THE CHEMIN DE MORT
As the Red Cross car rolled under the archway the driver supplemented the work of the horn with a lusty yell.
Even to join the line of moving convoys was a mighty difficult task, and would have been almost impossible but for the fact that ambulances had practically the right of way.
Don Hale, alert, watchful, with a firm hand on the steering wheel, guided Number Eight slowly out into the roadway. The darkness was so intense that he could not see even the wagons passing directly in front—everything, indeed, was swallowed up in a void of blackness, but he knew by the sounds and the shouts of the drivers that an effort was being made to find a place in the line for the Red Cross car.
And then, just at that instant, there came a vivid flash of lightning. Another storm was approaching. And that particular glare served a good purpose. It enabled the boy to discover an opening, and without the slightest hesitation he increased the speed of the car. It swung past the foremost camion, the wheels grazing the front as it passed. Then an abrupt turn, and Ambulance Number Eight, splashing streams of water and mud in every direction, was in the middle of the road, hemmed in by vehicles.
It was risky, nerve-racking work. Now and again wagons lurched unpleasantly close, and horses, rendered skittish and hard to manage by the storm, swung directly in the path of the machine. Then, the young driver was ever mindful of the fact that cars coming from the poste de secours might be encountered at any minute hastening with all speed between the moving walls of vehicles. Don had the prime requisite of a good driver—a cool head and steady nerves—but these were only an aid, and by no means a passport to safety; for in the human element all about him were tired, overworked drivers, and men who sometimes combined recklessness with a lack of skill.
The lightning was again darting from cloud to cloud, or, in forked tongues, crashing earthward; and with each flash the surroundings were revealed with almost startling clearness—the long line of vehicles of every description, the muddy, water-soaked road, full of rivulets, splashing and rushing from pool to pool and reflecting the vivid, blinding illumination, and, on both sides, wrecked, forlorn-looking houses and trees.
"This is the worst ever!" groaned Chase. "It's bad enough here—what will it be when we get to climbing the hill! Don, I don't believe we'll ever make it."
The aviator's son did not reply, because the slightest incautious move might have brought disaster. Occasionally there was barely enough room between the huge, towering camions in which to guide Number Eight in safety.
Now and then the vehicle floundered and jolted from side to side, as one wheel or another slipped into the ruts. Just as they turned a bend in the road and the ancient ports suddenly rose to view—a black, grim pile against an instantaneous glare of bluish light—the rain again started to descend, first in a flurry of big drops splattering noisily against the canvas covering of the ambulance, then in a vicious, lashing downpour which pelted the two in the driver's seat with stinging force. And accompanying the deluge came sweeping blasts of wind that almost took their breath away.
"Awful—awful!" muttered Chase, holding tightly to his seat, while the vehicle, rocking like a boat in a storm, plunged heavily across a torn-up section of the road.
The noise of the wind and rain almost drowned the loud, rough voices of drivers yelling to their horses. Sometimes a heavily-loaded camion became stalled in the mud—then the entire convoy behind it was brought to a standstill, and perhaps held up for minutes at a time.
Don Hale during his service with the Red Cross had been out on many a stormy night, but never on such a wild night as this, and the dangers and difficulties which beset them promised to become far greater. Notwithstanding the weather conditions, both the French and German bombardments steadily grew in intensity. Marmites were continually landing in the fields, both to the right and left of the highway, and the young ambulance driver could not help reflecting on the dangers which awaited them along the Chemin de Mort and at the crossroads.
"Well, we haven't got to take any more chances than the rest," he muttered.
Though his face and eyes were smarting from the wind and rain and he was obliged to bend far over the steering wheel to protect himself from the blasts, Don made a determined effort to drive Number Eight rapidly ahead, but the pace seemed exasperatingly, fearfully slow. The vehicle, exposed to the full force of the elements, shook, staggered and wobbled and sometimes slipped and slid on the mud until it certainly appeared as if Chase's prediction must be fulfilled and the journey come to a disastrous end.
Zigzag streaks of lightning tore the gloom asunder; the peals of thunder crashed and roared with appalling force, following one another so closely as to fill the air with a continuous series of reverberations. And mixed in with all this commotion of nature's forces was the heavy booming of the big guns and the éclats of the dreaded marmites—all forming an awesome combination which would have created a tension in the nerves of the bravest. Struggling hard to keep his wits and faculties about him, Don wondered what the thoughts of his companion might be.
"Poor chap! It's pretty hard on him," he reflected.
Every glare from the heavens disclosed the dripping Chase huddled up in his seat, with a curious, strained expression resting on his face. His appearance suggested that of a person who, finding himself in a terrible situation, has lost every particle of hope.
Don Hale's reflections concerning Manning, however, abruptly ceased.
A bright gleaming flash of light close to the ground, instantly followed by a terrific concussion, made his heart fairly leap. A high-explosive shell had fallen not a hundred yards away. It was only what might have been expected, yet, nevertheless, it both startled and frightened him.
But the aftermath proved even more startling; the lead horses of a six-horse team attached to a returning "empty" began to rear, buck and plunge, in spite of the most strenuous efforts of the postilion driver to control them.
Even above the noises of the storm the ambulanciers could hear the animals' quick, terrified snorts and their iron-shod hoofs crashing down in the mud and water. Instinctively, Don Hale realized that they were turning across the road.
The Red Cross car came to a halt with a jerk. Quick action alone had prevented a collision.
Across the inky heavens darted another forked tongue of electric flame; another and another followed, and in the sustained, blinding glare the boys saw the horses pawing the air in dangerous proximity to the front of the machine. Momentarily Don Hale expected a crash.
"I told you! I told you!" shouted Chase.
A few instants of anxiety—of keen suspense—then came the opportunity for which the boy was looking—the fractious steeds swerved to one side. Ambulance Number Eight shot forward on the second, violently grazed the body of the nearest horse and continued, while the shouts of the postilion driver became quickly drowned in the roar of the rain.
"Adventure number one!" muttered Don, with a great sigh of relief.
In the narrow and rugged passageway he dared not put on many bursts of speed, though at times he shot past several vehicles in quick succession. Presently, however, he was forced to pause—there was not sufficient room to pass between the teams. A series of loud yells, a few vigorous, aggressive blasts of the horn, and the transports on either side began hugging the edge of the road. But still it continued to be slow work. "Tres pressé," the doctor had said, and Don Hale felt that upon his shoulders lay a tremendous responsibility.
"At any rate, we're getting nearer, old chap!" he yelled to Chase.
The crouched-up figure made no reply.
During moments in which the storm lessened the terrific din of the French batteries became more apparent. In every direction, both near and far, they seemed to be pouring forth streams of missiles, and the Germans on the hills beyond were returning a furious fire. Shells passed overhead in both directions, and even the roar of storm and cannon could not drown their sinister whistle—their awe-inspiring shriek. Every now and again they burst startlingly near, the resounding blasts echoing over the air, and as Ambulance Number Eight neared the Chemin de Mort the tension on Don Hale's nerves became so acute that sometimes an involuntary tremor shook his frame.
Now, by means of the lightning, he caught sight of the bend in the road. One of the most critical stages in their whole journey had been reached. For the first time Chase Manning aroused himself, and, sitting erect, kept his eyes fixed straight ahead.
Cautiously, Don Hale took the ambulance around the curve. He heard his companion exclaim:
"The Chemin de Mort!"
"Yes!" cried Don,—"the Chemin de Mort!" He wondered how it happened that the convoys had not yet been halted along that shell-swept road.
"Once we get by I'll feel a bit easier in my mind," he muttered, "or, at least, I shall until old Number Eight draws up to the crossroads."
Would the Chemin de Mort justify its name?
Any speed would have seemed too slow to the youthful driver of the Red Cross ambulance, but the pace at which he was obliged to move tried him to the utmost. He took chances he would scarcely have dared before, and frequently the car was violently jolted and shaken as the hubs of wheels ground against one another in passing.
Don Hale fairly counted the yards; and doubtless every other driver along that section experienced sensations of just such an unpleasant nature as those which affected him.
Possibly it could only be a question of time when some of the projectiles were going to land squarely on the road, as they had often done before. Still, he reflected, a kind fate might protect them. The aviator's son realized, too, that dread and fear meant a lessening of his capacity to act with coolness and judgment, so he strove hard to cast both aside.
Very often the Chemin de Mort and the surrounding hills shot out from the dense obscurity, to become, for the instant, almost as clearly defined as in the broad light of day. They formed a weird—a most impressive spectacle; but each flash brought into view something else that was even more impressive—huge, low-hanging clouds of black smoke which told of the explosions of the marmites.
At length half the distance was covered, and still nothing had happened. Don Hale's spirits took an upward trend.
"So far we're getting along famously, old chap!" he cried to Chase.
"Number Eight has a long way to go yet," responded the young chap from Maine, in a strained voice.
Don sadly missed the companionship of Dunstan—Dunstan, the care-free, the courageous and the hopeful, who by his strength of character helped to impart strength to those around him. And yet he could not blame Chase. His nature was cast in a different mould.
As the ambulance rolled and bumped steadily along, the boy, in spite of all the dangers that surrounded them, could not help but be impressed by the grandeur—the sublimity of the situation. Now the wind was soft and low, now it rose to heights of almost tumultuous fury, and intermingling with its cadences were the sounds of booming guns—of thunder—of pelting rain and exploding shells, all combining to form in his mind a strange, weird symphony—a symphony expressive of terror and tragedy.
Three-quarters of the greatly feared Chemin de Mort were passed in safety. Don Hale's spirits rose still higher. The rain was finally beginning to slacken, for which he felt profoundly thankful. The water was running off his khaki uniform in streams; but discomfort held no place in his mind; all his thoughts were on that bend ahead which would take them into a safer zone.
And, suddenly, he almost jumped from his seat. Again a terrible blast had sounded—not ahead but to the rear.
Where had that shell landed? Was it on the road?
Chase was sitting bolt upright.
"By George! That's the time we nearly caught it!" he shouted.
Don nodded.
"A few moments, more or less, play a great part in this kind of game," he exclaimed, grimly.
But now the bend in the road was right before them, and presently Don gave an exclamation expressive of the keenest satisfaction. The ambulanciers need have no further concern, for the present at least, about the Chemin de Mort—at last, it lay behind them.
The young driver was becoming so much easier in his mind that he began to think of a letter he intended to write to his chum, George Glenn. And wouldn't a description of this wild ride in the stormy night make good reading! The boy thought so—he even chuckled softly to himself, as his mind continued to dwell on the subject.
And then, just as he was about to mention the matter to Chase, there came another appalling roar—a roar and crash so terrific, so frightful in its intensity that the two ambulanciers were almost hurled from their seats.
A perfect deluge of flying mud and stones struck the car.