tells of certain perplexities which confronted me; also of how i journeyed into switzerland and of how i first chanced to see the gray meteor.
the foregoing chapters which embody the story of slade’s career, were, as i have said before, intended for the perusal of roy blakeley alone. they form, as you will have seen, a sort of story within a story. what went before, and what i am now about to write, would never have been written (much less published) save for the startling discoveries which i have recently made. as i feel now, i should like not only roy blakeley, but the whole world, to know the full truth of this strange business.
you will have noticed, no doubt, that in my somewhat rambling story of slade’s career i refrained from mentioning the shocking revelations that were contained in the papers which i found in the scuppers. to me (who did not know him), the death of the brave airman was not so much of a shock, but that he should have sold himself and his undoubted talents to the enemy while all the while keeping up the appearance of loyal service to the united states, was appalling—almost unbelievable. when and how, in those latter days of his brave career, he had played into their blood-guilty hands, i could not conjecture. but that is the wily genius of spies and traitors.
i tried to make allowance for him on the supposition that his mind had been polluted, his vision knocked askew, away back home by the disloyal german by whom he had been employed. i told myself that though he was brave, he was yet ignorant and weak, perhaps.
they had sent him into the enemy country partly because he had, in some measure, the german type of countenance and spoke german passably. was there some obscure vein of german running in him, i asked myself. that might explain, though it would not excuse. he had spoken in blunt praise of his german captors and had come near to being court-martialled for it. was that just common fairness to certain germans in a particular instance? or did it show the bent of his mind? it almost made me sick to think about it. and i felt guilty to be perpetuating his reckless courage for the benefit of the boy who had believed in him and still revered his memory.
it is enough for me to say now that i shall write the balance of this story with a clearer conscience.
perhaps you will say that i should have come to believe in him when i learned of his brave, heroic acts. but i beg you to remember the watch, with t. s. engraved on the back of it, and the wallet packed full of treason which was connected with it by a heavy lock-link chain. you remember that? you remember that the watch was made in america? you remember that in that wallet was the photograph of a bridgeboro girl? bridgeboro, only a small place too, where he had lived and where i lived, and where roy lived. you remember the part of that girl’s letter on the back of which was written a traitorous memorandum? here it is now—i copy it:
... looked about it seemed as if everyone in bridgeboro was there. and of course the boy scouts and that excruciating imp of a blakeley boy were on hand—ruth’s brother, you know. oh, by the way, who do you suppose is in the old place on terrace ave? guess. the red cross ladies, and i’m working with
heaven knows how many times in my mind i afterward tried to wrench that chain asunder and separate that name from the mementoes of treachery and crime, just as i had actually tried in my amazement and bewilderment as i sat in that little dank cave away up in the scuppers where he had fallen.
but in the end of it this was the sad conclusion that i reached—that brave and heroic exploits may be colored and exaggerated by those who tell them, but that records kept in secret do not lie. and if i did not picture the adventurous young american as a patriot in those gathered reminiscences of his career, it was because i could not, for the haunting thought of some unknown, dark activities of his were always in my mind, a stalking spectre. yet not a hint did i give to archer even, much less to roy, of what i had found out.
but there were one or two things which often puzzled me in the writing of those chapters for roy and i will mention these now. one was that archer told me slade had no use for girls and never received letters from them. yet here was a very friendly, companionable letter, or part of one, at least. perhaps that is of no importance.
but this bridgeboro girl had said in her letter that that extraordinary imp of a blakeley boy was on hand—ruth’s brother. did not tom slade know that roy was ruth blakeley’s brother, without her saying that? could she have supposed that he did not know who roy was?
i thought about it a good deal and i did not cease to think of it until a certain trouble of my own intervened and put all thoughts of tom slade out of my mind for the time. this was the very troublesome cough i had contracted as a result of being gassed. i could not seem to get the gas out of my lungs, and it was becoming a matter of concern to me. i have seen young fellows, recovered from the immediate, acute effects of gassing, go to the wall with consumption. so when the doctors in paris told me that a change of air would be my best physician i lost no time in seeking the mountains of switzerland. i may mention, if you care to know it, that i am now quite recovered and that with returning strength there came to me a great light which brought me happiness and peace of mind.
of this i must now tell you.
the little hamlet of st. craix is about thirty miles south of basel in a jumble of mountains which anywhere else but in switzerland would require a couple of hundred square miles to stand in. solothurn is the nearest place of any size but not exactly near enough to be neighborly, and the great ramieux mountain rears its mighty bulk to the north. some twenty odd miles to the west is france, but i should say it would be a couple of hundred million miles, more or less, if you went over the mountains. from ramieux mountain i think you could slide down to vetroz, get lunch, and then slide on down and catch the train at delemont.
my host, hans twann, had his little hostelry on the side of meiden mountain, a mere hubble of a couple of thousand feet or so, and his orchard tilted up like a picture on an easel. with the apples that grew in this orchard he made cider, and he also made kirschwasser, a very agreeable beverage notwithstanding its formidable name.
he accommodated tourists on the side, in more ways than one, since his land was all up and down, and from a distance his quaint little place must have looked as if it were fixed like a postage stamp against the rising wall of the mountain. what kept it there i cannot for the life of me tell you. i always felt safer in back of it for then, if the worst happened, i should fall down against it and stop. there was a little odd patch of level land here, too, and he utilized it for an arbor where i used to sit.
here herr twann would often join me and i would banter him about the insignificant size of his country. “ach,” he would say, “dat iss becauss it iss all crunched up—what? like a piece of trash paper. spread it out flat and it iss bigger dan your united states.” there was some force to this argument.
herr twann and his little household talked german among themselves, like most of the inhabitants of northern switzerland, though they all spoke a sort of english which they had picked up from the many tourists who resorted to the funny little place before the war.
his two children, egbert and emmie, were my particular friends and many were the alpine rambles that we had together. they were about ten and eleven respectively, i think, the girl being the younger. often we would go down into st. craix, the oddest little community you would wish to see, with its little spired chapel just like a church in a toy village.
it was upon the sunday of my first attendance at this church that something happened which greatly distressed me. it all grew out of the mischievous banter of those children. when the service was over they showed me the relics (of the sort that any church in switzerland has), hallowed mementoes of saints and martyrs, and i hope i showed a seemly reverence for them. as we left the hamlet they led me to a window of the little schoolhouse and showed me within a skull which they said had been found in a glacier.
“now,” said i, “if you will show me the apple that william tell shot from his son’s head, i shall have seen all the sights.”
“we will show you the gray meteor,” they said. “you know what dat meteor iss?”
“a big rock,” i told them, and i added sagely that we were not so stupid in america.
they laughed and said i should see what kind of a rock this “gray meteor” was.
after we had walked some distance they began looking eagerly across a certain field at the farther side of which a mountain arose. right at the base of this mountain was a kind of grove. their laughing voices echoed back from the rugged height as we entered the field, and sounded clear and musical in the quiet calm of that alpine sabbath morn.
“come,” they urged.
as we neared the foot of the mountain the irregular contour of the base developed into little rocks and caves, and then i saw emerging from one of these a living figure which paused irresolutely, watching us.
“see—now you are fooled!” little emmie cried. “you are so sure it iss a rock!”
“you mean that is the meteor?” i asked.
“so—you are fooled!” she answered gleefully.
as we approached closer, i could see the figure clearly, and a more forlorn and pitiable spectacle i have never gazed upon. seeing me, he started to run, but thinking better of it, paused and waited for us with an aspect of indescribable terror. i wore the regulation khaki uniform of correspondents at the front, and this he seemed to scrutinize with a kind of bewildered agitation.
“hello,” i said, as we reached what i suppose i must call his lair. “how are you this bright sunday morning?”
he made no answer, but watched me furtively and once or twice seemed on the point of making off. it was evident that he either lived or spent much time in a little cave formed by the rocks for near this were the charred remnants of a fire. he was a young fellow of perhaps twenty, with blond, disordered hair, and blue eyes, which latter feature disconcerted me greatly for they bespoke a kind of breathing suspense, entirely unwarranted by our innocent intrusion. his cheekbones were very noticeable, he looked thin and ill-nourished, and the end of his mouth twitched distressingly.
as to his apparel, it was in the last stages of shabbiness. his trousers were, i dare say, of khaki, but they hung loose and looked ridiculous in the absence of accompanying puttees. he wore the coat of a german officer (of what rank or branch of service i could not say) and to complete his grotesque appearance, he had a compass hung on a cord around his neck which dangled upon his chest like a lady’s ornament.
“well, how do you find yourself?” i repeated at a venture, for i did not know whether or not he spoke english. he looked at me for a few seconds, picked up a stick and then began to cry.
seeing that no exchange of communication was possible between us, and feeling that my intrusion was chiefly responsible for his agitation, i told my little friends that we had better go. they seemed delighted to have exhibited this creature to me.
“i think we should not laugh at him,” i said, as we resumed our homeward way. “his brain is evidently not right and he is sick. why do you call him the gray meteor?”
“is he not gray—his coat?” piped up young egbert.
“yes, but—meteor.”
“ach, he come nobody know where—like out of the sky.”
as i looked back i could see the poor creature kneeling over his charred fire rubbing one stick across another so that it looked as if he were playing a violin.
