Chico: the Story of a Homing Pigeon Part 11

No longer did the ca.n.a.ls echo the laughter of gay tourists, and desolately the pigeons flew about St. Mark's Square, which was almost a deserted place save for the workmen to whom had been a.s.signed the task of protecting the church by placing sandbags on the roofs and iron girders at the windows: mournfully lapped the waters of the Adriatic.

The bronze horses were transferred to Rome for safety; even the pictures by the great masters were taken from their places and hidden, lest they fall into the hands of the enemy.

Old Paolo, who, for a year past had been decrepit, died, broken-hearted, when the first news came of Austrian victories. He was sadly missed in his accustomed haunts. A younger man succeeded him as caretaker of St. Mark's, and Andrea, not old enough to be drafted for service at the front, was appointed chief guard of the church by night.

Sacrifice was the watchword of the hour. Men gave up the savings of years, women brought their trinkets to be sold or melted down for the use of the Government.

And Andrea--what had he to give?

One night, as he paced back and forth on his beat, listening for the possible roar of an aeroplane or the sudden bursting of a bomb, there flashed into his mind the story of services rendered Venice in the olden time by homing pigeons. He seemed a child again, sitting close to old Paolo's side and listening to his tales of happenings in the long ago.

True, now there was wireless at the front, besides telephones and telegraphs, and yet, even with all modern inventions, he wondered if the War Department might not be able to find some use for a trusty pigeon.

Though the boy's heart grew faint at the thought of the sacrifice, his resolution was immediately taken, and as soon as he was released from duty in the morning he made his way directly round the church to the bird's nest. He was tall now and had no need of the box Paolo had placed so long ago for use as a step: thrusting his hand through the aperture, he firmly grasped Chico who happened at that time to be taking his turn with the eggs while his mate enjoyed a much-needed const.i.tutional.

Naturally he resented the interruption and made futile efforts to free himself. But Andrea was resolved on no delay, and without more ado bore off the struggling bird, just as Pepita fluttered into the aperture, with an apology for being late, and ready to a.s.sume her wifely duties.

"Chico! Chico!" the boy exclaimed, gently smoothing the rumpled feathers, "you mustn't mind, old fellow. I'm sorry to take you away, but you and I have a duty to our country and we mustn't s.h.i.+rk!"

Gradually the pigeon ceased to struggle, and while not in the least understanding what it was all about, snuggled close to Andrea's breast, putting his head confidingly inside his soldier's coat.

"And, Chico," the boy went on, "you must do your part, no matter what happens. And, if you"--he choked a little at the thought--"and if you should never come back, it will be for Venice, and for Italy. We won't forget that, will we, my bird?"

As he spoke, he bent his head to listen caught a faint answering "coo," as Chico snuggled his head closer.

By this time he had reached the War Office which was located in one of the buildings on the north side of the Square. In response to his knock he was ushered into the presence of a kindly official who sat at a table littered with maps and papers of every description.

There was a moment's pause, during which Andrea stood uneasily fidgeting, and his courage almost oozed away as he nervously twisted his cap.

But at last the great man looked up, and somewhat abstractly asked, "Well, my boy, what can I do for you?"

"Please, signore," Andrea faltered, as he took from his coat the precious bird, "please, I have a homing pigeon--"

At once the officer became alert. "A homing pigeon?" he repeated quickly.

"Is he trained to carry messages?"

"Si, signore." And the boy forgot his embarra.s.sment in his anxiety to tell of Chico's exploits. "He won the blue rosette at a pigeon show at Verona, a few years since, and see, here is the record of his flights." With that he spread out the wings and the officer studied them over thoughtfully.

When at last he spoke, Andrea could not but note the light in the tense eyes and the eagerness of his tone:

"My boy, this well-trained homing pigeon will, indeed, be valuable to the War Department. Tell me, what shall I give you for your bird? Name your price!"

"My Chico is not for sale!" the boy protested stoutly, "It is my wish to give his services to my country!"

"Think carefully, the Department is ready to pay well for this branch of air-line service."

But Andrea shook his head, "No, signore, it is for Italy. There is but one thing I would make sure of." He paused.

"And what is that?" the great official inquired kindly. He was beginning to realize that this was no ordinary relation which existed between the lad and his pigeon.

"Please, I would ask that when the war is ended, I may have my bird again; that is, that is--" and the boy's eyes were misty as he spoke.

"To be sure, to be sure," the officer cleared his throat. "I'll see that you have a written voucher to that effect."

He touched a bell and gave the order in a business-like tone to the respectful soldier who at once made his appearance.

"We have a valuable addition to our air messengers in the shape of this well-trained homing pigeon. Have you room for him in the next consignment that is sent to the front?"

"Si, signore, one will go to-morrow. The baskets have four compartments and there is one place still vacant." With that he fixed the metal anklet, and Chico was thereby enrolled as number 7788 in the air brigade of the Italian army.

But that was not all; a voucher was then and there made out that, after hostilities had ceased, number 7788 should be returned to the owner, Andrea Minetti.

The great official affixed his own signature and, after handing the paper to the lad, escorted him to the door and opened it for him.

Though Andrea's heart was well-nigh bursting with grief, the parting words brought a thrill to his whole being:

"It is such sacrifices that will win the war for Italy and, believe me, this act of yours will not be forgotten!"

CHAPTER XIV

EVVIVA VENEZIA! EVVIVA ITALIA! [Footnote: Long live Venice! Long live Italy!]

Still nearer drew the hated Austrians: the roar of cannon could be heard distinctly now, an air raid was no longer a novelty, and many a home and public building showed ravages wrought by bursting bombs.

The hospitals were crowded with maimed, among whom was Pietro who had been ga.s.sed and wounded at the front, and was now slowly convalescing in Venice.

The Piazza echoed the tread of marching feet, by day and by night, and the battle hymn heard on every side:

"To arms!

Haste! Haste! ye martial youth!

On every wind our banners fly, Rise all with arms, all with fire!"

The world thrilled with tales of bravery, the exploits of Italian soldiers and aviators were quoted far and wide. But with all their heroism they could not stay the Austrian advance.

With the coming of 1918 deepest gloom settled over Italy as the people girded themselves for what seemed a struggle for very existence: not the slightest suggestion of luxury was permitted, even the making and selling of cakes, pastry, and confectionery being sternly prohibited by government edict.

The Minetti family had fared as had the others, neither better nor worse, and though one corner of the wall of the modest home had been torn away in an explosion, the statue of the Virgin remained as if to protect from further harm. No news had come from Giovanni since his return to the front, over six months before, and Luisa, dry-eyed but worn and racked with anxiety, worked far into the night on bandages for the wounded. Maria, in common with others of her age, had lost the fresh prettiness that, by right, belongs to youth, and her form was bent by work and her face furrowed by lines of apprehension.

Of Chico nothing had been heard since the morning, months before, when his master had left him in the office of the War Department. One's heart ached for the faithful little mate, as she brooded forlornly on the window ledge, refusing to pay the slightest heed to any bold fellow who dared make overtures to her.

His bird was much in Andrea's thoughts as he paced back and forth each night upon his beat and, gazing into the sky in his lookout for aeroplanes, he would strain his eyes for a speck that might resolve itself into Chico's wings.

Possibly, he reasoned, the bird had not yet been made use of. Perhaps--and at the thought, his heart would almost fail him--perhaps, it might even be that he had been entrusted with some message, but had failed to reach his destination.