Part 4

When at last nightfall came and the trenches glowed with little campfires, Pierrot sallied forth, deliberately and cautiously. First, he sought again his drinking-pool and slaked his burning thirst. Then he passed on into an unknown country in the dark. He skirted the dunes, followed a little watercourse for half a mile, and then struck into a shallow ditch beside a rutty road. He trusted little to his eyes, but ears and nostrils were constantly alert to detect danger, and he gave a wide berth to everything that suggested man to his senses. His sore feet had healed, but he was obliged to travel on three legs by reason of his wound, and he was still stiff and far from strong. Always his nose was searching earth and air for the scent of food.

Suddenly he stopped and lifted his head. From a shallow ravine a few rods from the road came a smell that at once attracted and repelled him. There was the scent of men and of wood smoke. There was also the scent of food. The thought of soldiers terrified him, but his unwonted exercise had made him ravenous with hunger.

Irresistibly the smell of food drew him, and he crept stealthily toward the low bushes that grew along the edge of the ravine. Peering through, he saw with fearful eyes the glow of dying campfires stretching off in a long line, and the shadowy forms of prone men wrapped in blankets. On the opposite bank a lone guard paced slowly up and down.

Pierrot skulked silently along behind the bushes till he came to a spot where the food smell was very strong. Directly below him was one of the smouldering fires, and a few feet down the bank he discerned strewn about half-visible objects from which the smell came.

Grown reckless with famine, Pierrot crawled eagerly out from the bushes and fell upon the refuse of the camp. A hard crust of bread, the bones and offal of a fowl, the beans clinging to the inside of a tin--he devoured them all impartially.

One of the tin cans, dislodged by Pierrot’s eager nose, rolled noisily 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.

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.

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.

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.