ONE WET afternoon towards the end of September, the colt-hunter was in
his stable mending some harness. A yell from his youngest boy made him
jump, and he half-rose to see what was the matter, but turned to his
work again, as the boy’s little sister let forth a shriek of delight.
“Up to some lark,” he muttered, then started, as both children shouted
at the top of their voices, “Peter! Peter!” At the same instant the gate
slammed, the sound of a heavy boot was heard, and the man tumbled
outside, with the harness in his hand, to find himself face to face with
his eldest son in full kit, tin hat, rifle and bandolier, and slung
around with billycans, etc., his boots still coated with the white slime
of the French hills.
“Peter!” “Father!” came out at one breath, and as they grasped hands,
their faces came together, and they kissed—an odd thing, perhaps, for
forest men to do, but a son coming home from the war unexpectedly was a
thrilling moment, and apt to break down even the reserve of a lifetime.
Peter, never forgotten for a single day, though not always mentioned by
his parents, suddenly appearing, as if from the skies, was enough to
make his father gasp, unable to utter more than, “Well, lad!” Then
Mother, apprised, came rushing forth, full of joy, and yet of wrath at
not being the first to salute her firstborn. She hugged and kissed him
until he begged for mercy. “The lad’s tired, Mother,” said the father;
“let’s in, so’s he can get his things off, and have a wash;” and Peter
wanted this last badly. How the youngsters revelled in the tin hat and
its dents, while the father spent some time cleaning his son’s boots.
“Quite a bit of France,” he said, as he carefully swept the chalk off
the bench into an empty matchbox.
You should have seen Peter eat, when he got among his mother’s tarts and
cakes. It appeared that he had the usual fourteen days’ leave, of which
some time had already expired since he left Havre. “What a shame!”
exclaimed his mother. “However, we won’t think of going away yet;” and
everyone was happy, though later on, as Peter inquired for first one and
then another of his old schoolfellows, faces fell, and answer was made
sadly. After tea Peter felt a bit sleepy, so the youngsters were sent
off to play elsewhere, while he stretched himself on a couch before the
fire. He had to be wakened for supper, but he didn’t mind, and said he
would rather be called anything than late for meals.
The next morning, of course, Peter wanted a mount, and inquired what
ponies were about. “You know the three in the stable,” said his father;
“and there’s a blue roan mare in the paddock, but she’s not properly
broken in yet, and you’ll find her rather skittish.” Whereupon Peter,
like a true forest lad, declared she would be just the thing for him,
and with the aid of his two brothers, drove her into the yard and
secured her.
When he mounted in the paddock, the mare treated him to a few plunges,
which he did not repress too sternly; and once out in the open, went off
at a great pace, her rider leaving her to go where she listed, sure that
she would keep away from unsafe ground. But after letting off her steam
with a good run over the heavy ground, the mare slackened her speed, and
Peter could take stock of the old familiar sights and sounds. Perhaps
the forest never looks so lovely as in autumn, and especially when well
soaked. The heather still purpled the moor—a rich purplish-brown
flecked here and there with jewel-like pools. Towards the uplands, and
in the woods, the wet bracken had changed its usual autumnal orange for
a rich sienna. Once Peter glimpsed a pony, all deep chestnut, with mane
and tail of the same, a “self-coloured” animal, hardly visible against a
bank of bracken. Only its movements betrayed it, and then its foal, dark
of hue, was discovered where before it had been “lost” in the obscurity
of a holly-brake.
Out in the open, the lad took all to his heart, its beauty and its
appeal. A green woodpecker loped away from an ant heap where it had been
probing, and a covey of partridges scattered from the pony’s hoofs. The
forest ponies, singly or in groups, gave life and focus to the
landscape, and Peter saw that it was good.
Then as the mare started to run again, his hat was twitched from his
head by a holly-branch. He reined the pony in, and essayed to pick up
the hat with his whip, but having no crook to the butt, could not manage
it. “Hold on, old girl,” he said, dismounting. But it was precisely at
this moment that Skewbald, now a three-year-old, grazing at a little
distance by himself, and feeling lonely, gave vent to a loud call. The
grey whinnied, and began to move off, just as Peter retrieved his hat,
then, as he pulled on the reins, she kicked sharply, getting the lad on
the right shin. There was a sharp crack, and Peter let go the reins with
a grunt, stood motionless a moment, and then slithered gently to the
ground. As he did so and disturbed the broken leg, he shouted with pain,
and the mare, already making off, increased her pace, the reins dangling
from her neck.
* * * * *
A girl was bowling along a forest road on a bicycle. Joan Barton, V.A.D.
nurse in the forest hospital, had changed out of her uniform, and was
taking advantage of her spell off to get some open-air exercise. She
admitted to herself, as she spun along, that her own Surrey commons,
beautiful as they are, could not compare in extent and wildness with the
forest. She noted how the road wound, and led the eye over the moors and
hills, and what a fine surface mere sand and gravel made, resilient and
mudless in spite of recent heavy rain. As the forest people say, the
more it rains, the better the going. Much better than in dry weather,
when the surface gets loose and covered with stones.
Presently a grey pony, saddled yet riderless, and standing by a dead
tree a little from the road, caught her eye.
She looked right and left for a rider, but saw no one. Then, acting on
an impulse, she got off her bicycle, and went up to the pony. It moved
as she came close, and she saw that the reins were held on a snag.
“Funny way to tie up a pony,” she said half-aloud; she knew something
about horses, and had acted as groom in a remount stable while waiting
for a vacancy in a hospital.
Some distance away was a herd of ponies scattered over the moor. Among
them she noticed one patterned in bright chestnut and white, with the
passing thought, that she had not before seen this striking coloration
among all the forest pony hues. She went to her bicycle and stood
scrutinizing the landscape, but she saw no one. Then her attention was
drawn to a patch of white like a piece of paper dangling on a bush. But
as she looked she saw the white patch wave to and fro like a flag, and
with a sudden jump of the heart she realized that it _was_ a flag, and
spelling out letters. She knew the code, being an enthusiastic leader of
Girl Guides, and watched the flag spell out the letters _h-e-l-p_. That
was enough for Joan. Close to where she stood, a pony track meandered in
the direction of the signal, and mounting her bicycle she bumped along
it, almost falling off in her anxiety to watch the flag. It disappeared,
but again showed itself wagging to and fro, then wavered and fell. She
had to get off her bicycle, and pushed it hurriedly along. There behind
a bush lay Peter, his face wrinkled with pain, yet full of relief at the
welcome sound of the girl’s approach. He was the first to speak.
“Morning, miss;” and he made shift to smile. “My pony got me on the
right tibia. But a clean fracture, I think.” Peter got this out all in a
breath. He had had enough warning of the girl’s approach to concoct his
speech, and was rather proud of his knowledge of anatomy picked up in
the first-aid class. Joan smiled too, pleased to find her new patient
collected and cheerful. “Been here long?” she asked. “Not more than an
hour, miss. I live over there,” he went on, “but it’s a matter of three
or four miles away.” “All right,” said Joan, “but your leg had better go
in some sort of splints before we can think of your being moved.”
Then in response to a certain shade of anxiety on Peter’s face, she
added, “It’s all right, I won’t hurt you more than I can help. I’m a
nurse at a V.A.D. hospital.” “A nurse,” chortled Peter; “it seems I’m
having all the luck.”
“Well,” she laughed, “it doesn’t seem like it. I don’t think I’ll take
the puttee off. I’ll look for some stuff for splints.” She hunted round
for some straight sticks, and Peter lent her his great knife, which he
had to open for her, so that she could remove the knots. Then she put on
the splints, using Peter’s other puttee. “Don’t be afraid to make a
noise if I hurt you,” she said, but Peter made no sign of pain except
for a grunt or two. As she worked she talked. “It was clever of you to
signal,” she remarked. “Cleverer of you, miss, to see and understand,”
responded Peter; “’twas a good job Mother put out white hankies for me
this morning. My khaki ones went into the washtub.”
Joan told him of the grey pony on the hill, and Peter recounted the
cause of his accident. “How long, nurse, before I’m able to go back?” he
asked.
“You’ll not be much use under two months. Your stay in Blighty will be
longer than you expected.”
“What’ll my sergeant say?” chuckled Peter. Joan made a cushion of
bracken for the injured leg and put another armful under his head.
“Now,” she said, “I’ll go back to the road for help.”
“But what’s that, nurse?” exclaimed Peter, and Joan also heard a man’s
call. A moment later a waggon laden with logs emerged from a wood, some
distance away, a man and a boy in attendance. Joan ran across to them,
and explained the situation. “Why, that must be young Peter,” said the
man; “I met him yesterday, all loaded up, on his way home. We’ll do what
we can, miss, but our wood-waggon ain’t no use, you see, for it’s got no
bottom. What’ll we do about shifting him on to the road?”
But the boy was not a Scout for nothing. This was his moment, and he
made the most of it. “Why, dad,” he said, “that’s easy. You cuts down
two poles, and I gets them two sacks we’ve got on the seat, and makes
holes in the corners. Then we puts the poles through the holes to make a
stretcher, and carries him up to the road.” The elders agreed that this
was feasible, but without enthusiasm, for fear of engendering pride in
the young.
The man got his axe and cut down two young birches, remarking that he
s’posed “they” wouldn’t mind his cutting green wood for once, while Joan
and the boy prepared the sacks. When the stretcher was ready, they laid
it on the ground beside Peter, and carefully placed him in it, packing
his legs and feet with bracken, so that the injured limb should not be
jolted.
Then the man taking the poles at the head, and Joan and the boy a pole
each at the other end, they marched slowly up the hill, Peter insisting
on their keeping step, and giving an imitation of his sergeant’s
pronunciation. Once, as they crossed a little forest bridge, he gave the
order, “Break step,” but they refused, for fear of jarring his leg,
whereupon he promised them all C.B.
When nearly at the road, they heard the noise of an approaching car, and
all shouted together, the boy nearly letting go in the excitement of the
moment. The driver both heard and saw. He stopped, and matters were soon
arranged. The patient was carefully deposited in the car with Joan as
attendant. The boy was to go back to fetch Joan’s bicycle and ride it to
the hospital, then, returning, would ride the grey mare back to Peter’s
home. Joan was much averse to this arrangement, protesting that the pony
had done enough mischief already that day. But the boy grinned, for he
could ride anything in the forest barebacked, and his family mantelpiece
was adorned with cups and trophies won in the forest junior
competitions. Remarking that he wouldn’t “come to no harm,” he dashed
down the hill for the bicycle, while the man, after seeing that the grey
pony was properly tied, returned to his waiting team.
Then came Armistice Day, or rather, in this quiet corner of Britain,
Armistice Night, for in the forest was not to be seen such ebullition of
spirits as in Regent Street, where, for instance, two middle-aged
clergymen, with ribbons in their clerical hats, danced along the
pavement playing tin whistle-pipes. But a great fire was to be lit on
the hill above Peter’s home, and all that afternoon men and boys had
been carting up logs and branches gleaned from the woods.
Most of the local forest people were there, including Tom, Molly, and
the two small children. Peter, now getting about with a stick, having
discarded his crutches, was sent up in the pony-trap, the hill being
deemed too steep for him.
When the fire died down and people were beginning to disperse, a girl
wheeling a bicycle passed Peter and his family. Tom let out a shout:
“Miss Barton!” and she stopped. She had seen Peter several times since
he had left hospital; indeed, he said his leg wouldn’t get well unless
she continued to take a friendly interest in his case. So she had paid
visits, when not on duty, Peter and she sitting in the porch, looking on
to the forest, talking and reading.
Peter was saying that the hill was too steep and rough to cycle down at
night, and his leg felt well enough for him to walk down if Miss Barton
would lend him an arm in case he stumbled. Tom would walk the bicycle
down, which he was glad to do, though directly he was out of sight he
got on, and nearly came a cropper avoiding some people going home.
So Joan and Peter went down together, taking a little path he knew of,
and on the way they saw the dim forms of ponies on either side, all with
heads down, browsing. Only one, the nearest, looked up, and snorted as
they passed. It was Skewbald, and Peter suddenly found his tongue, for
neither he nor Joan had had much to say to one another.
“Why, that’s the beggar that upset my applecart,” he said, and proceeded
to narrate for the twentieth time how the call of the three-year-old had
caused his accident. Then with a flash of inspiration he continued:
“Lucky for me that he called when he did.”
“Yes,” said Joan, though she felt in her bones what was coming; “you
mean he got you a long leave.”
“I mean,” declared Peter, though his heart thumped, and he had a strange
difficulty in articulating, “that if it hadn’t happened, we might never
have met.” And so on, but as this is a tale about ponies and not people,
it will suffice to say that before they reached the bottom of the hill,
they were Joan and Peter to one another, and that soon after Peter was
demobilized the wedding took place.
[Illustration]