Chapter XI
THE BATTLE
At five o'clock that afternoon the sidewalks bordering Margaretha
Street were crowded with promenaders. The little tables before the
cafés were filled. Nearly everyone spoke of the great war and of the
peril which menaced Lutha. Upon many a lip was open disgust at the
supine attitude of Leopold of Lutha in the face of an Austrian
invasion of his country. Discontent was open. It was ripening to
something worse for Leopold than an Austrian invasion.
Presently a sergeant of the Royal Horse Guards cantered down the
street from the palace. He stopped here and there, and, dismounting, tacked placards in conspicuous places. At the notice, and in each instance cheers and shouting followed the sergeant as he rode on to the next stop.
Now, at each point men and women were gathered, eagerly awaiting an
explanation of the jubilation farther up the street. Those whom the
sergeant passed called to him for an explanation, and not receiving
it, followed in a quickly growing mob that filled Margaretha Street
from wall to wall. When he dismounted he had almost to fight his way
to the post or door upon which he was to tack the next placard. The
crowd surged about him in its anxiety to read what the placard bore, and then, between the cheering and yelling, those in the front passed back to the crowd the tidings that filled them with so great rejoicing.
"Leopold has declared war on Austria!" "The king calls for
volunteers!" "Long live the king!"
The battle of Lustadt has passed into history. Outside of the
little kingdom of Lutha it received but passing notice by the world
at large, whose attention was riveted upon the great conflicts along
the banks of the Meuse, the Marne, and the Aisne. But in Lutha! Ah, it will be told and retold, handed down from mouth to mouth and from generation to generation to the end of time.
How the cavalry that the king sent north toward Blentz met the
advancing Austrian army. How, fighting, they fell back upon the
infantry which lay, a thin line that stretched east and west across
the north of Lustadt, in its first line of trenches. A pitifully
weak line it was, numerically, in comparison with the forces of the
invaders; but it stood its ground heroically, and from the heights
to the north of the city the fire from the forts helped to hold the
enemy in check for many hours.
And then the enemy succeeded in bringing up their heavy artillery to
the ridge that lies three miles north of the forts. Shells were
bursting in the trenches, the forts, and the city. To the south a
stream of terror-stricken refugees was pouring out of Lustadt along
the King's Road. Rich and poor, animated by a common impulse, filled
the narrow street that led to the city's southern gate. Carts drawn
by dogs, laden donkeys, French limousines, victorias, wheelbarrows--every conceivable wheeled vehicle and beast of burden--were jammed in a seemingly inextricable tangle in the mad rush for safety.
Rumor passed back and forth through the fleeing thousands. Now came
word that Fort No. 2 had been silenced by the Austrian guns. Immediately followed news that the Luthanian line was falling back upon the city. Fear turned to panic. Men fought to outdistance their neighbors.
A shell burst upon a roof-top in an adjoining square.
Women fainted and were trampled. Hoarse shouts of anger mingled
with screams of terror, and then into the midst of it from
Margaretha Street rode a man on horseback. Behind him were a score
of officers. A trumpeter raised his instrument to his lips, and
above the din of the fleeing multitude rose the sharp, triple call
that announces the coming of the king. The mob halted and turned.
Looking down upon them from his saddle was Leopold of Lutha. His
palm was raised for silence and there was a smile upon his lips. Quite suddenly, and as by a miracle, fear left them. They made a line for him and his staff to ride through. One of the officers turned in his saddle to address a civilian friend in an automobile.
"His majesty is riding to the firing line," he said and he raised
his voice that many might hear. Quickly the word passed from mouth
to mouth, and as Barney Custer, of Beatrice, passed along Margaretha
Street he was followed by a mad din of cheering that drowned the
booming of the distant cannon and the bursting of the shells above
the city.