THE TRENCH DAYS: The Collected War Tales of William Le Queux (WW1 Adventure Sagas, Espionage Thrillers & Action Classics). William Le Queux
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but above the terrible disorder and wild shouting were the shrieks of the female servants below, while a smell of fire suddenly greeted their nostrils.
“Look, mother! there’s smoke!” gasped Aimée in terror. “They have set the château on fire?”
As she spoke, two of the Uhlans had torn down a huge picture — part of an altar-piece from a church at Antwerp — which occupied the whole of the end wall of the room, and were kicking their big boots through the priceless canvas. It was a picture attributed to Rubens.
“Come, child, let us go,” whispered the Baroness, her eyes dimmed with tears, and her face pale and set.
They turned to leave, but as they did so, the Baron caught Aimée roughly by the shoulder, and leering at her, patted her beneath the chin.
In an instant the girl, resenting such familiarity, turned upon him like a tigress and slapped his flabby face so heavily that he drew back in surprise, while the others witnessing the rebuff, laughed at his discomfiture. He raised his sword with an oath, and would have cut her down had not the man called Ernst rushed forth and stayed his hand.
“Go, ladies,” urged the man in French. “Escape, while there is yet time.”
“Hold that girl!” shouted von Meyeren, fiercely struggling to get free from his brother-officer. But the latter held him, and barred his passage while the two terrified women dashed down the stairs, up which the black smoke was already slowly curling.
Darkness had fallen, and only here and there had the lamps been lit. Therefore the Baroness and her daughter were enabled to obtain hats and wraps and to creep down a steep, winding back staircase which was seldom used, and which the Uhlans had, fortunately, not yet discovered.
The scene was a terrible one of wholesale, wanton destruction. Some of the men were busy getting together the plate and valuables, while, just as they left, they caught sight of one man who emerged into the courtyard with the Baroness’ jewel-case beneath his arm.
The thieves and murderers of the Kaiser were repeating in the beautiful Château of Sévérac, the same disgraceful methods which they had pursued in the villages of the Meuse. They respected neither God nor man, neither old age nor youth. They made war upon women, and shot down the unarmed and defenceless. Indeed, this great army of “kultur” was, in reality, but a disciplined horde of barbarians.
The Baroness and her daughter, with wraps hastily thrown about them, succeeded in escaping from the house by the postern gate, which gave entrance to a wood, but ere they left, a red glare from one of the lower rooms, shining away across the river, told only too plainly that the dastardly Uhlans had used some of their famous inflammable “confetti,” and were burning the place.
The fierce, exultant yells of the drunken soldiery fell upon their ears as they plunged into the dark wood, part of the Baron’s wide domain, the intricate by-paths of which were well known to Aimée.
Breathlessly they hastened on, until in the darkness beneath the trees they were compelled to slowly grope their way. Their fear was lest the woods be searched, and they might be captured, for the brutes — inflamed as they were with wine — were now in the mood for torture and for murder. Woe-betide them if they fell into their hands.
Mother and daughter pushed eagerly, breathlessly on, terrified at the fearful orgie of destruction they had just witnessed. For a full half-hour they walked, Aimée leading the way through the narrow, winding shooting-paths, until at last they came forth into the open fields.
Then they paused, scarce daring to look behind them. Alas! at the bend of the valley, high upon its rock, Sévérac stood out vividly with flames belching fiercely from the windows of its high, round towers, and casting a blood-red glare upon the waters and across to the woods on the opposite bank.
“Dieu!” gasped the Baroness — “the fiends! — those hell-fiends of the Emperor?”
“Mother,” exclaimed Aimée, quite calm again now that they had escaped from the hands of that brigandish band, “remember there is a God of Justice, with whom vengeance lies for wrong, and most assuredly will He, if we place our trust in Him, mete out the dread fate of death and obscurity to the arrogant Kaiser, and to all his dastardly barbarians. Let us get back to Brussels somehow. There, at least, we shall be safe.”
And as they stood watching the fierce flames leap up around those ancient towers which had withstood the wars of Charles the Bold, they knew not the awful scene taking place in the courtyard, where Gustave, Mélanie, and seven other of the servants, male and female, were shot one after the other in cold blood, as they emerged in terror from the burning place. Appearance of each was being hailed by the drunken laughter of the assembled soldiers, and in escaping the fire they fell victims of the blood-lust of the brutes.
“The Red Cock is crowing all over Belgium!” shouted the Baron von Meyeren thickly, alluding to the incendiary acts of Germans being committed everywhere. “We shall make a bonfire of Namur, to-morrow, my men! Hurrah! for God and the Fatherland.”
And as he passed across the courtyard, for the atmosphere had now become hot and stifling, he savagely kicked aside the body of one of the young female servants who, poor thing, had been sabred in her attempt to escape.
Chapter Twelve
The Fugitives
That flight proved indeed a hideous nightmare.
Throughout those hot, stifling hours of oppressive darkness, the Baroness de Neuville — as homeless as those hundreds of poor people on the roads, even though wife of a millionaire — wandered on, Aimée taking her arm tenderly. On, and still on they went, along the straight, open road which, leaving the Meuse, led over the hills to the straggling little whitewashed village of Winenne, which they at last reached.
There they joined a hustling crowd of terror-stricken fugitives of all classes, sad-eyed men, frightened women, and wondering children, some stern, some crying bitterly, but all carrying bundles, or pushing wheelbarrows or perambulators containing all they had saved from their lowly homes. From Winenne, the Baroness and her daughter, after trudging on with the crowd for some distance, left the high road and took a by-way, which Aimée knew by motoring frequently over it, led due south across the hill, for ten miles or so, to Bourseigne, where lived the Baronne’s brother, a large landed proprietor. In his house they had decided to seek protection. The red flush of dawn had given place to the light of day ere they came in sight of the little place, lying deep in its hollow, but as they looked eagerly upon “The Château” — as the long, white, old-fashioned house was termed — their spirits fell, for it was roofless, and its grim, blackened walls, alas! told their own tale.
A peasant on the road told them the story.
Three days ago the Germans had arrived and occupied the place, which was only three miles from the French frontier. Monsieur Hannaerts, the seigneur of the place, had been arrested as hostage for the good behaviour of the village, but, because a half-witted youth had discharged a toy-pistol at a German soldier, the unhappy gentleman had been bound to a telegraph pole at the roadside, and shot in the presence of the villagers.
An hour later the British, under General Sir John French, who had arrived at Charleroi and had extended their line towards Mézieres, began to shell the village, with the result that it had been partially destroyed, the Château, which had been the enemy’s headquarters, suffering most severely.
The tide of war, however, had now passed by, and when the two weary, footsore women entered the village, they found life proceeding almost as usual. Those who had not been killed had returned to their wrecked and shattered homes, and were full of stories of the fierce brutality of the invader, which the gallant “Anglais” in khaki had so swiftly driven out.
Naturally, much distressed at the news of her brother’s murder, the Baronne entered the place with fixed, terror-stricken eyes, that same set expression