had to carry him.

The snow, which had come on again, was whispering in the trees when I entered among them, groping in the thick darkness for his recumbent form. It sifted straight down through the still air, while the wind shrieked and roared overhead. He called feebly when I came close to him in my blind search.

“Well, how goes it?” I inquired, with seeming cheerfulness.

“I think I’m better.” This through chattering teeth. “But I’m aw-aw-awfully cold.”

“Get up. I’ll help you.”

“I-I-I don’t want to.”

“But you can’t stay here,” I protested. “You’d be frozen stiff before morning. We’ve got to get back to that barn we passed.”

“A-a-aren’t you going to lie down, too? We might keep each other warm.”

“No, I’m not,” very emphatically. “Get up, d’you hear, get up!”

Partly by sheer force I got him out of the thing we had bought for a sleeping-bag. Already the wet had penetrated in places. While Wallace stood leaning against a tree, I groped round for our knapsacks.

Carrying the double burden, which privilege cost me another struggle with Wallace, I led back over the ground which we had covered on our way up, my friend lurching drunkenly by my side. Then he fell and lay in a faint, but recovered quickly. After I had got him on his feet again, I kept his arm, supporting him as much as I could. Every few hundred steps or so he half collapsed, his knees doubling under him. When this happened I let him slide to the ground, thus to get some rest.

I do not know how often this had occurred when I noticed something wrong about the road. The clearing on the left, with stumps standing black against white snow patches--surely I could not have twice missed noticing it! The ground, too, fell rather sharply. “Traveling toward the Wesel road!” I thought. “I remember no villages there, if I recollect the map.”

Wallace had been sitting on the ground all this time. I helped him to his feet and urged him on: “We’ve got to be traveling! Up hill now! Awfully sorry, old chap, but I missed the road.”

Three rests, and the old track was under our feet. Three more, and we were drawing near to the little settlement.

“It’ll not be very long now, old man; cheer up!” I said encouragingly.

“Mus’ get into warmth. Knock first house come to. Can’t stick it,” Wallace muttered in reply.

“Try to make that barn, won’t you? It’s close by.”

We came abreast of a house with a light in the passage, which showed dimly through some panes of glass above the front door. The time must have been about 2:30 A.M.

Wallace stopped and peered at it. “Is that a house?”

“Yes.”

“Knock!” and with a contented sigh he slid to the ground.

I was not prepared to give up so soon. That is what his command meant, as it appeared to me. My pal moved and struggled into a sitting position.

“Knock!” he repeated.

I knocked. No answer. I knocked again, but less determined. The same result. The third time my knuckles met the wood with a nice regard for the sleepers inside. I did not intend them to hear me; it was only for Wallace’s satisfaction that I went through this performance.

“They don’t hear,” I announced, having gone back to my companion. “Come on, make another effort. Let’s get to the barn. It’s only a few more steps,” I urged.

“Did you knock?” he asked suspiciously.

“Yes, three times!” I replied, with veracious if somewhat misleading detail, and I dragged him up and on.

At last we reached it. Wallace was soon resting in the same place as he did hours before, while I went to get a ladder. Three of them were wedged in on one side between a wheel of the wagon and a support of the barn, and by the compressed straw on the other. I tore, and heaved, and struggled with berserk rage until I got one out, the sweat pouring from underneath my hat brim. It was an enormously clumsy affair, and trying to rear it against the barn and into the door opening off the loft, I failed again and again by an inch or two. After a brief rest I went at it again. The last inch seemed unattainable. Another effort! Suddenly it leaped right up and into position. Turning in surprise, I saw my friend standing behind me. His little strength had been added to mine just at the right moment.

“I’ll go up first and have a look!” I told him. The rear of the loft was four feet deep in clean-smelling straw. Thank God for that! We should be warm!

“Up you go!” I was on the ground again to help Wallace up the ladder. He managed to ascend it, and then pitched forward. I let him lie and fetched our knapsacks. The ladder I left in position for the time being. If a few hours’ rest would improve my friend to such an extent that it became feasible to “carry on” during the following night, I intended to drag it up after us, and hide it at the rear of the barn, where I proposed to conceal ourselves. It would not be missed on a Sunday.

A hearty heave and shove sent Wallace sprawling on the straw. Soon I had a hollow dug for him, into which he crawled, and I covered him as best I could. Then I flung myself down by his side, too fagged to care for overcoat or covering.

Fighting against the drowsiness which immediately stole over me, I must have fallen asleep for a short spell, for I felt suddenly very cold. Too tired to move immediately, I lay shivering, listening to the dying wind and the faint beating of snow against the thin walls and the roof of our shelter. When the cold became intolerable, I crawled with stiff joints into the corner where I had flung our knapsacks, got my overcoat out, and put it on. The exercise cleared my dulled brain, and I perceived that I had better look after Wallace. His teeth were chattering when I bent over him. As well as I could, I got him warmer after a time. I now kept wide awake, trying to piece together what was left of our hopes.

I did not anticipate hearing any one stirring in the few houses around until late daylight, and dully wondered at the sound of voices which penetrated to our hiding-place, hours before some chinks in the roof showed faintly gray. We could not see the door from where we rested.

With an effort I turned to Wallace. “Are you awake?”

“Yes.”

“Do you feel you’ve got to get into warmth?”

“Yes.”

“That means going to a farm and meeting people!”

“Yes.”

Poor Wallace! His voice sounded so flat and tired! I have often wondered since whether I ought not to have made another effort to keep him where he was, and to proceed with him the next night. He might have stood it. I don’t think he quite realized what it meant getting into shelter. I believed at the time that he did. However, I acted according to my lights, without another word.

Sliding from the straw I approached the door, to stop in wonder for a moment before going down the ladder. Long icicles had grown from the upper edge of the opening almost to the floor of the loft in the few hours we had been inside, and between them the cold light of a winter morning, strongly reflected by a white, unbroken surface, met my eyes. It was eight o’clock by my watch. The icicles snapped with a glassy sound and fell noiselessly outside when I broke through their curtain.

Beyond it the world was white,--the ground, as far as I could see it; the air, thick with dancing flakes; and the sky. What mattered it now whether we stayed in the loft or sought the shelter of a farm?