down the bank, and the sentry opposite halted and raised his rifle
quickly to his shoulder. Pierrot crouched back, watching him. The
soldier evidently thought better of arousing his comrades with a rifle
shot, and suspecting that some animal was prowling about, picked up a
stone and threw it at Pierrot. It struck with a thud beside him and
bounded up into the bushes. Pierrot, thoroughly alarmed but still
hungry, seized a large bone in his teeth and dashed back through the
bushes. Not waiting to ascertain whether he was pursued, he ran for a
mile across the frozen fields on his three weary legs before he came
to a stop. Then, making sure that he had fully escaped the danger that
threatened, he fell upon his stomach on the hard ground with the bone
between his paws, and spent a contented half-hour crunching it until
the last vestige had disappeared.
When dawn began to show faintly in the eastern sky Pierrot sought a new
hiding-place. At last he came upon the scattered remains of a haycock
in a marshy meadow. The hay was damp and stiff with frost, but Pierrot
dug his way beneath the largest heap of it and slept the deep sleep of
exhaustion until the evening fell.
When he awoke he was lame and sore, but he dragged himself forth,
yawned mightily, and set his face toward home.
He felt not the slightest doubt as to the general direction, but he had
no idea of the distance. There was but one thing to do--plod doggedly
along, with his right hind foot held clear of the ground. Now and then
he made a detour to avoid suspicious forms, and again to follow up a
scent of food. Twice that night he stumbled upon bits of refuse. It was
scanty foraging, but it served to appease the pangs within him.
The next morning, having seen no soldiers, and finding the country
apparently peaceful, he was emboldened to continue his journey by
daylight, for the longing for home was strong within him. But the
attempt was too much for his weakened body, and he was forced to give
up before noon and crawl under a hedge to rest.
At some time during the afternoon a sound caused Pierrot to awake
suddenly and to leap to his feet. A human form and footstep brought him
to a quick posture of defence, with bared teeth and bristling neck.
Before him stood a young woman in a coarse gray dress, torn shawl, and
wooden shoes. She was not happy looking and pretty like the newsgirls
in Brussels, nor neat and fresh-faced like Mère Marie. She was a squat,
dumpy sort of person, with a pale face and dull eyes and her mouth was
drawn down at the corners.
At first she was as much startled as Pierrot, and a look of fear
overspread her coarse features that was not pretty to see. But when
she saw it was only a dog, the dull look came back to her eyes and she
stood stolidly waiting.
Pierrot had never suffered ill at the hands of a woman, and the snarl
died in his throat. The bristles on his neck lay down again and his
tail began to move tentatively. He took an inquiring step toward the
woman.
The ghost of a smile flitted across the peasant’s face and she slowly
approached Pierrot with her thick palms outspread. The dog advanced a
little nearer, with a cocking of the ears and a look of pleased inquiry
in his eyes. Then the woman perceived that he was lame. Her slow
sympathies quickened and she approached and laid her hand on his head.
Then she stooped and felt of his leg, not too gently. It hurt Pierrot,
but he only gave her ear a little caress with his moist nose.
“Poor fellow!” said the woman in Flemish. “Come, and we will wash it.”
Pierrot followed her as she walked toward a little grove of trees back
from the road and entered the low doorway of a small hut. There was
no one inside except an old gray cat, which at once retired to the
rafters. At this the woman gave a low, short laugh.
The hut was a poor little place, indeed, and apparently the woman lived
all alone in it, though there was a man’s smock hanging from a peg on
the wall. She moved about with a sort of hopeless indifference, hanging
a kettle of water in the chimney and building a little fire of faggots
beneath it. Pierrot lay down before it and fell asleep again, for he
was still very weary.
When the water was warm the woman took an old rag and washed Pierrot’s
wound. He awoke and thumped his tail on the hard earthen floor, for the
warm water felt very good. Then the woman tied the rag about his leg
and bade him lie quiet.
Going to a cupboard, she brought out a half loaf of coarse black bread
and cut off two slices. Then she got a bowl and a little meal and made
a sort of broth or gruel. These she placed on the rude table and drew
up a stool.
Pierrot did not move toward the table, but lay watching the woman with
interest as she folded her hands and bowed her head.
Presently she began eating her broth with a pewter spoon, but she
did not finish it. She placed the bowl on the floor and Pierrot, not
understanding how hungry she still was, cleaned it in a twinkling. Then
the woman gave Pierrot one of the slices of bread and ate the other
herself. The gray cat, it appeared, was expected to forage for his own
dinner.
Pierrot stretched out before the fire again, with a feeling of peace
and contentment such as he had not known for a long time, and slept
soundly for many hours.
In the morning the peasant woman gave Pierrot half of her scanty
breakfast. Then she drew her worn shawl over her head and opened the
door of the hut.
“Come with me,” she said.
Pierrot arose regretfully and went out into the crisp morning. The
woman turned off toward the little wood, but Pierrot hesitated. She had
been very kind, but she was not going in the direction of home. Not
hearing his footsteps, she turned and spoke again, pleadingly.
“Come with me,” she said.
But still Pierrot hesitated. He was grateful to the woman, and his
first impulse was to obey her, but from where he stood he could see
the long road stretching toward the east, and he knew that off there
somewhere were home and the faces of those he loved. The need to go on
awoke again within him, and with one little bark of farewell he turned
and hobbled rapidly off on his three legs. The woman stood gazing after
him for a few moments, a pathetic object in the keen morning wind. Then
she brushed the back of her hand across her eyes and turned slowly away
among the trees.
It was no three days’ journey that Pierrot had undertaken this time,
for though he had no load dragging at his heels, he found that he could
not travel fast nor very far at a time. He had only his instinct and a
vague memory to guide him, and often the winding road led him astray,
so that he covered many needless miles.
But he had ceased to fear the soldiers, and dared now to travel by
daylight and thus made better progress, though he still made wide
detours to avoid suspicious looking people. The clumsy bandage became
loose and Pierrot tore it off with his teeth, but his wounded leg did
not hurt him now save when he attempted to use it.
It was weary work, travelling on three legs and on scanty rations.
Sometimes he was obliged to sink down exhausted in a sheltered spot and
wait till his strength returned. Sometimes, when the pangs of hunger
seized him, he was forced to waste valuable hours hunting for food.
[Illustration]
People in houses and peasants in the fields he learned not to fear,
and twice he was invited into cottages and fed. But always he managed
to get away after he was rested and never knew that he was guilty of
ingratitude. Sometimes men on the road or in the fields called to him,
but he would not stop. Once a boy gave chase, but Pierrot put all the
speed he could muster into his three legs and contrived to escape,
though he was obliged to lie panting for a long time after this race
before he could recover. It was hard for him to understand this loss of
his old-time power.
He kept no account of the days and only knew that the way seemed
endless. But one afternoon the conviction seized him that he was
nearing his journey’s end. There was nothing familiar in the objects in
the landscape; he had never been there before. But something inside him
told him it was so. He pressed on eagerly, whining a little to himself
as a terrier whines when he scents a mole. Surely, over the next
hill, or around the next bend, he would come upon the old, familiar
scenes--cottage and byre and the blessed fields of home. Over there,
just beyond, were the well-remembered faces, the happy voices of the
children, the capable, kind hands of Mère Marie.
In his zestful haste he overtaxed his strength again, and, trembling
with excitement and fatigue, he was obliged to seek rest before sunset.
He slept fitfully that night. Frequently his dreams awoke him and he
stood peering into the darkness, listening for he knew not what, before
he remembered and lay down again. But though he rested ill, he was
abroad before daybreak, padding laboriously on.
All that day he travelled without food or rest, stopping only for an
occasional drink when opportunity offered. There was never a doubt
in his mind that to-day he would be home again. No sound or scent or
unaccustomed sight lured him from his straight course. Then at length
he came out upon the road he knew, with its rows of poplar trees, and
his heart began to hammer at his ribs. Heedless of pain and weariness,
he dashed blindly on, around the bend in the road, up the little lane,
to the place where home had been.
Pierrot stopped in a panic of bewilderment. The tile-roofed house was
gone and only blackened timbers remained. He sniffed about among the
ruins for a time, greatly troubled, and then circled around toward the
outbuildings. They, too, were gone, but nearby was a little shack that
he did not remember.
Night was coming on again, and Pierrot was feeling very weary and
forlorn and hopeless. Was this, then, the empty end of his long,
painful quest? Where was the pretty little home and the comfortable cow
barn and the people he used to love? Had all vanished into thin air?
Pierrot dragged himself disconsolately over to the strange little shack
and sniffed at the crack under the door. Something in the scent drove
him into a sudden frenzy of excitement. He began to scratch vigorously
and gave voice to one short, sharp bark.
[Illustration]
VI
After the Belgian soldier had marched away with Pierrot, hard times
fell upon the little dairy farm of the Van Huyks. Soon the Germans
came and drove off their one heifer, and there was no more milk or
butter for them. They also took all of the wheat and most of the rye
that was in the barn. There was still a little wheat in the field that
Gran’père had not had time to bring in. They all turned out and gleaned
every grain of this and Mère Marie hid it under the floor of the house
together with what little had been left in the barn. All of their
chickens were taken, too, and there was not much left for them to eat.
The Germans were not rough with them and gave them a paper in payment
for the things they had taken, but this would not buy food.
Mère Marie, fearing the German soldiers, kept Henri and Lisa closely
indoors, and she herself seldom went far from home. Only old Gran’père
went out and got the news and came back walking very proudly but with
never anything good to tell. The Germans were still pressing on, but
Gran’père did not despair. The Belgians had fought bravely, as Belgians
should, and they would be delivered out of the hands of the despoiler.
But Mère Marie was less hopeful. She very seldom got any sort of news
of Père Jean, and so many women were mourning their dead that she
became very sad and frightened, especially after she learned that
Joseph Verbeeck had been killed by a bursting shell. She also heard
other things from the lips of her panic-stricken neighbours which made
her shudder and draw wee Lisa very close.
Again the Germans came a few weeks later and searched the house and
outbuildings for anything they might find useful. They did not discover
Mère Marie’s little hoard, and one of the soldiers, who seemed to be
an officer, became very angry and talked very loud, though they could
not understand him. When he went out to the barn he broke down the door
with his foot, though Henri would have shown him how to open it.
But one of the soldiers was not so unkind. He stood apart, seeming to
be standing guard at the door, and when the officer swore he appeared
not to approve, though he said nothing. He was a young Bavarian, with a
round, smooth-shaven face and eyes very far apart, and with the heavy
red hands of a peasant. Something about him attracted little Lisa, and
when Mère Marie was occupied with the other soldiers the child slipped
out unnoticed and went up to him.
Nobody had ever had occasion to instruct wee Lisa as to the iniquity
of staring, and she stood now with frankly curious eyes gazing full on
the soldier’s broad face. He looked almost like an overgrown toy as he
stood there so straight with his heels close together and his round
red face appearing so abruptly above his gray coat with its shiny rows
of brass buttons. She hesitated to break the spell that seemed to have
turned this ruddy man into a wooden image, but the soldier could not
long withstand her intent scrutiny and gradually his face relaxed into
a smile.
It was a very pleasant smile and it gave Lisa a warm feeling inside.
It suddenly occurred to her that this was the first genuine, unforced
smile she had seen for some time. Surely these German soldiers weren’t
such terrible monsters, after all. Indeed, one could easily learn to
like this one.
Of course wee Lisa was not old enough to know that if all Germans were
Bavarian peasants, and all Russians were Polish moujiks, there would be
no war at all.
[Illustration]
Gran’père had complained sometimes of being stiff in the joints, and
Lisa wondered if this soldier might not be suffering from an acute
attack of this affliction. She did not know just how to put her
question, so she asked, in Flemish, “Do you bend?”
Lisa had a sweet little voice for one pitched in so high a key, and
it made the soldier smile more broadly. He shook his head and uttered
some extraordinarily gruff words that meant nothing to Lisa. She was
satisfied that he did not bend, though somewhat reassured by the
apparent mobility of his neck.
Her eye was attracted by a slight movement of his right hand, which
hung by his side, and going quickly over to him she raised it and
discovered that his arm, at least, was quite properly hung from the
shoulder. Whereat the soldier laughed aloud, but checked himself very
suddenly as his comrades and the officer appeared from around the
house. Then Lisa heard her mother calling her, and hastened in.
After a final inspection of the house the officer called to the soldier
in front and they all started off across the fields toward Madame
Verbeeck’s house. As they passed the kitchen window bold little Lisa
thrust her head out, and the Bavarian soldier brushed his lips across
the top of her yellow head so quickly that no one saw, not even the
vigilant officer nor anxious Mère Marie. Lisa called a shrill good-bye
after him and waved her hand, but he marched straight ahead with the
others without turning back. Perhaps he heard, though.
After the soldiers had failed to find the grain under the floor, Mère
Marie felt quite safe, but she began to be worried about the small
quantity. No one seemed to know how long the war would last. One said
three years; another believed the English would be over in a few weeks,
and then the Germans would go flying back home; others declared that,
whatever happened, Belgium was doomed, and the sooner the poor people
left the country the better.
Mère Marie did not know whom to believe, but she decided that it would
be only prudent to husband her little store of grain so that it would
last all winter. She estimated the amount on hand, and also the late
cabbages and turnips and everything else she could count on for food,
and divided the whole by the number of winter days. When she discovered
how little that allowed for each day, with nothing extra for Sundays,
she began to be frightened. She consulted Gran’père, and he agreed that
they should restrict themselves to short rations.
Mère Marie explained this to the children as best she could, but little
Lisa did not understand very well. So when she discovered how very
little she might have to eat, even when she was most hungry, she would
cry sometimes. But Henri, who was nearly nine years old now and had
been learning much about the doctrine of courage from Gran’père, bore
the deprivation without complaint and even shared his last few morsels
with Lisa.
It would seem as though the Van Huyks had suffered enough for one
family, but when you remember all the poor Belgian families that
had been left starving or had been broken up or sent fleeing to
strange lands or wiped out altogether, when you recall what happened
about Aershot and Louvain, you will see that the Van Huyks still had
something to be thankful for even when the worst came. For they were
still all alive and well; even Père Jean had not yet been reported
among the dead or missing; while all Belgium was lying prostrate
beneath a load of want and sorrow and horrible dread. For war is cruel
and winter is cruel, and the poor folk of Flanders and Brabant were
without hope.
Late in October there came a banging of rifle-butts on the door and
again a group of soldiers in green-blue overcoats invaded the little
tile-roofed cottage on the Waterloo Road. They had been drinking and
were very rude and boisterous. They ransacked the premises and cursed
because they found so little. One of them struck old Gran’père across
the face with the back of his hand and another seized Mère Marie and,
in spite of her struggles, kissed her on the cheek. Worse things might
have befallen them had not one of the soldiers, angered at the lack of
loot, set fire to the house and the barn.
As the flames started up, brisk and crackling, the soldiers seemed to
become suddenly sobered and alarmed. Perhaps they were not allowed to
do such things. At any rate, they set off up the road, leaving the
little homestead blazing behind them.
Mère Marie and Gran’père saved what they could of their humble
belongings, the former working in a frenzy of grief, with the tears
rolling down her cheeks, while Gran’père’s mild features were distorted
by a look of defiant hatred. Out in the garden Henri and Lisa stood
hand in hand, gazing in silent awe upon the terrible spectacle.
That night they slept under Madame Verbeeck’s roof, but she could not
keep them; she was afraid to. So the next morning they started back,
sad and despairing, to the smoking ruins of their home.
Out of such boards and tiles as he could find, Gran’père, with Henri’s
help, built a little one-room shack near where the barn had been, while
Mère Marie sought among the ruins for whatever of value might have
been spared. Some bedding they had rescued, and Mère Marie found some
pots and pans and a few other things that could be used. Her iron cook
stove, too, though cracked, still hung together. But the hoarded grain
and vegetables, alas! were burned and ruined; there was scarcely a
bushel left that was fit for food.
Gran’père set up the stove in the shack and built a rude table and
benches and bunks. He had a stout heart in his old breast, Gran’père
had, and though he didn’t talk much he kept Mère Marie from breaking
down. Then they all set to work gathering dried grass and weeds for
their beds, and by nightfall their poor little home was furnished.
A few days later they heard again the tramp of marching feet on the
road, and from their doorway watched a company of German soldiers file
past. Mère Marie was not afraid of them now; it seemed to her that they
had done their worst. Gran’père stood very erect and grim and silent,
but wee Lisa suddenly ran out with a glad little cry, waving her arms.
In the company she had recognized her Bavarian friend. He turned his
head for a moment, but his face was expressionless, and he did not
leave the ranks. So Lisa wept with disappointment.
But next day he came, quietly, after sundown. He was alone and he
knocked softly before entering the shack. Without speaking he laid
a half loaf of rye bread on the table and a small piece of bacon.
Gran’père looked very proud and angry and was all for throwing them in
his face, but Lisa ran up to him joyfully, and he smiled a little as
he patted her head, so Gran’père allowed the food to remain. Then the
soldier looked at Mère Marie with a very sad and tender expression in
his eyes and strode away in the darkness.
“He has little ones of his own,” said Mère Marie.
Before long the weather grew very cold. Gran’père mended a spade and
banked up the shack on all sides and put sods on the roof. There was
plenty of fuel among the charred ruins of the house and outbuildings,
so that they were able to keep fairly comfortable inside the shack, but
all their warm winter clothing had been burned and they suffered from
cold whenever they went out. Their shoes, too, were getting thin and
worn, and all but one pair of Gran’père’s sabots had been burned.
Worst of all, there was little or nothing to do, and they had all been
so industrious. This was bad for Mère Marie especially, and she took to
brooding beside the stove and thinking of Père Jean and all the happy
days gone by.
As the winter drew on and the snow came their life developed into a
mere desperate struggle against hunger and cold. Several times Lisa’s
Bavarian friend came stealthily and brought food, but they never
knew what the next day might have in store for them. Many of their
neighbours had fled, but Gran’père insisted on staying on their land,
and indeed they knew of no place whither they might fly.
One day the young Bavarian came very hurriedly and threw a sack of
bread upon the table. He could not explain where he had got it; perhaps
he had stolen it. But he made them understand that he was ordered
away to the west and could not come any more. They were all sad and
troubled. Then the soldier picked up little Lisa and kissed her long
and tenderly, and shook hands with the rest. Even Gran’père did not
refuse him.
“Adieu,” said Mère Marie, “and God bless you!”
“Adieu,” said the soldier in queer-sounding French, and when he went
out there were tears in the honest blue eyes.
“He has little ones at home,” said Mère Marie again. “I hope he will
get back to them.”
Mère Marie took the bread and hid it and estimated the smallest amount
that would keep body and soul together each day. Then they all sat down
and waited. There was nothing else to do.
VII
Every night and every morning Mère Marie said her prayers to the
Virgin, and at last help came. A strange man who spoke English visited
the shack, took their names, and made a note of their condition. Mère
Marie had learned a few words of English from some of her customers in
the Avenue Louise, and she gathered that he was to bring them something
that had been sent in a big ship by kind people from away across the
sea who had in some way heard of the plight of Gran’père and Mère Marie
and Henri and wee Lisa. So they all waited anxiously for his return.
In a few days he came again in a motor car and brought them a big box.
He bade them be of good courage and said that he might bring more
later. He was a very brisk, businesslike sort of person, but not
unkindly. Then he hurried off again.
The family gathered closely around as Gran’père opened the box, and
very excitedly they watched him take out flour, tea, sugar, and
clothing. Then Mère Marie fell on her knees beside her bunk and buried
her head in her arms, and they all waited with bowed heads while she
sent up her thanks.
Then they began examining the clothing. There was a gray fur coat for
Mère Marie, worn bare at the collar and wrists, but very warm. There
were shoes and stockings and underclothes, a red jacket that could be
cut down for Lisa, and some cloth that could be made into a coat for
Henri. For Gran’père there was a strange garment that he afterward
learned was a sweater. It was thick and black and had a big green D
on the front of it. Gran’père did not understand the meaning of the
letter, but he found the garment very warm.
[Illustration]
Down in the bottom of the box there was a child’s book with the most
wonderful pictures of fairies and queer people all in bright colours,
and verses in a strange tongue; and there was a roll of cotton bandages
and some medicines in bottles.
They were all quite overjoyed until Henri said, “Now if only Père Jean
would come back.”
Mère Marie grew sober at that, and wee Lisa added, “And big, shaggy old
Pierrot.”
It was night by this time, and as they had no lights Mère Marie said
they must all go to bed. But suddenly Henri’s sharp ears caught a
strange sound of sniffing and scratching at the door. Then came a
short, sharp bark.
Henri ran and opened the door, and there stood good old Pierrot
himself, very gaunt and thin, but Pierrot!