Bert Wilson, Marathon Winner
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Berlin was awake, too. The great city, rising like a giant refreshed after sleep, was full of stir and movement. The very air seemed electrified with a sense of something great impending. From early dawn the streets had resounded with bugle calls, as the troops that were to take part in the great review preceding the games took up their position. Staff officers in their gorgeous uniforms were dashing to and fro, and the pavements echoed back the measured tread of the infantry and the clatter of the cavalry. Flags and bunting fluttered everywhere. Excursion trains brought in enormous crowds from other cities to swell the swarming population of the capital. A general holiday had been proclaimed and all Berlin was out of doors.
And these vast crowds were swayed not only by enthusiasm but by hope. At last the German eagle was to have a chance to scream. The Fatherland had not fared any too well at previous Olympic meets. The first prizes that had fallen to German athletes had been few and far between. It was not that they lacked pluck and brawn. This they had in plenty. But they had not made a specialty of field and track events and they had been forced to stand aside and see England and America make almost a clean sweep at every meet.
But in the four years that had elapsed since the last games they had thrown themselves into the strife with all the thoroughness and earnestness that were their national characteristics. Not if they could help it would they fail of winning in their own capital with the whole world looking on. Sport had become a national craze, and training, like everything else with the Germans, had been reduced to a science.
The Emperor himself had rushed into the movement with his well-known dash and vigor. He was determined that “where Germany sat should be the head of the table.” He had issued orders to his army officers that whenever they espied in the ranks a promising candidate he should be given every opportunity for development; and in more than one case he had relieved him altogether from military service in order that he might devote himself to his specialty. He had hung up costly trophies to be battled for and had attended many of the meets in person. His own son, Prince Friedrich Wilhelm, was a winner in the elimination sprints, and would be one of the Olympic contenders. Everywhere there was a spirit of deadly earnestness such as had brought Germany to the fore in so many fields of learning and music and commerce. There were rumors flying about of marvelous records made in practice, of wonderful “phenoms” to be uncovered when the time came. And Reddy voiced what was coming to be a general opinion in the American quarters, that “It’s them blamed Dutchmen we’ve got to beat.”
Not that this scared Uncle Sam’s boys in the slightest degree. They sniffed the battle from afar like young war horses, and the prospect of stiff competition only added zest to the coming strife. The fiercer the struggle the more glorious the victory. As Bert put it: “They didn’t want a procession; they wanted a race.” All foes looked alike to them and they faced the issue with a buoyant confidence that was not mere bravado, but based on indomitable courage and self-reliance. If they were beaten – and it stood to reason that in some events they would be – their opponents in every case would have to earn the victory and they would surely know they had been in a fight.
The fight idea was emphasized by the great military review that passed before the Emperor. The crack regiments of the finest army in Europe, marching with the precision of clockwork, made up a parade miles in length. Every arm of the service was represented – the grim Krupp artillery rumbling along like thunder, the solid ranks of the infantry moving as one man, the splendid Uhlans and Hussars, superbly mounted. It was a shrewd move on the part of the Emperor – whom Dick described as “the best advertising man in Europe” – thus to impress visitors from all parts of the world with the martial pomp and power of the German Empire. While these were to be games of friendly rivalry, and admitting that “Peace hath its victories no less renowned than War,” he figured that it would do no harm to give a quiet hint that, whether in peace or war, the Fatherland was prepared to meet all comers. And the shower of cheers that greeted the troops along the line of march attested the pride felt in their army by the entire nation.
After the review came luncheon, at which the Kaiser entertained the Committeemen of the various nations, and shortly afterward the tide set in toward the Stadium, where the opening exercises were to be held that afternoon.
A murmur of admiration rose from the spectators as they poured in the gates of the magnificent structure. The builders had fairly outdone themselves. It was a crystallized dream. The most brilliant architects in Germany had been summoned to its construction and given a free hand in the matter of expense. As a result, they had erected the finest building in the world designed for athletic sports. Arranged in the form of an ellipse, it extended like a giant horseshoe over fifty acres. The arena itself was open to the sky, but the seats, rising tier on tier in endless rows, were under cover. The massive walls, made of granite, were adorned with statues of German heroes, and high over all towered a colossal figure of Germania. The entrances were flanked by mighty towers and beneath the seats was an enormous corridor with dressing rooms, shower baths and every appliance for the comfort of the athletes. In the center of the vast arena was the field for the throwing and jumping competitions, and circling this was the running track for the racers. Nothing had been overlooked, nothing neglected. The builders had been able to profit by the mistakes or omissions of other nations where meets had been held and they had reared a structure that was the “last word” for beauty and utility.
Through every entrance in one unending stream poured the crowds of spectators. Thousands upon thousands, they packed the tiers of seats until they overflowed. And still they kept coming.
The Emperor sat in the royal box, surrounded by his family and a glittering staff. At a given signal the bands started up the “Wacht am Rhein.” The vast multitude rose to their feet and stood with uncovered heads. Then the choral societies took up the famous hymn, “A Strong Fortress Is Our God.” The noble music swept over the field and stirred all German hearts with deep emotion.
Then from the pavilions, each delegation carrying its national flag, came the athletes, four thousand in number. They marched in serried ranks down the field and lined up in front of the royal enclosure. Bronzed, supple, straight as arrows, they made a magnificent picture. The Crown Prince introduced them in a body to his father in a few well-chosen words, and the Emperor made one of his characteristic speeches in reply. At its conclusion he waved his hand, the ranks disbanded, a hurricane of cheers rent the air, and the greatest of Olympic meets was on.
For ten days the struggle went on with varying fortunes. Every event was fiercely contested. Nothing could be counted on certainly in advance. Many “good things” went wrong, while others who had only been supposed to have an outside chance carried off the prize. With every day that passed, it became more evident, as the pendulum swung from side to side, that the result would be in doubt almost to the last. They fought like wildcats, ran like deer and held on like bulldogs. It was a “fight for keeps” from start to finish.
In the rifle and revolver competitions, the Americans swept the boards. At every range and every target they were invincible. Crack shots from all over Europe tried in vain to rival their scores. They were from the land of Davy Crockett and there was nothing left for their opponents but to follow the example of the historic coon and “come down.”
In the hundred yard dash, the Americans ran one, two, three. There was a separate lane for each runner so that no one could interfere with another. The timing was by electricity and did away with any possibility of mistake. The crack of the pistol started the watch and the breaking of the tape at the finish stopped it. The system did away with all disputes and helped immensely in promoting the friendly feeling that prevailed throughout the games.
Five points were given to the winner in each event, three to the second and one to the third. So that no matter which nation won the first, another might win the second or third or both, and thus keep within striking distance in the general score.
From the first day, the American score began to climb. But the Germans and Swedes and English were climbing, too, and it became clear that it was not to be, as in previous meets, a walkover for the Stars and Stripes.
In the field and track events – what we understand in this country by athletics – the Americans were vastly superior. The broad jump was theirs, the pole vaulting, the hurdles, the four hundred metres and fifteen hundred metres runs. Drake won the discus throw and Snyder hurled the hammer further than it had ever gone before.
But there were other features in which we had but few representatives, and in some none at all. The archery shooting went to England. The javelin casting with both hands was won by a gigantic Swede. The horsemanship contest was carried off by officers of the German cavalry. France took the lead in fencing and Canada captured the long-distance walk. The horizontal bar work of the Germans was far and away the best, and her beef and brawn gathered in the tug of war. In the bicycle race Italy came in first, and we had to be content with second and third.
All these events swelled the foreigner’s score, and although America captured the Pentathlon and Decathlon for all round excellence, her lead on the tenth day was threatened by Germany and Sweden who were close behind.
“’Twill be no two to one this time,” Reddy grumbled. “’Tis glad I’ll be if we come out ahead by the skin of our teeth. We can’t seem to shake them fellers off. They hang on like leeches. I’m thinking, Wilson, ’twill be up to you to grab that Marathon, if we’re to go back to God’s country with colors flying and our heads held high.”
And Reddy was so true a prophet that when at last the momentous day came for the Marathon race, the German boar was gnashing his tusks at the American eagle. Only two points behind, he came plunging along, and victory for either depended on who won the Marathon.
The day before the race a package was delivered to Bert at his hotel. It bore the American postmark and he looked at it curiously. Within was a letter from Mr. Hollis and a little roll of bunting. Bert unrolled it. It was a torn and tattered American flag bearing the marks of flames and bullets. Across it had been stamped in golden letters: “We have met the enemy and they are ours.”
“I’ve had it a long time in my historical collection,” Mr. Hollis had written. “It’s the identical flag that Perry flew in the battle of Lake Erie. I’ve had his immortal words stamped on it. It saw one glorious victory won for America. I want it to see another. I loan this to you to tie in a sash about your waist when you run the Marathon. I’m banking on you, Bert, my boy. Go in and win.”
Bert touched it lovingly, reverently. A lump rose in his throat. “I’ll wear it,” he said, “and I’ll win with it.”
CHAPTER XVII
A Glorious Victory
It was a perfect day for the great race that was to settle the long-distance championship of the world. The sun shone brightly, but not too hotly, and there was a light breeze sufficient to cool the runners, but not retard their progress.
The Marathon was to start at three in the afternoon at a point twenty-six miles away from the Stadium. The most detailed preparations had been made for the event. The distance had been carefully measured off by expert surveyors, and policed from end to end in order to keep a clear path for the racers and see that the rules were strictly observed. At every hundred feet stood a group of soldiers. All traffic had been suspended by an imperial order. An ambulance, with Red Cross doctors and nurses, was to follow and pick up any who might fall out or be overcome with exhaustion.
The contestants had been taken to the starting point in automobiles the night before, so that they might get a good night’s sleep and be in prime condition. Now the temporary training quarters were humming with bustle and excitement. The last bath and rubdown and kneading of the muscles were over and the final words of caution and encouragement spoken, as the fellows lined up in readiness for the starter’s pistol.
Bert, in superb condition, his skin glowing, his muscles rippling, shook hands with his friends, as he stood waiting for the start.
“For the good old college, Bert,” said Drake.
“For the team,” barked Reddy.
“For the flag,” said Tom.
“For America,” added Dick.
“I’ll remember,” answered Bert, as he touched the flag at his waist, and the look came into his eyes that they had learned to know.
A moment’s breathless silence, while over a hundred trained athletes watched the starter, as he looked along the waiting line and slowly raised his pistol. A shot, a tremendous roar from the crowd, a rush of feet like a stampede of steers and they were off. A moment later Berlin knew that they had started. Five minutes later, all Europe knew it. Ten minutes later, America knew it. Two continents were watching the race, and beneath the gaze of these invisible witnesses the runners bounded on. All types were there; brawny Germans, giant Swedes, stolid Englishmen, rangy Canadians, dapper Frenchmen, swarthy Italians, lithe Americans – each one bound to win or go down fighting.
At first the going was rather hard on account of the great number of contenders. They got in each other’s way. They were like a herd of fleeing deer, treading on each other’s heels.
Bert’s first impulse was to get out in front. Like every thoroughbred, he hated to have anyone show him the way. The sight of a runner ahead was like a red rag to a bull. But he restrained himself. If he were to win that race, he must use his brains as well as his legs. What use to waste his strength by trying to thread his way through those flying feet? Let them make the pace. By and by they would string out and the path would clear. In the meantime he would keep within striking distance.
As he ran on easily, Thornton ranged alongside.
“May I go with you, my pretty maid?” he grinned.
“You may if you like, kind sir, she said,” retorted Bert.
“We must make it one, two, three for America, to-day,” went on Thornton.
“That’s the way to talk,” replied Bert, and then, as breath was precious, they subsided.
The course led uphill and down, over country roads and through villages whose quaint beauty would have appealed to Bert under other circumstances. But to-day he had no eye for scenery, no thought of anything but the road that stretched before him like a ribbon, and the Stadium, so many miles away.
Five miles, ten, and the pace began to tell. Some had dropped out altogether and others were staggering. The sheep were being separated from the goats. The real runners were ranging up in front, watching each other like hawks, intent on seizing any advantage. Most of them by this time had found their second wind and settled into their stride. Some were running on a schedule and paid no attention to their competitors, serenely confident that in the long run their plan would carry them through.
But Bert had no use for schedules. To him they were like the schemes to break the bank at Monte Carlo, infallible on paper, but falling down sadly when put to the test. As he had told Tom on an earlier occasion, “it was men, not time, that he had to beat.” So he kept a wary eye on the men in front and sped along with that easy swinging lope that seemed so easy to beat until one tried to do it.
Now fifteen miles had been covered and Bert let out a link. It would not do to wait too long before challenging the leaders. Dorner, the German, and Boudin, the Frenchman, were already far enough ahead to make him feel a trifle uneasy. Hallowell too and the Indian were a quarter of a mile in front and showed no signs of wavering. Now was the time to wear them down. Almost insensibly he lengthened his stride and with every leap decreased the distance. The crowd that lined the road, quick to detect the spurt, hailed him with cheers as he sped past, and the men in front, sensing danger, themselves put on extra speed and battled to retain the lead.
And now, Nature took a hand. A thunder storm that had been brewing for a half hour past, broke suddenly at the eighteenth mile, and the rain came down in torrents. It beat against their faces and drenched them to the skin. It cooled and refreshed their heated bodies, but it made the footing slippery and uncertain. It taxed, too, their strength and vitality, already strained to the utmost.
In the wild tumult of the elements, Bert exulted. The thunder roared, the lightning flashed, and his own spirit shouted in unison. It appealed to something primitive and elemental in his nature. And as he ran on in the gathering darkness, the vivid lightning playing in blinding flashes about his lithe figure and tossing hair, he seemed like a faun or a young god in the morning of the world, rather than a product of the twentieth century.
But he was quickly enough brought back to reality. He had overhauled Hallowell and the Indian, and set sail for the French and German runners, when, just as he dashed round the foot of a hill, he slipped on the wet going and swerved against a rock at the edge of the road. A keen pain shot through his foot, and he saw to his dismay that his right shoe had been slit from end to end by the sharp edge of the rock. The injury to the foot was only a scratch, but, when he tried to run, the shoe flapped loosely and threatened to throw him. A great fear came upon him, and his heart turned sick.
In the meantime, Reddy and the boys had ridden back by another road to Berlin. The trainer dropped Tom and Dick at the Stadium and then whirled back to the hotel. Here the American band was quartered and down this street the runners were to pass. Reddy sought out the leader. A short conference and the band gathered in full force on the balcony overlooking the street.
Reddy glanced at his watch. They must be coming now. The leader poised his baton expectantly.
“Wait,” said Reddy confidently, “till the first one gets abreast of the hotel. Then let her go for all you’re worth.”
Minutes passed that seemed like hours. Then there was a stir among the crowds, a craning of necks, a murmur growing into a roar, and the leading runner came in sight. Reddy took one look and turned pale. The leader lifted his baton as the runner drew nearer.
“Not yet,” cried Reddy, clutching at him fiercely. “Not yet.”
A second runner appeared and then a third.
“Not yet,” groaned Reddy. “O, hivins, not yet.”
Then down the street came a flying figure. Reddy needed no second glance. He knew that giant stride, those plunging leaps. On he came like a thunderbolt, and the crowd drew back as though from a runaway horse.
“Now,” screamed Reddy. “Now.”
And in one great crash the band broke out into the glorious strains of “The Star Spangled Banner.”
Bert lifted his head. The music poured through his veins like liquid fire and his heart almost leaped from his body. His strength had been oozing away, his breath was coming in sobs. His shoes had been torn off and cast aside, his bruised feet tortured him at every stride, and every ounce of power had been cruelly taxed in the effort to close up the gap caused by the accident. Now he was running on his nerve. And just at this moment, like an electric shock to his ebbing strength, came the thrilling strains that might have stirred the dead:
“The Star Spangled Banner, oh, long may it waveO’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.”The flag, his flag, “Old Glory,” never stained by defeat since it was flung to the breeze, victorious in every war for a hundred years, its shining stars undimmed by time, the pride and boast of the greatest country on God’s green earth! His feverish fingers touched the sash at his waist. “We have met the enemy and they are ours.” The Star-Spangled Banner!
Now he was running like a man possessed. Gone was pain, gone were bruises, gone the deadly weariness that dragged him down. His feet had wings. His heart sang. His eyes shone. He seemed inspired by superhuman strength. Like an arrow he shot past the Frenchman who was staggering on gamely, and step by step he gained on Dorner, the gallant German, who had been dubbed by his admirers “The Flying Dutchman.”
Flying he certainly was, spurred on by the wild yells of the German crowds, mad with joy at seeing their colors in front. But the shouts died down as Bert slipped by like a shadow, relentless as fate, close on the heels of the leader, grimly fighting for every inch.
And now the Stadium loomed up, gay with flaunting flags, and packed to the doors with a countless multitude wild with excitement. The word had been flashed along that a German was leading, and the crowds were on their feet, screaming like madmen. The Emperor and royal family, all ceremony thrown aside, were standing and shouting like the rest. The American contingent, despair eating at their hearts, sat glum and silent.
The twenty-six miles had been measured to end at the very doors, and the remaining three hundred and eighty-five yards of the Marathon distance was in the Stadium itself. Dorner entered first and Pandemonium reigned. Then a second figure shot through, running like the wind, at his belt the Stars and Stripes. And now it was America’s turn to yell!
Down the stretch they came, see-sawing for the lead. Before them gleamed the tape that marked the finish. No one had ever yet broken that tape ahead of Bert in a race. He swore that no one should do it now.
Nearer and nearer. What was it the fellows had said? “For the college.” “For the team.” “For the flag.” “For America.” He nerved himself for the last desperate spurt. Once more he called on the stout heart that had never failed him yet. A series of panther-like bounds, one wild tremendous leap and he snapped the tape. Again America had matched its best against the world, and again America had conquered!
It was a jubilant crowd that made the return voyage on the Northland, in the words of Tom, “one continuous joy ride.” Training was over, the strain relaxed, the victory won. It had been a tussle from start to finish, but they had carried off the prize and one more series of Olympic games had been placed to Uncle Sam’s credit. Thornton, Hallowell, Texanima, Brady and Casey had finished among the first ten and shared with Bert the honors of the Marathon. The Emperor himself had placed the laurel crown on Bert’s head, and, as Dick said, proved himself “a dead game sport” by the gracious words with which he veiled his disappointment. Cable messages had poured in on Bert by the score, but none so pleasing as the one from Mr. Hollis: “You ran a magnificent race, my boy. The Perry flag is yours.”
And now they were on their way home with their hard-won trophies – home to an exulting country, whose glory they had upheld and which stood impatient to greet them with rousing cheers and open arms and all the honors a grateful nation could bestow.
The praises rained on Bert had left him as natural and unspoiled as ever. To him the whole thing was simple. A task had been put before him and he had done it. That was all.
“’Twas me that did it,” joked Reddy, “me and the band.”
“Sure,” laughed Dick, “though of course Bert’s wind and speed counted for something.”
“To say nothing of his grit and nerve,” chimed in Tom.
“’Twas this that did it,” added Bert, as he reverently unfolded the faded battle flag that had waved over Perry’s glorious squadron. “Running with this, I couldn’t lose.”
On other fields of struggle and achievement that flag was to be his inspiration. How fully he honored it, how nobly he fought for it, how stainless he kept it will be told in
“Bert Wilson at Panama.”THE END