The man hurried past towers and palaces, past marble colonnades and splendid fountains until he arrived at the city’s docks, where he rushed about, frantic and afraid. He shouted to seamen and to priests, to merchants and to matroni … but to no avail. Heinrich did, however, come across other little fair-skinned crusaders wandering aimlessly about the dangerous port. These pitiful wretches were confused. They had been told that the waves would miraculously part as they did for Moses at the Red Sea. They had been told that they would march to the Holy Land on dry ground. Instead, they now needed to either beg money for ship’s passage, hide in a city that did not welcome them, or face the trials of autumn in the cold Alps. While they floundered for a decision, these sick, hungry, and fearful lost lambs had suffered the further miseries of others’ contempt and the abuses that followed. They were shamed and spat upon, assaulted, molested, neglected, ridiculed, and mocked. After all, they had failed in their journey of faith.
So, despite his own compelling cause, Heinrich’s tender heart could not ignore the dirty, hungry waifs that had begun to follow him. Night was falling and he could only imagine what horrors these children would soon endure. With a painful groan he suspended his search in favor of mercy; he yielded his purposes to a circle of sad eyes. Heinrich hurried to the market and spent some of his gold on two carts full of provisions with drivers to deliver them to a hasty camp he set by the seaside. Here, surrounded by a growing throng of grateful little faces, he tossed a blanket to one child, then one to the next, all the while feeling the weight of a heart heavy for his own. With a forlorn eye on what could have been, poor Heinrich hugged, fed, and clothed the little strangers pressing close on all sides.
Solomon was happy to play with the tattered children and brought joy to faces that had almost forgotten how to smile. He licked and rolled, wagged his tail and pranced about midst squeals of delight. And as the dog warmed their hearts, Heinrich built a fire. Its light drew dozens more from their hiding. Homeless, wandering waifs slipped to the baker’s fireside from alleyways and sheds, from beneath abandoned boats, and from the crevices of the rocky shore.
That night the man sat on the dark edges of his camp determined to protect the sleeping children. Many had suffered the vices and lurid concupiscence of humanity’s most ravenous and disgusting debris, and it was merciful that a guardian had come. The night seemed endless to the exhausted baker, however, and he could only groan as he imagined his sons aboard a ship that may have set sail in the evening just passed. He stared at the silhouettes of rocking masts lined tightly along the city’s docks. “Perhaps they are yet here, waiting somewhere to board at dawn.” He saw a fire at the far side of the curving shoreline and wanted desperately to search it, yet he dared not abandon the little ones sleeping safely all around. A lump filled his throat. “I have failed again! Oh, dear God, hurry the dawn!”
Sometime before prime, sleep cast its spell over the exhausted baker and he tilted slowly to the earth where he lay long after the first hint of light eased over the rim of the round-topped mountains. The children quietly encircled the snoring man and watched him respectfully until a little girl nudged him awake. “Huh?” muttered Heinrich. He opened his eye and stared about the circle. Confused for a moment, he suddenly lurched with a start. “Dear God!” he cried. He jumped to his feet and peered anxiously at the docks. “Listen, children. The sun is up; you are safe for now. Quickly, I needs know if any has seen crusaders with an old, white-haired priest?”
A tattered, thin-faced lad of about eleven called out, “I have, sir.”
Heinrich ran to him. “Tell me, boy. Did he sail—he and his company?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Do y’know where they’d be?”
The lad shrugged. He called to a friend. “Ludwig, remember the old priest? He gave you half an apple.”
A little boy smiled. “Aye.”
“Where is he?”
Ludwig thought hard. He was about seven and barefooted. His feet were bloody and his tunic was so tattered that his protruding ribs and sunken belly were plainly visible. “Don’t know.”
Heinrich’s breath quickened and his face went taut. He leaned toward Ludwig and spoke slowly. “Do y’know if they’ve sailed?”
Ludwig shook his head.
Heinrich drew a deep breath, then surveyed the press of hopeful faces staring at him. He licked his lips. “Hear me. I needs find about m’children, then I shall help you. I swear it. Run, quick, all of you and see if you can find me the old priest. If y’find him, tell him he must wait. Then come find me … I’ll be along the docks; you’ll spot me easy!”