The Man on Horseback/Chapter 33

, around noon, Krauss announced Colonel Heinrich Wedekind Tom Graves looked forward to an acrimonious scene, and was therefore surprised, in a way relieved, when the officer, who was in full uniform, the uhlanka on his head, saber trailing, decorations blazing on his breast, the silver sash of formal occasions running from shoulder to waist, saluted stiffly and showed by his first words that he had no intention of mentioning the ugly words that had been swapped that morning across the telephone.

"Ich bin hier in Sachen der Ehrenangelegenheit zwischen Ihnen und Herr Baron von Götz-Wrede, Herr Leutnant—I have called on you in the matter of the affair of honor between you and the Baron," was his opening speech.

"Yes, Colonel?"

"You will consider yourself under arrest for the time-being. Stubenarrest, we call it in the army. That is, you will remain in your rooms, under parole, until you hear from the court-martial."

Tom smiled. He was not very much troubled. He knew that duels amongst officers and students and generally the gentry were condoned in Prussia, in fact hushed up, hardly ever mentioned except by the liberal or radical and, occasionally, the catholic press.

He said something of the sort, laughingly, but the Colonel remained perfectly serious.

"Herr Leutnant," he replied, "you are right. We do not make much fuss over a bloodless duel or one where a participant has only been wounded."

"Well?"

"But Germany needs officers. The Emperor has given strict orders that the death of an officer in a duel must be thoroughly investigated—sharply punished."

Tom was startled.

"Death of an officer? What are you giving me?"

The Colonel rose.

"Herr Leutnant," he replied, "I regret to inform you that Baron von Götz-Wrede died from the effect of his wounds a little over an hour ago and …"

"You're crazy, man," cried the Westerner. "I only disabled him. Shot him through both wrists. What are you trying to do? Scare me? Look here …"

The Colonel's gloved hand commanded silence. He rose.

"The Baron died," he said. "The official, regimental inquest is this afternoon. I repeat that you are on parole until then. You will not leave your apartment nor try to communicate with a soul. I may be allowed to add," he wound up vindictively, "that you needn't try any of your American tricks—that you needn't try to telephone to your so valuable friends at the British Embassy. Central has received instructions to listen in on your telephone conversations." And he left, his saber rattling behind him, while Tom muttered savagely to himself:

"Sure. I get you all right. I know what that parole dope amounts to. Parole? Hell! You got your jackal, Krauss, to watch over me! Trying to catch me with the goods, eh?"

He paced up and down.

His thoughts were in a whirl.

Why? It wasn't credible. It wasn't possible.

He knew a thing or two about flesh wounds. He had had experiences out West, as a boy, before peace had come to the range.

And the surgeon had said that the Baron was not dead, that the wounds were not dangerous.

What was it then?

A—frame up?

No!

He had changed his earlier ideas about Germany and the Germans. No more he believed in the kindly, rather stolid folk that heretofore had been the Teutonic prototype in his provincial, American imagination. He had learned better since then. But he told himself that even soulless German efficiency would stop at killing one man, the Baron, so as to get him, Tom, into the clutches of the law.

Too, why this deliberate intent to get him?

Vyvyan had spoken about the Yankee Doodle Glory. There was some secret mixed up with that cursed mine in the Hoodoos. The Hoodoos! Rightly named!

But—the Germans owned the mine to all intents and purposes. They had their own engineers at work. They controlled the output!

What then had happened?

Perhaps blood poisoning had set in.

No! The Baron was the very picture of health and strength. Blood poisoning wouldn't kill him in such a short time.

Perhaps …

Up and down, up and down, he paced. Only one thing was clear: Somehow, the Baron had died from the flesh wounds, which he had inflicted on him; and, with the realization, Tom became conscious of a sharp regret in the back cells of his brain.

He had not meant to take a life. Of course, the other had shot foul, had fired at the signal Two, had tried to murder him. Still, the man was a German, an officer obeying orders, whose slogan, for right or wrong, was "Zu Befehl—at your orders!"; and, somehow, the Westerner found it in his big, generous heart to forgive.

No, no, before God—he had not meant to take a human life!

Tom felt utterly alone. In all those teeming Berlin millions there was not one soul he could trust, not one friendly hand that would stretch out to grasp his, to pull him from the mire.

Poole? Tom smiled bitterly. Poole was the Vice-Consul, a good enough fellow to drink and joke with, but scabbed with official dry rot, scared to death of losing his pull back home.

Bertha? Old Mrs. Wedekind?

No. He was not the sort to hide behind a woman's skirt, and even if he wanted to, there was Krauss on watch.

Krauss! And how many others? All thin, steely, inexorable meshes in the Web that was about his feet!

He clenched his fists until the knuckles stretched white. He saw red.

In that hour a terrible, corroding hatred of Germany, of all that Germany stood for, was born in Tom Graves soul.

He stepped to the window and looked out. The streets were covered with a thin, flaky layer of April snow, but people were hurrying in all directions, rosy, plump, well fed. A squadron of Dragoons cantered to the West, towards Halensee, their triangular pennants fluttering in the low wind, their lance butts creaking against the saddle leather, their sabers flickering like evil cressets. He heard the snarling voice of the squadron leader:

"Rechts! Rechts! Angaloppirt!"

The army—the army—and again the army! Guns and sabers and pistols and horses!

And why? What for? What was the idea in back of it?

Pomp and circumstance?

No! A nation, an efficient, thinking nation like the German, did not drain its financial blood just for show and glitter!

He remembered the Emperor's speech at the time of the flag celebration—the little professor's words—other things he had heard, from the lips of Colonel Wedekind, the Baron, even the young Ensign. Empty boastings, silly vaporings, he had thought them at the time.

God above! How he hated them! And what a fool he had been—what a cursed, cursed, purblind fool!

And Krauss?

There was another of 'em. He rushed to the corridor. He'd get his hands round that fellow's throat. He would squeeze, squeeze. There would be one of them gone to perdition anyway. Not that the desire to kill was articulate, deliberate. Rather, an instinct, an overpowering, unthinking impulse …

But he stopped on the threshold.

For he saw that the outer door was ajar. He heard voices soft, yet very tense, very excited.

One was that of Krauss, talking through the crack in the door:

"No, no, gnädiges Fräulein. I can't—honestly! I have my orders. Please …"

"Dear Krauss! I must see him," came the other voice.

It was Bertha's, and Tom cleared the length of the corridor, opened the door, drew Bertha inside, and faced the valet who was standing there, a picture of abject misery, terrible indecision.

Tom was very quiet. Gone was his desire to kill.

"Krauss," he said, "I guess you still have a few decent instincts left."

"I—I …"

In his own simple way Tom knew the human heart, the human soul. He slapped the other on the shoulder.

"Sure you have. You bet you have. You're just scared of the fellow higher up. They drilled and trained and punched and kicked your poor old soul till it creaks. But—Gosh—you are a man, aren't you? You got some decency, some kindliness. 'Fess up, man! There's nothing to be ashamed of."

Krauss bowed very stiffly.

"You are right, sir," he replied. "I have some—ah—decency, kindliness. I—am blind, deaf! I see nothing. I know nothing!" and he bowed again and went to his room, softly closing the door while the Westerner ushered the girl into the little salon that overlooked the Kurfürstendamm.

"Well, Bertha?" His words seemed very foolish, very inadequate.

She looked at him, her eyes brimming with tears, her lips working convulsively, her narrow, white hands twitching nervously.

She tried to speak. Could not. Just a faint, choked gurgle deep in her throat; and Tom, his very soul torn by love, by pity, by a great, fine longing, put his arms around her shoulders. There was no thought now in his mind about his own predicament. Bertha was in trouble. That was all that counted.

Clumsily, he patted her cheeks.

"Tell me, child," he whispered. "Tell me, honey. Come on—tell me, best beloved!"

Through her tears she smiled at him, just a little mischievously.

"You mustn't take advantage of me—because I am in trouble—to …"

"To kiss you?" Tom, too, smiled. "All right, Bertha, I'll wait until after you've told me. Now"—very seriously—"What is it? All right. Take your time!"

And Bertha told him: A long pitiful tale, another tale of the Web that out there, from the Russian frontier to the French, from the Channel to the Alps, even far across the sea, in the United States, Brazil, China, Morocco, stretched its fine, steely, pitiless meshes.