The Second Victorian Mystery Megapack, page 69
The whitewashed cabin of the Coast Guard was perched on the edge of the cliff. Behind it the downs ran back to meet the road. The door of the cabin was open and from it a shaft of light cut across a tiny garden and showed the white fence and the walk of shells.
“We must pass in single file in front of that light,” whispered Ford, “And then, after we are sure he has seen us, we must run like the devil!”
“I’m on in that last scene,” growled Herbert.
“Only,” repeated Ford with emphasis, “We must be sure he has seen us.”
Not twenty feet from them came a bursting roar, a flash, many roars, many flashes, many bullets.
“He’s seen us!” yelled Birrell.
After the light from his open door had shown him one German soldier fully armed, the Coast Guard had seen nothing further. But judging from the shrieks of terror and the sounds of falling bodies that followed his first shot, he was convinced he was hemmed in by an army, and he proceeded to sell his life dearly. Clip after clip of cartridges he emptied into the night, now to the front, now to the rear, now out to sea, now at his own shadow in the lamp-light. To the people a quarter of a mile away at Morston it sounded like a battle.
After running half a mile, Ford, bruised and breathless, fell at full length on the grass beside the car. Near it, tearing from his person the last vestiges of a German uniform, he found Birrell. He also was puffing painfully.
“What happened to Herbert?” panted Ford.
“I don’t know,” gasped Birrell, “When I saw him last he was diving over the cliff into the sea. How many times did you die?”
“About twenty!” groaned the American, “And, besides being dead, I am severely wounded. Every time he fired, I fell on my face, and each time I hit a rock!”
A scarecrow of a figure appeared suddenly in the rays of the head-lights. It was Herbert, scratched, bleeding, dripping with water, and clad simply in a shirt and trousers. He dragged out his kit bag and fell into his golf clothes.
“Anybody who wants a perfectly good German uniform,” he cried, “can have mine. I left it in the first row of breakers. It didn’t fit me, anyway.”
The other two uniforms were hidden in the seat of the car. The rifles and helmets, to lend color to the invasion, were dropped in the open road, and five minutes later three gentlemen in inconspicuous Harris tweeds, and with golf clubs protruding from every part of their car, turned into the shore road to Cromer. What they saw brought swift terror to their guilty souls and the car to an abrupt halt. Before them was a regiment of regulars advancing in column of fours, at the “double.” An officer sprang to the front of the car and seated himself beside Ford.
“I’ll have to commandeer this,” he said. “Run back to Cromer. Don’t crush my men, but go like the devil!”
“We heard firing here,” explained the officer at the Coast Guard station. “The Guard drove them back to the sea. He counted over a dozen. They made pretty poor practice, for he isn’t wounded, but his gravel walk looks as though some one had drawn a harrow over it. I wonder,” exclaimed the officer suddenly, “if you are the three gentlemen who first gave the alarm to Colonel Raglan and then went on to warn the other coast towns. Because, if you are, he wants your names.”
Ford considered rapidly. If he gave false names and that fact were discovered, they would be suspected and investigated, and the worst might happen. So he replied that his friends and himself probably were the men to whom the officer referred. He explained they had been returning from Cromer, where they had gone to play golf, when they had been held up by the Germans.
“You were lucky to escape,” said the officer “And in keeping on to give warning you were taking chances. If I may say so, we think you behaved extremely well.”
Ford could not answer. His guilty conscience shamed him into silence. With his siren shrieking and his horn tooting, he was forcing the car through lanes of armed men. They packed each side of the road. They were banked behind the hedges. Their camp-fires blazed from every hill-top.
“Your regiment seems to have turned out to a man!” exclaimed Ford admiringly.
“My regiment!” snorted the officer. “You’ve passed through five regiments already, and there are as many more in the dark places. They’re everywhere!” he cried jubilantly.
“And I thought they were only where you see the camp-fires,” exclaimed Ford.
“That’s what the Germans think,” said the officer. “It’s working like a clock,” he cried happily. “There hasn’t been a hitch. As soon as they got your warning to Colonel Raglan, they came down to the coast like a wave, on foot, by trains, by motors, and at nine o’clock the Government took over all the railroads. The county regiments, regulars, yeomanry, territorials, have been spread along this shore for thirty miles. Down in London the Guards started to Dover and Brighton two hours ago. The Automobile Club in the first hour collected two hundred cars and turned them over to the Guards in Bird Cage Walk. Cody and Grahame-White and eight of his air men left Hendon an hour ago to reconnoitre the south coast. Admiral Beatty has started with the Channel Squadron to head off the German convoy in the North Sea, and the torpedo destroyers have been sent to lie outside of Heligoland. We’ll get that back by daylight. And on land every one of the three services is under arms. On this coast alone before sunrise we’ll have one hundred thousand men, and from Colchester the brigade division of artillery, from Ipswich the R. H. A.’s with siege-guns, field-guns, quick-firing-guns, all kinds of guns spread out over every foot of ground from here to Hunstanton. They thought they’d give us a surprise party. They will never give us another surprise party!”
On the top of the hill at Overstrand, the headwaiter of the East Cliff Hotel and the bearded German stood in the garden back of the house with the forbidding walls. From the road in front came unceasingly the tramp and shuffle of thousands of marching feet, the rumble of heavy cannon, the clanking of their chains, the voices of men trained to command raised in sharp, confident orders. The sky was illuminated by countless fires. Every window of every cottage and hotel blazed with lights. The night had been turned into day. The eyes of the two Germans were like the eyes of those who had passed through an earthquake, of those who looked upon the burning of San Francisco, upon the destruction of Messina.
“We were betrayed, general,” whispered the head-waiter.
“We were betrayed, baron,” replied the bearded one.
“But you were in time to warn the flotilla.”
With a sigh, the older man nodded.
“The last message I received over the wireless,” he said, “before I destroyed it, read, ‘Your message understood. We are returning. Our movements will be explained as manoeuvres. And,” added the general, “The English, having driven us back, will be willing to officially accept that explanation. As manoeuvres, this night will go down into history. Return to the hotel,” he commanded, “And in two months you can rejoin your regiment.”
On the morning after the invasion the New York Republic published a map of Great Britain that covered three columns and a wood-cut of Ford that was spread over five. Beneath it was printed: “Lester Ford, our London correspondent, captured by the Germans; he escapes and is the first to warn the English people.”
On the same morning, In an editorial in The Times of London, appeared this paragraph:
“The Germans were first seen by the Hon. Arthur Herbert, the eldest son of Lord Cinaris; Mr. Patrick Headford Birrell—both of Balliol College, Oxford; and Mr. Lester Ford, the correspondent of the New York Republic. These gentlemen escaped from the landing party that tried to make them prisoners, and at great risk proceeded in their motor-car over roads infested by the Germans to all the coast towns of Norfolk, warning the authorities. Should the war office fail to recognize their services, the people of Great Britain will prove that they are not ungrateful.”
* * * *
A week later three young men sat at dinner on the terrace of the Savoy.
“Shall we, or shall we not,” asked Herbert, “tell my uncle that we three, and we three alone, were the invaders?”
“That’s hardly correct,” said Ford, “as we now know there were two hundred thousand invaders. We were the only three who got ashore.”
“I vote we don’t tell him,” said Birrell. “Let him think with everybody else that the Germans blundered; that an advance party landed too soon and gave the show away. If we talk,” he argued, “We’ll get credit for a successful hoax. If we keep quiet, everybody will continue to think we saved England. I’m content to let it go at that.”
CHAPTER 4
BLOOD WILL TELL
David Greene was an employee of the Burdett Automatic Punch Company. The manufacturing plant of the company was at Bridgeport, but in the New York offices there were working samples of all the punches, from the little nickel-plated hand punch with which conductors squeezed holes in railroad tickets, to the big punch that could bite into an iron plate as easily as into a piece of pie. David’s duty was to explain these different punches, and accordingly when Burdett Senior or one of the sons turned a customer over to David he spoke of him as a salesman. But David called himself a “demonstrator.” For a short time he even succeeded in persuading the other salesmen to speak of themselves as demonstrators, but the shipping clerks and bookkeepers laughed them out of it. They could not laugh David out of it. This was so, partly because he had no sense of humor, and partly because he had a great-great-grandfather. Among the salesmen on lower Broadway, to possess a great-great-grandfather is unusual, even a great-grandfather is a rarity, and either is considered superfluous. But to David the possession of a great-great-grandfather was a precious and open delight. He had possessed him only for a short time. Undoubtedly he always had existed, but it was not until David’s sister Anne married a doctor in Bordentown, New Jersey, and became socially ambitious, that David emerged as a Son of Washington.
It was sister Anne, anxious to “get in” as a “Daughter” and wear a distaff pin in her shirtwaist, who discovered the revolutionary ancestor. She unearthed him, or rather ran him to earth, in the graveyard of the Presbyterian church at Bordentown. He was no less a person than General Hiram Greene, and he had fought with Washington at Trenton and at Princeton. Of this there was no doubt. That, later, on moving to New York, his descendants became peace-loving salesmen did not affect his record. To enter a society founded on heredity, the important thing is first to catch your ancestor, and having made sure of him, David entered the Society of the Sons of Washington with flying colors. He was not unlike the man who had been speaking prose for forty years without knowing it. He was not unlike the other man who woke to find himself famous. He had gone to bed a timid, near-sighted, underpaid salesman without a relative in the world, except a married sister in Bordentown, and he awoke to find he was a direct descendant of “Neck or Nothing” Greene, a revolutionary hero, a friend of Washington, a man whose portrait hung in the State House at Trenton. David’s life had lacked color. The day he carried his certificate of membership to the big jewelry store uptown and purchased two rosettes, one for each of his two coats, was the proudest of his life.
The other men in the Broadway office took a different view. As Wyckoff, one of Burdett’s flying squadron of travelling salesmen, said, “All grandfathers look alike to me, whether they’re great, or great-great-great. Each one is as dead as the other. I’d rather have a live cousin who could loan me a five, or slip me a drink. What did your great-great dad ever do for you?”
“Well, for one thing,” said David stiffly, “he fought in the War of the Revolution. He saved us from the shackles of monarchical England; he made it possible for me and you to enjoy the liberties of a free republic.”
“Don’t try to tell me your grandfather did all that,” protested Wyckoff, “because I know better. There were a lot of others helped. I read about it in a book.”
“I am not grudging glory to others,” returned David; “I am only saying I am proud that I am a descendant of a revolutionist.”
Wyckoff dived into his inner pocket and produced a leather photograph frame that folded like a concertina.
“I don’t want to be a descendant,” he said; “I’d rather be an ancestor. Look at those.” Proudly he exhibited photographs of Mrs. Wyckoff with the baby and of three other little Wyckoffs. David looked with envy at the children.
“When I’m married,” he stammered, and at the words he blushed, “I hope to be an ancestor.”
“If you’re thinking of getting married,” said Wyckoff, “you’d better hope for a raise in salary.”
The other clerks were as unsympathetic as Wyckoff. At first when David showed them his parchment certificate, and his silver gilt insignia with on one side a portrait of Washington, and on the other a Continental soldier, they admitted it was dead swell. They even envied him, not the grandfather, but the fact that owing to that distinguished relative David was constantly receiving beautifully engraved invitations to attend the monthly meetings of the society; to subscribe to a fund to erect monuments on battle-fields to mark neglected graves; to join in joyous excursions to the tomb of Washington or of John Paul Jones; to inspect West Point, Annapolis, and Bunker Hill; to be among those present at the annual “banquet” at Delmonico’s. In order that when he opened these letters he might have an audience, he had given the society his office address.
In these communications he was always addressed as “Dear Compatriot,” and never did the words fail to give him a thrill. They seemed to lift him out of Burdett’s salesrooms and Broadway, and place him next to things uncommercial, untainted, high, and noble. He did not quite know what an aristocrat was, but he believed being a compatriot made him an aristocrat. When customers were rude, when Mr. John or Mr. Robert was overbearing, this idea enabled David to rise above their ill-temper, and he would smile and say to himself: “If they knew the meaning of the blue rosette in my button-hole, how differently they would treat me! How easily with a word could I crush them!”
But few of the customers recognized the significance of the button. They thought it meant that David belonged to the Y. M. C. A. or was a teetotaler. David, with his gentle manners and pale, ascetic face, was liable to give that impression.
When Wyckoff mentioned marriage, the reason David blushed was because, although no one in the office suspected it, he wished to marry the person in whom the office took the greatest pride. This was Miss Emily Anthony, one of Burdett and Sons’ youngest, most efficient, and prettiest stenographers, and although David did not cut as dashing a figure as did some of the firm’s travelling men, Miss Anthony had found something in him so greatly to admire that she had, out of office hours, accepted his devotion, his theatre tickets, and an engagement ring. Indeed, so far had matters progressed, that it had been almost decided when in a few months they would go upon their vacations they also would go upon their honeymoon. And then a cloud had come between them, and from a quarter from which David had expected only sunshine.
The trouble befell when David discovered he had a great-great-grandfather. With that fact itself Miss Anthony was almost as pleased as was David himself, but while he was content to bask in another’s glory, Miss Anthony saw in his inheritance only an incentive to achieve glory for himself.
From a hard-working salesman she had asked but little, but from a descendant of a national hero she expected other things. She was a determined young person, and for David she was an ambitious young person. She found she was dissatisfied. She found she was disappointed. The great-great-grandfather had opened up a new horizon—had, in a way, raised the standard. She was as fond of David as always, but his tales of past wars and battles, his accounts of present banquets at which he sat shoulder to shoulder with men of whom even Burdett and Sons spoke with awe, touched her imagination.
“You shouldn’t be content to just wear a button,” she urged. “If you’re a Son of Washington, you ought to act like one.”
“I know I’m not worthy of you,” David sighed.
“I don’t mean that, and you know I don’t,” Emily replied indignantly. “It has nothing to do with me! I want you to be worthy of yourself, of your grandpa Hiram!”
“But how?” complained David. “What chance has a twenty-five dollar a week clerk—”
It was a year before the Spanish-American War, while the patriots of Cuba were fighting the mother country for their independence.
“If I were a Son of the Revolution,” said Emily, “I’d go to Cuba and help free it.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” cried David. “If I did that I’d lose my job, and we’d never be able to marry. Besides, what’s Cuba done for me? All I know about Cuba is, I once smoked a Cuban cigar and it made me ill.”
“Did Lafayette talk like that?” demanded Emily. “Did he ask what have the American rebels ever done for me?”
“If I were in Lafayette’s class,” sighed David, “I wouldn’t be selling automatic punches.”
“There’s your trouble,” declared Emily “You lack self-confidence. You’re too humble, you’ve got fighting blood and you ought to keep saying to yourself, ‘Blood will tell,’ and the first thing you know, it will tell! You might begin by going into politics in your ward. Or, you could join the militia. That takes only one night a week, and then, if we did go to war with Spain, you’d get a commission, and come back a captain!”
Emily’s eyes were beautiful with delight. But the sight gave David no pleasure. In genuine distress, he shook his head.
“Emily,” he said, “you’re going to be awfully disappointed in me.”
