As Lucy, too overcome to speak, put her hand in his with burning cheeks and wildly beating heart, he turned quickly to his aide.
“Any empty seats in that other car, Wheeler? I know this girl and her mother are anxious to get to Château-Plessis.”
“Yes, sir, there is plenty of room,” responded the young officer with alacrity. He led the way to a second machine while the General stepped into his own before Lucy could find words to thank him.
It was almost noon when Lucy and her mother entered Château-Plessis. The automobiles of General Clinton’s staff made a slow way among the soldiers and civilians crowding the once desolate streets in cheering throngs. The poor townspeople had robbed their little gardens to shower the victorious troops with lilacs and roses. Cries of friendly greeting filled the air on every side, and General Clinton advanced to joyful shouts of “Vive l’Amérique! Vive nos libérateurs!”
A shower of rose petals fell in Lucy’s lap, and, gazing about her with wide, unbelieving eyes, she caught her breath in a quick sob. Too many feelings struggled in her heart for any connected thought. Most of all she longed to see her father and know that he was safe.
They neared the old town hall, no longer a hospital since the German evacuation, and bearing signs of their rage for destruction in the heaps of torn mattresses and broken furniture flung outside the doors into the street. American soldiers were hurriedly restoring things to order, for the Allies’ wounded had been removed to the French hospital and here were to be General Clinton’s headquarters for the time being.
Even before they drew up in front of the old building Lucy recognized some familiar faces among the group of officers gathered in the doorway. They had preceded the General from Cantigny to establish his headquarters, and now came forward to receive him. A few doctors and nurses, too, were among them. Lucy scanned each face with eager eyes, for Bob had flown into Château-Plessis immediately after the German retreat, in search of his father, and she and her mother waited to hear from him of Colonel Gordon’s safety. Major Arthur Leslie was standing in the road, talking with a young British officer. Lucy’s throbbing heart gave a bound as she saw Captain Beattie’s face. The look of cold defiance with which he had faced his captors—the bitter melancholy of his days in prison, had utterly vanished, and he looked like a happy boy as Arthur Leslie clapped him on the shoulder and shook his hands in joyful greeting. At that instant Lucy caught sight of Bob from behind a little group of men. The next, she sprang from the automobile and ran across the street. For Colonel Gordon, his left arm closely bandaged, was standing at Bob’s side.
Five minutes later, when the Gordons had begun to realize the wonderful and happy truth that they were reunited, General Clinton made his way from among his aides to Colonel Gordon’s side. He held out his hand to the wounded officer, glancing from one to the other of the faces before him with real sympathy in his shrewd, understanding eyes.
“I congratulate you on your gallant service,” he said with simple directness. “It shall not be forgotten, Colonel—or rather General Gordon,” he corrected. “Your son has no doubt told you that you were awarded that rank a month ago.” In the same breath he turned to Bob with hand out-stretched again. “You, too, deserve congratulation—more than I can offer you.”
“What does he mean, Bob?” Lucy whispered, when General Clinton had turned to speak to Mrs. Gordon.