The Camp Fire Girls on the Field of Honor

Nevertheless the country people began to watch and wait for her coming.

After a time she brought newspapers with her. Then they began to gather together in one of the larger huts to listen while she read aloud the war news, with not always a perfectly correct French accent, and yet one they could understand.

When they were weary of the reading she used to talk, speaking always of the day when France would be free and the invader driven beyond her boundaries, never to return. And among her audience were a few of the old peasants who could recall the Franco-Prussian war.

How amazingly these talks cheered the old men and women! Actually the daily round of toil once more became worth while, so near seemed the return of Victor and Hugo and Etienne. They would be happy to find the little homes restored and the fields green that had been drenched in blood.

Occasionally Mrs. Burton made her audience laugh until the tears ran down their wrinkled faces with funny stories of the trenches, of their own poilus, and the British Tommies and the new American Sammees.

Never had the great actress used her talent to a better purpose.

At least it gained for her from these simple and almost heart broken peasants the eternal tribute of laughter and tears.

Her greatest triumph was when Grand’mère, one of the oldest women in the little village of M–, was at last persuaded to pour forth her story.

In more than three years she had not spoken except to answer “Yes” or “No,” or now and then to make known her simple needs, not since the Germans carried off her granddaughter, Elsie. Elsie was the acknowledged beauty and belle of the countryside and engaged to marry Captain François Dupis, who was fighting with his regiment at Verdun.

Mrs. Burton had gotten into the habit of stopping at Grand’mère’s tiny hut, which her neighbors had restored. At first she brought the old woman little gifts of food in which she seemed not to take the least interest. Now and then she talked to her, although the old woman seldom replied except to nod her head with grave courtesy.

Then one day without any warning as Mrs. Burton was standing near, Grand’mère drew her new friend down into her lap and poured out her heart-broken story. It left the younger woman ill and shaken.

Afterwards returning late to the farm alone and entirely unafraid, so completely had the country people become her friend, Mrs. Burton wondered what had given the French nation its present faith and courage. Nothing approaching it has the world ever before witnessed! Then she recalled that having paid so dearly for their freedom in those mad days of the revolution, the French people would never again relinquish the supreme gift of human liberty.

CHAPTER VIII

THE OLD CHÂTEAU

One afternoon the French farm house was deserted except for Sally Ashton, Mère ’Toinette and Miss Patricia.

As a matter of fact, Miss Patricia was not in the house, but in the farm yard which was separated from the house by a newly planted kitchen garden. It was here that she spent the greater part of her time working far more diligently than if she had been engaged for a few dollars a week. Yet in Massachusetts Miss Patricia Lord’s three-hundred-acre farm was one of the prides of the state. In ordinary times she was accustomed to employing from twenty-five to fifty men, although always Miss Patricia acted as her own overseer.

As she had announced, for the present she had managed to secure the services of an old French peasant, nearer seventy years of age than sixty, to act as her assistant. But Jean was possessed of a determination of character only equaled by Miss Patricia’s. Not a word of any language did he know except French, while Miss Patricia’s French was one of the mysteries past finding out. Also Jean was nearly stone deaf. This misfortune really served as an advantage in his relation with Miss Patricia, as he never did anything at the time or in the way she ordered him to do it, there was consolation in the thought that he had not understood the order. Jean had his own ideas with regard to farming matters and an experience which had lasted through more than half a century.

Therefore with the assistance of Peggy and Vera the outdoor work on the Sunrise Camp Fire farm was progressing with surprising success. The supply of livestock had been increased by a second shipment from the United States. This shipment Miss Patricia had divided with her French neighbors.

Beside old Jean there was at this time another rebel in Miss Patricia’s camp, Sally Ashton. The other girls were frequently annoyed by the old lady, nevertheless, appreciating her gallant qualities and for the sake of their Camp Fire guardian, they usually agreed to her demands when it was impossible to evade them. But Sally was not fond of doing anything she was told to do. Not that Sally was disagreeable, and it was not in her nature to argue, she simply ignored either suggestions or commands, always pursuing her own sweet way.

This afternoon, for example, several of the girls had invited her to walk with them to one of the French villages. Once a week they distributed loaves of bread and a few grocery supplies to the neediest of the peasants, those who had been unable to rebuild their huts or find regular occupation. Sally had declined with entire frankness. She had done her duty by making the bread for the others to give away and more successfully than any one of the girls could have made it. She disliked long, fatiguing walks.

Mrs. Burton had gone off alone on one of her dramatic pilgrimages.

Mary Gilchrist had again motored into Soissons and Sally would have enjoyed accompanying her. To have driven about through the French country with convalescent soldiers would have been extremely entertaining. But Mary had not asked her, preferring to take Yvonne, whom the American girls all appeared to adore.

So in consequence Sally was vexed and a little jealous.

Observing the others depart and that apparently Sally had nothing of importance to occupy her, Miss Patricia had ordered her to come out into the yard and help with the young chickens. They seemed to be afflicted with some uncomfortable moulting disease.

To this invitation Sally had made no reply. She especially disliked foolish, feathery outdoor things and had no intention of sacrificing her well-earned leisure. The school had a semi-weekly half holiday and for once the house was quiet.

Yet after a little more than an hour of leisure, Sally found herself bored. Many times of late she had missed her old friendship with Gerry Williams, since this was her first Camp Fire experience without Gerry, who had married Felipe Morris the summer before in California.

At least Gerry occasionally had been frivolous! Certainly these were war times and yet could one be serious forever and ever, without an intermission? The other Camp Fire girls now and then got upon Sally’s nerves.

As she was seldom warm enough these days, covered with her steamer blanket Sally had been curled up on the bed in her room which she shared with her sister. First she had taken a short nap and then attempted to read a French novel which she had discovered in the attic of the farm. The French puzzled her and it was tiresome to have to consult a dictionary. So Sally lay still for a few moments listening to Mère ’Toinette singing the Marseillaise in a cracked old voice as she went about her work downstairs.

Finally, stretching in a characteristically indolent fashion, Sally rose and walked over to a window. She could only see through one small opening. All the glass in the countryside had been smashed by the terrific bombardments, and as there was no glass to be had for restoring the windows, glazed paper had been pasted over the frames. The one small aperture had been left for observation of climate and scenery.

Even without her birdseye view, Sally was conscious that the sun was shining brilliantly. A long streak had shone through the glazed paper and lay across her bed.

She decided that she might enjoy a short walk. She really had forgotten Mrs. Burton’s suggestion that no one of the girls leave the farm alone and had no thought of deliberately breaking an unwritten law.

Mère ’Toinette and Sally had become devoted friends and also there was an unspoken bond of sympathy between her and Jean, expressed only by the way in which the old man looked at her and in certain dry chucklings in his throat and shakings of his head.

As Sally was about to leave the front door suddenly Mère ’Toinette appeared, to present her with a little package of freshly baked fruit muffins. Sally’s appetite in war times, when everybody was compelled to live upon such short rations, was a standing household joke and one which she deeply resented. Mère ’Toinette resented the point of view equally, preferring Sally to any one of the other girls, and also it was her idea that the good things of this world are created only for the young. There was no measure to her own self-sacrifice.

A few yards beyond the house Sally discovered old Jean, who was doubtless coming to find her, as he bore in his hand a French fleur-de-lis, the national wild flower, which he had found growing in a field as hardy and unconquerable as the French spirit.

Sally accepted his offering with the smile of gratitude which seemed always a sufficient reward for her many masculine admirers.

With Mère ’Toinette’s gift in her Camp Fire knapsack and with Jean’s flower thrust into her belt, Sally then made a fresh start. She had not thought of going far, as the roads and fields were in too disagreeable a condition.

Pausing about an eighth of a mile from the farm house, she considered whether after all it were worth while to remain out of doors. Even if the afternoon were enchanting, walking through the heavy upturned soil was unpleasant.

Then by accident Sally chanced to observe the ruins of the old French château shining under the rays of the winter sun.

It was not far away and suddenly she made up her mind to go upon an exploring tour. Half a dozen times in the past few weeks the Camp Fire girls had discussed paying a visit to the château to see what interesting discoveries they might unearth among the ruins. But no one of them had so far had the opportunity.

Ordinarily Sally Ashton was the least experimental of the entire group of girls. Instinctively, as a type of the feminine, home-staying woman, she disliked the many adventurous members of her own sisterhood. With not a great deal of imagination, Sally’s views of romance were practical and matter of fact. Young men fell in love with one and she had no idea of how many lovers one might have and no thought of limiting the number so far as she was personally concerned. Then among the number one selected the man who would make the most comfortable and agreeable husband, married him, had children and was happy ever afterwards. So you see, a romance which might bring sorrow as well as happiness had no place in Sally Ashton’s practical scheme of life.

Therefore the fates must have driven her to the old French château on this winter afternoon.

The walk itself occupied about half an hour. Around the château in times past there had been a moat. For their own convenience the German troops quartered at the old place had left the bridge over the moat undisturbed, else Sally would never have hazarded a dangerous crossing.

The house had been built of gray stone and it was difficult to imagine how the enemy had managed so completely to reduce it to ruins. An explosion of dynamite must have been employed, for the château appeared to have fallen as if it had been destroyed by an earthquake. Certain portions of the outer walls remained standing, but the towers in the center had caved in upon the interior of the house.

As Sally drew near she felt a little desolate and yet she was not frightened, although a proverbial coward.

The place appeared too abandoned to fear that any living thing could be in its vicinity. It was only that one felt the pity of the destruction of this ancient and beautiful home.

The waste and confusion of war troubled Sally as it does all women. So hard it is to see why destruction is necessary to the growth and development of human history!

Wondering what had become of the French family who formerly had lived in the château before the outbreak of the war, Sally walked up closer to the ruins. From a space between two walls, forming an insecure arch, a bird darted out into the daylight. Not ordinarily influenced by the beauties of nature or by unexpected expressions of her moods, nevertheless Sally uttered a cry of enchantment.

Between the walls she had spied the ruins of an old French drawing room. The bird must have flown through the opening into the room and then quickly out again into the sunshine.

A little table remained standing with an open book upon it, laid face down. There was a rug on the floor, now thick with mould, and yet it was a rare Aubusson rug with sturdy cupids trailing flowery vines across its surface. There were pieces of broken furniture and bric-a-brac strewn over the floor.

Sally must have continued staring inside the room for several moments before she slowly became aware that there was a human figure seated in a chair in the shadow near one of the half fallen walls.

The figure was that of a young soldier. He was asleep when Sally discovered him and incredibly dirty. His hair was long and matted, hanging thick over his forehead. One arm was wrapped in a soiled bandage.

Yet Sally did not feel frightened, only faint and ill for an instant from pity.

Coming to their farm house after a few days in Paris, Sally had seen trains filled with wounded soldiers. In Paris she also had noticed blinded and invalided men being led along the streets by their families or friends, yet never so piteous a figure as this.

CHAPTER IX

A MYSTERY

Sally’s little cry of astonishment must have awakened the soldier.

The terror on his face when he first beheld her took away any thought of fear from the girl. Besides it was all too strange! Why should he, a soldier, be afraid, and of her? And why should he be in hiding in this queer tumble-down old place? For he was in hiding, there was no doubt of this from his furtive manner.

Some instinct in Sally, or perhaps the fact that she had seen so much hunger since her arrival in this portion of France, made her immediately take out her little package of bread which Mère ’Toinette had given her and thrust it forward.

She was standing framed in the arch made by the two fallen walls, not having moved since the moment of her amazing discovery.

The soldier’s hunger was greater than his fear, for he almost snatched the food from Sally’s hands and, as he ate it she could not bear watching him. There is something dreadful in the sight of a human being ravenously hungry.

Afterwards, when he did not speak, Sally found herself making the first remarks, and unconsciously and stupidly, not realizing what she was doing at the moment, she spoke in English.

The next instant, to her surprise, the soldier replied in the same tongue, although it seemed to Sally that he spoke with a foreign accent, what the accent was she did not know. Sally had not a great deal of experience, neither was she particularly clever.

“What are you doing here?” is what she naturally inquired.

The soldier hesitated and placed his hand to his forehead, looking at the girl dazedly.

“Why am I hiding here?” he repeated. Then almost childishly he went on: “I am hiding, hiding because no one must find me, else I would be shot at once. I don’t know how long I have been here alone. I am very cold.”

“But I don’t understand your reason,” Sally argued. “Why don’t you find some one to take care of you? You cannot be living here; besides you could not have been here long without food or water or you would have died.”

“But I have had a little food and water,” the soldier replied. “I found a few cans of food in a closet and there is water in one of the rooms.”

His voice had a complaining note which was an expression of suffering if one had understood. Then his face was feverish and wretched.

“But you don’t look as if you had used much water,” Sally remarked in her usual matter-of-fact fashion. She had a way of pursuing her own first idea without being influenced by other considerations.

“It is hard work when one’s arm is like this,” the soldier returned fretfully.

Again Sally surveyed the soiled bandage with disfavor. Apparently it had not been changed in many days, since it was encrusted with dirt and blood and having slipped had been pulled awkwardly back into place.

Temprementally, Sally Ashton hated the sight of blood and suffering. In the years of the Camp Fire training she had been obliged to study first aid, but she had left the practical application to the other girls. Her own tastes were domestic and she therefore had devoted her time to domestic affairs.

Now something must be done for the soldier whose presence in the old château and whose behavior were equally puzzling, and as there was no one else, Sally had no idea of shirking the immediate task. In her Camp Fire kit she always carried first aid supplies.

“If you will go to the room where you found the water and wash your arm as thoroughly as you can I will put on a fresh bandage for you,” she offered. “Don’t argue and don’t be long, for something simply has to be done for you, you are in such a dreadful condition.”

Even in the midst of feeling a little like Florence Nightingale, Sally preserved a due amount of caution. She had no idea of wandering about a tumble-down château with a strange soldier. In reality she was not so much afraid of him as of the house itself. She had the impression that the walls were ready to topple down and bury her.

When the soldier did not move, Sally beckoned him imperiously toward the open arch where she had remained standing just outside the walls.

“You are to come here, while I take off the old bandage. No one will see you and I am afraid to enter so dangerous a place.”

The man obeyed, and Sally cut away the soiled linen, trying not to get too distinct an impression of the wound underneath. Yet what she saw alarmed her sufficiently, for she knew enough to realize that the wound required more scientific treatment than she felt able to give. “Now go and wash your arm,” she directed, and without a word he went off.

During the ten minutes her self-imposed patient remained away, Sally seriously considered his puzzling situation and determined upon the advice she would offer.

In the first place, so far he had given her no explanation for his conduct.

Why was he in concealment? The possibility that the soldier might have committed a wrong which made it incumbent that he hide from justice did not occur to Sally. She simply determined that they would discuss the subject to some satisfactory end on his return.

The young man did look much better, having made an effort to cleanse his face as well as his wound, but as Sally took hold of his hand before beginning her task, she was startled to discover that he was suffering from a fever through neglect of his injury. This made her the more determined. Although appreciating her own inefficiency and disliking the work, there was nothing to be done at present but to go ahead with her own simple first-aid treatment. She had a bottle of antiseptic and clean surgical gauze.

As she wound the bandage, wishing she had taken the trouble to learn the art more skilfully, Sally announced:

“You must see a physician about your arm as soon as possible. You never have explained to me why you are hiding here. But in any case you cannot remain when you are ill and hungry and cold and require a great deal of attention. You must go into one of the villages to a hospital. While you were away I have been thinking what to do. You look to me too ill to walk very far and, as I am living not more than half a mile away, I will go back to our farm and tell my friends about you. Later I think I can arrange to come back for you in a motor and then we will drive you to one of the hospitals. I don’t know as much about the French hospitals as my friends do, but of course everybody is anxious to do whatever is possible for the Allied soldiers.”

Sally placed a certain amount of stress on the expression “Allied soldiers,” but never for an instant believing in the possibility that her patient could belong to an enemy nationality.

“If you tell anyone you have discovered me here in hiding, it will be the last of me,” the soldier declared.

By this time Sally was beginning to be troubled. Why did the young man look and speak so strangely? He seemed confused and worried and either unable to explain his actions, or else unwilling. Yet somehow one had the impression that he was a gentleman and there need be no fear of any lack of personal courtesy.

It was possible from his appearance to believe that he might be suffering from a mental breakdown. Sally recalled that many of the soldiers were affected in this way from shell shock or the long strain of battle.

“I suppose I must tell you something. In any case, I have to trust my fate in your hands and I know there is not one person in a thousand who would spare me. I was a prisoner and escaped from my captors. I don’t know how I discovered this old house. I don’t know how long I have been wandering about the country before I came here, only that I hid myself in the daytime and stumbled around seeking a place of refuge at night. If you report me I suppose I will not be allowed even a soldier’s death. I shall probably be hung.”

Suddenly the soldier laughed, such an unhappy, curious laugh that Sally had but one desire and that was to escape from the château and her strange companion at once and forever. Yet in spite of his vague and uncertain expression, the soldier’s eyes were dark and fine and his features well cut. He was merely thin and haggard and dirty from his recent experiences.

From his uniform it was impossible to guess anything; at least, it was impossible for Sally, who had but scant information with regard to military accoutrements.

But even in the face of his confession she was not considering the soldier’s nationality. He looked so miserable and ill, so like a sick boy, that the maternal spirit which was really strongly rooted in Sally Ashton’s nature awakened. He could scarcely stand as he talked to her.

“Please sit down. I don’t know what you are to do,” she remonstrated. “I don’t know why you ran away or from whom, but no fate could be much worse than starving to death here in this old place alone. Yet certainly I don’t want to give you up to–to anybody,” she concluded lamely, as a matter of fact not knowing to whom one should report a runaway soldier.

This was a different Sally Ashton from the girl her family and friends ordinarily knew. The evanescent dimple had disappeared entirely and also the indolent expression in her golden brown eyes. She was frowning and her lips were closed in a firmer line.

At her suggestion the soldier had returned to the chair which he had been occupying at the moment of her intrusion. But Sally saw that although he was seated he was swaying a little and that again he had put up his uninjured arm to his head.

“Perhaps I can get away from here, if you will help me. I have escaped being caught so far. I only ask you to bring me a little food. Tomorrow I shall be stronger.”

Unconsciously Sally sighed. What fate had ever driven her forth into this undesired adventure?

She did not like to aid a runaway prisoner, nor did she wish him to meet the disagreeable end he had suggested through any act of hers.

Any other one of the Camp Fire girls, Sally believed, would have given the soldier a lecture on the high ideals of patriotism, or of meeting with proper fortitude whatever fate might overtake him. At least he would have been required to divulge his nationality, and if he were an enemy, of course there could be no hesitation in delivering him to justice.

However, Sally only found herself answering:

“Yes, I suppose I can manage to bring you something to eat once more. But I cannot say when I can get here without anyone’s knowing, so you must stay where you can hear when I call. Afterwards you must promise me to go away. I don’t know what I ought to do about you.”