CHAPTER XXVIII

When the City Fell

Shells were beginning to fall upon the roofs of the houses when the lads entered the devoted city. The bulk of the population had already fled. A seemingly never-ending procession of tired, hungry, and despondent refugees poured along the dusty road leading to Bergen-op-Zoom. Others, debarred from taking train owing to Germans having occupied St. Nicholas Station, were making their way by circuitous routes towards Ostend. More were embarking upon craft of all sorts and sizes, whose masters were only too willing to give their suffering countrymen a passage either to the nearest Dutch port or across the North Sea to the shores of hospitable England.

Night had now fallen. It was by no means cold, the frosty nights of mid-September having given place to an autumnal heat-wave. There was little or no wind. The dense smoke from the burning petrol-tanks, which the Belgians had fired rather than let the precious spirit fall into the hands of the enemy, rose straight in the air. Elsewhere other smaller columns of smoke marked the localities where the German incendiary shells had fired portions of the city.

In one of the principal squares, swarms of ragamuffins, acting under the orders of the military, were taking a hideous delight in their work of destruction; for they were busily engaged in smashing costly motor-cars and lorries to useless fragments. Nothing that could be of use to the enemy was permitted to be left intact.

From the direction of the river came the sounds of muffled explosions as the Belgians methodically proceeded to cripple the engines of a fleet of merchant shipping, and to sink lighters filled with stone and concrete to block up the entrances to the various docks.

The Germans were about to take Antwerp--but they were to find in it another Moscow, as Napoleon found it.

Keeping to the almost deserted side streets, Kenneth and Rollo hurried towards the Hospital of St. Nicholas. Their motor-cycles had gone, being destroyed in the retirement of the 9th Regiment of the Line from the fire-swept trenches.

"What's the programme?" asked Rollo. "What do you propose to do if we find the girls?"

"Clear out," replied Kenneth promptly. "The train service is done; I'm not anxious to enter Holland and cool my heels till the end of this business. We can't expect the girls to tramp twenty miles, with the possibility of being cut off by the enemy; and carts are apparently out of the question. There remains the sea."

"Yes, we may be able to get a passage on a fishing-boat."

"That's not my plan. Do you remember the motor-launch in the shed at the end of Jules de la Paix's garden?"

"Can't see how that can help us," objected Rollo. "We haven't a crew."

"If we can get the motor to start, the worst of the difficulty is over," declared Kenneth. "At the trial, you'll recollect, the sergeant of the Civil Guard reported that the craft was provisioned and ready for sea. He was ordered to refrain from damaging the vessel."

"She may have disappeared."

"We'll soon see."

Kenneth led the way along a dark, deserted alley, till he came to a wall on the top of which was a formidable array of broken glass. This wall marked the side boundary to the spy's premises.

"A tough nut to crack," remarked Rollo, as he noticed for the first time the jagged glass gleaming in the red glare of the burning houses.

"We'll come across a door, unless I'm much mistaken---- Hullo! that's a nasty one," said Kenneth.

A shower of shrapnel, rattling on the roofs and shattering the windows of some houses in the street they had just left, occasioned this exclamation; for the Germans were mostly using shells of this variety, to terrify the inhabitants rather than to cause great material damage.

"Quite near enough," rejoined Rollo coolly. "Here's the door."

The lads tried it. It was locked and bolted. The stout oaken framework resisted their efforts to burst it open with their shoulders.

Kenneth unslung his rifle. One shot amidst that chaos of terrific detonations would be practically inaudible, and even if it were heard there were none sufficiently curious to ascertain the reason.

The heavy lock was not proof against the high-velocity bullet. A second shot demolished the bolt. The gate creaked on its hinges.

Passing along the garden path amidst autumn flowers mown down by the explosion of shells, several of which had fallen close to the house, the lads arrived at the boat-house. The windows were shattered; there was a gaping hole in the roof. Kenneth began to entertain grave doubts as to whether the motor-boat had escaped damage.

"She's there, right enough," he announced, as he peered through one of the broken windows and saw the grey-painted outlines of the craft within. "The door's locked. I'll try another shot."

"Steady on, man!" cautioned his companion. "Mind you don't bore a hole through the boat as well. See, here is a crowbar, or something like it. We'll prise the door open."

They seized the bar and forced the pointed end between the door and the jamb.

"Now!" exclaimed Kenneth.

At that very moment, before the lads could exert any pressure upon the crowbar, a blinding flash came from overhead, immediately followed by a terrific detonation. Splinters, broken glass, tiles, clods of earth and leaves flew in all directions, while a pungent cloud of smoke enveloped everything.

For nearly ten seconds the two chums held on to the crowbar, then Kenneth spoke.

"I'm hit, confound it!" he exclaimed. "It's not much, though."

He relaxed his grasp of the iron bar as he spoke, and reeled slightly. Rollo held out his hand to steady him, and perceived for the first time that it was wet with blood and practically devoid of the sense of feeling.

"What! You hit too?" asked Kenneth, pulling himself together on seeing the dark stain on his companion's wrist.

"Yes; a shrapnel ball clean through my right wrist," announced Rollo, "It doesn't hurt much."

"And I've a bullet through the palm of my left hand," added Kenneth, displaying a small punctured wound about two inches from the base of the little finger. "It might have been worse. We'll tie our handkerchiefs over the wounds; that will do all right for the time. Now for the door. The sooner we open it the better. Buck up, man; the girls must be terribly anxious."

Thus exhorted, although feeling giddy from the effects of the shock, Rollo grasped the crowbar with his unwounded hand. Kenneth bore against the lever with all his might, and with a crash the door flew open.

The motor-boat was on a cradle, just clear of the water. It was now half-tide and on the ebb. A hasty examination failed to reveal signs of structural damage to the little craft, although the scuttle-glasses of the cabin were all either cracked or completely demolished. The craft was fully equipped, but the provisions had vanished. Doubtless they had been removed by the Civil Guards at or after the arrest of the spy.

"Let's launch her, then we can see if she leaks," exclaimed Kenneth. He was feverishly working against time. His energy seemed inexhaustible. "There's the windlass; let her go gently."

Down glided the boat into the sullen waters of the canal. Kenneth leapt on board and secured her along-side, then lifted the floor-boards over the well.

"She's making a few drops," he announced. "I think it's only because she has been hauled up in the dry for some time. By the time we get the girls down she'll take up."

Rollo offered no remark. In his mind there were doubts as to whether Thelma Everest and Yvonne Resimont were still in the hospital; if they were, would they abandon their duties? But he followed his chum, nursing his wounded hand, wincing at every step he took as the pain shot through the nerves of his arm.

Kenneth strode on, indifferent to his injuries. Hardly a word passed between them as they hurried along the alley and into the smoke-filled streets. There were still a few persons about, mostly men of the criminal class, who seized the opportunity for indiscriminate looting. Here and there were the corpses of fugitives, stricken down in their final mad rush for the safety that was denied them. The air was filled with the crash of exploding shells and the clatter of broken glass, to the accompaniment of the distant booming of the hostile guns.

Closely followed by his companion, Kenneth dashed up the steps of the hospital. The door was wide open. A portion of the facade of the portico had been shattered by a shell. Hardly a window remained intact in the building.

A nurse, her face serenely peaceful in spite of the scene of destruction around her, came forward.

"You men are wounded? Come this way; we will speedily attend to your hurts."

Kenneth shook his head.

"Our wounds are slight," he protested. "I have come for my sister, Thelma Everest, and her friend, Mademoiselle Resimont--if they can be spared," he added, for the sight of this woman calmly on duty caused him to take a different view of the reason lot his sister's presence in the hospital.

"They can be spared," replied the nurse. "Already we have sent the least serious cases away, and have dismissed the younger nurses. Mademoiselle Everest and her friend refused to take advantage of the permission. They were expecting you, and you have not failed them, I see. I will inform them."

Quickly Thelma and Yvonne appeared, heavily cloaked, and carrying handbags, in readiness for their flight.

"We would not have gone, Kenneth," said his sister, "only there is no more work for us to do. But is it not already too late to leave the city? We were told that the bridge of boats had been destroyed, and that all communication with outside is interrupted. Four of our nurses left by the last train that got away from here."

"We'll manage that all right," declared Kenneth stoutly, although in his mind he dreaded taking the girls on the journey along the shell-endangered streets.

"We are ready," said Thelma simply; then, having taken a hasty yet tender farewell of the head nursing sister, the girls accompanied the two lads into the now deserted thoroughfare.

Unhurt, although several highly-charged projectiles burst above the roofs on either side of the road, the four refugees gained the boat-house of the late spy. No more shells had fallen there in the interval. The boat had made but half an inch of water, and this could easily be got under by means of the pump. The fuel tanks were filled with petrol; there were a dozen intact tins in the after locker.

For provisions each lad had a couple of long rolls of bread in his haversack. Thelma had brought biscuits and butter; Yvonne had provided a tin of ground coffee and condensed milk--a meagre fare on which to essay a voyage across the North Sea, but enough to hazard the journey without fear of actual starvation.

Kenneth was by no means a novice in seamanship, On more than one vacation he had spent part of the time in motor-boating in Southampton Water, where a cousin of his kept a high-powered craft. After very little delay he succeeded in finding the position of the various switches and taps. At the third attempt the engine fired. The propeller blades, set at the neutral, churned the water. The motor purred rhythmically, as a well-conducted motor should.

"Cast off there, for'ard!" ordered Kenneth, addressing Rollo, who had taken up his post in the bows. "Thelma, undo that rope, quickly now!"

It was no time for courtesies. Kenneth was skipper, and his crew had to be told peremptorily; it was his notion of showing authority.

Swiftly gathering stern-way the boat glided away from the staging; then, with a jerk as the propeller began to churn ahead, the little craft headed towards the Scheldt and the North Sea.

Kenneth's was by no means an easy task. Having the use of only one arm, he was severely handicapped. Steering by means of a wheel is far from satisfactory when literally "single-handed", while the intricacies of the canal required a certain amount of quickness with the helm. Twice the boat nearly collided with the partly submerged hulls of destroyed barges. The canal was now little better than a ditch, for the tide had already fallen twelve feet out of sixteen. One satisfaction Kenneth had: there were no lock-gates to negotiate. The falling tide told him that.

"Something ahead!" shouted Rollo. "Wreckage, I think."

His chum immediately throttled down, keeping his unwounded hand on the reversing lever. By the lurid glare in the sky he could discern the obstruction: the shattered timbers of the lock-gates. Would there be enough water to clear the sill of the basin? If not, they would have to remain for hours, in danger of the falling shells, until the tide rose sufficiently to float the boat over the barrier.

Kenneth prudently stopped the engine. He would not risk losing the blades of the propeller. Slowly and with bare steerage-way the boat glided towards the ruined gates. Her bows passed the gaunt timbers, then, with a horrid grinding noise, she hung up by the stern.

"Get for'ard, all hands!" shouted Kenneth. "We may be able to jump her over."

The four members of the crew made their way to the bows. Regardless of their injuries the two lads heaved and pushed with the boat-hooks. They could hear the keel grate on the stone-work. The tide was still falling.

A shell, fortunately without exploding, dropped into the water twenty yards astern, throwing a shower of spray over the boat and her crew.

Kenneth glanced at the girls. By the glare of the burning city he could see that their faces were calm. Either they were ignorant of their narrow escape or quite unperturbed by their hazardous position.

"All together; push for all you are worth!" exclaimed Kenneth desperately.

Inch by inch the boat was urged onwards, till with a sudden jerk it dropped across the sill into deep water. Rollo, faint with pain, sat limply in the for'ard well; then, concealing his injuries, he assisted the girls to the doubtful shelter of the cabin.

Kenneth, too, was in a sorry plight. Setting his teeth tightly he restarted the engine; then, taking up his post at the wheel, he guided the swift little craft towards the centre of the River Scheldt.

In spite of the still pressing danger the crew were enthralled by the scene that presented itself to their gaze. Antwerp was in the throes of its death-struggle. Dominating the houses on the river bank rose the spire of the cathedral, its delicate tracery silhouetted clearly against the dull red glare of the burning oil-tanks. Overhead the thick pall of smoke had spread far and wide, its lower edges tinted blood-red by the blaze of the numerous fires. High above the roofs were the rapid, seemingly interminable brilliant flashes of the exploding shells, while away to the southward the sky was stabbed by the incessant lightning-like glare of the bombarding guns.

Antwerp had fallen. Belgium as a country had practically ceased to exist; Belgium as a nation, still undaunted, had made a supreme sacrifice. She had saved Europe--and Europe's task was clear. Not until the brave little nation was rehabilitated, and the German menace crushed once and for all time, could the Allies hope to lay down the sword that they had been reluctantly compelled to unsheathe.