"BEYOND DOVER"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 24 May 1939, Page 10

"BEYOND DOVER"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

COPYRIGHT.

By

VAL GIELGUD.

(Author of “Death at Broadcasting House,” etc.)

CHAPTER XXI. (Continued). He had thought of something in the nature of a triumphal procession; of a ride at walking pace through villages, bravely by pathetically decorated with paper flags, and hurriedly erected arches of paper flags, with the inhabitants cheering and pressing round his charger’s flanks to touch his boots or stirrups, and the children screaming shrilly, and a few old.women crying. It nad all seemed so easy, so inevitable, to make that romantic vision come true. And now he rode, practically in disguise, like a fugitive from justice, urging his horse into a canter at each village he reached for fear of recognition. He knew he had imperilled his friends, the whole rising, his own life. He knew he was riding on an errand possibly needless, almost certainly futile. ■ And yet, oddly enough, as the heat and the flies increased, and he had to walk more and more often to ease his wearied horse, and the road seemed fated to wind back and forth on its own tracks to all eternity among the steepening hills, Hugo came to the conclusion that perhaps after all he did not care.

He felt he had to some extent justified his existence by yielding to his mother’s prayers that he would lead this Styrian enterprise. He still believed that he had it in him to fulfil the traditions of kingship of his house. But his first fine enthusiasm had been destroyed by the madman who had commanded the Duvornik firing party, by Casimir Konski’s worldly cynicism, by the incident of the Commandant of the Air Base and the Collar of St Tomislav. Nobility of character, the will to self-sacrifice, hard work, and courage were not it seemed, enough. And from the orner things needful—ruthlessness, cunning, exploitation of the weaknesses of human i nature —Hugo recoiled, not morally, but from sheer fastidiousness. Like all true romantics he began to lean favourably towards the imagined idea of a splendid failure.

It would satisfy his emotional com science without involving him in future tiresome responsibilities. And with that thought Sally came back into his mind; not as the pretty girl whom he had first seen in the Cosmopolite, the object of his casual desire; not the breeched and booted messenger whom he had used in his service; but, for the first time, Sally as a girl whom he could not only love, but marry—Sally as his wife. And looking at the piling ridges of the hills'between the gaps in the pine trees, with the gluey smell of his horse in his nostrils, and his skin caked with dust and sweat, Hugo thought of Sally’s youth and loveliness and unaffected candour of mind and speech, and found it in his heart to hope than von Auffenburg had bungled things, so that he might have the excuse to swing Sally up behind him on his saddle, and gallop away with her into the blue after the best romantic tradition of Young Lochinvar, or the heroes of Stanley Weyman. Failure on the grand scale, succeeded bj' the most exquisite of compensations —that would be the thing! Whether it was really von Auffenburg who “bungled things” in the event is still in Styria a matter of dispute.

He was in any case in a sufficiently awkward position, having moved without definite instructions from the Arch-Duke, and being completely ignorant of the latter’s whereabouts. His state of mind on receiving news of thg volte-face of Dragutin’s battalion can be imagined. It left his force in the air with his base in hostile hands. The question was, should he push for the Capital or not?

It is to his credit that he did not delay more than half an hour before making his decision. He turned on his tracks-and prepared to recapture Bratza. As a matter of fact, thanks to Dragutin’s message, the Government had been able to make the Capital pretty safe against anything in the nature of a coup-de-main. Von Auffenburg could probably have forced his way in, but only at the price of those heavy casualties he had been specially warned by Casimir Konski at all costs to avoid. So he was reasonably justified in taking his decision to retire. Nor was Dragutin altogether justified in believing the old General to be past the age for competent work in the field.

The People's Special Representative, having finished a heavy meal washed down with a bottle of von Auffenburg’s best champagne, had just given orders for the mess-room to be prepared for the court-martial proceedings on Sally and Nigel, when one of his Tank Corps sergeants hurried in with a serious face, and the news' that artillery, presumably von Auffenburg’s, was shelling the town; that an attack in force was developing; that their men were showing signs of panic; and that in any case there was a serious shortage of ammunition for the tank guns. Dragutin had a map brought from the General’s office and spread out on the table. Its edges curled up infuriatingly, and he weighed down the corners with dirty plates and knives. "Where are they attacking from?" he demanded. “Here, sir—and here," said the sergeant. pointing with a dirty thumb and marking a semi-circle to the south and west of the town with his bitten nail.

“Any news from the Capital?” “Yes. sir. They promise to send out a reliable mobile column tonight to tackle Von Auffenburg. There’s no general rising. The disappearance of the Arch-Duke—ho hasn’t been seen since he left Duvornik —seems to have settled that."

"Good," said Dragutin. His eyes slid to and fro like a trapped weasel’s, but In’s brain was clear and his hands kept steady. "Can you find me fifty reliable men. leaving yourselves enough to hold off von Auffenburg till morning? Remember, he can’t use cavalry for night work whatever else he may try."

The sergeant looked grim. “I think so, sir,” he said. Dragutin gave him no opportunity to change his mind. “Very well,” he said quickly, ‘Til make do with thirty. Light marching order, rifles and plenty of ammunition. I want them and the two prisoners ready to move in quarter of

an hour. 1 propose to take to the hills and fall back on the Summer Palace, till I can be relieved. The Whites won’t want to burn that over our heads if they can help it —it’s empty—and it’s defensible. Let them know in the Capital, Yanko, but otherwise keep it to yourself!” Sergeant Yanko saluted and ran out to his men. Dragutin buckled his belt, moistening his lips with his tongue. The thought of lording it in tne Summer Palace of the Kings of Styria appealed to him quite a good deal —far more than fighting a forlorn last stand against von Auffenburg’s superior numbers in the streets of Bratza.

Shortly after six in the evening, Hugo dismounted in a small village some twelve miles south-east of Bratza. His horse was dead beat. He himself was weary, dirty, hungry and thirsty almost beyond belief. And he wanted a short time to make up his mind as to his next move, for very clearly to his ears came the rumble of von Auffenburg’s artillery fire. All that Hugo knew was that he was evidently heading straight for a zone in which heavy fighting had begun. Halfway along the village’s single street was a slightly larger hbuse than the others composing it. It had a weird chimney cowl shaped like -a cock, and a battered sign swung over the door, looking as if once it had borne the representation of three twisted trees. Its door was open, its green shutters had apparently been freshly painted, its curtains looked clean.

Hugo made up his mind to risk the chance of being recognised. He felt pretty sure that so long as he took no steps to wash his face he could be in little danger. He felt as if he hadn’t had a bath for a week. A thin beadyeyed little woman answered his call, and proved astonishingly efficient for so small a place. A farm-hand appeared and led away his horse Wine—local, but quite good—was brought to him in an earthenware jug. He was led through a stone-flagged passage, very cool and clean after the heat and glare of the, roads into the back of the inn—half-garden, half orchard, and there, under the trees, in the soft golden light, of the supset, his unprepossessing landlady brought him his meal very salt ham fried with eggs, and rather coarse trout, grilled, with an excellent salad. He tried to draw the woman into conversation on the political aspect of affairs, but she seemed unwilling to talk.

“It’s a bad thing for the countryside, when you soldiers start your nonsense,” was all her immediate comment, and she looked pointedly at Hugo's stained uniform. “I’m carrying despatches to General von Auffenburg,” he volunteered. “Which side would your village favour? Red or white?”

She grinned. “White, talking to you, Herr Leutnanant,” she said. “I’ve just had my shutters painted. I don’t want my inn burned over my head. It’s been a good season for the crops, and a good year for the fruit, Herr Leutnant. What do I care who signs the proclamations they paste up on the wall of the village street? The tax-collector calls, whoever signs the proclamation!”

She collected plates and dishes on a painted wooden tray and went indoors.

And that was all the rising amounted to in the eyes of many of his hypothetical subjects, and many of the best of them into the bargain! Casimir Konski had been a foci not to select a year when the crops and the fruit season had been poor! Hugo knew that time pressed, that Sally might be in aanger, that on his actions the fate of a country might depend. But his horse must be watered and rested —and in any event at that moment nothing seemed to him so important in the world, as that he should be able to sit quietly and at ease at that wooden table under the apple tree, watching the afterglow fading slowly off the mountains, and the dancing of the midges, and the shadows, of the trees, so exquisitely shaped, lying dark upon the whitewashed wall of the inn. He felt too deliciously exhausted even io smoke, though he could feel his cigarette case against his chest through the pocket of his tunic. Overhead, through the tracery of the apple tree’s branches the first evening star glittered.

Suddenly the landlady came back. Hugo did not see her come, but only ’■ealised that she was there once more. But now her black eyes were flickering nervously, and her hands twisting in the folds of her patterned apron. “Well,” asked Hugo, “What is it?” “Would the Herr Leutnant’s name be Brandon?” she pronounced it as two distinct words. Hugo sat up, and his hand went to the pocket where his pistol lay. “It would. Why?” “A gentleman, a foreigner, is enquiring for a Herr Brandon. I think he knows you are here.” "Is he alone?” “Quite alone, Herr Leutnant.” “Very well,” said Hugo, “bring him along.” He poured out the last drop of wine and drank it down, wondering whethei this meant that he would never have the chance to drink again. Thon he heard steps, brisk short steps, souning along the flagged passage, and stood up. A man came through the door, and Mopped for a moment shading his eyes against the sunset. He was wearing a grey flannel suit, polished dark* brown shoes, a grey soft hat, and an old Etonian tie. ' May I sit down for a moment''’” he said, coming forward to Hugo’s tabled "My name is Basil Lutyens. I've one or two tilings I should like vou to give me permission to sav to vou Highness." ’ ’ ’ (To be Continued.)