CHAPTER XXIX
A SURPRISE
HAVING refreshed, the fugitive gathered together a few portable articles that had belonged to the deceased Baron Eitel von Stopelfeld, including the portmanteau. Luggage, he decided, must be suffered in spite of the inconvenience of carrying it in the snowstorm; the major's sword, too, for experience had taught him that no swashbuckling, sabre-rattling Prussian officer goes far without that emblem of authority except when he is a prisoner of war.
It was a difficult task to regain the road, hampered as he was with his recently acquired possessions, but at length the pseudo baron achieved that part of the business. Viewed from the unfenced mountain pass the derelict motorcar was, as he had expected, almost hidden by a mantle of white.
Fortunately the wayfarer had the wind at his back, but even then his progress was laboriously slow. Never less than ankle-deep, often thigh-deep, the snow was rapidly increasing, until more than once the Englishman debated whether he should seek shelter until the storm abated.
"Might be days before it does," he mused, "and it's no joke being caught out in the mountains. At the first village I strike I'll have to pitch in a yarn how I, Major Baron Eitel von Stopelfeld, chance to be servantless and forced to carry my own luggage."
On and on he trudged, sternly resisting the tempting desire to rest. He knew the danger of halting in the snow when in a semi-torpid state and falling into a sleep that knows no wakening in this world. He was grateful, too, for the warmth of the great-coat, realising that his previously ragged garb would have been totally inadequate against the intense cold. For the next five kilometres the road was of a give-and-take order—rugged, undulating, and fully exposed to the now boisterous wind that howled down the pass; then, on rounding a right-angled bend the gradient was steeply on the downward path. Three thousand feet below lay one of the fairest of the Bohemian valleys, its verdant fields and the tops of graceful trees of the pine woods bathed in brilliant sunshine.
Not until he was below the snow-line did the traveller halt, partake sparingly of food and drink, and then set out boldly towards a wooden hamlet that nestled around a small church with a lofty, slender spire.
"That must be Ober Gersthof," decided the Englishman, referring to his map. "No railway within fifteen miles. Well, I reckon that I've done enough for to-day, so here's for the luxury of a bed. Now the question is: have I to treat these Bohemian peasantry in the same way as the Junkers deal with theirs? I suppose so, since Austro-Hungary, nominally an ally of Prussia, is actually a dependent and vassal state."
At about a mile from the village the bogus baron came across the first human being he had seen since the untimely, yet, in a sense, fortunate demise of Major von Stopelfeld. Ambling along a lane was a farm hand leading a low cart laden with a late autumn crop of hay. He was whistling blithely, his full features, tanned with exposure to wind and sun, and his fleshy arms contrasted forcibly with the shrunken, bloodless subjects of the German Kaiser.
The Englishman halted, put down his portmanteau, and imperiously beckoned to the countryman to hasten. This the man did, evidently out of good humour and a desire to render assistance, but his face showed no signs of the utter subservience of the menial Hun.
"I have been compelled by the storm to leave my carriage and servants at Teutelsfeld," announced the make-believe German officer, naming a village about ten miles away and far to the east of the pass through which he had come. "I desire to get to the railway at the nearest station."
"That is at Reichenberg, a good six hours' journey, Herr Offizier," replied the man respectfully, yet without any sign of cringing.
"Is there a good inn here?" inquired the Englishman, pointing towards the village. "A good inn, mind."
"The 'Three Feathers,' mein herr," answered the peasant. "If you will let me, I will carry your baggage and direct you to the door."
This the peasant did, receiving a mark note for his services, for the "major" found himself well provided with paper currency in addition to silver money equivalent to £3 in British coinage.
The landlord accepted the traveller's explanation without demur, being of a simple open nature, and after a plain but substantial meal the Englishman went to bed, reflecting that but for the difference in language and the characteristic Bohemian scenery he might have been in a rural village in his native land.
Early next morning the pseudo baron hired a conveyance which set him down at Reichenberg just before noon. At the station were hundreds of reservists and a fair sprinkling of Austrian officers; and not without certain feelings of trepidation the Englishman took a first-class ticket for Vienna.
Arriving at the Austrian capital he had abundant evidence of the war weariness and social stagnation of the once gay city. Although he encountered several officers in German uniform none noticed him beyond exchanging punctilious salutes, compliments that were indulged in by the Austrian soldiery, but with ill-concealed reticence, for everywhere the idea was growing that the Dual Monarchy was being bled white at the behest of Germany.
That same evening the supplanter of the Kaiser's envoy found himself at Judenburg, a small town in Styria, almost under the shadow of the lofty Noric Alps. It was not his fault that he had not gone farther, but a slight landslip had rendered the railway unsafe at a short distance beyond the town, so perforce he had to remain.
Having secured a room at the chief hotel and signed the register, the Englishman was preparing for a quiet evening, when the aged waiter knocked at the door.
"Pardon, Herr Offizier," he exclaimed deferentially. "A gentleman to see you."
"A mistake," declared the fugitive in a loud voice. "I know no one here, nor do I want to see strangers."
"But it is a person of rank who would speak with you, mein herr. Behold his card!" And he tendered a piece of pasteboard on a wooden tray, for the hotel's silver salver had long since gone to augment the depleted coffers of the Emperor Karl.
The Englishman took the card. His eyebrows contracted as he read the name. Major Karl Hoffer, Officer-Commandant of the prison camp of Ostrovornik.
"I've been and gone and done it now," muttered the bogus baron. "This is the result of flying high. Fortunately he's a stranger to the real von Stopelfeld; but it seems as if I'm booked for the Ostrovornik trip. Another day wasted—hang it!"
"Show him in," he ordered, and snatching up his sword he hastily buckled his scabbard to the slings of his belt, twirled his waxed moustache (he had remarked the genuine baron's hirsute adornment, and his elaborately fitted dressing-case had proved very useful to its new owner) and adjusted the well-fitting tunic.
The jingle of spurs and the clank of a scabbard trailing a cross the oaken floor were the sounds that heralded the approach of the distinguished Austrian. The door was thrown wide open, and the waiter, in a joint capacity of major-domo, sonorously announced the name and title of the visitor.
The Austrian officer stepped briskly three paces into the room, halted, clicked his heels, and saluted, the Englishman likewise standing smartly to attention and returning the compliment.
"Well, major," said the latter, signing to his guest to take a chair. "This is a pleasant but unexpected surprise."
"I happened to see your name on the register, baron," replied Hoffer, "and knowing that you were due to visit my establishment I anticipated the meeting. I understand that you are relieving me of the care of a hundred rascally Serbs and Italians. I wish you joy of them."
For some minutes the two men discussed the merits and demerits of the various nationalities of the prisoners of war, while the supposititious baron ordered a couple of bottles of wine.
Under the influence of the juice of the grape Karl Hoffer waxed injudiciously communicative.
"That is a mightily efficient gas you are manufacturing at Ostrovornik," remarked the Englishman.
"Yes," replied the Austrian. "Perhaps you are already aware that this district is practically the only place in Central Europe where sulphur is found in large quantities. This deposit was only discovered since the war. The trouble was that the gas was so efficient that we lost hundreds of prisoners during the experimental stages—not that it mattered much since they were prisoners, except that the new drafts had to be instructed: a tedious business, as you can well imagine. Until we hit upon an effectual antidote we lost men at the rate of twenty a day. The symptoms? Acute irritation of the epidermis, quickly followed by paralysis of the limbs. Death will ensue within twenty minutes. Curiously enough, the gas does not affect the respiratory organs. It is a remarkably efficacious weapon to employ against our enemies."
The Austrian leant back in his chair and laughed heartily. The gruesome details seemed to afford him intense amusement.
"Then you found an antidote?" asked the Englishman, with well-assumed indifference.
Major Hoffer leant forward and lowered his voice to a husky whisper.
"Like most things: simple when you know, baron," he replied. "We tried canvas overalls steeped in hyposulphite of soda—no good; india-rubber solution—equally non-effectual. The gas seemed to eat its way through with hardly any perceptible delay in its action. Glass is impervious to it, but a soldier cannot fight in a glass case."
He paused to watch the effect of his communication, more than half expecting the "baron" to ask him to continue. Had he done so, the Austrian might have drawn into his shell and put his questioner on the wrong scent.
The Englishman offered no remark, but merely refilled his guest's glass.
"Yes," resumed Major Hoffer, "it is a simple preventative—quite accidentally discovered, although the English and Americans would be most glad to know what it is. Hypo-sulphite of soda, alum in solution, and vaseline, all applied to thin canvas overalls and masks, the alum being merely to render the textile fabric non-inflammable."
The conversation was maintained for the best part of an hour, the Austrian officer doing his level best to impress that he was very much "in the know"; while the Englishman, by discreet questioning, obtained a vast store of valuable information.
"Then I will see you to-morrow at eleven," said Hoffer, as he rose to take his departure. "If I were you, baron, I would recommend that Italian prisoners only be taken for the work that your Government proposes to start. They are better than the Serbs, especially the Sicilians and Neapolitans who have previously been employed in their native sulphur mines. I suppose it would be too much to ask you to arrange for the transfer of an English prisoner?"
"An English prisoner?" repeated the supposed German officer. "For what reason?"
Major Hoffer shrugged his shoulders.
"Personally I do not like the responsibility of him," he explained. "We Austrians have not nearly so much hatred for England as you Germans, if you will pardon my saying so. I received the prisoner very unwillingly. He was landed from one of your U-boats at an Adriatic port, and he ought, I take it, to be placed in a German camp. A kapitan-leutnant—Otto von Loringhoven, brother to the Julius von Loringhoven of Zeppelin fame practically insisted that I should receive the prisoner for work in the sulphur mines. Why, I know not."
"What is the prisoner's name?" asked the sham baron.
The Austrian shook his head.
"I cannot say off-hand," he replied. "In fact, I think he appears on the list of prisoners only as a number."
"Is he tractable?"
"Like a caged bear; but by cutting down his rations we have tamed him a bit. Starve an Englishman, and you develop the comparatively mild strain of the Latin and Gallic blood in his veins; feed him, and the hardy Teutonic, Norse, and Keltic characteristics become paramount. That's the secret, I fancy, of the mongrel British nation. A cross-bred dog is invariably hardier than a pure-bred animal."
"Then there ought to be a future before the Austro-Hungarian Empire," remarked the Englishman.
"Alas, no," rejoined Major Hoffer. "There seems to be a hard-and-fast line between the German Austrians and the Magyars. They are like two large tributaries running into one broad channel, flowing side by side, but each preserving its characteristics; for instance, like the swift-flowing Rhone and the sluggish Saône after their confluence at Lyons."
"I'll see this Englishman," decided the pseudo baron. "If you want to get rid of him, a little German discipline will work wonders. The prisoner interests me. So much so that I feel inclined to take him in hand myself. You can spare two soldiers to guard him?"
"Half a dozen, if you like," replied Major Hoffer, only too glad to escape the after-consequences of having charge of a British naval officer, who, according to the rules of war ought to be receiving honourable treatment. "And you will make a point of writing to von Loringhoven and explaining matters?"
"Two men will be sufficient," said the Baron, studiously ignoring the second question, but resolving at some future date to communicate with the vindictive von Loringhoven.
At the appointed hour the Englishman, arrayed in the full splendour of his "borrowed" trappings, presented himself at the wicket-gate in the double-barbed wire fence surrounding the Ostrovornik sulphur mines. A guard of honour composed of Hungarian reservists turned out and saluted, the distinguished visitor noting with a certain amount of satisfaction that the men did not show any great signs of mental alertness. They were of a type used to being ordered about, and accustomed to carry out their instructions with stolid acquiescence.
Within the inner fence the baron was met by Commandant Hoffer, who still bore traces of the bout of hard drinking in which he had indulged, both in the supposed von Stopelfeld's company and afterwards.
"I have just received a telegram from my senior lieutenant," remarked the "baron." "He is still held up at Lietzen, owing to the railway being disorganised. You will, I trust, excuse the absence of my staff?"
"Certainly, baron," hiccoughed the Austrian officer. "You wish to begin by making an inspection of the gas-producing plant?"
The spurious von Stopelfeld facetiously poked his fingers against the commandant's ribs.
"We know each other now," he exclaimed. "I'll leave out the actual inspection—not that I have no faith in your anti-gas protector, major, but simply because I hate exertion. You might show me the register of prisoners. Oh, no; I don't want to inspect the men."
"But the Englishman?" inquired Major Hoffer, as he led the way to the office.
"Oh, I forgot all about him," rejoined the "baron," with well-feigned indifference. "Is he fairly tractable to-day?"
"You will soon see, baron," replied the Austrian commandant, and calling to a sergeant he bade him take a file of men and bring Prisoner No. 445 to the office.
After the lapse of about ten minutes the sergeant knocked at the door.
"The prisoner, Excellency," he announced.
"Bring him in," growled Major Hoffer.
{Illustration: "'GOOD HEAVENS! IT'S OLD SLOGGER.'" [p. 325.}
The next instant a gaunt, jaundiced-featured man was unceremoniously bundled into the room. In spite of his rags, his bent shoulders, and emaciated limbs he bore himself proudly, almost disdainfully, ready to meet whatever the fates doled out with the fortitude of a British officer.
"Good heavens!" exclaimed the bogus baron, in his unbounded astonishment completely forgetting his "Kopenick stunt." "It's old Slogger!"