# Little Comrade (Munsey's Magazine)/Chapter 14

pp. 889–894

### CHAPTER XIV
#### The Last Dash

Never will Stewart forget the stark horror of that instant; never afterward did he think of it without a shudder. It was one of those instants—fortunately few—which stamp themselves indelibly upon the brain, which penetrate the spirit, which leave a mark not to be effaced.
It was the flash of her white arm, as she sank for the second time, that saved her. Instinctively Stewart clutched at it, seized it, regained the box at a vigorous stroke, threw one arm across a handle, and raised her head above the water.
Her face was white as death, her eyes were closed, she hung a dead weight upon his arm—and yet, Stewart told himself, she could not have drowned in so short a time, for she had been under water only a few seconds. Perhaps she had been wounded—but he had heard no shot. His teeth chattered as he looked at her, she lay so still, so deathlike.
And then he remembered that shrill scream of utter horror. Why had she screamed? What was it that had wrung from her that terrible cry? Had some awful thing touched her, seized her, tried to drag her down?
Shivering with fear, Stewart looked out across the water. Was there something—some horror, perhaps—lurking in those depths?
He shook himself impatiently; he must not give way to his nerves. Holding her face back, he splashed some water into it, gently at first, then more violently. She was not dead; she had only fainted. A touch on her temple assured him that her heart was beating.
Something struck gently against his back—a piece of driftwood, perhaps; and then he was suddenly conscious that it was not driftwood, that it was soft, hairy—
He spun around, to find himself staring down into a pair of unseeing eyes, set in a face so swollen and distorted as to be scarcely human. How he repressed the yell of terror that rose in his throat he never knew; but he repressed it somehow, and, creeping with horror, pushed the box quickly to one side.
The bloated body, caught in the swirl of his wake, turned and followed, with an appearance of malignant purpose which sent a chill up Stewart's spine. Kicking frenziedly, he held the box back against the current, and for an instant fancied that his hideous pursuer was holding back, too; but, after what seemed like a moment's hesitation, it drifted on down the stream and vanished in the darkness.
For a moment longer Stewart stared after it, half expecting it to reappear and bear down upon him. Then, with an anguished breath of relief, he stopped swimming and looked down at the face upon his arm. So it was that horror that had beset her; she had felt it pushing against her, had turned as he had done, and—no wonder she had screamed!
He felt her bosom rise and fall with a quick gasp; then her eyes opened and gazed up at him. For an instant they gazed vacantly and wildly, then a flood of crimson swept from chin to brow, and she struggled to free herself from his encircling arm.
“Easy now!” Stewart protested. “Are you sure you're all right? Are you sure you're strong enough to hold on?”
“Yes, yes!” she panted. “Let me go!”
He guided her hands to the handles, assured himself that she grasped them firmly, then released her and swam to his old position on the other side of the box. For a moment they floated on in silence.
“How foolish of me!” she said at last in a choking voice. “I suppose you saved my life!”
“Oh, I just grabbed you by the arm and held on to you till you came to.”
“Did I scream?”
“I should rather think so! Frightened me nearly to death!”
“I couldn't help it. I was terrified. It was—it was—”
“I know,” said Stewart quickly. “I saw it. Don't think about it—it's gone on down-stream.”
“It—it seemed to be following me!” she gasped.
“Yes, I had the same feeling; but it's away ahead of us now. Now, if you're all right, we'll work in toward the bank—it can't be far off. Hello, what's that?”
A shadowy shape emerged from the darkness shrouding the eastern bank, and they heard the rattle of oars in rowlocks.
“They heard you scream,” said Stewart in a low voice. “They've sent out a patrol to investigate.”
With all his strength he pushed on toward the farther bank. Suddenly a shaft of light shot from the bow of the boat out across the water, sweeping up and down, dwelling upon this piece of driftwood and upon that.
With a gasp of terror Stewart pushed the box round so that it screened them from the search-light, and kept on swimming with all his strength.
“If they spot those bundles,” he panted, “they'll be down upon us. Ah!”
The light was upon them. Above their heads, which were almost submerged, the box, the bundles of clothing, stood out as if silhouetted against the midday sky. Stewart cursed his folly in placing them there; surely wet clothes were preferable to capture. He should not have taken the risk; he should have put the clothing inside the box and let it take its chance. But it was too late now. In another moment—
The light swept on.
From sheer reaction Stewart's body dropped limply for an instant through the water, and then rebounded as if from an electric shock.
“I can touch bottom!” he said hoarsely. “We'll get there yet. Hold fast!”
Setting his teeth, he dragged the box toward the shore with all his strength. In a moment the water was only to his shoulders—to his chest—he could see that his comrade was wading, too.
He stopped, peering anxiously ahead.
There was no light anywhere along the shore, and no sound broke the stillness.
“It seems all right,” he whispered. “I will go ahead and make sure. If it is safe, you will hear me whistle. Keep behind the box, for fear that search-light may sweep this way again, and when I whistle, come straight out. You understand?”
"Yes.”
“Good-by, then, for a moment, little comrade!”
“Good-by!”
He snatched up the bundle containing his clothing, and, crouching as low in the water as he could, set off cautiously toward the shore. There was a narrow strip of gravel just ahead, and behind that a belt of darkness which, he told himself, was a wood.
The beach was deserted, and, crossing it at a run, he assured himself that there was no ambush in the wood behind it. As he turned back to the water's edge he noticed a growing band of light over the hills to the east, and knew that the moon was rising. There was no time to lose! He whistled softly and began hastily to dress.
Low as the whistle was, it reached the boat—or perhaps it was mere chance that brought the search-light sweeping round just as the girl rose in the water and started toward the shore. The light swept past her, swept back again, and stopped full upon the flying figure, as light and graceful as Diana's.
There came a hoarse shout from the boat, and the splash of straining oars; and then Stewart was dashing forward into the water, was by her side, had caught her hand, and was dragging her toward the bank.
“Go on! Go on!” he cried.
He stopped to pick up shoes and coat, for sharp gravel warned him that with unprotected feet flight would be impossible. Then he was up again and after her, across the cruel stones of the shore, toward the darkness of the wood and safety—one yard—two yards—
And always the search-light beat upon them mercilessly.
There came a roar of rifles from the river, a flash of flame, the whistle of bullets about his ears; and then they were in the wood, and he had her by the hand.
“Not hurt?” he gasped.
“No, no!”
“Thank Heaven! We are safe for a moment. Get on some clothes—especially your shoes. We can't run barefooted!”
He was fumbling with his own shoes as he spoke. He managed to thrust his bruised feet into them; he stuffed his socks into the pocket of his coat, and slipped into it.
“Ready?” he asked.
“In a moment!” And then he felt her hand in his. “Which way?”
He glanced back through the trees. The boat was at the bank; its occupants were leaping out, rifles in hand; the search-light swept up and down.
“This way, I think,” and he guided her diagonally to the right. “Go carefully! The less noise we make the better. But as long as those fellows keep on shooting, they can't hear us.”
Away they went, stumbling, scrambling, bending low to escape the overhanging branches, saving each other from some ugly falls—up a long incline covered by an open wood, across a little glade, over a wall, through another strip of woodland, into a road, and over another wall. Here Stewart gave a gasp of relief, for they were in a field of grain.
“We shall be safe here,” he said, as they plunged into it. “I will watch, while you finish dressing”; and he faced back toward the way they had come.
The full moon was sailing high above the eastern hills, and he could distinctly see the wall they had just crossed, with the white road behind it, and beyond that the dense shadow of the wood. It was on the strip of road he kept his eyes, but no living creature crossed it. At last he felt a touch upon his arm.
“My turn now!” the girl whispered.
Stewart sat down upon the ground, drew on his socks, and laced his shoes properly. As he started to get up he felt a sudden sharp twinge in his shoulder.
“What is it?” asked the girl quickly, for an exclamation of pain had burst from him before he could choke it back.
“Nothing at all!” he said, and rose gingerly. “I touched a raw place, where a brier scratched me. I seem to be composed largely of raw places—especially as to my feet. How are yours?”
“One of them hurts a little—not enough to mention.”
“You're sure you can walk?”
“Certainly—or run, if need be.”
“Then we had better push on a little farther. The Germans are still too close for comfort. Keep your back to the moon—I'll act as rear-guard.”
For a moment she looked up questioningly into his face.
“You're sure you're not hurt?” she asked.
“Perfectly sure.”
“I was afraid you had been shot—I saw how you placed yourself between me and the river!”
“The merest accident,” he assured her. “Besides, those fellows couldn't shoot.”
She gazed up at him yet a moment, her lips quivering; then she turned and started westward through the field.
Falling in behind, Stewart explored his wounded shoulder gingerly with his fingers. He could feel that his shirt was wet with blood, but the stabbing pain had been succeeded by a sharp stinging, which convinced him that it was only a flesh-wound. Folding his shirt back, he found it at last, high in the shoulder above the collar-bone.
“That was lucky!” he told himself, as he folded a handkerchief over it, buttoned his shirt, and pushed on after his comrade. “An inch lower, and the bone would have been smashed!”
Away to the south they could hear the thunder of the Liège forts, and Stewart thought with a shudder of the poor fellows who had to face that deadly fire. No doubt a fresh attack was being made by the troops they had seen crossing the river. It was improbable that the invaders would push westward until the forts were reduced; so, when they came presently to a road which ran toward the northwest, they ventured to follow it.
“We had better hide somewhere and rest till daylight,” Stewart suggested at last. “We have had a hard day.”
He himself was nearly spent with fatigue and hunger, and his shoulder was stiff and very painful.
“Very well,” the girl agreed. “I am very tired. Where shall we go?”
Stewart stopped and looked around him.
On one side of the road was a level pasture affording no shelter; on the other a rolling field mounted to a strip of woodland.
“At the edge of those trees would be the best place,” he said.
Laboriously they clambered over the wall beside the road and set off toward this refuge. The field was very rough and seemed interminable, and more than once Stewart thought that he must drop where he stood; but they reached the wood at last, and threw themselves down beneath the first clump of undergrowth.
Stewart was asleep almost before he touched the ground; but the girl lay for some time with eyes open, staring up into the night. Then, very softly, she crawled to Stewart's side, raised herself on one elbow, and looked down into his face.
It was not at all the face of the man whom she had met at the Kölner Hof two days before. It was thinner and paler; there were dark circles of exhaustion under the eyes; a stubby beard covered the haggard cheeks, across one of which was an ugly scratch. Yet the girl seemed to find it beautiful. Her eyes filled with tears as she gazed at it: she lightly brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen over the forehead, and bent as if to press a kiss there—but stopped, with a quick shake of the head, and drew away.
“Not yet!” she whispered. “Not yet!”
Crawling a little way apart, she lay down again among the bushes.
Again Stewart awoke with the sun in his eyes, and again, after a moment's confused blinking, he looked around to find himself alone. The dull pain in his shoulder, as he sat up, reminded him of his wound.
Crawling a little distance back among the bushes, he slipped out of his coat. His shirt was soaked with blood half-way down the right side—a good sign, Stewart told himself. He knew how great a show a little blood can make, and he was glad that the wound had bled freely.
He unbuttoned his shirt and gingerly pulled it back from the shoulder, for the blood had dried in places and stuck fast; then he removed the folded handkerchief, and the wound lay revealed.
He regarded it with satisfaction, for as he had thought, it was not much more than a scratch. A bullet had grazed the collar-bone, plowed through the muscle, and sped on its way, leaving behind, as the only sign of its passage, a tiny black mark.
“You are wounded!” cried a strangled voice. In an instant his comrade was on her knees beside him. her face pale, her lips working. “And you did not tell me! Oh, cruel, cruel!”
There was that in the voice, in the eyes, in the trembling lips, which sent Stewart's heart bounding into his throat. But, by a mighty effort, he kept his aching arms from around her.
“Nonsense!” he said, as lightly as he could. “That's not a wound—it is just a scratch. This one across my cheek hurts a great deal worse. If I could only wash it—”
“There is a little stream back yonder,” she said, and sprang to her feet. “Come! Or perhaps you cannot walk!”
She put her arms around him to help him up. He rose with a laugh.
“Really,” he protested, “I don't see how a scratch on the shoulder could affect my legs!”
But she refused to make a jest of it.
“The blood—it frightens me. Are you very weak?” she asked anxiously, holding tight to him, as if he might collapse at any instant.
“If I am,” said Stewart, “it is from want of food, not from loss of blood. I haven't lost a spoonful. Ah, here's the brook!”
He knelt beside it, while she washed the blood from his handkerchief and tenderly bathed the injured shoulder. Stewart watched her with fast-beating heart. Surely she cared; surely there was more than friendly concern in that white face, in those quivering lips. Well, he would soon be able to put it to the touch. He trembled at the thought.
“Am I hurting you?” she asked anxiously, for she had felt him quiver.
“Not a bit; the cool water feels delightful. You see, it is only a scratch,” he added, when the matted blood had been cleared away. “It will be quite well in two or three days. I sha'n't even have a scar. I think it might have left a scar! What's the use of being wounded, if one hasn't a scar to show for it? And I shall probably never be under fire again.”
She smiled wanly, and a little color crept back into her face.
“How you frightened me!” she said. “I came through the bushes and saw you sitting there, all covered with blood! You might have told me—it was foolish to lie there all night without binding it up. Suppose you had bled to death!” She wrung out the handkerchief, shook it out in the breeze until it was nearly dry, and bound it tightly over the wound. “How does that feel?”
“It feels splendid. Really it does,” he added, seeing that she regarded him doubtfully. “If I feel the least little twinge of pain in it, I will notify you instantly. I give you my word!”
They sat silent for a moment, gazing into each other's eyes. It was the girl who stirred first.
“I will go to the edge of the wood and reconnoiter,” she said, rising a little unsteadily, “while you wash your hands and face. Or shall I stay and help?”
“No, thank you,” said Stewart. “I think I am still able to wash my own face—that is, if you think it's any use to wash it!” He ran his fingers along his stubbly jaws. “Do you think you will like me with a beard?”
“With a beard or without one, it is all the same!” she answered softly, and slipped quickly away among the trees, leaving Stewart to make what he could of this cryptic utterance.
Despite his gnawing hunger, despite his stiff shoulder and sore muscles, he was very happy as he bent above the clear water, drank deep, and bathed hands and face. What a woman she was!
“What a scarecrow I am!” he said, when he rejoined his companion He ruefully contemplated a long tear in his coat—merely the largest of half a dozen. “I lost my collar in that dash last night—I left it on the bank, and didn't dare stop to look for it. Even if we met the Germans now, there would be no danger—they would take us for tramps!”
“They certainly would,” she laughed. “I know I look like a scarecrow; but you might have spared telling me!”
“You!” cried Stewart. “A scarecrow! Oh, no; you would attract the birds instead of frightening them away.”
“There is a village over yonder,” she said, turning away. “We can get something to eat there, and find out where we are. Listen! What is that?”
Away to the south a dull rumbling shook the horizon—a mighty shock, as of an earthquake.
“The Germans have got their siege-guns into position,” he said. “They are attacking Liège again.”
Yes, there could be no doubt of it; murder and desolation were stalking across the country to the south; men were killing men in the horror known as “war.” But nothing could be more peaceful than the fields which stretched before them.
“There is no danger here,” said Stewart, and led the way down across the rough pasture to the road.
As he mounted the wall, moved by some strange uneasiness, he stopped to look back toward the east; but the road stretched white and empty until it plunged into a strip of woodland a mile away.
Somehow he was not reassured. With that strange uneasiness still weighing on him, a sense of oppression, as of an approaching storm, he sprang down beside the girl, and they set off westward side by side. At first they could not see the village, which was hid by a spur of rising ground; then, at a turn of the road, they found it close in front of them.
But the road was blocked with fallen trees, strung with barbed wire—and what was that queer embankment of fresh, yellow earth which stretched to right and left?
“The Belgians!” cried the girl. “Come! We are safe at last!” and she started to run forward.
But only for an instant. As if that cry of hers was an awaited signal, there came a crash of musketry from the wooded ridge to the right, and an answering crash from the crest of the embankment; and Stewart saw that light and speeding figure spin half round, collapse, and fall limply to the road.