Part 71 (1/2)

”Nor is that the worst of it,” said the vice-chief. ”They are pressing at other well-chosen points. They threaten to pierce our centre.”

”Our centre!” gibed Westerling. ”You do need rest. Our centre, where we have the column of last night's attack still concentrated! If anything would convince me that I have to fight this war-alone--I--” Westerling choked in irritation.

”Yes. The ground is such that it is a tactically safe and advantageous move for Lanstron to make. He strikes at the vitals of our machine.”

”But what about the remainder of the force that made the charge? What about all our guns concentrated in front of Engadir?”

”I was coming to that. The rout of the a.s.saulting column was much worse than we had supposed. Those who are strong enough cannot be got to reform. Many were so exhausted that they dropped in their tracks. Our guns are at this moment in retreat--or being captured by the rush of the Browns' infantry. Your Excellency, the crisis is sudden, incredible.”

”Our wire service has broken down. We cannot communicate with many of our division commanders,” put in Bellini, the chief of intelligence.

”Yes, our organization, so dependent on communication, is in danger of disruption,” concluded Turcas. ”To avoid disorder, we think it best to retreat across the plain to our own range.”

At the word ”retreat” Westerling sprang to his feet, his cheeks purple, the veins of his neck and temples sculptured as he took a threatening step toward the group, which fell back before the physical rage of the man, all except the vice-chief, his mouth a thin, ashy line, who held his own.

”You cowards!” Westerling thundered. ”Retreat when we have five millions to their three!”

”We have not that odds now,” replied the parchment voice. ”All their men are engaged. They have caught us at a disadvantage, unable to use our numbers except in detail in trying to hold on in face of--”

”I tell you we cannot retreat!” Westerling interrupted. ”That is the end. I know what you do not know. I am in touch with the government.

Yes, I know--”

This brought fresh alarm into faces which had become set in grim stoicism by many alarms. If the people were in ignorance of the losses and the army in ignorance of the nation's feeling, the officers of the staff were no less in ignorance of what pa.s.sed over the long-distance wire between the chief of staff and the premier.

”I know what is best--I alone!” Westerling continued, driving home his point. ”Tell our commanders to hold. Neither general nor man is to budge. They are to stick to the death. Any one who does not I shall hold up to public shame as a poltroon. Who knows but Lanstron's attack may be a council of desperation? The Browns may be worse off than we are. Hold, hold! If are are tired, they are tired. Frequently it takes only an ounce more of resolution to turn the tide of battle. Hold, hold!

To-morrow will tell a different story! We are going to win yet! Yes, we are going to win!”

”It is for you to decide, Your Excellency,” said Turcas, slowly and precisely. ”You take the responsibility.”

”I take the responsibility. I am in command!” replied Westerling in unflinching pose.

”Yes, Your Excellency.”

And they filed out of the room, leaving him to his isolation.

A little later, when Francois came in unannounced, bringing coffee, he found his master with face buried in hands. Westerling was on the point of striking the valet in anger at the discovery, but instead attempted a yawn to deceive him.

”I fell asleep; there's so little to worry about, Francois,” he explained.

”Yes, Your Excellency. There is no need of worrying as long as you are in command,” said Francois; and Westerling gulped at the coffee and chewed at a piece of roll, which was so dry in his mouth and so hard to swallow that he gave up the attempt.

After Marta had learned, over the telephone, from Lanstron of the certain repulse of the Gray a.s.sault, fatigue--sheer physical fatigue such as made soldiers drop dead in slumber on the earth, their packs still on their backs--overcame her. Her work was done. The demands of nature overwhelmed her faculties. She slept with a nervous twitching of her muscles, a restless tossing of her lithe body, until hammers began beating on her temples, beating, beating with the sound of sh.e.l.l bursts, as if to warn her that punishment for her share in the killing was to be the eternal concussion of battle in her ears. At length she realized that the cannonading was real.

Hastening out-of-doors, as her glance swept toward the range she saw bursts of shrapnel smoke from the guns of the Browns nearer than since the fighting had begun on the main line, and these were directed at bodies of infantry that were in confused retreat down the slopes, while all traffic on the pa.s.s road was moving toward the rear. Impelled by a new apprehension she hurried to the tunnel. Lanstron answered her promptly in a voice that had a ring of relief and joy in place of the tension that had characterized it since the outbreak of the war.

”Thanks to you, Marta!” he cried. ”Everything goes back to you--thanks to you came this chance to attack, and we are succeeding at every point!

You are the general, you the maker of victories!”

”Yes, the general of still more killing!” she cried in indignation. ”Why have you gone on with the slaughter? I did not help you for this. Why?”