# Little Comrade (Munsey's Magazine)/Chapter 15

pp. 894–898

### CHAPTER XV
#### Disaster

He was beside her in an instant, his arm around her, raising her. He scarcely heard the guns; he scarcely heard the whistle of the bullets; he knew only, as he knelt there in the road, that his little comrade had been stricken down.
Where was she wounded? Not in the head, thank Heaven! Not in the throat, so white and delicate. The body, perhaps; and he tore aside the coat—
She opened her eyes and looked at him.
“What is it?” she asked»
“You've been hit,” he panted. “Do you feel pain?”
She closed her eyes for an instant.
“No,” she answered; “but my left leg is numb, as if—”
“Pray Heaven it's only in the leg! I must get you somewhere out of this.”
He raised his head to look around, and was suddenly conscious of the banging guns. The ridges on either side were rimmed with fire. He cast a glance behind him, and his heart stood still, for a troop of Uhlans was deploying into the road. Forward, then, to the village, since that was the only way!
He stooped to lift her.
“I may hurt you a little,” he said.
“What are you going to do?”
“I'm going to carry you to the village. Here, wave my handkerchief to show that we are friends”; and he thrust it into her hand. “Now, your arm about my neck.”
She obeyed mutely; then, as he straightened up, she saw, over his shoulder, the cavalry forming for a charge.
“No, no!” she cried. “Put me down. Here are the letters. See, I am putting them into your pocket. Now, put me down and save yourself!”
He was picking his way forward over the barbed wire. He dared not lift his eyes from the road, even for a glance at her.
“Be still!” he commanded. “Don't struggle so! I will not put you down. Wave the handkerchief!”
“There is cavalry down yonder,” she protested wildly. “It will charge in a moment!”
“I know it. That's one reason why I will not put you down!
He was past the wire; he could look at her for an instant—into her eyes, so close to his; deep into her eyes, dark with fear and pain.
“Another reason is,” he said deliberately, “that I love you! I'm telling you now because I want you to know, if this should be the end. I love you, love you, love you!”
He was forced to look away from her, for there were fallen trees in front, but he felt the arm around his neck tighten.
And then he bent his head and kissed her.
“Like that,” he said hoarsely; “only a thousand times more than that—a million times more than that!”
She pulled herself up until her cheek was pressed to his; and her eyes were like twin stars.
“And I!” she whispered. “A million times more than that. Oh, my prince, my lover!”
Stewart's veins ran fire. He threw back his head—what fate could harm him now?
“And yet you wanted me to put you down!” he mocked.
She snuggled against him, warm and womanly; she gave herself to him.
“Oh, hold me close!” she seemed to say; “hold me close, close! I am yours now!”
“Wave the handkerchief!” he added. “We're getting near the barricade. Life is too sweet to end just yet!”
She smiled up into his eyes, and waved the handkerchief at arm's length above their heads. Stewart, glancing up, saw a row of heads in queer black shakos peering curiously down from the top of the barricade.
“They have seen us!” he said. “They're not firing. They understand that we are friends. Courage, little comrade!”
“I'm not afraid,” she smiled. “And I love that name—little comrade!”
“Here are the last entanglements, and then we're through. What is the cavalry doing?”
She gave a little cry as she looked back along the road. At the same instant Stewart heard the thunder of galloping hoofs.
“They are coming!” she screamed. “Oh, put me down! Put me down!”
“Not I!” gasped Stewart between his teeth, and glanced over his shoulder.
The Uhlans were charging in solid mass, their lances couched. There was just one chance of escaping them. Stewart, holding the girl close, leaped into the ditch beside the road and threw himself flat against the ground, shielding her with his body.
In an instant the thunder of the charge was upon him. Then, high above the rattle of guns, rose the shouts of men, the screams of horses, the savage shock of the encounter. Something rolled upon him and lay quivering against him—a wounded man—a dead one, perhaps—in any event, he told himself grimly, so much added protection. Pray Heaven that a maddened horse did not tramp them down!
The tumult died, the firing slackened. What was that? A burst of cheering?
Stewart ventured to raise his head and look about him. With a gasp he threw off the weight, caught up his companion, and staggered to his feet. Yes; it was a body which had fallen upon him. It rolled slowly over on its back as he rose, and he saw a ghastly wound right between the eyes.
“They have been repulsed!” he panted. “Wave the handkerchief!” With his heart straining in his throat, he clambered out of the ditch and staggered on. “Don't look!” he added, for the road was strewn with horrors. “Don't look!”
She gazed up at him, smiling calmly.
“I shall look only at you, my lover!” she said softly.
Stewart tightened his grip and held her close.
There was the barricade, with cheering men upon it, exposing themselves with utter recklessness to the bullets which still whistled from right and left. Stewart felt his knees trembling. Could he reach it? Could he lift his foot over this entanglement? Could he possibly step across this body?
Suddenly he felt his burden lifted from him and a strong arm thrown about his shoulders.
“Friends!” he gasped. “We're friends!”
Then he heard the girl's clear voice speaking in rapid French, and men's voices answering eagerly. The mist cleared a little from before his eyes, and he found that the arm about his shoulders belonged to a little Belgian soldier who was leading him past one end of the barricade, close behind another who bore the girl in his arms.
At the other side an officer stopped them.
“Who are you?” he asked in French. “From where do you come?”
“We are friends,” said the girl. “We have fled from Germany. We have both been wounded.”
“Yes,” said Stewart, and showed his blood-stained shirt. “Mine is only a scratch, but my comrade needs attention.”
A sudden shout from the top of the barricade told that the Uhlans were forming for another charge.
“You must look out for yourselves,” said the officer. “I will hear your story later”; and he bounded back to his place beside his men.
The soldier who was carrying the girl dropped her abruptly into Stewart's arms and followed his captain. In an instant the firing recommenced.
Stewart looked wildly about him. He was in a village street, with close-built houses on either side.
“I must find a cart,” he gasped, “or something—”
His breath failed him, but he staggered on. The mist was before his eyes again, his tongue seemed dry and swollen.
Suddenly the arm about his neck relaxed, the head fell back. He cast one haggard glance down into the white face, then turned through the nearest doorway. Perhaps she was wounded more seriously than he had thought. He must see—he must make sure—
He found himself in a tiled passage, opening into a low-ceilinged room lighted by a single window. For an instant, in the partial darkness, he stared blindly; then he saw a low settle against the farther wall, and upon this he gently laid his burden.
Before he could catch himself he had fallen heavily to the floor, and lay there for a moment, too weak to rise. But the weakness passed; with lips compressed, he pulled himself to his knees, got out his knife, found, with his fingers, the stain of blood above the wound, and quickly ripped away the cloth.
The bullet had passed through the thickness of the thigh, leaving a tiny puncture. With a sob of thankfulness, he realized that the wound was not dangerous. Blood was still oozing slowly from it—it must be washed and dressed.
He found a pail of water in the kitchen, snatched a sheet from a bed in another room, and set to work. The familiar labor steadied him, the mists cleared, his muscles again obeyed his will, the sense of exhaustion passed.
“It is only a scratch!” whispered a voice, and he turned sharply to find her smiling up at him. “It is just a scratch like yours.”
“It is much more than a scratch,” he said sternly. “You must lie still, or you will start the bleeding.”
“Tyrant!” she retorted, and then she raised her head and looked to see what he was doing. “Oh, is it there?” she said in surprise. “I didn't feel it there!”
“Where did you feel it?” Stewart demanded.
“It seemed to me to be somewhere below the knee.”
Compressing his lips, Stewart bandaged the wound with some strips torn from the sheet. Then he ran his fingers down over the calf, and brought them away stained with blood. He caught up his knife and ripped the cloth clear down.
“Really,” she protested, “I sha'n't have any clothes at all left, if you keep on like that. I don't see how I am going to appear in public, as it is!”
He grimly washed the blood away without replying, and then, on either side of the calf, found a tiny black spot where the second bullet had passed through.
“These German bullets seem to be about the size of nails,” he remarked, as he bandaged the wound. He raised his head and listened, as the firing outside rose to a furious crescendo. “They're at it again!” he added. “We must be getting out of this!”
She reached up, caught him by the coat, and drew him down to her.
“Listen,” she said. “The letters are in your pocket. Should we be separated—”
“We will not be separated,” he broke in impatiently. “Do you suppose I would permit anything to separate us now?”
“I know, dear one,” she said softly. “But if we should be, you will carry the letters to General Joffre? Oh, do not hesitate!” she cried. “Promise me! They mean so much to me—my life's work—all my ambitions—all my hopes—”
“Very well,” he said. “I promise.”
“You have not forgotten the signs and the formula?”
“No.”
She passed an arm about his neck and drew him still closer.
“Kiss me!” she whispered.
And Stewart, shaken, transported, deliriously happy, pressed his lips to hers in a long, close, passionate embrace.
At last she drew her arm away.
“I am very tired,” she whispered, smiling dreamily up at him; “and very, very happy. I do not believe I can go on, dear one.”
“I will get a wagon of some kind—a hand-cart, if nothing better. There must be ambulances somewhere about.”
He paused, listening, for the firing at the barricade had started furiously again.
“I will be back in a moment,” he said.
He ran to the street door and looked out. As he did so a wounded soldier hobbled past, using his rifle as a crutch.
“How goes it?” Stewart inquired in French.
“We hold them off,” answered the soldier, smiling cheerfully, though his face was drawn with pain.
“Will they break through?”
“No. Our reenforcements are coming up”; and the little soldier hobbled away down the street.
“I should have asked him where the ambulances are,” thought Stewart. He glanced again toward the barricade. The firing had slackened; evidently the assailants had again been repulsed. Yes, there was time, and he darted down the street after the limping soldier. He was at the Belgian's side in a moment.
“Where are the ambulances?” he asked wildly.
The soldier, turning to reply, glanced back along the street and his face went livid.
“Ah!” he groaned. “Look yonder!”
Looking, Stewart beheld. a gray-blue flood pouring over the barricade, beheld the flash of reddened bayonets, beheld the little band of Belgians swept backward. With a cry of anguish, he rushed toward them along the street, and in an instant the tide was upon him. He fought against it furiously, striking, cursing, praying.
Suddenly he found himself face to face with the Belgian officer, blood-stained, demoniac, shouting encouragement to his men. His eyes flashed with amazement when he saw Stewart.
“Go back! Go back!” he shouted.
“My comrade is back there!” panted Stewart, and tried to pass.
But the officer caught his arm.
“Madman!” he cried. “It is death to go that way.”
“What is that to me?” demanded Stewart, and wrenched his arm away.
The officer watched him for an instant, then turned away with a shrug. After all, he reflected, it was none of his affair; his task was to hold the Germans back, and he threw himself into it.
“Steady, men!” he shouted. “Steady! Our reserves are coming!”
And his men cheered and held a firm front, though it cost them dear—so firm and steady that Stewart found he could not get past it, but was carried back foot by foot, too exhausted to resist, entangled hopelessly in the retreat. The Germans pressed forward, filling the street from side to side, compact, irresistible.
And then the Belgians heard behind them the sound of shouts and the roll of wheels, and their captain, glancing back, saw that a machine gun had been posted in the middle of the street.
“Steady, men!” he shouted. “We have them now! Steady till I give the word!” He glanced back again and caught the gunners' signal. “Now! To the side and back!” he screamed.
The men, with a savage cheer, sprang to right and left, into doorways, close against the walls, and the gun, with a purr of delight, let loose its lightnings into the advancing horde.
Stewart, who had been swept aside with the others, without understanding what was happening, gasping, rubbing his eyes, staring down the street, saw the blue-gray line suddenly stop and crumple up. Then, with a savage yell, it dashed forward and stopped again. He saw an officer raise his sword, then fall crashing to the street; he saw that instant of indecision which is fatal to any charge; and then stark terror ran through the ranks, and they turned to flee.
But the pressure from the rear cut off escape in that direction. The human flood burst into the houses on either side, swept through them, out across the fields and away. And steadily the little gun purred on, as if reveling in its awful work, until the street was clear.
Though they had suffered terribly, the Germans were not yet routed. A remnant of them held together behind the houses at the end of the street, and still others took up a position behind the barricade and swept the street with their rifles.
The little officer bit his lip in perplexity as he looked about at his company, so sadly reduced in numbers. Should he try to retake the barricade with a rush, or should he wait for reenforcements? He loved his men—surely they had more than played their part. Then his eye was caught by a figure which dodged from doorway to doorway.
“That madman again!” he muttered, and watched, expecting every instant to see him fall.
For Stewart had not waited for the captain's decision. Almost before the Germans turned to flee, he was creeping low along the wall, dodging from doorway to doorway. The whistle of the machine gun's bullets filled the street. One nipped him across the wrist, another grazed his arm, and then, as the Germans rallied, he saw ahead of him the flashes from their rifles.
He was not afraid; indeed, he was strangely calm. He was quite certain that he would not be killed; others might fall, but not he. Others—yes, here they were; dozens, scores, piled from wall to wall. For here was where the machine gun had caught the German advance and smote it down. They lay piled one upon another—young men, all of them; some lying with arms flung wide, staring blindly up at the sky; a few moaning feebly, knowing only that they suffered; two or three trying to pull themselves from beneath the heap of dead; one coward burrowing deeper into it.
Stewart could hear the thud, thud of the bullets from either end of the street as they struck the mass of bodies, dead and wounded alike, until there were no longer any wounded; until even the coward lay still!
Sick and dizzy, he pushed on. Was this the house? The door stood open, and he stepped inside and looked around. No, this was not it.
The next one, perhaps—all these houses looked alike from the street. As he reached the door a swirl of acrid smoke beat into his face. He looked out quickly. The barricade was obscured by smoke; dense masses rolled out of the houses on either side. The Germans had fired the village!
Into the next house Stewart staggered—vainly; and into the next. He could hear the crackling of the flames; the smoke grew thicker.
Into the next!
He knew it the instant he crossed the threshold; yes, this was the entry, this was the room, there was the settle.
He stopped, staring, gasping. The settle was empty.
Slowly he stepped forward, gazing about him. Yes, there was the bucket of water on the floor, just as he had left it; there were the blood-stained rags; there was the torn sheet; but the settle was empty.
He threw himself beside it and ran his hands over it, to be sure that his eyes were not deceiving him. No; it was empty.
He ran into the next room and the next. He ran all through the house calling:
“Comrade! Little comrade!”
But there was no reply. The rooms were empty, one and all.
Half suffocated, palsied with despair, he reeled back to the room where he had left her and stared about it. Could he be mistaken? No; there was the bucket, there were the bandages. But what was that black stain in the middle of the white, sanded floor? He drew close and looked at it. It was blood.
Still staring, he backed away. Blood—whose blood? Not hers! Not his little comrade's!
And suddenly his strength fell from him; he staggered and dropped helplessly to his knees.
This was the end, then—this was the end. There on the settle was where she had lain; it was there she had drawn him down for that last caress; and the letters—ah, they would never be delivered now!
But at least he could die there, with his head where hers had been.
Blinded, choking, he dragged himself forward—ah, here was the place!
“Little comrade!” he murmured. “Little comrade!”
And he fell forward across the settle, his face buried in his arms, while a choking cloud of smoke swept into the room.