The Day of Wrath: A Story of 1914. Tracy Louis

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      The Day of Wrath: A Story of 1914

      This book demands no explanatory word. But I do wish to assure the reader that every incident in its pages casting discredit on the invaders of Belgium is founded on actual fact. I refer those who may doubt the truth of this sweeping statement to the official records published by the Governments of Great Britain, France, and Belgium.

      CHAPTER I

      THE LAVA-STREAM

      “

      For God’s sake, if you are an Englishman, help me!”

      That cry of despair, so subdued yet piercing in its intensity, reached Arthur Dalroy as he pressed close on the heels of an all-powerful escort in Lieutenant Karl von Halwig, of the Prussian Imperial Guard, at the ticket-barrier of the Friedrich Strasse Station on the night of Monday, 3rd August 1914.

      An officer’s uniform is a passe-partout in Germany; the showy uniform of the Imperial Guard adds awe to authority. It may well be doubted if any other insignia of rank could have passed a companion in civilian attire so easily through the official cordon which barred the chief railway station at Berlin that night to all unauthorised persons.

      Von Halwig was in front, impartially cursing and shoving aside the crowd of police and railway men. A gigantic ticket-inspector, catching sight of the Guardsman, bellowed an order to “clear the way;” but a general officer created a momentary diversion by choosing that forbidden exit. Von Halwig’s heels clicked, and his right hand was raised in a salute, so Dalroy was given a few seconds wherein to scrutinise the face of the terrified woman who had addressed him. He saw that she was young, an Englishwoman, and undoubtedly a lady by her speech and garb.

      “What can I do for you?” he asked.

      “Get me into a train for the Belgian frontier. I have plenty of money, but these idiots will not even allow me to enter the station.”

      He had to decide in an instant. He had every reason to believe that a woman friendless and alone, especially a young and good-looking one, was far safer in Berlin – where some thousands of Britons and Americans had been caught in the lava-wave of red war now flowing unrestrained from the Danube to the North Sea – than in the train which would start for Belgium within half-an-hour. But the tearful indignation in the girl’s voice – even her folly in describing as “idiots” the hectoring jacks-in-office, any one of whom might have understood her – led impulse to triumph over saner judgment.

      “Come along! quick!” he muttered. “You’re my cousin, Evelyn Fane!”

      With a self-control that was highly creditable, the young lady thrust a hand through his arm. In the other hand she carried a reticule. The action surprised Dalroy, though feminine intuition had only displayed common-sense.

      “Have you any luggage?” he said.

      “Nothing beyond this tiny bag. It was hopeless to think of – ”

      Von Halwig turned at the barrier to insure his English friend’s safe passage.

      “Hallo!” he cried. Evidently he was taken aback by the unexpected addition to the party.

      “A fellow-countrywoman in distress,” smiled Dalroy, speaking in German. Then he added, in English, “It’s all right. As it happens, two places are reserved.”

      Von Halwig laughed in a way which the Englishman would have resented at any other moment.

      “Excellent!” he guffawed. “Beautifully contrived, my friend. – Hi, there, sheep’s-head!” – this to the ticket-inspector – “let that porter with the portmanteau pass!”

      Thus did Captain Arthur Dalroy find himself inside the Friedrich Strasse Station on the night when Germany was already at war with Russia and France. With him was the stout leather bag into which he had thrown hurriedly such few articles as were indispensable – an ironic distinction when viewed in the light of subsequent events; with him, too, was a charming and trustful and utterly unknown travelling companion.

      Von Halwig was not only vastly amused but intensely curious; his endeavours to scrutinise the face of a girl whom the Englishman had apparently conjured up out of the maelström of Berlin were almost rude. They failed, however, at the outset. Every woman knows exactly how to attract or repel a man’s admiration; this young lady was evidently determined that only the vaguest hint of her features should be vouchsafed to the Guardsman. A fairly large hat and a veil, assisted by the angle at which she held her head, defeated his intent. She still clung to Dalroy’s arm, and relinquished it only when a perspiring platform-inspector, armed with a list, brought the party to a first-class carriage. There were no sleeping-cars on the train. Every wagon-lit in Berlin had been commandeered by the staff.

      “I have had a not-to-be-described-in-words difficulty in retaining these corner places,” he said, whereupon Dalroy gave him a five-mark piece, and the girl was installed in the seat facing the engine.

      The platform-inspector had not exaggerated his services. The train was literally besieged. Scores of important officials were storming at railway employés because accommodation could not be found. Dalroy, wishful at first that Von Halwig would take himself off instead of standing near the open door and peering at the girl, soon changed his mind. There could not be the slightest doubt that were it not for the presence of an officer of the Imperial Guard he and his “cousin” would have been unceremoniously bundled out on to the platform to make room for some many-syllabled functionary who “simply must get to the front.” As for the lady, she was the sole representative of her sex travelling west that night.

      Meanwhile the two young men chatted amicably, using German and English with equal ease.

      “I think you are making a mistake in going by this route,” said Von Halwig. “The frontier lines will be horribly congested during the next few days. You see, we have to be in Paris in three weeks, so we must hurry.”

      “You are very confident,” said the Englishman pleasantly.

      He purposely avoided any discussion of his reasons for choosing the Cologne-Brussels-Ostend line. As an officer of the British army, he was particularly anxious to watch the vaunted German mobilisation in its early phases.

      “Confident! Why not? Those wretched little piou-pious” – a slang term for the French infantry – “will run long before they see the whites of our eyes.”

      “I haven’t met any French regiments since I was a youngster; but I believe France is far better organised now than in 1870,” was the noncommittal reply.

      Von Halwig threw out his right arm in a wide sweep. “We shall brush them aside – so,” he cried. “The German army was strong in those days; now it is irresistible. You are a soldier. You know. To-night’s papers say England is wavering between peace and war. But I have no doubt she will be wise. That Channel is a great asset, a great safeguard, eh?”

      Again Dalroy changed the subject. “If it is a fair question, when do you start for the front?”

      “To-morrow, at six in the morning.”

      “How very kind of you to spare such valuable time now!”

      “Not at all! Everything is ready. Germany is always ready. The Emperor says ‘Mobilise,’ and, behold, we cross the frontier within the hour!”

      “War is a rotten business,” commented Dalroy thoughtfully. “I’ve seen something of it in India, where, when all is said СКАЧАТЬ