The Forest of Swords: A Story of Paris and the Marne

by Joseph A. Altsheler

A cold shiver seized him. The range was that of the château, and Julie was there. The French gunners could have no knowledge that their own people were prisoners in the building, and if one of those huge shells burst in it, ruin and destruction would follow. The conservatory had been a silent witness of what flying metal could do. He stopped, appalled. He had been wrong to leave without Julie, and yet he could have done nothing else. It was impossible to foresee a shelling of the château by the French themselves.

The screaming and whistling came again, but he did not see any explosion near the château. One could not tell much from such a swift and passing sound, but he concluded that it was a German shell replying. He had seen a German battery near the house and it would not remain quiet under bombardment.

He had no doubt that the French gunners, having got the range, would keep it. Somebody, perhaps an aeroplane or an officer with flags in a tree, was signaling. It was horrible, this murderous mechanism by which men fired at targets miles away, targets which they could not see, but which they hit nevertheless. Every pulse beating hard, John shook his fist at the invisible German guns and the invisible French guns alike.

Then he recovered himself with an angry shake and began to run again. He knew now that he must go forward and secure a French force for rescue. But no matter how much he urged himself on, a great power was pulling at him, and it was Julie Lannes, a prisoner of the Germans in the château. Often he stopped and looked back, always in the same direction. Twice more he saw shells burst in the neighborhood of the house, and then his heart would beat hard, but after brief hesitation he would always pursue his course once more toward the French army.

He did not know the time, but he believed it to be well past midnight. He had his watch, but his immersion in the fish pond had caused it to stop. Still, the feel of the air made him believe that he was in the morning hours. Shells continued to pass over his head, and now they came from many points. He had seen or heard so much firing in the last eight or ten days that the world, he felt, must be turned into a huge ammunition factory to feed all the guns. He laughed to himself at his own grim joke. He was overstrained and he began to see everything through a red mist.

His clothing was drying fast, but his throat was very hot from excitement and exertion. He came to a little brook, and kneeling down, drank greedily. Then he bathed his face and felt stronger and better. His nerves also grew steadier. There was not so much luminous mist in the atmosphere. Ahead of him the crash of the guns was much louder, and he knew that he had already come a long distance. It seemed that the passing of the storm had renewed the activity of the gunners. The mutter had become rolling thunder, and both to north and south the searchlights flared repeatedly.

He heard the beat of hoofs, and he hoped that they were French cavalry on patrol, but they proved to be German Hussars, Bavarians he judged by the light blue uniforms, and they were coming from the direction of the French lines. They had been scouting there, he had no doubt, but they passed in a few moments, and, leaving his hedge, he resumed his own rapid flight, continually hoping that he would meet some French force, scouting also.

But he was doomed to a long trial of patience. Twice he saw Germans and hid until they had gone by. They seemed to be scouting in the night almost to the mouths of the French guns, and he admired their energy although it stood in the way of his own plans. He came to a second brook, drank again, and then took a short cut through a small wood. He had marked the reports of guns from a hill about two miles in front of him, and he was sure that a French battery must be posted there. He reckoned that he could reach it in a half hour, if he exerted himself.

Half way through the wood and human figures rose up all about him. Strong hands seized his arms and an electric torch flashed in his face.

"Who are you?" came the fierce question in French.