Part 21 (1/2)
”Promise!” he commanded.
”I promise!” Lanstron said with a throb.
”That's it' That's the way! That's the kind of soldier I like,” Partow declared with change of tone, and he rose from his chair with a spring that was a delight to Lanstron in its proof of the physical vigor so stoutly denied. ”We have a lot to say to each other to-day,” he added; ”but first I am going to show you the whole bag of tricks.”
His arm crooked in Lanstron's, they went along the main corridor of the staff office hung with portraits of generals who had beaten or held their own with the Grays. Pa.s.sing through a door for which Partow held the key, they were in a dim, narrow pa.s.sage with bare walls, lighted by two small gas flames. At the end was another, a heavy steel door, of the sort a.s.sociated with the protection of bonds and securities, but in this case for the security of a nation's defence. Partow turned the k.n.o.b of the combination back and forth and with the smooth swing of a great weight on noiseless hinges the door opened and they entered a vault having a single chair and a small table in the centre and lined by sections of numbered pigeonholes, each with a combination lock At the base of one section was a small safe. It was not the first time that Lanstron had been in this vault. He had the combination of two of the sections of pigeonholes, aerostatics and intelligence. The rest belonged to other divisions.
”The safe is my own, as you know. No one opens it; no one knows what is in it but me,” said Partow, taking from it an envelope and a ma.n.u.script, which he laid on the table. ”There you have all that, is in my brain--the whole plan. The envelope contains the combinations of all the pigeonholes, if you wish to look up any details.”
”Thank you!” Lanstron half whispered. It was all he could think of to say.
”And you will find that there is more than you thought, perhaps: the reason why I have fought hard to remain chief of staff; why--” Partow continued in a voice that had the sepulchral uncanniness of a threat long nursed now breaking free of the bondage of years within the sound-proof walls. ”But--” he broke off suddenly as if he distrusted even the security of the vault. ”Yes, it is all there--my life's work, my dream, my ambition, my plan!”
Lanstron heard the lock slide in the door as Partow went out and he was alone with the army's secrets. As he read Partow's firm handwriting, many parts fell together, many moves on a chess-board grew clear. His breath came faster, he bent closer over the table, he turned back pages to go over them again. Every sentence dropped home in his mind like a bolt in a socket.
When he had finished the ma.n.u.script the trance of his thoughts held him in the same att.i.tude. ”Five millions to our three!” a voice kept repeating to him. ”In face of that this dream!” another voice was saying. Had it been right to intrust such responsibility to one man of Partow's age and right to transfer that responsibility to himself in an emergency? Yet how clear the plan in the confidence of its wisdom!
Unconscious of the pa.s.sage of time, he did not hear the door open or realize Partow's presence until he felt Partow's hand on his shoulder.
”I see that you didn't look into any of the pigeonholes,” the chief of staff observed.
Lanstron pressed his finger-tips on the ma.n.u.script significantly.
”No. It is all there!”
”The thing being to carry it out!” said Partow. ”G.o.d with us!” he added devoutly.
XV
CLOSE TO THE WHITE POSTS
Have you forgotten Hugo Mallin, humorist of Company B of the 128th Regiment of the Grays, whom we left in their barracks under orders for South La Tir on the afternoon that Westerling called on Marta Galland?
Have you forgotten Eugene Aronson, the farmer's son, and Jacob Pilzer, the butcher's son, and pasty-faced little Peterkin, the valet's son, and the judge's son, and the other privates of the group that surrounded Hugo Mallin as he aired heresies that set them laughing?
Through the press, an unconscious instrument of his purpose, the astute premier has inoculated them with the virus of militant patriotism. Day by day the crisis has become more acute; day by day the war fever has risen in their veins. Big Eugene Aronson believes everything he reads; his country can do no wrong. Jacob Pilzer is most bellicose; he chafes at inaction, while they all suffer the discomforts of an empty factory building in the rear of South La Tir which has become a temporary barracks.
On Tuesday they hear of crowds around the Foreign Office demanding war, on Wednesday of panics on the stock exchanges, on Thursday of mobilization actually begun and a rigid press censors.h.i.+p established, and on Friday other regiments and guns and horses are detraining and departing right and left. Hurrying officers know nothing except what they have been told to do.
”When do we start? What are we waiting for?” demanded Pilzer. ”I want to be in the thick of the fighting and not trailing along with the reserves!” If any one in the 128th wins the bronze cross he means that it shall be he and not Eugene Aronson.
”Never mind, you'll have a chance. There'll be war enough to go around, I am sure!” said Hugo Mallin.
”More than you'll want!” Pilzer shot back, thrusting out his jaw.
”I'm sure of that!” answered Hugo, the mask of his face drawn in quizzical solemnity. ”I don't want any at all.”
This brought a tremendous laugh. All the laughs had been tremendous since mobilization had begun in earnest, and the atmosphere was like the suspense before a thunder-storm breaks.
On Sat.u.r.day evening the 128th was mustered in field accoutrements and a full supply of cartridges. In the darkness the first battalion marched out at right angles to the main road that ran through La Tir and South La Tir. At length Company B, deployed in line of skirmishers, lay down to sleep on its arms.