CHAPTER XIX

Arrested as Spies

"We're safe for the present," remarked Kenneth, after the two fugitives had placed a distance of at least four miles between them and the outlying German post. "I didn't mention it before, but the belt is slipping horribly. The strain has stretched it a lot; so we may as well shorten the rubber."

"By Jove, it is slack!" exclaimed Rollo, testing the "give" of the belt. "It's a wonder it didn't let us down badly. It's a funny thing, old man, but I've often noticed that if we expect a lot of trouble we get through without hardly any bother. The last lap, when we rushed the German lines, was as easy as ABC."

"Yes," assented his companion. "I've noticed that too. It's the unexpected trifle that often leads to greater difficulties. Got your knife handy? Oh, I suppose the Germans took a fancy to that too. Can you get mine from my pocket? That's right, cut the belt through at an inch from the end."

The motor-cyclists had halted in the midst of a war-devastated area. Farm houses and buildings were numerous, but in almost every case they had suffered severely from shell-fire. Not a living creature, besides themselves, was in sight. Here and there were corpses of the gallant defenders of Belgium, some in uniforms, some in civilian attire. These men, shot whilst in the act of retiring under a terrific artillery fire, had been left where they fell, showing how heavy had been the German attack; for in most cases the plucky Belgians contrived to carry off those of their comrades who had died for their country.

Close to the spot where Kenneth and his companion had stopped was a large farm wagon piled high with furniture. Yoked to it were the bodies of two oxen, while a short distance away lay a dead peasant--an old man. The wagon, on which the refugee had been attempting to remove his goods and chattels from his threatened homestead, had fallen an easy target to the German guns.

A gnawing hunger compelled the British lads to examine the shell-riddled contents of the wagon in the hope of finding food. But in this they were disappointed. Not so much as a scrap of anything to eat was to be found.

Both lads were parched, Kenneth especially so. Even Rollo had almost forgotten the refreshing taste of the water given him by the German private. Yet, even in the pangs of a burning thirst, they could not bring themselves to drink of the stagnant water in the ditches by the roadside.

The repair completed, the motor-cyclists remounted. They were most eager to push on, even for the sake of obtaining drink, food, and rest. It could only be a matter of a few short, easy miles before they would be safe for the time being in the country still held by their friends, the Belgian troops.

"She's pulling splendidly now," announced Kenneth, referring to the transmission of power from the engine to the driving-wheel. Both lads had now discarded the bandages over their bogus wounds, and conversation was a fairly easy matter.

Hardly were the words out of his mouth when the motor began to falter. Then it "picked up", ran for about a quarter of a minute and slowed down again, finally coming to a dead-stop.

"No petrol," announced Rollo ruefully. "The tank is empty."

"Rot!" ejaculated his companion incredulously. "It was full when we started, and I'll swear we've done nothing like sixty miles on it yet."

Kenneth examined the gauge, then turned to his chum.

"Sorry, old man," he said. "I'm wrong. The stuff's all gone."

Further examination revealed the unpleasant fact that there was a small leak between the piping and the carburettor. Unnoticed, a quantity of the petrol had run to waste.

"It's a case of push," continued Kenneth. "How's your foot? Fit for a tramp? If not, you may as well get on the saddle and I'll run you along."

Although young Barrington's ankle was paining considerably, he sturdily refused to take advantage of his companion's offer. From experience he knew that pushing a motor was no light task. Kenneth might be capable of giving him a lift, but Rollo would not trespass upon his friend's generous conduct to that extent.

On and on they plodded, Rollo resting one hand on the saddle and striving to conceal his limp. Presently a practically ruined village came in sight. Not only had it been heavily bombarded, but subsequent fires had increased the work of destruction. Thick columns of smoke were rising high into the sultry air, while above the roar of the flames could be heard the excited tones of human voices.

"The villagers are trying to save the little that remains of their homes," said Kenneth. "They'll be able to give us some information as to where we can pick up the Belgian troops. Perhaps, though I doubt it, we may be also able to procure petrol."

Suddenly a peasant, who was standing about a hundred yards in front of the nearest house, took to his heels and ran, shouting as he went. Before he gained the village, spurts of dull flame burst from behind a heap of debris piled across the road, and half a dozen bullets _zipped_ past the two lads.

"Lie down!" exclaimed Kenneth, stopping only to place his precious motor-cycle behind a tree by the side of a ditch, before he followed the prompt example of his companion. "Those fellows have mistaken us for Uhlans. I don't wonder at it, now I come to think about it."

Although sheltered by a mound by the side of the ditch, their place of concealment was known to the peasants. The latter kept up quite a hot fire from antiquated muskets and sporting-guns. Shots whizzed overhead, and showers of pellets fell all around the two lads.

"Can't blame them," said Rollo. "Let's hoist the white flag; it's no disgrace in this case."

Kenneth produced a very discoloured pocket-handkerchief. At one time it had been a white one, but owing to the various uses to which it had been put its colour resembled that tint which the French, with a reason, call "isabelle". For want of a staff he was obliged to hold it by his uplifted arm. In return he received a couple of pellets from a "twelve-bore", which, fortunately, only inflicted two punctured wounds in his skin.

"I'm not a rabbit," muttered Kenneth, and he continued to wave the "white flag".

Presently the firing ceased, and a swarm of men, accompanied by several shrieking women, bore down upon the two supposed Uhlans.

"We're friends!" shouted Kenneth. "We're English. We've escaped from the Prussians."

He might just as well have attempted to stem a torrent with a feather. The villagers saw only the hated uniforms of their merciless oppressors. They had no cause to grant quarter to Uhlans, for Uhlans were brutal and murderous to all with whom they came in contact when on their dreaded raids.

"A mort! A bas!" rose from the mob like the growling of a pack of half-famished animals. The two British lads were in dire peril of being torn limb from limb.

"A bas les Prussiens! Nous sommes Anglais," shouted Kenneth again, folding his arms and trying his level best to appear calm.

A stick, hurled by a woman's hand, missed his head and struck him heavily upon the shoulder. At almost the same time Rollo was hit by a broken brick, the missile striking him in the ribs.

"Tenez!" thundered an authoritative voice. "Let us show these vile Uhlans that Belgians are civilized. We will give them a fair trial, and shoot them afterwards."

"Anything for a respite," thought Kenneth. Even in this moment of peril the Belgian speaker's idea of a fair trial tickled his sense of humour.

The man who had intervened was a short, thickset fellow, with lowering eyebrows and a crop of closely-cut hair. He was dressed in black, while round his waist was a shawl, evidently intended for a badge of office. He had donned it in such a hurry that the loops of the bows had come undone and were trailing in the dust.

Grasped by a dozen toil-hardened hands, and surrounded by the rest of the survivors of the justly exasperated inhabitants, the two lads were hurried towards the village.

"I wish we had kept on our uniforms under these, old man," said Rollo. "We've nothing to prove our identity."

"They're speaking in German. That proves their guilt," announced one of their captors.

Neither Kenneth nor Rollo attempted to deny the statement--somewhat unwisely, for their unsophisticated guards took silence as an expression of assent to the accusation.

The military passes provided by the Belgian Government had been destroyed--Rollo's, when captured at Cortenaeken; Kenneth's, when the lads made their hitherto beneficial exchange of uniforms. As Rollo had remarked, they possessed nothing that they could produce to prove their identity.

Happening to look over his shoulder, Kenneth saw a peasant kicking his motor-cycle. Unable to wheel it, since its owner had slipped in the clutch previous to placing it under cover, the Belgian was venting his annoyance upon the machine.

"Stop!" shouted Kenneth. "That's an English motor-cycle. Would you do harm to anything made by your friends the English?"

He used the word "English" advisedly, for experience had taught him that the term "British" is hardly known to the peasantry of Belgium. Even the educated classes make use of the expression "English" more frequently than "British".

"Aye; do not injure it, Henri," called out the man who evidently held the office of Mayor. "When the English soldiers arrive to help us to drive back the Bosches it may be useful to them. Parbleu! It is useless to us."

In front of the ruined church the villagers held a most informal trial upon their captives. From the Belgians' point of view the evidence was absolutely conclusive against the prisoners. They were in German uniforms.

In vain the lads mentioned the names of Major Resimont, Captain Planchenoit, and other officers of the 9th Regiment of the Line. The peasants knew nothing of them; besides, they declared, it was an easy matter to invent names. Again, the prisoners spoke French with a foreign accent; they had been caught whilst coming from the direction of the German lines. They were, no doubt, scouts of the Uhlan patrol, bent upon completing the work of massacre and destruction that the guns had begun against the unresisting village.

"Hang them: powder is too good to waste upon canaille such as these," suggested one of the peasants.

"Yes, hang them," agreed another. "I'll do the job. 'Twill be but a slight revenge for my murdered wife and children. Let the Uhlans see, when next they come, that we, too, can be terrible."

The Major nodded his head approvingly. A man shuffled forward with a coil of rope.

"One moment," exclaimed Kenneth, who even in this moment of peril did not lose his head. "If we are to die, cannot we have the service of a priest?"

It was a faint chance. A representative of the Church would undoubtedly have great influence with his flock. He would, more than likely, listen impartially to the story of the two condemned prisoners.

"A priest?" echoed one of the peasants mockingly. "Is it likely that Germans who have purposely shattered God's house can hope for absolution from a priest?"

"Besides, we have not a priest," added another. "Monsieur le cure was wounded early in the day. He was taken to Louvain."

"Hurry with the execution, camarades," said the Mayor. "Time is precious. At any moment a strong body of these Uhlans may be upon us. Prepared, we may bring down a few and sell our lives dearly--but this is not being prepared."

Kenneth shivered when he felt the contact of the rope round his neck. He glanced at his companion. Rollo's face was red with suppressed fury. He looked as if he were on the point of breaking loose and making a desperate bid for freedom. It was the injustice of the whole business, not the fear of death, that agitated him.

"Let's have a slap at them," said Rollo in a low tone. "If we get a dose of lead it will be better than a rope. Quickly, before they begin to tie our hands. Ready?"

"Aye," replied Kenneth calmly.

"One moment! You mark time with that fellow with the scar over his eye. We'll keep together as long as we can. I hardly feel my ankle----"

He stopped. His ready ear detected the clatter of horses' hoofs. The peasants heard it too. In evident alarm they gripped their antiquated fire-arms. The fellow with the rope let the noose fall from his hands and made a rush for his musket.

"It is well, camarades," shouted the Mayor. "They are our soldiers."

Down the main street of the ruined village rode a troop of Belgian lancers, followed by a motor-car on which was mounted an automatic gun. Seeing two men in Uhlan uniforms surrounded by a mob of angry peasants, the officer in charge ordered his men to halt, and rode up to ascertain the cause of the commotion.

As he did so, Kenneth recognized him as one of the officers who took part in trapping the Uhlans after their raid on Tongres.

"A nous, mon capitaine!" he said in a loud, clear voice.

"What have we here?" exclaimed the officer in astonishment; then recalling Kenneth's features he continued: "The English soldier in Uhlan uniform! What is the meaning of it all?"

In as few words as possible Kenneth related the circumstances that led to their present condition.

When he had finished, the captain turned to the leading villager.

"Monsieur le maire," he said. "I will be answerable for these two Englishmen. Believe me, in your zeal for your country's good you have slightly overstepped the bounds. Fortunately there is no real harm done, and messieurs les Anglais will no doubt forgive an unintentional injury."

The Mayor, who had meanwhile readjusted his sash, saluted the lancer captain, then held out his hand to Kenneth.

"Pardon, camarade," he said.

Now that the danger was over, both lads felt able to accept the deep apologies of the peasants. The latter had been labouring under a genuine grievance, and their somewhat high-handed action would admit of an excuse. They were quaking in their shoes lest their former prisoners should take steps to secure their punishment; but finding themselves magnanimously treated, they responded with three hurrahs for England and the two men who had come from that country to aid stricken Belgium in her troubles.

"Now what do you propose doing?" asked the Captain. "As for us, we must push on. We have an important reconnaissance to make."

"We want to rejoin our regiment--the 9th of the Line, sir," replied Kenneth.

The officer smiled grimly.

"I regret, messieurs, that I cannot help you in that direction," he said. "Perhaps the best thing you can do is to make your way to Brussels, and there await news of your regiment. Should anyone question you, say that I--Captain Doublebois--have instructed you. Is there anything else?"

"We've run short of petrol, sir," announced Rollo, pointing in the direction of the motor-cycle, the handlebars of which were just visible above the edge of the ditch.

"Parbleu! Petrol is now as precious as one's life-blood. Nevertheless, I think we may be able to spare you a litre. Corporal Fougette," he shouted, addressing the non-commissioned officer in charge of the motor machine-gun, "measure out a litre of petrol for these messieurs--good measure, not a drop more or less."

The Captain stood by while Kenneth brought up the cycle and had the petrol poured into the tank.

"Now, messieurs," he continued, "this will suffice to take you as far as our nearest depot. After that, proceed to Brussels. I'll warrant you'll be in need of a rest, but there will be plenty to occupy your minds, or my name is not Captain Raoul Doublebois. But take my advice, messieurs, and get rid of those accursed uniforms!"