CHAPTER XXXVIII
WHAT THE LIGHTNING REVEALED
“Sweating machinery! What is it?”
This question rang in Phil’s brain during all the rest of the drive. Under the play of his stimulated imagination it became a nightmare transferred into an atmosphere of reality. There was no point in the progress of the continuous tragic dread where he could say to himself, even as one might say in his sleep: “Oh, this is only a dream.”
Who was this more-than-ever mysterious man? What was the explanation of his anomalous position and his tyrannical manner?
That he was a man of power and authority could no longer be doubted. Phil had at first been inclined to regard this blustering trip-voiced misfit of a soldier as an unaccountable joke, but he was fully convinced now that his judgment was decidedly in error in this respect.
On, on they went in a general north-easterly direction. They passed over a crudely repaired bridge that spanned the River Aisne, though Phil did not know at the time what stream it was. They dashed along deep rutted thoroughfares, which engineering crews were trying vainly to keep in smooth-surfaced repair; they passed miles of truck caravans and marching soldiers, also numerous supply stations, around which were usually camped large bodies of soldiers held in reserve to be placed here and there on the battle front as needed. Before long, however, the long lines of moving camions ceased to appear, and the boy concluded that this was an indication that the captured French railroads had been put back into operation up to this point.
Most of the towns that they passed through were in states of partial or total ruin. The greater portion of the inhabitants of the entire country apparently had moved ahead of the boche advance as refugees, or had been transported into the enemy’s country to labor there, while men, women and children of bocheland fought or prepared supplies for the fighters.
Much of this, however, Phil saw in the dusk of evening, for they had not traveled more than two or three hours when the sun began to sink below the western horizon. On, on, they went, through the gathering gloom, then through the thickening darkness. Although they passed a number of military stations where food might have been obtained for the asking, they did not stop for supper. On, on, on, into the night they continued their course, how late the prisoner could only conjecture from his own weariness and hunger.
But at last the journey came to an end, as all journeys do. It had produced a good many surprises for Phil, nor was the least of these the one that met him at the finish.
Hardly an area of any considerable size in the course of the drive had the prisoner observed that did not bear some evidence of battle devastation. This condition was evident even in the latter part of the journey, which was in the darkness of the early half of the night. They passed close to the ruins of many houses and other buildings, and found it necessary to drive slower after sunset in order to avoid “turning turtle” in the numerous shell holes of the road, which had been repaired with great haste and imperfection in those parts of the invaded country where the railroads remained in operation.
Moreover, an hour or two before they reached the end of their journey, the sky became heavily clouded and much rain fell. This made it necessary to drive with even greater care, so that the rate at which they covered the ground during this dark and rainy period was little more than a creep, as compared with the speed maintained in the hours of daylight.
Phil was able to see but little of his surroundings for a time, except directly in front of the machine, as they neared their place of destination. The storm had abated somewhat, but the sky had not cleared, and the darkness was just as intense as ever. Then suddenly the storm burst anew with a heavier downpour than at any time since the rain began to fall, and the lightning, which had flashed with indifferent illumination, blazed forth with great brilliance and frequency.
By the aid of this light, Phil saw that they were entering a drive that ran through a woods of considerable size. Phil was interested as well as awed by this new development. The surroundings were not at all cheerful, especially in view of the circumstances, but the situation was decidedly impressive nevertheless.
“If I were back in my fairy-story days, I’d imagine that I’m being carried captive into an ogre’s den,” the boy half-muttered to himself after they had ridden several minutes along the drive. “Hello!” he almost exclaimed a minute later. “Here’s the ogre’s castle, all right.”
There was good cause for this play of grewsome imagination. It was revealed by a specially brilliant flash of lightning that lighted the surroundings like day. Before them in a comparatively small clearing was a magnificent structure of mediaeval mass, lines and turrets. To a tourist it would have been greeted with rapturous recollections of a romantic past; to Phil it was a picture of apprehension of horror.