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.