Part 61 (1/2)
”Soon, now!” said Westerling, and looked at his watch.
Shortly, in the direction of Engadir, to the rear of the steady flashes broke forth line after line of flashes as the long-range batteries, which so far had been silent, joined their mightier voices to the chorus, making a continuous leaping burst of explosions over the Brown positions, which were the real object of the attack.
”The moment I've lived for!” exclaimed Westerling. ”Our infantry is starting up the ap.r.o.n of Engadir! We held back the fire of the heavy guns concentrated for the purpose of supporting the men with an outburst. Three hundred heavy guns pouring in their sh.e.l.ls on a s.p.a.ce of two acres! We're tearing their redoubts to pieces! They can't see to fire! They can't live under it! They're in the crater of a volcano! When our infantry is on the edge of the wreckage the guns cease. Our infantry crowd in--crowd into the house that Partow built. He'll find that numbers count; that the power of modern gun-fire will open the way for infantry in ma.s.ses to take and hold vital tactical positions!
And--no--no, their fire in reply is not as strong as I expected.”
”Because they are letting you in! It will be strong enough in due season!” thought Marta in the uncontrollable triumph of antagonism. Five against three was in his tone and in every line of his features.
”It's hard for a soldier to leave a sight like this, but the real news will be awaiting me at my desk,” he concluded, adding, as he turned away: ”It's fireworks worth seeing, and if you remain here I will return to tell you the results.”
She had no thought of going. That arc of dreadful lightnings held her with ghastly fascination. Suddenly all the guns ceased. Faintly in the distance she heard a tumult of human voices in the high notes of a savage cheer; the rattling din of rifles; the purring of automatics; and then, except for the firefly flashes of scattered shots around Engadir, silence and darkness. But she knew that chaos would soon be loosed again--chaos and murder, which were the product of her own chicanery.
The Grays would find themselves in the trap of Partow's and Lanny's planning.
Turning her back to the range for the moment, she saw the twinkle of the lights of the town and the threads of light of the wagon-trains and the sweep of the lights of the railroad trains on the plain; while in the foreground every window of the house was ablaze, like some factory on a busy night s.h.i.+ft. She could hear the click of the telegraph instruments already reporting the details of the action as cheerfully as Brobdingnagian crickets in their peaceful surroundings. Then out of the shadows Westerling reappeared.
”The ap.r.o.n of Engadir is ours!” he called. ”Thanks to you!” he added with pointed emphasis. Back in the house he had received congratulations with a nod, as if success were a matter of course. Before her, exultation unbent stiffness, and he was hoa.r.s.ely triumphant and eager.
”It's plain sailing now,” he went on. ”A break in the main line! We have only to drive home the wedge, and then--and then!” he concluded.
She felt him close, his breath on her cheek.
”Peace!” she hastened to say, drawing back instinctively.
And then! The irony of the words in the light of her knowledge was pointed by a terrific renewal of the thunders and the flashes far up on the range, and she could not resist rejoicing in her heart.
”That's the Browns!” exclaimed Westerling in surprise.
The volume of fire increased. With the rest of the frontier in darkness, the Engadir section was an isolated blaze. In its light she saw his features, without alarm but hardening in dogged intensity.
”They've awakened to what they have lost! They have been rus.h.i.+ng up reserves and are making a counter-attack. We must hold what we have gained, no matter what the cost!”
His last sentence was spoken over his shoulder as he started for the house.
Thus more fire called for more fire; more murder for more murder, she thought. Her mind was projected into the thick of the battle. She saw a panic of Grays caught in their triumph; of wounded men writhing and crawling over their dead comrades, their position shown to the marksmen by a search-light's glare. The dead grew thicker; their gla.s.sy eyes were staring at her in reproach. She heard the hoa.r.s.e and straining voices of the Browns in their ”G.o.d with us!” through the din of automatics. Men snuggled for cover amidst torn flesh and red-tinged mud in the trenches, and other men trampled them in fiendish risk of life to take more lives.
Without changing her position, hardly turning her head, she watched until the firing began to lessen rapidly. Then she breathed, ”Engadir must be ours again!” and realized that she was weak and faint. Suspense had sapped her strength. She sought a seat in the arbor, where the nervous force of other thoughts revived her. What would Westerling say when he found that her information had led his men into a trap--when staff scepticism was proven right and he a false prophet?
From the house came the confused sound of voices in puzzling chorus. It was not a cheer. It had the quality of a rapid fire of jubilant exclamation as a piece of news was pa.s.sed from lip to lip. Then she heard that step which she knew so well. Sensitive ears noted that it touched the gravel with unusual energy and quickness, which she thought must be due to vexation over the repulse. She rose to face him, summoning back the spirit of the actress.
”This is better yet! I came to tell you that the counter-attack failed!”
he said as he saw her appear from the shelter of the arbor.
She wondered if she were going to fall. But the post of the trellis was within reach. She caught hold of it to steady herself. Failed! All her acting had served only to make such a trap for the Browns as Lanny had planned for the Grays! She was grateful for the darkness that hid her face, which was incapable of any expression now but blank despair.
Westerling's figure loomed very large to her as she regained her self-possession--large, dominant, unconquerable in the suggestion of five against three. And felicitations were due! She drew away from the post, swaying and trembling, nerves and body not yet under command of mind. She could not force her tongue to so false a sentiment as congratulation.
”The killing--it must have been terrible!” her mind at last made her exclaim to cover her tardiness of response to his mood.
”You thought of that--as you should--as I do!” he said.
He took her hands in his, pulsing warm with the flowing red of his strength. She let them remain lifelessly, as if she had not the will to take them away, the instinct of her part again dominant. To him this was another victory, and it was discovery--the discovery of melting weakness in her for the first time, which magnified his sense of masculine power.