THE REMINISCENCES OF CARL SCHURZ
ready with his carriage to take Kinkel and me away. The disappointment that followed my report was terrible.
“But there is something more to do this night,” said I, “for my relays stand on the road deep into Mecklenburg. We must order them off.”
I stepped into the carriage, an open vehicle with a top over the back seat. Hensel took the reins, and so we drove away. It was a melancholy journey. We were on the road something over three hours when we observed sparks of fire sputtering from a black object that came toward us. We quickly recognized it to be a carriage. I had steel and flint at hand and also struck sparks. This was the signal of recognition that I had agreed upon with my Mecklenburg friends. The carriage coming toward us stopped and so did we.
“Is this the right one?” asked a voice. This was the concerted question.
“It is the right one,” I replied, “but our enterprise has failed. Pray turn back and advise the next relay and request our friends there to pass on the word in this way. But for Heaven's sake keep silent about the rest, lest all may be lost.”
“Of course, but what a confounded disappointment! How did the failure happen?”
“Another time. Good-night.”
The two carriages turned. We drove back in the direction of Spandau, but very slowly, almost as if a part of a funeral procession, both sitting silent. I tormented myself with the gravest reproaches. Could not the unfortunate accident that had crossed our plan easily have been prevented? Could we not have duplicated the keys to the cell as well as those to the postern gate and the Revier room? Certainly. But why had this not been done? Why had Brune not thought of it? But
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