CHAPTER XVIII
THE FUGITIVE
AT two o'clock on a bleak morning four men sat upon the trunk of a fallen tree in the deep recesses of Tongby Woods. Rain was descending in torrents, accompanied by a howling gale. The tree-tops bent and groaned, and, although close to the ground the numerous trunks formed a barrier to the furious wind, there was little protection from the downpour, as the saturated state of the men's clothes gave evidence to their respective wearers.
"We are now ten miles from Stresdale Camp," remarked one, speaking in German. "Now we must separate."
"No, no, Otto," protested another. "Let us keep together. Without you we are as good as lost."
Von Loringhoven shrugged his shoulders, cursing under his breath as the movement resulted in a rivulet of rain-water trickling down his neck.
"And with you I am as good as lost," he muttered sotto voce. "No, Hans; a bargain is a bargain. Have I not arranged everything for you three? You have civilian clothes, English money, food, maps, and each an address of a good German who will give you shelter and provide for your safety. It stands to reason that four men will arouse suspicion. Singly they have excellent chances."
"That is so," agreed a third. "Only it so happens that we cannot speak English so well as you, Otto. But we must trust to luck. When I broke out of Heavyshaw Camp, eleven months ago, I covered nearly two hundred kilometres before they took me. Then it was my own fault. I ought not to have made for the East Coast."
"You will be quite safe when you arrive at Manchester," declared von Loringhoven. "A large city is a splendid hiding-place. Müller makes for London, hein? Don't get blown to bits by a Gotha, Müller; that would be a cruel fate for a good German flying-officer. Koenig, you are making for Bradford: another excellent town to escape observation. And, Hans, you are for Leeds. These English know we are homing birds, and conclude that we have gone east, but for the present our course lies west."
"And you, Otto?" inquired Müller. "What are your plans?"
"I make for Liverpool," replied von Loringhoven. "A tried and trusted friend of mine lives at Bootle, which is a suburb. I will give you the address. After a fortnight you can write to me there, under the name of Smith. The address is easy to remember, so do not commit it to paper. Meanwhile I will make arrangements for the four of us to get across to Ireland. Rest easy; within a month we will be in the Fatherland once more."
"Cannot we keep together till dawn?" inquired the nervous Hans.
"No; we separate," replied von Loringhoven in a tone that brooked no denial. "Now remember, Müller: if you should be spoken to, shake your head and point to your ear. You remember the English sentence I taught you?"
"'Sorry, mate; I'm deaf,'" replied Müller with parrot-like fidelity.
"That is quite passable English," said the kapitan-leutnant approvingly. "It will be an efficient passport. Now, comrades, I will leave you."
Solemnly shaking hands with his stolid and rain-soaked compatriots, von Loringhoven set off on his solitary bid for freedom.
Before he left the shelter of the wood he stopped and drew a small packet from the inside of one of his socks. From it he produced a folded paper, which he carefully placed in the breast-pocket of his jacket, a silver badge—the emblem of an honourably discharged British soldier—and two gold stripes which he deftly sewed to the sleeve of his overcoat.
"It is as well not to take others into your confidence," he soliloquised grimly. "So now for Birmingham, Gloucester, and Bristol."
The mention of Liverpool was a "blind" on his part. Von Loringhoven's consummate trust in himself was sure to go a long way towards his attempt to get clear of the country; but he had little or no faith in his brother-officer prisoners. Unintentionally, perhaps, they would have betrayed his plans had he given them genuine information as to the direction in which he intended to go.
Following a lane, von Loringhoven at length emerged into a broad highway running in a south-westerly direction. He followed it boldly. There was little chance of meeting any one on that inclement night, while the absence of the four Huns was not likely to be discovered until the morning roll-call. He had thus five hours before the prisoners' escape was noticed—and much might be done in that time.
Several villages, all shrouded in utter darkness, he walked through without meeting a single living creature; small towns he skirted, deeming it unwise to be seen by a policeman on his nocturnal beat.
The first blush of dawn found him within sight of an isolated farm close to the side of the road. The house stood at some distance back, but a walled-in yard, with two ranges of out-buildings, suggested possibilities of a few hours' rest. The storm was on the point of clearing, although a rosy tint in the eastern sky betokened a recurrence of the rain.
Without alarming any dogs or poultry the fugitive scaled the wall. On his right was a barn, the door being secured merely by a hasp and pin. Inside, the place was almost filled with trusses of hay and piles of oil-cake. Overhead was a loft, which would furnish suitable accommodation for the fatigued man.
Von Loringhoven meant to take no undue risks. He ascended the loft, to find that there was plenty of loose hay. In the gable end overlooking the road was a door bolted on the inside. By slipping back the bolt and leaving the door ajar he could command a fairly comprehensive survey of the road, while if occasion necessitated he could drop down outside the farmhouse without running the danger of having to scale the outside wall. As an additional precaution he drew the ladder up into the loft, thus preventing any one from gaining his place of concealment until another ladder could be procured.
Hardly had von Loringhoven made these preparations when on taking a cautious survey of the road he noticed a cyclist approaching from the direction he himself had come, The man was frequently peering to right and left, while occasionally he would glance behind, as if expecting somebody.
"It is to be hoped that the camp authorities are not on our track already," soliloquised the fugitive, a wave of apprehension sweeping across his mind. It was extremely disconcerting to know that he was being pursued before he was twenty miles from Stresdale Prison Laager.
Through a minute chink between the slightly open door of the loft and the jamb von Loringhoven watched the approaching cyclist with the greatest attention. He became aware that the man's face wore a furtive look, as if he, too, was apprehensive of trouble, In spite of the inclement morning he wore no overcoat, his tweed jacket was buttoned up to his neck, his hands were unprotected by gloves. Across the handlebar of the bicycle was a folded sack secured by two pieces of string, while fastened to a carrier over the driving-wheel was a small basket.
Von Loringhoven scrutinised the man's features intently, in case the cyclist were a fellow-prisoner who had contrived to escape; but he failed to recognise him as a compatriot.
The Hun's fears returned when the cyclist dismounted almost immediately underneath the gable-end of the loft, and propped the machine against the wall.
Giving another glance up and down the road and across the fields on the other side of the highway, the man unfastened the sack from the handle-bars and, keeping close to the wall, passed out of von Loringhoven's sight.
The ober-leutnant abandoned his now useless observation post and tiptoed to a dormer window commanding a view of the farm-yard. Before he had waited thirty seconds, his newly formed surmises were confirmed by the appearance of the man's head and shoulders above the wall.
Satisfying himself that, as far as he knew, he was unobserved the man clambered astride the wall and dropped lightly upon a heap of rubbish that lay conveniently placed in a corner of the yard. Then, moving quickly and silently, he made his way to what was evidently a poultry-house, For a little while he fumbled with the lock, using a skeleton key. His efforts in that direction successful, he passed from the Hun's view.
"Ho! ho!" chuckled von Loringhoven softly. "So that is the Englishman's game? Robbing a farmer's fowl-house. It remains for a good German to turn the tables on the thief."
Retracing his way to the door the fugitive Hun threw it open. The road was quite deserted. Noiselessly, yet unhesitatingly, von Loringhoven dropped to the ground and made his way to the cycle, The next minute he was pedalling rapidly down the incline, thanking his good fortune for the gift of a speedy means of locomotion.
The bicycle was a sound one, for on dismounting von Loringhoven found that the tyres were in excellent condition and the chain almost new, while the bearings gave no indications of undue "play." Unstrapping the basket from the carrier and finding that it was empty, he hurled the somewhat distinctive appendage over a hedge.
Remounting, von Loringhoven rode hard for nearly two hours, until muscular cramp warned him that he was very much out of practice.
He was now within a mile of a large town. Already there were signs of activity in the manufacturing district. Men with food tied up in red handkerchiefs, or carried in wicket baskets, were trooping to work, but to the Hun's intense satisfaction his presence called for no suspicious comments on the part of the passers-by.
"Not much time to be lost," decided the ober-leutnant. "They are now calling the roll-call at Stresdale, and I am still within fifty miles of that hideous spot."
Taking advantage of a lull in the traffic von Loringhoven deftly loosened the valve of the back tyre, The tyre deflated, he tightened the nut again, and resumed his trudge towards the town.
"Hard luck, mate," was the greeting from a sympathetic Tommy, apparently on leave from the front. "Puncture, eh? Got far to go?"
"Only a matter of five miles," replied the mendacious Hun.
"I'll give you a hand at repairing it," offered the soldier. "I used to be in the cycle trade before I was called up."
"No, thanks," replied von Loringhoven. "The tyre's rotten. It will only puncture again before I could ride a few hundred yards. I'll get a train home."
"So you've done your bit, chum," continued the Tommy, pointing to the gold stripe on von Loringhoven's coat. "What's your regiment?"
The German had already noted the letters on the shoulder strap of his questioner. He belonged to a Lincolnshire battalion.
"The North Devons, Second Battalion," replied von Loringhoven promptly, trusting that the information would satisfy the man.
"Blimy, that so?" persisted the Tommy. "Then your crush relieved us at Armentières. D'ye happen to know—— Hullo, mate, what's up now?"
"Touch of the old trouble," replied von Loringhoven, imitating an asthmatic wheeze to perfection. "Sooner I get home the better. S'long, chum."
Arriving at the railway station the ober-leutnant found that he had twenty minutes to wait. When the booking-office opened he took a ticket for himself and one for the machine to Birmingham, the supposedly punctured wheel supplying a plausible explanation that an active man with the wind behind him should elect to go by train rather than by road. His thoroughness in purchasing an address label to affix to the machine showed that he was quite up to the requirements of the Railway Company.
He had gone into the question of the retention of the cycle, and had decided that it was quite safe to do so. The poultry thief would not dare to report his loss. On the other hand, he would be too panic-stricken to take any steps to recover it. Here again luck was with the crafty Hun, for, save in circumstances like the present, a bicycle could not be stolen without the fact being telegraphed far and wide within an hour of the discovery of the loss.
It was nearly noon when the fugitive alighted at Birmingham. In that vast city he was comparatively free from danger, especially as he had so carefully covered his tracks. Ordering a meal at a restaurant von Loringhoven ate at his ease, scanning the columns of a midday paper to ascertain whether there was any news of the escape from Stresdale. There was none; apparently the authorities had not thought fit to take the Press into their confidence.
Leaving his cycle in a lock-up, the ober-leutnant spent the afternoon in wandering about the streets until four o'clock. He had no intention of going farther that night; Birmingham as a refuge suited him admirably.
While having tea he bought an early evening edition of a paper. In it he found a small paragraph briefly reporting that four German naval officers had broken out of Stresdale Camp, but neither names nor descriptions were given.
The meal over, von Loringhoven claimed his cycle and walked to the south-western suburbs, engaging a bed at a modest hotel in Selly Oak. If questioned he had decided to tell a plausible tale that he was on his way to take up a job on a farm near Hereford, but to his satisfaction he was merely asked to perform the perfunctory task of filling in a registration form, the particulars on which were received without comment.
The fugitive spent the evening in the commercial room in the company of three "knights of the road." He was too dead beat to go out, while he could not retire to bed so early without the risk of causing undue attention.
Presently the boots brought in a late special, which one of the commercials promptly appropriated.
"I see they've collared three of those Huns who broke out of Stresdale," he remarked suddenly.
Von Loringhoven pricked up his ears, but maintained silence.
"That's good news," rejoined another commercial. "Any details?"
"Only a few," was the answer. "An interview with a special constable who arrested one of them reads rather funny. He challenged a suspicious-looking character, who replied, 'Morry, sate, I deaf am,' which gave the special sufficient justification for arresting the man."
"Just the foolish thing Müller would do," mused von Loringhoven. "And after all the pains I took to knock the simple phrase into his thick Bavarian skull. I should not wonder if he's tried his level best to give me away—unthinkingly, of course."
"And the fourth?" inquired one of the company.
"A U-boat pirate, Otto von Loringhoven by name," announced the possessor of the newspaper. "He speaks English fluently. Here's his description."
"It might apply to any of us," remarked another. "Fancy you, Wilson, being run in just as you were fixing up an order with the Parabola Company."
The eyes of the speaker roamed from one to another until they were fixed upon the uncomfortable Hun. The others followed the gaze of their brother-commercial. The ober-leutnant found the mental strain intolerable. He felt compelled to break the silence.
"And would you be astonished to learn, gentlemen," he exclaimed, "that you are in the presence of Otto von Loringhoven?"