Amos was smart enough to take all necessary precautions when jumping.
He did not meet with any accident, and was in condition to wave a jolly
farewell to the gunners in khaki, who had turned in their seats to see
the last of the American boys carrying that autograph letter from the
British commander.
“A rough and ready lot of fine chaps, I should say, Jack,” remarked
Amos, after they had watched the caisson whirl past an obstruction that
shut it out from their view.
“Yes, and it’s tough to think that perhaps not a corporal’s guard
of the whole squad will ever go back again to their English homes,”
replied the other. “To see the way they joke and make merry I don’t
believe that bothers one of them the least bit. When you stop to think
of it, the worst of a war in these times is that it takes off so many
hundreds of thousands of the finest young men, leaving cripples, old
fellows and those who are of little use in the world.”
“Now I hadn’t thought of that before,” admitted Amos, candidly. “It’s
really a fact, though, isn’t it? Every soldier nowadays has to be
physically sound, of a certain height, and even his teeth are examined
to make sure they’re fit. When a million or two such athletes are cut
off, the old world is going to take a step backward for years to come.”
“Let’s put our best foot forward, and get to what’s left of the
village, Amos.”
They trudged along for a little while in almost absolute silence, each
boy being busily occupied with his own thoughts. Perhaps Amos, as would
be quite natural, was planning what arguments he should use when he
came upon his brother. Jack on his part may have been thinking more
of the fate that had overtaken the poor Belgian village which by the
fortunes of war seemed to have been in the direct line of fire between
the hostile armies.
As they reached a certain little knoll they were given an opportunity
to take their first good look at the place where they had passed that
never-to-be-forgotten night, when the roar of approaching battle had
stirred their young blood to fever heat.
Amos uttered a cry in which astonishment was mingled with pain. He even
rubbed his eyes as though he almost believed they had deceived him.
“Jack, it’s gone!” he gasped. “The poor village I mean! Just see how
the cottages have been smashed to smithereens by the shells the Germans
hurled over here while the Allies were holding the place! Oh! it’s
terrible, terrible! I don’t believe there are two stones on top of each
other.”
“Well, it isn’t quite as bad as that, Amos,” said his comrade, “because
I can see several houses still standing, though they’re wrecks at
that. But if ever there was a peaceful village turned into a howling
wilderness this one has been.”
“But, Jack, what’s become of the people?”
“A whole lot of them were wise enough to get away at the time we did,”
Jack reminded him. “You remember how we found them strung out along
the road. By now we hope they’ve found lodging somewhere in Northern
France; for the French people have warm hearts, and owe Belgium such
a heavy debt for holding back the Kaiser’s army that they will share
their last crust with their neighbors.”
“Still there were some who meant to stay here, Jack?” urged Amos.
“That’s true enough,” came the answer, “and our old landlord the
burgomaster was of the number, though I reckon he insisted on most of
his people going away. They had a good deep cellar under that cottage,
he told us; perhaps no German shell buried itself down there to find
them out. Come, let’s head that way. I’ve got an idea the one house we
can see standing over there is the very home where we were taken in.”
“I hope so, Jack, I surely do!” exclaimed the other boy fervently. “I’d
hate to learn that such a fine old man had been done for. If that is
the house, though, I’d never recognize it with the corners torn off,
and the chimney fallen in ruins. Oh, Jack, see, there’s a gaping hole
in the wall showing where a shell passed through. If it exploded inside
we can guess the fate of all that were hiding there.”
“Look again, Amos, and you’ll see that it came out through that hole,
and buried itself in the ground right here. It was a German shell, of
course, as pretty much all that fell upon this place must have been;
for the British were behind the houses holding the enemy off, and every
effort was made to chase them out.”
“But they held their ground, it seems like,” said Amos, “and with the
coming of reinforcements pushed the Germans back a mile or more. Now to
find out what happened to the old burgomaster.
“Jack, tell me, isn’t that some one moving around inside the ruins of
the cottage?”
“I do believe you’re right, Amos. We’ll soon know who it is,” replied
the Western boy, as he made for the doorway.
The cottage could only be called a ruin, even though its four walls
still stood, and part of the roof seemed to be fairly intact. A tree
just outside that had given grateful shade for many years was stripped
of its limbs, and the trunk stood like a gaunt skeleton, a grim
reminder of the furious hail of bombs that had fallen upon that devoted
village for hours.
Jack had to almost climb over the mass of debris that cumbered the
open doorway. He immediately found that the wrecked cottage did have
occupants. Several figures were stretched upon blankets on the floor,
and others hovered over them, showing that the place was really being
used as a sort of hospital.
Jack immediately saw, however, that those who were being thus attended
were not soldiers of the line. One was a woman, another an old man,
while the third seemed to be a small figure, presumably that of a mere
lad.
A hand clutched Jack’s arm, and the voice of his chum whispered
hoarsely in his ear:
“Our old friend has come through it all with his life, Jack; don’t you
see him giving that boy a drink, and passing his hand over the poor
little chap’s forehead? Seems to me I’ve set eyes on that boy before,
and--yes, as sure as anything, Jack, I do believe it’s little Jacques.
He’s been struck down, just as we feared.”
“They seem to be hovering over him in a strange way,” ventured Jack.
“There’s a Belgian soldier holding his other hand, and two women doing
what they can. Jacques doesn’t lack for friends, it seems. I wonder
what it all means, and if he tried to carry out that foolish vow he
made about getting revenge for his father’s death.”
Just then it happened that the old burgomaster, who no longer had a
village under his charge, looked around. He may have heard the murmur
of their voices during some lull in the dreadful chaos of sounds that
came from the front, rising and falling as the wind chanced to swerve.
At sight of the two American boys his wrinkled face showed great
pleasure. He immediately got up from his knees and hurried toward them,
holding out his hand in warm welcome.
“I am glad to see you again, young messieurs,” he said, simply. “I
wondered much what had become of you, and prayed that you had escaped
the terrible shells that seemed to cover every mile of territory around
this poor village.”
Amos was conscious of a feeling of amazement. He marveled greatly that
the good old man could spare even one thought for them, when he himself
was face to face with so overpowering a peril. It certainly spoke well
for his heart. No wonder then that those who had lived in that place
had made him their burgomaster. In Belgium that name stands not only
for Mayor, but father to the entire community, with an eye single to
the welfare of the “children” entrusted to his care.
“We are glad, too, on finding that you escaped when so many must have
been killed or injured here, even while hidden in cellars,” Jack told
him.
The burgomaster shook his white head dismally. There was an expression
of woe on his face, but in spite of all Jack could detect the gleam
of an unconquered spirit in those unflinching eyes. The Kaiser might
overrun Belgium with his soldiers, and hold every foot of soil, but he
would never be able to crush the independence of soul that has always
been the common heritage of every Belgian.
“It has been a terrible calamity,” he said, simply. “We bow our heads
before the storm, even as the trees do when the wind blows, and the
thunder rolls. But after it is all over they raise their crests again.
So, too, young messieurs, will Belgium rise from the ruins of her
cities and towns to become greater than before.”
How proudly he said that. Amos would never forget the exalted look on
the seamed face of the old burgomaster. Somehow he found it in his
heart to believe every word of that prophecy must in the course of time
come true.
“These wounded persons, did they get their injuries while down in the
cellar? Was it a shell that exploded there to scatter death around?”
Jack asked, nodding toward the group hovering around the blankets on
the floor, upon which those forms were stretched.
“Heaven was merciful in that nothing like that came upon us,” the old
man hastened to inform him. “They received their hurts outside, as did
others who are now being cared for amidst the ruins of our poor houses,
by some of those who remained with me in shelter.”
“And how about little Jacques?” asked Amos, unable to hold his
curiosity in check any longer.
The burgomaster allowed his grim features to relax for a brief moment
in what was almost a smile; though with so much suffering around him
it sat strangely upon his face. He nodded his head several times as he
went on to say:
“Ah! young M’sieu, that is the most remarkable thing I ever knew to
happen. Yes, it is little Jacques you see there on the blanket. He has
been injured, but we hope and believe he will recover. He surely will
if our prayers are of any avail; for, wonderful to say, little Jacques
is this day a hero of heroes!”
At that Amos uttered a pleased cry.
“Oh! do you really mean to tell us the little chap actually found his
chance after all? What did he do--what could so small a boy do against
the fighting soldiers of the Kaiser? Please tell us all about it.”
“It was in this way,” described the burgomaster, proudly. “When the
Germans came into the village after that first furious bombardment they
managed to hold half of the place. There was fighting in every street,
desperate hand-to-hand fighting, for those British were determined they
would not be chased out wholly. This kept up until the reinforcements
arrived on the run, wild with the lust for blood. Then step by step the
Germans were pressed back, until in the end they lost their grip on the
village.”
“After that the bombardment must have started in afresh, until the
whole place was leveled as flat as a plain?” interposed Jack, wishing
to get all the facts clearly in his mind, for future use in his letters
to the paper he represented.
“Just as you say, young M’sieu,” continued the burgomaster. “It was
while the Germans held part of the town that Jacques found his great
opportunity. Two of the invaders discovered him there on the street
amidst all that furious firing back and forth. They seized hold of the
lad, and, I believe, threatened him with death if he did not reveal the
place where his people were hiding with their valuables. The boy played
his part well, and after making out that he was almost frightened to
death agreed to lead them to our hiding place.”
“Oh! he always claimed that he had a trap ready to spring!” exclaimed
Amos, who found himself intensely interested in the story. “Did those
two Germans really fall into it, Monsieur?”
“He must have acted his part wonderfully well,” said the old man
proudly, for it must be remembered that the lad’s father was his own
cousin. “He made them force him along; for in some manner he succeeded
in lulling any suspicions they may have had in the start. And,
Messieurs, in the end Jacques, a Belgian boy with a heart that beats
only for his beloved country, managed to entrap those two pillagers, so
that they are now prisoners in the hands of our forces.”
“But how could he do such a wonderful thing?” asked Amos, not
skeptically, for he fully believed every word the burgomaster spoke,
but with a keen desire to know all the particulars.
“Ah! we none of us understand as yet, for Jacques has been too weak
to explain,” the old man told them. “Besides, something else has
occurred to claim his attention. What we know is that after the British
reclaimed the ruins of our poor village, and the Germans had been
beaten back as many as six times, on coming out from my hiding place to
see what could be done for those who were lying by scores and hundreds
around, I found the boy badly injured by a fragment of a bursting shell.
“He seemed feverish with but one desire, and that to tell where two
German soldiers could be found shut in a hole in the ground. I found
a British officer who sent some of his men to the place, and it was as
Jacques had said. A great rock had been toppled over so as to fill in
the gap, and this he must have learned some time ago could be hurled
down with even a child’s puny strength. And that, young Messieurs,
was the trap Jacques always hinted to us about, but at which we only
smiled.”
“Bully for little Jacques!” exclaimed Amos, carried away with boyish
enthusiasm.
“When he saw the soldiers passing by with the two Germans in their
charge Jacques, although in great pain, laughed in glee, for the one
great hope of his life had been realized,” continued the burgomaster,
“but even then he did not know what else there was waiting for him. As
the story of his valor went around many of the British soldiers came
here to see the Belgian boy who had captured two big Germans alone and
unaided. We even had a general visit us, and tell the lad how proud he
was that the sons of their allies should display such valor. But while
this may have pleased Jacques there was something else coming that
overwhelmed him with joy.”
Jack started at hearing this. Somehow he suddenly remembered that man
in the stained uniform of a Belgian soldier who was bending over the
little figure of the boy hero, and one of whose arms seemed to be
swathed in bandages.
“That soldier over there, who holds his hand on the head of Jacques,
and looks down at him so tenderly, is his father, supposed to have
fallen at Antwerp?” he asked.
“Yes, it is as you say, young M’sieu; he lived, and has come to claim
his boy!”