HERO'S STORY
Late that afternoon the Major sat out in the shady courtyard of the
hotel, where vines, potted plants, and a fountain made a cool green
garden spot. He was thinking of his little daughter, who had been dead
many long years. The American child, whom his dog had rescued from the
runaway in the morning, was wonderfully like her. She had the same fair
hair, he thought, that had been his little Christine's great beauty; the
same delicate, wild-rose pink in her cheeks, the same mischievous smile
dimpling her laughing face. But Christine's eyes had not been a starry
hazel like the Little Colonel's. They were blue as the flax-flowers she
used to gather--thirty, was it? No, forty years ago.
As he counted the years, the thought came to him like a pain that he was
an old, old man now, all alone in the world, save for a dog, and a niece
whom he scarcely knew and seldom saw.
As he sat there with his head bowed down, dreaming over his past, the
Little Colonel came out into the courtyard. She had dressed early and
gone down to the reading-room to wait until her mother was ready for
dinner, but catching sight of the Major through the long glass doors,
she laid down her book. The lonely expression of his furrowed face, the
bowed head, and the empty sleeve appealed to her strongly.
"I believe I'll go out and talk to him," she thought. "If grandfathah
were away off in a strange land by himself like that, I'd want somebody
to cheer him up."
It is always good to feel that one is welcome, and Lloyd was glad that
she had ventured into the courtyard, when she saw the smile that lighted
the Major's face at sight of her, and when the dog, rising at her
approach, came forward joyfully wagging his tail.
The conversation was easy to begin, with Hero for a subject. There were
many things she wanted to know about him: how he happened to belong to
the Major; what country he came from; why he was called a St. Bernard,
and if the Major had ever owned any other dogs.
After a few questions it all came about as she had hoped it would. The
old man settled himself back in his chair, thought a moment, and then
began at the first of his acquaintance with St. Bernard dogs, as if he
were reading a story from a book.
"Away up in the Alpine Mountains, too high for trees to grow, where
there is only bare rock and snow and cutting winds, climbs the road that
is known as the Great St. Bernard Pass. It is an old, old road. The
Celts crossed it when they invaded Italy. The Roman legions crossed it
when they marched out to subdue Gaul and Germany. Ten hundred years ago
the Saracen robbers hid among its rocks to waylay unfortunate
travellers. You will read about all that in your history sometime, and
about the famous march Napoleon made across it on his way to Marengo.
But the most interesting fact about the road to me, is that for over
seven hundred years there has been a monastery high up on the bleak
mountain-top, called the monastery of St. Bernard.
"Once, when I was travelling through the Alps, I stopped there one cold
night, almost frozen. The good monks welcomed me to their hospice, as
they do all strangers who stop for food and shelter, and treated me as
kindly as if I had been a brother. In the morning one of them took me
out to the kennels, and showed me the dogs that are trained to look for
travellers in the snow. You may imagine with what pleasure I followed
him, and listened to the tales he told me.
"He said there is not as much work for the dogs now as there used to be
years ago. Since the hospice has been connected with the valley towns by
telephone, travellers can inquire about the state of the weather and the
paths, before venturing up the dangerous mountain passes. Still, the
storms begin with little warning sometimes, and wayfarers are overtaken
by them and lost in the blinding snowfall. The paths fill suddenly, and
but for the dogs many would perish."
"Oh, I know," interrupted Lloyd, eagerly. "There is a story about them
in my old third readah, and a pictuah of a big St. Bernard dog with a
flask tied around his neck, and a child on his back."
"Yes," answered the Major, "it is quite probable that that was a picture
of the dog they call Barry. He was with the good monks for twelve years,
and in that time saved the lives of forty travellers. There is a
monument erected to him in Paris in the cemetery for dogs. The sculptor
carved that picture into the stone, the noble animal with a child on his
back, as if he were in the act of carrying it to the hospice. Twelve
years is a long time for a dog to suffer such hardship and exposure.
Night after night he plunged out alone into the deep snow and the
darkness, barking at the top of his voice to attract the attention of
lost travellers. Many a time he dropped into the drifts exhausted;
with scarcely enough strength left to drag himself back to the hospice.
[Illustration: "HE PLUNGED OUT ALONE INTO THE DEEP SNOW"]
"Forty lives saved is a good record. You may be sure that in his old age
Barry was tenderly cared for. The monks gave him a pension and sent him
to Berne, where the climate is much warmer. When he died, a taxidermist
preserved his skin, and he was placed in the museum at Berne, where he
stands to this day, I am told, with the little flask around his neck. I
saw him there one time, and although Barry was only a dog, I stood with
uncovered head before him. For he was as truly a hero and served human
kind as nobly as if he had fallen on the field of battle.
"He had been trained like a soldier to his duty, and no matter how the
storms raged on the mountains, how dark the night, or how dangerous the
paths that led along the slippery precipices, at the word of command he
sprang to obey. Only a dumb beast, some people would call him, guided
only by brute instinct, but in his shaggy old body beat a loving heart,
loyal to his master's command, and faithful to his duty.
"As I stood there gazing into the kind old face, I thought of the time
when I lay wounded on the field of battle. How glad I would have been to
have seen some dog like Barry come bounding to my aid! I had fallen in a
thicket, where the ambulance corps did not discover me until next day. I
lay there all that black night, wild with pain, groaning for water. I
could see the lanterns of the ambulances as they moved about searching
for the wounded among the many dead, but was too faint from loss of
blood to raise my head and shout for help. They told me afterward that,
if my wound could have received immediate attention, perhaps my arm
might have been saved.
"But only a keen sense of smell could have traced me in the dense
thicket where I lay. No one had thought of training dogs for ambulance
service then. The men did their best, but they were only men, and I was
overlooked until it was too late to save my arm.
"Well, as I said, I stood and looked at Barry, wondering if it were not
possible to train dogs for rescue work on battle-fields as well as in
mountain passes. The more I thought of it, the more my longing grew to
make such an attempt. I read everything I could find about trained dogs,
visited kennels where collies and other intelligent sheep-dogs were
kept, and corresponded with many people about it. Finally I went to
Coblenz, and there found a man who was as much interested in the subject
as I. Herr Bungartz is his name. He is now at the head of a society to
which I belong, called the German Society for Ambulance Dogs. It has
over a thousand members, including many princes and generals.
"We furnish the money that supports the kennels, and the dogs are bred
and trained free for the army. Now for the last eight years it has been
my greatest pleasure to visit the kennels, where as many as fifty dogs
are kept constantly in training. It was on my last visit that I got
Hero. His leg had been hurt in some accident on the training field. It
was thought that he was too much disabled to ever do good service again,
so they allowed me to take him. Two old cripples, I suppose they thought
we were, comrades in misfortune.
"That was nearly a year ago. I took him to an eminent surgeon, told him
his history, and interested him in his case. He treated him so
successfully, that now, as you see, the leg is entirely well. Sometimes
I feel that it is my duty to give him back to the service, although I
paid for the rearing of a fine Scotch collie in his stead. He is so
unusually intelligent and well trained. But it would be hard to part
with such a good friend. Although I have had him less than a year, he
seems very much attached to me, and I have grown more fond of him than I
would have believed possible. I am an old man now, and I think he
understands that he is all I have. Good Hero! He knows he is a comfort
to his old master!"
At the sound of his name, uttered in a sad voice, the great dog got up
and laid his head on the Major's knee, looking wistfully into his face.
"Of co'se you oughtn't to give him back!" cried the Little Colonel. "If
he were mine, I wouldn't give him up for the president, or the emperor,
or the czar, or _anybody_!"
"But for the soldiers, the poor wounded soldiers!" suggested the Major.
Lloyd hesitated, looking from the dog to the empty sleeve above it.
"Well," she declared, at last, "I wouldn't give him up while the country
is at peace. I'd wait till the last minute, until there was goin' to be
an awful battle, and then I'd make them promise to let me have him again
when the wah was ovah. Just the minute it was ovah. It would be like
givin' away part of your family to give away Hero."
Suddenly the Major spoke to the dog--a quick, sharp sentence that Lloyd
could not understand. But Hero, without an instant's hesitation,
bounded from the courtyard, where they sat, into the hall of the hotel.
Through the glass doors she could see him leaping up the stairs, and,
almost before the Major could explain that he had sent him for the
shoulder-bags he wore in service, the dog was back with them grasped
firmly in his mouth.
"Now the flask," said the Major. While the dog obeyed the second order,
he opened the bags for Lloyd to examine them. They were marked with a
red cross in a square of white, and contained rolls of bandages, from
which any man, able to use his arms, could help himself until his
rescuer brought further aid.
The flask which Hero brought was marked in the same way, and the Major
buckled it to his collar, saying, as he fastened first that and then
the shoulder-bags in place, "When a dog is in training, soldiers,
pretending to be dead or wounded, are hidden in the woods or ravines and
he is taught to find a fallen body, and to bark loudly. If the soldier
is in some place too remote for his voice to bring aid, the dog seizes a
cap, a handkerchief, or a belt,--any article of the man's clothing which
he can pick up,--and dashes back to the nearest ambulance."
"What a lovely game that would make!" exclaimed Lloyd. "Do you suppose
that I could train my dogs to do that? We often play soldiah at Locust.
Now, what is it you say to Hero when you want him to hunt the men? Let
me see if he'll mind me."
The Major repeated the command.
"But I can't speak French," she said, in dismay. "What is it in
English?"
"Hero can't understand English," said the Major, laughing at the
perplexed expression that crept into the Little Colonel's face.
"How funny!" she exclaimed. "I nevah thought of that befo'. I supposed
of co'se that all animals were English. Anyway, Hero comes when I call
him, and wags his tail when I speak, just as if he undahstands every
word."
"It is the kindness in your voice he understands, and the smile in your
eyes, the affection in your caress. That language is the same the world
over, to men and animals alike. But he never would start out to hunt the
wounded soldiers unless you gave this command. Let me hear if you can
say it after me."
Lloyd tripped over some of the syllables as she repeated the sentence,
but tried it again and again until the Major cried "Bravo! You shall
have more lessons, until you can give the command so well that Hero
shall obey you as he does me."
Then he began talking of Christine, her fair hair, her blue eyes, her
playful ways; and Lloyd, listening, drew him on with many questions.
Suddenly the Major arose, bowing courteously, for Mrs. Sherman, seeing
them from the doorway, had smiled and started toward them. Springing up,
Lloyd ran to meet her.
"Mothah," she whispered, "please ask the Majah to sit at ou' table
tonight at dinnah. He's such a deah old man, and tells such interestin'
things, and he's lonesome. The tears came into his eyes when he talked
about his little daughtah. She was just my age when she died, mothah,
and he thinks she looked like me."
The Major's courtly manner and kind face had already aroused Mrs.
Sherman's interest. His empty sleeve reminded her of her father. His
loneliness appealed to her sympathy, and his kindness to her little
daughter had won her deepest appreciation. She turned with a cordial
smile to repeat Lloyd's invitation, which was gladly accepted.
That was the beginning of a warm friendship. From that time he was
included in their plans. Now, in nearly all their excursions and drives,
there were four in the party instead of three, and five, very often.
Whenever it was possible, Hero was with them. He and the Little Colonel
often went out together alone. It grew to be a familiar sight in the
town, the graceful fair-haired child and the big tawny St. Bernard,
walking side by side along the quay. She was not afraid to venture
anywhere with such a guard. As for Hero, he followed her as gladly as he
did his master.