“Oh! what do you think of that?” Amos was heard to exclaim.
He looked as though he could hardly realize he understood the correct
meaning of the poor old distracted peasant’s lament. François was
standing there with his head bent; his wife still on her knees rocked
to and fro with many groanings, as though her heart might be nearly
broken.
Indeed, it was a strange spectacle for those two American lads, and
one that gave them a thrill. They had felt wonderfully shaken when
witnessing the rush of Teuton files on the British lines, and watched
scores, yes even hundreds of furiously fighting men fall in heaps; but
this was entirely different. Now pity filled their boyish hearts. They
believed they could fully comprehend the measure of shame that must
wring the hearts of this honest couple.
They had but one child, and he a young man who should be at the front
standing bravely up in defense of his beloved country. Instead of that
he had deserted from his regiment, and made his way secretly home,
possibly sending his parents word in some way that he was coming in
order to have them hide him.
Those old people had the right spirit in their hearts. The man, yes,
and even the old housewife also, would have been ready and willing to
risk and lose their own lives in the great cause of king and country.
To discover that their only boy had a “yellow streak” in his nature
filled them with shame and bitter regret. They feared that if the
truth ever became known they might never again look their friends and
neighbors in the face--those devoted patriots on all sides who had made
the greatest possible sacrifices.
Jack was almost as much shaken with compassion for the couple as Amos
gave evidence of being. He put out a hand and seized that of the man,
which he insisted on squeezing in his whole-hearted boyish fashion.
“I am sorry that we forced you to tell us this, François Bart,” he
said, and at the time Amos wondered why his chum spoke so loudly, until
presently he remembered that the boy soldier was just beneath that
floor, and could possibly overhear every word that was said, as Jack
doubtless intended should be the case.
“You see, M’sieu,” explained the peasant abjectly, “Jean is our child,
and we love him. We could not turn him away from our door, for if seen
he might be arrested and shot at ten paces. So we are in great distress
of mind. We could let everything we have in this world go, and still
smile, but to know that our flesh and blood is a--_coward_. Oh! that is
worse than death itself to both of us.”
“Then you do not stand back of him in his desertion?” asked Jack.
“M’sieu, if the news came to us that our Jean had fallen covered with
glory in his place at the front we could rejoice, and be satisfied, for
we must always remember that he gave his poor life for our country. But
that he should turn out to be a deserter, and run from duty breaks our
hearts!”
Jack felt sure he detected some sort of movement under the floor.
He believed the wretched Jean must have his ear pressed against the
boards, and was not losing a single word of all that they said. So when
he spoke again the ranch boy kept his voice at a pitch sufficiently
high to be heard.
“We are sorry for you, François,” he said. “It must be a terrible thing
for a father and mother in Belgium to know that their only son is a
coward, and that he has allowed his fears to force him to shirk his
plain duty to his king. Have you done all you can to convince him of
his mistake?”
“M’sieu, we have pleaded, and almost threatened, but he keeps on saying
that although his heart seems to be brave enough, his legs refuse to
carry him again into the terrible battle where his comrades are falling
all around him.”
“Then he has already been under fire?” asked Jack, in a surprised tone.
“Oh! yes, and one of his friends who came back badly wounded told
us Jean was showing himself almost a hero. We believed that the old
failing in his blood had been conquered. Then we had word from him, and
this night he came, trembling with fear, saying that he must be hidden
until he could find a chance to cross over into England where he would
be safe.”
“Try once more to arouse him,” said Jack. “Appeal to him by everything
that he holds dear. Tell him that you would sooner see him brought
home dead than that he desert in the face of danger. Perhaps the spasm
of fear may have passed by then. He may have come to his senses,
and realize that his true nature is not that of a coward. He has
already shown that he can stand up under fire and give a good account
of himself. And, François, we both hope all may come out well with
you--and Jean! Now we will be glad to go up into the loft once more and
get some sleep.”
The peasant looked a little more hopeful; even his wife arose from her
knees, to the great relief of Amos, who disliked very much seeing her
in that position.
“It is kind of you, young M’sieu!” exclaimed the man. “Then you believe
what we have told you? You no longer suspect us of harboring a German
spy under our poor roof?”
“We are sorry for you, that is all,” Jack told him. “You need fear
nothing from us, since we would not betray your secret for worlds. All
we hope is that your boy Jean will be able to shake himself together,
and resolve to go back to his duty like every Belgian who is worth his
salt is doing this day. Come along, Amos, let’s try for another sleep.”
When the two boys had climbed once more into the loft, to find the
candle still lighted as Jack had left it, of course the first thing
Amos did was to ask his chum a few questions that were burning on his
tongue.
“Do you think he heard what was said, Jack; and was that the reason you
spoke in such a loud tone?”
“You’ve guessed it, Amos. Somehow, I felt so sorry for that poor
couple in their bitter humiliation and shame that I just wanted to see
if I couldn’t arouse whatever spark of patriotism there might be in
Jean’s soul. Yes, I’m sure he caught every word we said.”
“The question is, will it do him a particle of good, Jack? He must be a
pretty poor specimen of a young fellow to act the way he has.”
“Well, that can only be proved by time,” Jack told him, with a shake of
his head. “It would be next door to a miracle, of course, and yet such
things have happened before and may again. Honestly, I don’t believe
the boy’s such a terrible coward as he lets himself think.”
“He passed through more or less fighting, they said.”
“Yes, and something has happened to give him a scare,” declared Jack,
who had a sagacious way of looking at all such things. “If he could get
a firm grip on himself once more there’s still a chance that he might
win honors enough to wipe out the disgrace he’s made his folks feel.
Anyway, I hope that will happen.”
From the way Jack yawned it was evident that he did not feel like
discussing the matter any further. Amos took the hint, for he, too,
began to feel sleepy, now that the cause of their recent excitement had
passed away.
So he also gaped, and started to crawl under the covers, after he had
again removed his shoes and coat. Jack blew out the candle, and in the
darkness they composed themselves to forget all their troubles. Since
Amos was so deeply concerned in finding his long missing brother, whom
he really believed to be in the ranks of the Allies serving as an
aviator, this often proved to be a difficult task; but being unusually
tired after that arduous day, he presently managed to lose himself once
more.
The long night passed. If from time to time there stole in through
the open window of that loft in the humble Belgian cottage the
deep-throated growl of those great German howitzers such as had reduced
the steel forts at Liége, Namur and since then other fortifications
deemed impregnable, the sound did not seem to disturb the chums any
more than distant thunder would have done. They were by this time
becoming so accustomed to hearing the mutterings of fierce war that
they did not pay as much attention to the same as had been the case
some time back.
There was no further cause for a sudden awakening. Once, however, when
Jack found himself awake he raised his head to listen, thinking the low
murmur of voices had sifted to his ears. When he made sure that it came
from below he might have smiled as though satisfied, but the fact could
not be made manifest in the gloom of that loft.
“I wonder if the seed did take root, and will it grow?” was all
Jack whispered to himself, as he calmly turned over to continue his
interrupted sleep.
So the dawn found them. Daylight, sweeping in through the small windows
told Jack it was time they were up. He aroused Amos, who was apparently
content to linger indefinitely in his cozy bed.
“It’s morning, Amos!” he called out. “Time we were moving, if we mean
to do anything today.”
“And say, Jack, seems to me I can smell cooking going on in the
bargain, which is always as good as a goad to get me out of bed,” with
which Amos proceeded to reach for his shoes.
Yes, they could hear the old couple moving about below stairs. Jack
was not sure but it did seem to him that their footsteps had a more
sprightly ring. Somehow the very suspicion of such a thing did him
good, though he did not think it worth while to mention the fact to
Amos.
“We must be on the border of Ypres, don’t you think?” Amos remarked,
showing that he was naturally thinking of the chances they had of
finding the daring aviator who answered to the name of Frank Bradford,
and whom he fully believed must be his own brother.
“Everything points that way,” replied Jack. “Looking out, I’ve already
seen troops hurrying past, British Tommies at that, and all looking fit
for any kind of fighting if their eager faces counted for anything. But
if you’re ready we’ll go down below, get a bite, and then make the old
people accept all we can spare; for the chances are they’ll need every
franc they can get together before the end of this nasty business comes
around.”
Amos was thinking mostly of the delightful odor of cooking as he came
down the ladder-like stairs that led from the loft to the lower floor
of the cottage. With Jack it was somewhat different, for his first
thought was to look keenly at François and his wife, who had faced
about on hearing the trap raised.
When Jack saw that the careworn expression had been magically lifted
from those furrowed faces he felt almost like giving a shout of real
satisfaction.
Straight over to them he hurried, still keeping his eyes fastened on
their telltale faces.
“What is the good word, François?” he asked, in his
straight-from-the-shoulder fashion; and indeed there was hardly any
necessity to even ask that much, Jack thought, since appearances speak
more loudly than words.
“Oh! young M’sieu, what can we say to thank you?” burst out the old
peasant, while his good wife nodded vehemently to show that in her mind
she echoed all her “good man” said. “The best that ever could happen
has come to us. Jean has seen a great light. He has won the great
victory over himself. Yes, he signalled to me to let him come up, and
then and there he swore that he would go straight back to his place in
the fighting line, and die a dozen deaths before quitting again. We are
so happy! Now we can look our friends and neighbors in the face without
feeling a cold hand at our hearts. Jean may live to see us again; but
if he should not surely the Good Father above will console us if we
knew that he died for the king!”
Amos had to furtively rub his eyes as though some mote had suddenly
blown in there; even Jack felt his own vision a little obscured as he
pressed the hands of the relieved old people, who no longer held their
heads down in shame.
“Come,” said Jack, cheerily, “let’s have a bite and then we must leave
you, François.”