CHAPTER IV.
HERO'S STORY
Late that afternoon the Major sat out in the shady courtyard of the hotel,where vines, potted plants, and a fountain made a cool green garden spot.He was thinking of his little daughter, who had been dead many long years.The American child, whom his dog had rescued from the runaway in themorning, was wonderfully like her. She had the same fair hair, he thought,that had been his little Christine's great beauty; the same delicate,wild-rose pink in her cheeks, the same mischievous smile dimpling herlaughing face. But Christine's eyes had not been a starry hazel like theLittle Colonel's. They were blue as the flax-flowers she used togather--thirty, was it? No, forty years ago.
As he counted the years, the thought came to him like a pain that he wasan old, old man now, all alone in the world, save for a dog, and a niecewhom he scarcely knew and seldom saw.
As he sat there with his head bowed down, dreaming over his past, theLittle Colonel came out into the courtyard. She had dressed early and gonedown to the reading-room to wait until her mother was ready for dinner,but catching sight of the Major through the long glass doors, she laiddown her book. The lonely expression of his furrowed face, the bowed head,and the empty sleeve appealed to her strongly.
"I believe I'll go out and talk to him," she thought. "If grandfathah wereaway off in a strange land by himself like that, I'd want somebody tocheer him up."
It is always good to feel that one is welcome, and Lloyd was glad that shehad ventured into the courtyard, when she saw the smile that lighted theMajor's face at sight of her, and when the dog, rising at her approach,came forward joyfully wagging his tail.
The conversation was easy to begin, with Hero for a subject. There weremany things she wanted to know about him: how he happened to belong to theMajor; what country he came from; why he was called a St. Bernard, and ifthe Major had ever owned any other dogs.
After a few questions it all came about as she had hoped it would. The oldman settled himself back in his chair, thought a moment, and then began atthe first of his acquaintance with St. Bernard dogs, as if he werereading a story from a book.
"Away up in the Alpine Mountains, too high for trees to grow, where thereis only bare rock and snow and cutting winds, climbs the road that isknown as the Great St. Bernard Pass. It is an old, old road. The Celtscrossed it when they invaded Italy. The Roman legions crossed it when theymarched out to subdue Gaul and Germany. Ten hundred years ago the Saracenrobbers hid among its rocks to waylay unfortunate travellers. You willread about all that in your history sometime, and about the famous marchNapoleon made across it on his way to Marengo. But the most interestingfact about the road to me, is that for over seven hundred years there hasbeen a monastery high up on the bleak mountain-top, called the monasteryof St. Bernard.
"Once, when I was travelling through the Alps, I stopped there one coldnight, almost frozen. The good monks welcomed me to their hospice, as theydo all strangers who stop for food and shelter, and treated me as kindlyas if I had been a brother. In the morning one of them took me out to thekennels, and showed me the dogs that are trained to look for travellers inthe snow. You may imagine with what pleasure I followed him, and listenedto the tales he told me.
"He said there is not as much work for the dogs now as there used to beyears ago. Since the hospice has been connected with the valley towns bytelephone, travellers can inquire about the state of the weather and thepaths, before venturing up the dangerous mountain passes. Still, thestorms begin with little warning sometimes, and wayfarers are overtaken bythem and lost in the blinding snowfall. The paths fill suddenly, and butfor the dogs many would perish."
"Oh, I know," interrupted Lloyd, eagerly. "There is a story about them inmy old third readah, and a pictuah of a big St. Bernard dog with a flasktied around his neck, and a child on his back."
"Yes," answered the Major, "it is quite probable that that was a pictureof the dog they called Barry. He was with the good monks for twelve years,and in that time saved the lives of forty travellers. There is a monumenterected to him in Paris in the cemetery for dogs. The sculptor carved thatpicture into the stone, the noble animal with a child on his back, as ifhe were in the act of carrying it to the hospice. Twelve years is a longtime for a dog to suffer such hardship and exposure. Night after night heplunged out alone into the deep snow and the darkness, barking at the topof his voice to attract the attention of lost travellers. Many a time hedropped into the drifts exhausted, with scarcely enough strength left todrag himself back to the hospice.
"Forty lives saved is a good record. You may be sure that in his old ageBarry was tenderly cared for. The monks gave him a pension and sent him toBerne, where the climate is much warmer. When he died, a taxidermistpreserved his skin, and he was placed in the museum at Berne, where hestands to this day, I am told, with the little flask around his neck. Isaw him there one time, and although Barry was only a dog, and I anofficer in my country's service, I stood with uncovered head before him.For he was as truly a hero and served human kind as nobly as if he hadfallen on the field of battle.
"He had been trained like a soldier to his duty, and no matter how thestorms raged on the mountains, how dark the night, or how dangerous thepaths that led along the slippery precipices, at the word of command hesprang to obey. Only a dumb beast, some people would call him, guided onlyby brute instinct, but in his shaggy old body beat a loving heart, loyalto his master's command, and faithful to his duty.
"As I stood there gazing into the kind old face, I thought of the timewhen I lay wounded on the field of Strasburg. How glad I would have beento have seen some dog like Barry come bounding to my aid! I had fallen ina thicket, where the ambulance corps did not discover me until next day. Ilay there all that black night, wild with pain, groaning for water. Icould see the lanterns of the ambulances as they moved about searching forthe wounded among the many dead, but was too faint from loss of blood toraise my head and shout for help. They told me afterward that, if my woundcould have received immediate attention, perhaps my arm might have beensaved.
"But only a keen sense of smell could have traced me in the dense thicketwhere I lay. No one had thought of training dogs for ambulance servicethen. The men did their best, but they were only men, and I was overlookeduntil it was too late to save my arm.
"Well, as I said, I stood and looked at Barry, wondering if it were notpossible to train dogs for rescue work on battle-fields as well as inmountain passes. The more I thought of it, the more my longing grew tomake such an attempt. I read everything I could find about trained dogs,visited kennels where collies and other intelligent sheepdogs were kept,and corresponded with many people about it. Finally I found a man who wasas much interested in the subject as I. Herr Bungartz is his name. To himchiefly belongs the credit for the development of the use of ambulancedogs, to aid the wounded on the field of battle. He is now at the head ofa society to which I belong. It has over a thousand members, includingmany princes and generals.
"We furnish the money that supports the kennels, and the dogs are bred andtrained free for the army. Now for the last eight years it has been mygreatest pleasure to visit the kennels, where as many as fifty dogs arekept constantly in training. It was on my last visit that I got Hero. Hisleg had been hurt in some accident on the training field. It was thoughtthat he was too much disabled to ever do good service again, so theyallowed me to take him. Two old cripples, I suppose they thought we were,comrades in misfortune.
"That was nearly a year ago. I took him to an eminent surgeon, told himhis history, and interested him in his case. He treated him sosuccessfully, that now, as you see, the leg is entirely well. Sometimes Ifeel that it is my duty to give him back to the service, although I paidfor the rearing of a fine Scotch collie in his stead. He is so unusuallyintelligent and well trained. But it would be hard to part with such agood friend. Although I have had him less than a year, he seems very muchattached to me, and I have grown more fond of him than I would havebelieved possible. I am an old man now
, and I think he understands that heis all I have. Good Hero! He knows he is a comfort to his old master!"
At the sound of his name, uttered in a sad voice, the great dog got up andlaid his head on the Major's knee, looking wistfully into his face.
"Of co'se you oughtn't to give him back!" cried the Little Colonel. "If hewere mine, I wouldn't give him up for the president, or the emperor, orthe czar, or _anybody!_"
"But for the soldiers, the poor wounded soldiers!" suggested the Major.
Lloyd hesitated, looking from the dog to the empty sleeve above it."Well," she declared, at last, "I wouldn't give him up while the countryis at peace. I'd wait till the last minute, until there was goin' to be anawful battle, and then I'd make them promise to let me have him again whenthe wah was ovah. Just the minute it was ovah. It would be like givin'away part of your family to give away Hero."
Suddenly the Major spoke to the dog in French, a quick, sharp sentencethat Lloyd could not understand. But Hero, without an instant'shesitation, bounded from the courtyard, where they sat, into the hall ofthe hotel. Through the glass doors she could see him leaping up thestairs, and, almost before the Major could explain that he had sent himfor the shoulder-bags he wore in service, the dog was back with themgrasped firmly in his mouth.
"Now the flask," said the Major. While the dog obeyed the second order, heopened the bags for Lloyd to examine them. They were marked with a redcross in a square of white, and contained rolls of bandages, from whichany man, able to use his arms, could help himself until his rescuerbrought further aid.
The flask which Hero brought was marked in the same way, and the Majorbuckled it to his collar, saying, as he fastened first that and then theshoulder-bags in place, "When a dog is in training, soldiers, pretendingto be dead or wounded, are hidden in the woods or ravines and he is taughtto find a fallen body, and to bark loudly. If the soldier is in some placetoo remote for his voice to bring aid the dog seizes a cap, ahandkerchief, or a belt,--any article of the man's clothing which he canpick up,--and dashes back to the nearest ambulance."
"What a lovely game that would make!" exclaimed Lloyd. "Do you supposethat I could train the two Bobs to do that? We often play soldiah atLocust. Now, what is it you say to Hero when you want him to hunt the men?Let me see if he'll mind me."
The Major repeated the command.
"But I can't speak French," she said in dismay. "What is it in English?"
"Hero can't understand anything in English," said the Major, laughing atthe perplexed expression that crept into the Little Colonel's face.
"How funny!" she exclaimed. "I nevah thought of that befo'. I supposed ofco'se that all animals were English. Anyway, Hero comes when I call him,and wags his tail when I speak, just as if he undahstands every word."
"It is the kindness in your voice he understands, and the smile in youreyes, the affection in your caress. That language is the same the worldover, to men and animals alike. But he never would start out to hunt thewounded soldiers unless you gave this command. Let me hear if you can sayit after me."
Lloyd tripped over some of the rough sounds as she repeated the sentence,but tried it again and again until the Major cried "Bravo! You shall havemore lessons in French, dear child, until you can give the command so wellthat Hero shall obey you as he does me."
Then he began talking of Christine, her fair hair, her blue eyes, herplayful ways; and Lloyd, listening, drew him on with many questions, tillthe little French maiden seemed to stand pictured before her, her handsfilled with the lovely spring flowers of the motherland.
Suddenly the Major arose, bowing courteously, for Mrs. Sherman, seeingthem from the doorway, had smiled and started toward them. Springing up,Lloyd ran to meet her.
"Mothah," she whispered, "please ask the Majah to sit at ou' tableto-night at dinnah. He's such a deah old man, and tells such interestin'things, and he's lonesome. The tears came into his eyes when he talkedabout his little daughtah. She was just my age when she died, mothah, andhe thinks she looked like me."
The Major's courtly manner and kind face had already aroused Mrs.Sherman's interest. His empty sleeve reminded her of her father. Hisloneliness appealed to her sympathy, and his kindness to her littledaughter had won her deepest appreciation. She turned with a cordial smileto repeat Lloyd's invitation, which was gladly accepted.
That was the beginning of a warm friendship. From that time he wasincluded in their plans. Now, in nearly all their excursions and drives,there were four in the party instead of three, and five, very often.Whenever it was possible, Hero was with them. He and the Little Coloneloften went out together alone. It grew to be a familiar sight in the town,the graceful fair-haired child and the big tawny St. Bernard, walking sideby side along the quay. She was not afraid to venture anywhere with such aguard. As for Hero, he followed her as gladly as he did his master.
The Little Colonel's Hero Page 5
