# Little Comrade (Munsey's Magazine)/Chapter 13

pp. 886–889.

### CHAPTER XIII
#### The Passage of the Meuse

The mist of early evening had settled over the river and wiped away every vestige of the army, save the flaring lights of the camp-kitchens and the white lamps of the motors; but the creaking of wheels, the pounding of engines, and the regular tramp of countless feet told that the German advance had not slackened for a single instant.
On the uplands there was still a little light. Stewart and his companion picked their way cautiously down through a belt of woodland, across a rough field, and over a wall, beyond which they found an uneven path, made evidently by a vanished herd as it went back and forth to its pasture. They advanced slowly and silently, every sense on the alert. Seemingly no pickets had been posted on this side, from which there was no reason to fear an attack, and they were soon down amid the mist, at the edge of the encampment.
Here, however, there were sentries—a close line of them; the fugitives could see them dimly outlined against the fires, and could hear their interchange of challenges.
“It is impossible to get through here,” whispered the girl. “Let us go on until we are below the bridge. Perhaps we shall find a gap there.”
So, hand in hand, lest they should become separated in the darkness, they worked their way cautiously down-stream, just out of sight of the line of sentries—who, be it said, rarely took the trouble to glance into the darkness.
“Wait!” whispered Stewart suddenly. “What is that ahead?”
Something tall and black and vaguely menacing loomed above them into the night.
“The church tower!” breathed the girl after a moment. “See, there are ruins all about it—it is the village they burned.”
They hesitated. Should they enter it, or try to go around? There was something sinister and threatening about these roofless, blackened walls which had once been homes; but to go around meant climbing cliffs, meant breathless scrambling—above all, meant loss of time.
“We must risk it,” said the girl at last. “We can come back if the place is guarded.”
Their hands instinctively tightened their clasp as they stole forward into the shadow of the houses, along what had once been a street, but was now littered and blocked with fallen walls and débris of every kind. Everywhere there was the stench of half-burned wood, and another stench, more penetrating, more nauseating.
Stewart felt his companion's hand squeeze his and drag him suddenly against a wall.
“Down, down!” she breathed. and they cowered behind a mass of fallen masonry.
Then Stewart peered out cautiously. Yes, there was some one coming. Far down the street ahead of them a tiny light flashed, disappeared, flashed again, and disappeared.
Crowding close together, they buried themselves deeper in the ruins and waited.
At last they could hear steps—slow, cautious steps, full of fear—and the light appeared again, dancing from side to side. It seemed to be a lantern, carefully shaded, so that only a narrow beam of light escaped; and that beam was sent dancing from side to side along the street, in dark corners, under fallen doorways.
Suddenly it stopped, and Stewart's heart leaped sickeningly as he saw that the beam rested on a face—a white face, staring up with sightless eyes. The light approached and hung above it. A living hand caught up the dead one, on which there was the gleam of gold; a knife flashed—
And then, from the darkness almost beside them, four darts of flame stabbed toward the kneeling figure, and the ruins rocked with a great explosion.
When Stewart opened his eyes again he saw a squad of soldiers, each armed with an electric torch, standing about the body of the robber of the dead, while their corporal emptied his pockets. There were rings—one still encircling a severed finger—a watch, and money. The corporal gathered the booty into his handkerchief, tied the ends together with a satisfied grunt, and gave a gruff command. The lights vanished, and the squad stumbled ahead into the darkness.
There was a moment's silence. Stewart's nerves were quivering so convulsively that he could scarcely control them. He could feel his mouth twitching.
“We can't go on,” he muttered. “We must go back. This is too horrible, it is unbearable!”
Together they stole tremblingly out of the ruin, along the littered street, past the church tower, across the road, over the wall, back into the clean fields. There they flung themselves down gaspingly side by side.
How sweet the smell of the earth after the stench of the looted town! How calm and lovely the stars!
Stewart, staring up at them, felt a great serenity descend upon him. After all, what did it matter to the universe, this trivial disturbance upon our tiny planet? Men might kill one another, nations disappear; but the planets would swing on in their courses, the constellations go their predestined ways. Of what significance was man in the great scheme of things? How absurd the pomp of kings and kaisers, how grotesque their assumption of greatness!
A stifled sob startled him. He groped quickly for his comrade, and found her lying prone, her face buried in her arms. He drew her close and held her as he might have held a child. After all, she was scarcely more than that—a child, delicate and sensitive. As a child might, she pillowed her head upon his breast and lay there sobbing softly.
But the sobs ceased presently; he could feel how she struggled for self-control; and at last she turned in his arms and lay staring up at the heavens.
“That's right,” he said. “Look up at the stars! That helps!” and it seemed to him, in spite of the tramp of feet, the rattle of wheels, and the curses of savage drivers, that they were alone together in the midst of things, and that nothing else mattered.
“How sublime they are!” she whispered. “How they calm and strengthen one! They seem to understand!” She turned her face and looked at him. “You, too, have understood!” she said very softly; then gently disengaged his arms and sat erect. “Now we must be going!”
Without a word Stewart released her. She sat still an instant, her warm hand on his. Then she rose quickly.
“We must go back the way we came,” she said; and they set out again along the edge of the army, stumbling across rough fields, crouching behind hedges, turning aside to avoid a lighted house where some officers were making merry. For perhaps a mile they pressed on, with a line of sentries always at their right, outlined against the gleam of scattered lights. Then, quite suddenly, there were no more lights, and they knew that they had reached the limit of the encampment.
Had they also reached the limit of the line of sentries? There was no way to make sure; but they crept forward to the wall along the highway and peered cautiously over. The road seemed empty. They crossed it as swiftly and silently as shadows, and in a moment were safe behind the wall on the other side.
Beyond it lay the yard of an iron-foundry, with great piles of castings scattered about and a tall building looming at their left. In front of it they caught the gleam of a sentry's rifle; so they bore away to the right until they reached the line of the railway running close along the river-bank.
There were sentries here, too, but they were stationed far apart and apparently were half asleep, and the fugitives had no difficulty in slipping between them. A moment later they had scrambled down a steep bank and stood at the edge of the river.
“And now,” whispered Stewart, “to get across!”
He looked out across the stream, some hundred yards in width, and flowing strong and deep, for this stream which was holding the Germans back had its origin away southward in the heart of France, and must yet go many miles before it reached the sea.
“If we could find a boat!” he said. “We saw plenty of them this afternoon.”
“We dare not use a boat,” the girl objected. “We should be seen and fired upon.”
“Do you mean to swim?” Stewart demanded.
“Be more careful!” she cautioned. “Some one may hear us.” She drew him down into the shadow of the bank. “Unfortunately, I cannot swim, but no doubt you can.”
“I'm not what would be called an expert, but I think I could swim across this river. However, I absolutely refuse to try to take you over. It would be too great a risk.”
“If we had a plank or log, I could hold on while you pushed it along. If you grew tired you could rest and drift a while.”
Stewart considered the plan. It seemed feasible. A drifting plank would attract no attention from the shore—the river was full of débris from the operations around Liège—and, whether they got over or not, there would be no danger of either of them drowning. And they ought to get over, for it would be no great task to work a plank across the stream.
“Yes, I think I could do that,” he said at last. “Let us see if we can find a plank.”
There was nothing of the sort along the shore, though they searched it for some distance; but opposite the foundry they came upon a pile of the square wooden sand-boxes in which castings are made. When Stewart saw them he chuckled with satisfaction.
“Just the thing!” he said. “Providence is evidently on our side to-night.”
“I hope so!” breathed the girl, and between them they carried one of the boxes down to the edge of the water.
Then, after a moment's hesitation, Stewart sat down and began to take off his shoes.
“We shall have to get rid of our superfluous clothing,” he said in the most matter-of-fact tone he could muster. “There is nothing heavier than clothes when they get wet. Besides, we've got to keep them dry if we can. We should almost freeze to death after we left the water, and they would betray us a mile off.”
The girl stood for a moment staring out across the river. Then she sat down with her back to him.
“You are quite right,” she agreed, and bent above her shoes.
“We'll turn the box upside down and put our clothes upon it, like freight on a raft,” went on Stewart cheerfully. “They will keep dry there. The water isn't very cold, probably, but we shall be mighty glad to get into dry things when we get out of it.”
She did not answer, and Stewart went rapidly on with his undressing. When that was finished he rolled his clothes into a compact bundle inside his coat and tied the sleeves together.
“Now I'm going to launch the boat,” he said. “Roll your clothes up inside your coat, so that nothing white will show, and wade out to me as soon as you are ready.”
“Very well,” she answered in a low tone.
With his bundle under one arm, Stewart turned the box over and dragged it into the river. He had been shivering in the night air, but the water was agreeably warm. Placing his bundle upon the top of the box, he pushed it before him out into the stream, and was soon breast-deep. Then, holding the box against the current, he waited.
What was delaying her? Why did she not come? He could not see the shore, but he strained his eyes toward it, wondering if he should go back, if anything had happened.
Then, from the mist along the bank, a white figure emerged, dim and ghostlike in the darkness, and he heard a gentle splashing as she came toward him through the water. He raised his arm, to make certain that she saw him, then turned his head away.
Near and nearer came the splashing; then the box rocked gently as she placed her clothing on it.
“All right?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” she answered, and he turned to find her sweet, appealing face looking up at him from the level of the water, which came just beneath her chin.
“Have you got a firm hold of the handle?”
“Yes.”
He assured himself that both bundles of clothing were secure.
“All ready, then,” he said. “Just hold on and let your body float out in the water. Don't hold your head too high, and if you feel your hands slipping call me at once. I don't want to lose you, little comrade!”
“I will remember,” she said, smiling up at him.
“Then here we go.”
He pushed the box slowly out into the stream. In a moment the water was at his chin.
“All right?” he asked again.
“Yes.”
He took another step forward; the current caught him and lifted him off his feet, and he began to swim easily and slowly. He was not sure of his strength, it was a long time since he had done any serious swimming, and he knew that he must husband himself. Then, too, the current was stronger than it had seemed from the shore, and he found that he could make headway against it but slowly, for the box was of an awkward shape and the girl's body trailing behind it so much dead weight.
“Slow but sure,” he said reassuringly, resting a moment. “You're quite all right?”
“Yes. You mustn't worry about me.”
He glanced back at the shore, where the lights of the camp shone dimly through the mist.
“We're going to drift past the camp,” he said; “but they can't see us, and it will make our landing safer if we come out below the troops. It would be rather embarrassing, wouldn't it, if we found a patrol waiting for us on the shore? Now for another swim!”
He pushed ahead until he found himself beginning to tire, then stopped and looked around.
“There's the bridge!” he said suddenly.
And, sure enough, just ahead they could see its dim shape spanning the stream. A cold fear gripped Stewart's heart. Suppose they should be swept against one of the abutments, and the box shattered to fragments?
“Take tight hold with both hands,” he cautioned. “Don't let go, whatever happens!”
He swung himself round to the front of the box and tried to pierce the gloom ahead. The center of the stream would be clear, he told himself, and they must be nearly in the center. Then he heard the confused tread of many feet, the current seemed to quicken, and he glanced up to see that they were almost beneath the bridge. Yes, the stream ahead was clear; but what were those lights down along the water?
And then he saw that a boat was moored there, and that men were strengthening the supports with which the engineers had hastily repaired the shattered abutment.
With frenzied energy he pulled the box around so that his companion's head was hidden behind it; then, with only his nose out, he floated silently on. They would not see him, he told himself; they were too busily at work. Even if they did, they could make nothing of this rough shape sweeping down the river.
Nevertheless, as they came within the circle of light cast by the flaring torches, Stewart, taking a deep breath, let himself sink below the surface; and not until the blood was singing in his ears did he come up again.
They had passed. They were safe! He drew a deep breath. Then he peered around the box.
“Are you there? Are you all right?”
“Yes,” came the soft answer. “Never tell me again that you are not a fighter!”
“Compliments are barred until we are safe in France!” he reminded her gaily. “But it's clear sailing now.”
He struck out again, pushing diagonally forward toward the bank which he could not see, but which could not be far away. This was not going to prove such a desperate adventure, after all. The worst was over, for, once on land, far below the German troops, they had only to push forward to find themselves among friends.
Then his heart stood still as a shrill scream rent the night—a woman's scream of deadly horror—and he swiftly turned his head, to find that his comrade was no longer there.