Punch's appealing sign was sufficient to chase away the imaginative
notions that had beset Pen's awakening. His hand went at once to the
water-bottle slung to his side, and, as he held the mouth to his
comrade's lips and forgot the pain he suffered in his strained and
stiffening joints, he watched with a feeling of pleasure the avidity
with which the boy drank; and as he saw the strange bird flit by once
more he recalled having heard of such a bird living in the west country.
"Yes," he said to himself, "I remember now--the dipper. Busy after
water-beetles and perhaps after tiny fish.--You are better, Punch, or
you wouldn't drink like that;" and he carefully lowered the boy's head
as he ceased drinking. "Yes, and though I can't hear you, you have come
to your senses again, or you would not look at me like that.--Ah, I
forgot all about them!" For a sound other than that produced by the
falling waters came faintly to his ear. It was from somewhere far
above, and echoed twice. "Yes, I had forgotten all about them."
He began looking anxiously about him, taking in the while that he was
close to the river where it ran in a deep, precipitous gully; and as he
looked up now to right and then to left, eagerly and searchingly, for
the danger that he knew could not be far away, his eyes ranged through
densely wooded slopes, lit up here and there by the morning sunshine,
and always sweeping the sides of the valley in search of the vedettes,
but without avail, not even the rugged mule-path that ran along the side
being visible.
"They are not likely to see us here," Pen said to himself, "and they
can't have seen me coming down. Oh, what a job it was! I feel as if I
must have been walking in my sleep half the time, and I am so stiff I
can hardly move. But I did it, and we must be safe if we can keep out
of sight; and that ought to be easy, for they are not likely to come
down here. Now, what's to be done?"
That was a hard question to answer; but growing once more full of energy
now that he was satisfied that there was no immediate danger, Pen
stepped back lamely, as if every muscle were strained, to his
companion's side, to be greeted with a smile and a movement of the boy's
lips.
"Now, let's see to your wound," he said, with his lips to the boy's ear;
and he passed one hand under Punch's wounded shoulder to try and turn
him over. This time, as Punch's lips parted and his face grew convulsed
with pain, Pen's ears mastered the roar, and he heard the sufferer's
cry.
"Hurt you too much?" he said, as he once more put his lips to the boy's
ear.
The answer was a nod.
"Well," thought Pen, "he must be better, so I'll let him be; but we
can't stop here. I must try and get him through the trees and away from
this horrible noise. But I can't do it now. At least, I don't think I
can. Then, what's next?"
The inaudible reply to the question came from somewhere inside, and he
bent closer over Punch once more.
"Aren't you hungry?" he roared in his ear.
The boy shook his head.
"Well, I am," shouted Pen.--"Oh, how stupid! This is like telling the
enemy where we are, if they are anywhere within hearing. Hullo, what
does this mean?" For he suddenly caught sight of the goat springing
from stone to stone low down the stream as if coming to their side of
the rushing water; and with the thought filling his mind that a tame
goat like this must have an owner who was more likely to be an enemy of
strangers than a friend, Pen began searching the rugged slopes on both
sides of the river, but in vain. The goat, which had crossed, was now
coming slowly towards them, appearing to be quite alone, though soon
proving itself to be quite accustomed to the presence of human beings,
for it ended by trotting over the sand and shingle at the river's edge
till it had approached them quite closely, to stand bleating at them,
doubtless imploringly, though no sound was heard.
This lasted for a few minutes, and then the goat moved away, passing
Punch, and disappearing upward through the dense growth, and apparently
making its way up by the side of the great fall.
No sooner was it out of sight than a thought struck Pen; and, making a
sign to his companion that meant "I won't be long," he shouldered his
rifle and began to climb upwards in the direction taken by the goat.
He was beginning to regret now that he had not started sooner, for there
was no sign of the little beast, and he was about to turn when, just to
his right, he noted faint signs of what seemed to be a slightly used
track which was easy to follow, and, stepping out, he observed the trees
were more open, and at the end of a few minutes he found himself level
with the top of the falls, where the river was gliding along in a deep,
glassy sheet before making its plunge over the smooth, worn rocks into a
basin below.
He had just grasped this when he saw that the faint track bore off to
the right, and caught sight of the goat again moving amongst the trees,
and for the next few minutes he had no difficulty in keeping it in
sight, and, in addition, finding that it was making for what seemed to
be the edge of another stream which issued from a patch of woodland on
its way to the main torrent.
"I must get him here if I can," thought Pen, for the roar of the falling
waters was subdued into a gentle murmur, and to his surprise he caught
sight of a shed-like building amongst the trees, fenced in by piled-up
pieces of stone evidently taken from the smaller stream which he
approached; and it was plain that this was the spot for which the goat
had been making.
The young rifleman stopped short, trying to make out whether the place
was inhabited; but he could see no sign save that the goat was making
for the stone fence, on to which the active beast leaped, balanced
itself carefully for a few moments, and then sprang down on the other
side, to be greeted by a burst of bleating that came from apparently two
of its kind within.
Pen stood screened by the trees for a time, fully expecting to see some
occupant of the hut make his appearance; but the bleating ceased
directly, and, approaching carefully, the young private stood at last by
the rough stone wall, looking down on a scene which fully explained the
reason for the goat's visit.
She had returned to her kids; and after climbing the wall a very little
search showed the visitor that the goat and her young ones were the sole
occupants of the deserted place.
It was the rough home of a peasant who had apparently forsaken it upon
the approach of the French soldiery. Everything was of the simplest
kind; but situated as Pen Gray was it presented itself in a palatial
guise, for there was everything that he could wish for at a time like
that.
As before said, it was a shed-like structure; but there was bed and
fireplace, a pile of wood outside the door, and, above all, a roof to
cover those who sought shelter.
"Yes, I must bring him here somehow," thought Pen as he caught sight of
a cleanly scrubbed pail and a tin or two hanging upon nails in the wall.
But he saw far more than this, for his senses were sharpened by hunger;
and with a smile of satisfaction he hurried out, noting as he passed
them that the kids, keen of appetite, were satisfying their desire for
food; and, hurrying onwards, he made his way back to where he had left
his companion lying in the dry, sandy patch of shingle; and some hours
of that forenoon were taken up in the painful task of bearing the
wounded lad by slow degrees to where, after much painful effort, they
could both look down upon the nearly hidden shed.
"How are you now, Punch?" asked Pen, turning his head upwards.
There was no reply.
"Why, Punch," cried Pen, "you are not asleep, are you?"
"Asleep!" said the boy bitterly; and then, in a faint whisper, "set me
down."
Pen took a step forward to where he could take hold of a stunted
oak-bough whose bark felt soft and strange; and, holding tightly with
one hand, he held his burden with the other while he sank slowly, the
branch bending the while till he was kneeling. Then he slid his load
down amongst the undergrowth and quickly opened his water-bottle and
held it to the boy's lips.
"Feel faint, lad?" he said.
Again there was no answer; but Punch swallowed a few mouthfuls.
"Ah, that's better," he said. "Head's swimming."
"Well, you shall lie still for a few minutes till you think you can bear
it, and then I want you to get down to that hut."
Punch looked up at him with misty eyes, wonderingly.
"Hut!" he said faintly. "What hut?"
"The one I told you about. You will be able to see it when you are
better. There's a rough bed there where you will be able to lie and
rest till your wound heals."
"Hut!"
"Oh, never mind now. Will you have some more water?"
The boy shook his head.
"Not going to die, am I?" he said feebly.
"Die! No!" cried Pen, with his heart sinking. "A chap like you isn't
going to die over a bit of a wound."
"Don't," said the boy faintly, but with a tone of protest in his words.
"Don't gammon a fellow! I am not going to mind if I am. Our chaps
don't make a fuss about it when their time comes."
"No," said Pen sharply; "but your time hasn't come yet."
The boy looked up at him with a peculiar smile.
"Saying that to comfort a fellow," he almost whispered; "only, I say,
comrade, you did stick to me, and you won't--won't--"
"Won't what?" said Pen sharply. "Leave you now? Is it likely?"
"Not a bit yet," said the poor fellow faintly; "but I didn't mean that."
"Then what did you mean?" cried Pen wonderingly.
The poor lad made a snatch at his companion's arm, and tried to draw him
down.
"What is it?" said Pen anxiously now, for he was startled by the look in
the boy's eyes.
"Want to whisper," came in a broken voice.
"No; you can't have anything to whisper now," said Pen. "There, let me
give you a little more water."
The boy shook his head.
"Want to whisper," he murmured in a harsh, low voice.
"Well, what is it? But you had better not. Shut your eyes and have a
bit of a nap till you are rested and the faintness has gone. I shall be
rested, too, then, and I can get you down into the hut, where I tell you
there's a bed, and, better still, Punch, a draught of sweet warm milk."
"Gammon!" said the boy again; and he hung more heavily upon Pen's
arm.--"Want to whisper."
"Well, what is it?" said Pen, trying hard to master the feeling of
despair that was creeping over him.
"Them wolves!" whispered the boy. "Don't let them get me, comrade, when
I'm gone."
"You shut your eyes and go to sleep," cried Pen angrily.
"No," said the boy, speaking more strongly now. "I aren't a baby, and I
know what I'm saying. You tell me you won't let them have me, and then
I will go to sleep; and then if I don't wake up no more--"
"What!" cried Pen, speaking with a simulated anger, "you won't be such a
coward as to go and leave me all alone here?"
The boy started; his eyes brightened a little, and he gazed
half-wonderingly in his companion's face.
"I--I didn't think of that, comrade," he faltered. "I was thinking I
was going like some of our poor chaps; but I don't want to shirk.
There, I'll try not."
"Of course you will," said Pen harshly. "Now then, try and have a nap."
The boy closed his eyes, and in less than a minute he was breathing
steadily and well, but evidently suffering now and then in his sleep,
for the hand that clasped Pen's gave a sudden jerk at intervals.
Quite an hour, during which the watcher did not stir, till there was a
sharper twitch and the boy's eyes opened, to look wonderingly in his
companion's as if he could not recall where he was.
"Have a little water now, Punch?"
"Drop," he said; but the drop proved to be a thirsty draught, and he
spoke quite in his senses now as he put a brief question.
"Is it far?" he said.
"To the hut? No. Do you think you can bear me to get you on my back
again?"
"Yes. Going to. Look sharp!"
But as soon as the boy felt his companion take hold of his hand after
restopping the water-bottle, Punch whispered, "Stop!"
"What is it? Would you like to wait a little longer?"
"No. Give me a bullet out of a cartridge."
"A bullet? What for?"
"To bite," said the boy with a grim smile.
Pen hesitated for a moment in doubt, looking in the boy's smiling eyes
the while. Then, as a flash of recollection of stories he had heard
passed through his mind, he hastily drew a cartridge from his box, broke
the little roll open, scattering the powder and setting the bullet free
before passing it to his companion, who nodded in silence as he seized
the piece of lead between his teeth. Then, nodding again, he raised one
hand, which Pen took, and seizing one of the branches of the gnarled
tree he bent it down till he got it close to his companion, and bade him
hold on with all his might.
Punch's fingers closed tightly upon the bough, which acted like a spring
and helped to raise its holder sufficiently high for Pen to get him once
more upon his shoulders, which he had freed from straps thrown down
beside his rifle.
"Try and bear it," he panted, as he heard the low, hissing breath from
the poor fellow's lips, and felt him quiver and wince. "I know it's
bad," he added encouragingly, "but it won't take me long."
It did not, for in a very few minutes he had reached the rough stone
wall, to which he shifted his burden, stood for a few moments panting,
and then climbed over, took the sufferer in his arms, and staggered into
the waiting shelter, where the next minute Punch was lying insensible
upon the bed.
"Ha!" ejaculated Pen as he passed the back of his hand across his
streaming forehead.
This suggested another action, but it was the palm of his hand that he
laid across his companion's brow.
"All wet!" he muttered. "He can't be very feverish for the perspiration
to come like that."
Then he started violently, for a shadow crossed the open door, and he
involuntarily threw up one hand to draw his slung rifle from his
shoulder, and then his teeth snapped together.
There was no rifle there. It was lying with his cartouche-box right
away by the stunted oak, as he mentally called the cork-tree.
The next minute he was breathing freely, for the deep-toned bleat of the
goat arose, and he looked out, to see that it was answerable for the
shadow.
"Ah, you will have to pay for this," he muttered, as he started to run
to where his weapon lay, his mind full now of thoughts that in his
efforts over his comrade had been absent.
He was full of expectation that one or other of the vedettes might have
caught sight of him bearing his load to the hut; and, with the full
determination to get his rifle and hurry back to defend himself and his
companion for as long as the cartridges held out, he started with a run
up the slope, which proved to be only the stagger of one who was utterly
exhausted, and degenerated almost into a crawl.
He was back at last, to find that Punch had not moved, but seemed to be
sleeping heavily as he lay upon his sound shoulder; and, satisfied by
this, Pen laid his rifle and belts across the foot of the bed and drew a
deep breath.
"I can't help it," he nearly groaned. "It isn't selfish; but if I don't
have something I can do no more."
Then, strangely enough, he uttered a mocking laugh as he stepped to a
rough shelf and took a little pail-like vessel with one stave prolonged
into a handle from the place where it had been left clean by the last
occupant of the hut, and as he stepped with it to the open door
something within it rattled.
He looked down at it in surprise and wonder, and it was some moments
before he grasped the fact that the piece of what resembled blackened
clay was hard, dry cake.
"Ah!" he half-shouted as he raised it to his lips and tried to bite off
a piece, but only to break off what felt like wood, which refused to
crumble but gradually began to soften.
Then, smiling grimly, he thrust the cake within his jacket and stepped
out, forgetting his pain and stiffness, to find to his dismay that there
was no sign of the goat.
"How stupid!" he muttered the next minute. "My head won't go. I can't
think." And, recalling the goat's former visit to the rough shelter, he
hurried to where he had been a witness of its object, and to his great
delight found the animal standing with half-closed eyes nibbling at some
of the plentiful herbage while one of its kids was partaking of its
evening meal.
Pen advanced cautiously with the little wooden vessel, ready to seize
the animal by one of its horns if it attempted to escape, as it turned
sharply and stared at him in wonder; but it only sniffed as if in
recognition at the little pail, and resumed its browsing. But the kid
was disposed to resent the interruption of the stranger, and some little
force had to be used to thrust it away, returning again and again to
begin to make some pretence of butting at the intruder.
Pen laughed aloud at the absurdity of his task as he finally got rid of
the little animal, and made his first essay at milking, finding to his
great delight that he was successful, while the goat-mother took it all
as a matter of course, and did not move while her new friend refreshed
himself with a hearty draught of the contents of the little pail; and
then, snatching at a happy thought, drew the hardened cake from his
breast and placed it so that it could soak up the soft warm milk which
flowed into the vessel.
"Ah!" sighed the young soldier, "who'd have thought that taking the
king's shilling would bring a fellow to this? Now for poor Punch.
Well, we sha'n't starve to-night."
Once more as he turned from the goat the thought assailed him that one
of the vedettes might be in sight; but all was still and beautiful as he
stepped back slowly, eating with avidity portions of the gradually
softening black-bread, and feeling the while that life and hope and
strength were gradually coming back.
"Now for poor Punch!" he muttered again; and, entering the rough shelter
once more, he stood looking down upon the wounded boy, who was sleeping
heavily, so soundly that Pen felt that it would be a cruelty to rouse
him. So, partaking sparingly of his novel meal, he placed a part upon a
stool within reach of the rough pallet.
"Wounded men don't want food," he muttered. "It's Nature's way of
keeping off fever; and I must keep watch again, and give him a little
milk when he wakes. Yes, when he wakes--when he wakes," he muttered, as
he settled himself upon the earthen floor within touch of his sleeping
comrade. "Mustn't close the door," he continued, with a little laugh,
"for there doesn't seem to be one; and, besides, it would make the place
dark. Why, there's a star peeping out over the shoulder of the
mountain, and that soft, low, deep hum is the falling water. Why, that
must be the star I used to see at home in the old days; and, oh, how
beautiful and restful everything seems! But I mustn't go to sleep.--Are
you asleep, Punch?" he whispered softly. "Poor fellow! That's right.
Sleep and Nature will help you with your wound; but I must keep awake.
It would never do for you to rouse up and find me fast. No," he
half-sighed. "Poor lad, you mustn't go yet where so many other poor
fellows have gone. A boy like you! Well! It's the--fortune--fortune--
of war--and--and--"
Nature would take no denial. Pen Gray drew one long, deep, restful
breath as if wide-awake, and then slowly and as if grudgingly respired.
Fast asleep.