CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

TRAFFORD AND THE TRENCH

Bernhardt himself was directing the movement against the Marienkastel. He dominated the whole force as completely as though he had been trained to the art of war instead of the services of the Church. All felt that success depended on one man, and that man was the keen-eyed enigma who seemed to blend a strain of genius with the taint of madness in his seething brain.

"Their answer?" he demanded of Trafford, on the latter's return from his fruitless parley.

"See us d----d first," replied the American.

"Ha! That sounds like Saunders," said Bernhardt with a laugh.

"It _was_ Saunders. I'm sorry we couldn't come to terms, but my friend is a pig-headed gentleman, and he won't shift till we poke our rifles through the castle windows."

"Dear Saunders!" exclaimed Bernhardt. "How like him to give us a good fight! We'll rush a couple of hundred men up for a frontal attack, and see what happens. Let it be the Guards under Captain Zacchari. Give the order now, if you please."

The charge sounded, and the men advanced in open order, only to be met with a withering fire from the advance guard entrenched in the bob-sleigh run. A good few dropped, and Bernhardt having learned what he required, gave the command to halt. The men accordingly flung themselves prone in the deep snow, occasionally sniping as a head showed itself above the ice bank of the toboggan track.

"We must enfilade that trench," said Bernhardt to Trafford, who had joined him. "How long will it take to get our guns up to the top of the run?"

"Two hours, if the enemy don't interfere. Two years, if they do. It's a steep bit of hill, and this sun is making the snow soft on the surface."

"True," agreed Bernhardt. "Then we must advance all along the line. It will be costly, but we'll give them a hot time when we get to close quarters."

"We shall lose at least a hundred men," objected Trafford.

"More, I think," said Bernhardt coolly; "but we shall take the Marienkastel."

"I've got an idea," said Trafford musingly.

"Out with it!"

"Give me twenty men and twenty minutes, and I'll turn those fellows out of the bob-run--or my name's not George Trafford."

"Choose your men and choose your moment," he said, flashing a glance at his companion, "but remember that time presses."

"I am ready now," said Trafford, his face alight with enthusiasm. "Any twenty men will do, provided they are good ski-ers and know which end of a rifle goes off."

Bernhardt gave the order for twenty men of the Guides to attach themselves under Trafford.

"When you hear a bugle-call push on with all your strength," said the latter; "and if you take Saunders prisoner deal gently with him."

Making a detour in order to take all available cover, Trafford led his men towards the starting point of the bob-sleigh run. His movement,--hidden by the configuration of the ground,--was unnoted by the garrison, nor did he meet with any opposition on his way. The hum of the curling-stones led him on, and as he drew nearer the stentorian shouts of the "skippers," as they sung out encouragement to the different members of their sides. When he reached the top of the hill where the run commenced he found himself looking down on to a frozen pond, whereon a number of sunburnt men were plying brooms in front of a slithering curling-stone.

"Sweep, boys, sweep!" yelled out Major Flannel. "Bring it all the way! It'll be a 'Jimmy Hobbs' when it stops. Up besoms, lads! It's drawn the port! Thank you, Hobbs--it's a beauty--right on the pot lid. Man, you're a curler!"

"I beg your pardon," Trafford interrupted, descending on to the ice, and saluting. "I am sorry to interrupt your pastime."

Major Flannel looked up and surveyed the intruder, whose approach had been completely unnoticed by the engrossed enthusiasts.

Trafford was in a dark-green uniform with a sword at his side. In one hand he bore a bugle, and in the other a ski-ing pole.

What this warlike figure was doing on the curling-rink, and why it should address him in faultless English was a mystery to the worthy Major. Then he noticed that the high snow bank behind the rink was crowned with a score of riflemen. The game was suspended, and the curlers gathered round the intruder.

"Are we in the way of the fighting?" asked "Sandy" Fraser.

"Not in the least," replied Trafford, with a smile: "but all the same it is my painful duty to interrupt your game."

"But we don't mind war risks," objected the Scot.

"So I have been told," said Trafford; "but the fact is we want to borrow your curling-stones."

Mystification of the profoundest nature showed itself on the faces of the curling fraternity.

"You're a humourist, sir," said Fraser at length.

"Among other things, yes," agreed Trafford; "but at the present moment I'm in deadly, sober earnest. We're trying to take the Marienkastel, but Karl's men are holding the run, and unless we can dislodge them it'll be a bloody business capturing the place. I'm sorry to spoil sport, but I must annex your curling-stones in the name of Queen Gloria--you'll see why in a minute."

And so saying, Trafford gave a command in German to his men. Instantly they jumped down on to the ice.

"Each man take a stone and carry it up to the top of the toboggan run!" he called out.

There were only sixteen stones to the twenty men, so four men were perforce inactive. The others proceeded to carry out the command with unquestioned discipline.

"Man, man," expostulated "Sandy" Fraser sorrowfully, "you're spoiling a gran' match."

But Major Flannel took a fiercer line of protest.

"What the blazes are you doing, sir?" he spluttered, red with indignation. "This is my rink, and these stones are mine and my guests'."

The four soldiers who had had no stones allotted them began to handle their rifles expectantly. Trafford, however, checked any untoward action on their part with a curt gesture and a quick-flung command.

"Force is an ugly kind of argument, gentlemen," he said, turning to the two "skippers." "It grieves me exceedingly to have to appeal to it. Please do not make my position any harder. It is bad enough to spoil the sport; it would be cruel if I had to spoil the sportsmen."

Slowly and dimly, but nevertheless surely, the Major began to perceive the hopelessness of arguing the rights and wrongs of the situation. He had a profound contempt for any soldiers except those of his own country, but a saving spark of common sense rescued him from the tragic folly of resistance.

"I'd never built up a better 'house' in my life," he said petulantly. "We were lying 'two stones' and with another shot to play might easily have been three."

"Be careful of the pink stones with the blue ribbon on the handle!" Fraser called out in exaggerated trepidation. "My mother's just sent them to me as a Christmas present from Aberdeen."

A laugh followed this sally--good-humour was restored.

"Gentlemen," called out Trafford, "mount this snow bank here with me, and you will see a sight that will more than recompense you for a ruined game and the possible loss of your curling-stones!"

So saying, Trafford himself mounted the snow bank at the commencement of the bob-sleigh run. The curlers followed, one or two grumbling still, others with a belated interest in the fortunes of the day.

"Now, then," cried Trafford in German, to his command, "when I say 'go,' hurl those stones down the toboggan-run! All together, now--one, two, three,--go!"

The men swung back their granite burdens and then hurled them with all their force on to the shining surface of the icy track. Swiftly the stones glided down the sharp incline, gathering pace at every yard of their downward course. Round the first bend they swept, banging against each other in a jostling rush of irresistible momentum.

"That's one way of enfilading a trench," said Trafford to the Major, as the last stone,--a pink one with a blue ribbon,--swept out of sight. "Shrapnel's not in it with--Aberdeen granite;" and raising his bugle to his lips he sounded the "charge," clear and true.

Then it was that the curlers had compensation for their spoiled sport. The whole line of the attack, Guides, Sharpshooters, and Guards, seemed to spring into being out of the snow, and hurl themselves in a parallel rush towards the Marienkastel. Bugles blew wild music from their brazen throats; "Forwards!" cried officers with drawn swords to their men, and "Forwards!" the men cried back to them with the deep-throated joy of battle.

"Forwards!" shouted Bernhardt, pressing with the van, reckless of personal danger, conscious only of the possible fear of others, and of the supreme importance of pushing home the present attack at all costs.

A spluttering volley rang out from the enemy's entrenchment, but scarce a man of the attack dropped. Nor was this to be wondered at: Saunders' men were in confusion. A curling-stone weighs about sixteen pounds, and when it is travelling at a rate of forty miles an hour is almost as deadly as a cannon-ball; nay, they were more alarming than ordinary shot or shell, for they were visible, and the men who might have faced the unseen death struggled frantically to avoid the visual peril of the granite avalanche. There was much breaking of bones and crushing of ribs, cries of agony and groans of tribulation. Rifles went off at various angles, friends grappled with friends, and many, pushed on by the weight of the accumulated stones and the press of writhing limbs, began to slither down the toboggan track,--even as Frau von Bilderbaum and Von Hügelweiler had done two days before. It was a moment of torment and confusion, a moment when loyalty and discipline were helpless and unavailing, a moment, indeed, when a much less determined attack would have prevailed against such twisted chaos and dismay.

"The Kastel's ours!" cried Trafford enthusiastically, as Bernhardt's force swept irresistibly over the toboggan run and pressed furiously to the walls of the Schloss.

"Heaven help Saunders now!" he added, a swift fear crossing his brain. "By gad, they're bolting!" he cried in glad surprise, as the garrison of the castle streamed out and away with scarce a backward glance, and never a backward shot at the triumphant enemy.

"That's not like Robert Saunders--but I'm glad, devilish glad."

"Congratulations, sir!" said Major Flannel, shaking Trafford warmly by the hand. "I've seen a bit of fighting in my day, and I've seen a bit of sport, but I've never seen the two things blended so harmoniously before in the whole course of my existence."

Trafford returned the hand-grip, but waited for no further compliments from the enthusiastic Major. Down beneath him, riding on a gun-carriage pulled by a score of soldiers, Gloria van Schattenberg was mounting the slope towards the long-forfeited home of her ancestors. And with bent knees and trailing pole Trafford ski-ed down the incline, to be the first to offer her congratulations on her victory.