Somebody had heard the General say that they should have a rest, a real rest, that night.  High hopes filled weary hearts.  It got about that they were to be billeted in that suburb of Landrecies through which they had passed, Maroilles.

CHAPTER VI

DARKNESS

At about five o’clock on that aching day, Maroilles was reached.  All through the streets there were halts and delays, intolerable to those in whom the want of rest had become a positive passion.  At last the members of the billeting party were sighted—­here at last was rest and sleep....

Many a slip ’twixt cup and lip!  The General, followed by the Brigade-Major and an orderly, came trotting down the road.  A few hasty commands were thrown at the Adjutant, accompanied by gesticulations towards the road leading out of the town.  Assuredly some fresh devilment was rife, and for the moment, anyway, the cup had slipped.  An attack on the town was expected by a large detachment of cavalry.  The wretched men had to be hurried out, to line a row of hedges to the west of the town.  They waited about half-an-hour, but saw not a sign of the famous square-crested Uhlan helmet.  It appeared that the enemy had been content with destroying the canal bridge, which formed the communication between Maroilles and Landrecies, and had then withdrawn.  There was a whole brigade in Maroilles, which was therefore cut off from the rest of the division, and from its natural line of retreat.  That, however, did not greatly upset the rank and file, and billets were at last achieved.

The Subaltern found that he was billeted in the same house as the Headquarters of the Battalion—­Colonel, Second in Command, Adjutant, etc.  His servant brought him his valise from the Regimental Transport, and he began to change the offending boots for a fresh pair, without nails.

Some one procured a footbath, and ablutions began.

The Medical Officer came in to say that the Colonel seemed to be very ill.  The Subaltern was glad he had declined the offer of his horse.  He then began to shave and wash.  Just as he was in the middle of this, with his boots and puttees off, his Captain came in to say that his Platoon was being sent off as infantry escort to a battery of artillery.  By the time he had redressed himself, the Battery and his Platoon had both gone.  The streets were filled by French peasants, as usual excited and garrulous, and by men settling down to their billets.  The Subaltern failed absolutely to discover what route his Platoon had taken, but pursuing the road along which they had come, he soon left the town.

It was raining and blowing most fiercely; the darkness was intense, otherwise absolute silence reigned.  Suddenly, excitedly, a voice, saturated with fear, cried out from the darkness, “Who goes there?” A face, with a bayonet in front of it, loomed up from the side of the road.  “Friend!” this tersely.  “Sentry, have you seen a battery of artillery and a platoon of ——­shires pass here?”