HOW THE UHLANS CAME
“Itnever rains but it pours,†is as true of the Ardennes as of more distant lands. It has been pouring all night. It is pouring now. In the silence between the pitiless showers, we can hear the roar of the siege guns already bombarding Liège.
More trees have been cut down during the dark hours. A great wall of wood bars the road opposite the Gendarmerie leading to Vaux Chavannes. Numberless recumbent tree-trunks are making great dark tracks across the long and tortuous route towards the frontier. We have done our share. We can but wait events.
Everything is curiously quiet this morning ... in the village. For rustic sounds one only hears the Manhay pig grunting as he wallows with a furious enjoyment in the churned-up mud of a distant field, and the yapping of the miserable imprisoned dog from his box-kennel chained to an old wall. I sit out on theterrasseand begin to sew. Germaine is brought along in her nurse’sarms and looks at me nervously. It is ironing day, and her mother is busy collecting the washing from the garden hedge. Victor plays the good old game of follow-my-leader up and down the street with little René.
Madame Job comes out of the inn and leans one hand for a moment on the back of my chair. The other steals up to her eyes.
“I can’t help thinking of Albert,†she says apologetically, “my Albert in the forts there below.†She gazes in the direction of Liège, which is hidden behind the distant wooded hills.
“Why fear for him?†I ask. “Is he not lucky to be in the forts, the forts-which-are-so-strong.â€
I know the comforting phrase by heart now.
“The forts-which-are-so-strong.†She repeats the words after me like a child. A gleam of hope dawns for an instant on her kindly face, then fades away. “Supposing he is not fed!†she says with bitter emphasis. To the Walloon mind, hunger is almost worse than death.
Comforted by my fibs, she goes back to cook the dinner over the black oven. The oven and Madame are indivisible. I always think of them together.
I sew on. Suddenly steps are heard approaching from the direction of Vaux Chavannes. Theycease. Something is worming its way with a curious brushing noise round that piled-up barrier of trees. “It†turns the corner into the Manhay Street. A peasant is running towards me full tilt. His face is scarlet, his mouth open with the tongue sagging over the lips. He rolls from side to side as if drunken; reaching me he throws up his hands.
“Les Prussiens, les Prussiens!†he shouts, and falls on his face as though possessed.
We bring him water, we fan him. He revives.
“Three hundred Prussians are at Vaux Chavannes,†gasps the messenger.
The peasants disperse as though scattered by a shell. The village idiot takes cover in the pig-sty. Germaine is dropped by an agitated and diminutive nurse and immediately begins to scream. She is forcibly dragged to shelter. A scuttling and jabbering ensues. One hears the swish of skirts, the quick tramp-tramp of heavy boots, the sound of creaking stairs. I drag the fainting man into the hotel, quickly close and bolt the door, prop him against the wall, and go to the open dining-room window.
Manhay might stand as a model for “The Deserted Village.†The inn is silent as the grave, the family of Job-Lepouse is doubtless in the fields. With mecuriosity overrides fear. Even if it entails certain death I must see the Uhlans come. There is a sharp clitter-clatter of horses’ hoofs along the Vaux Chavannes road. It stops abruptly at the barricade. I hear a volley of very German curses, the crash-crash of weapons and then a mutilated bicycle comes hurtling through the air. I hear the cry of a man in pain. Some poor devil has been caught....
The Uhlans are in our street. They mass by the Gendarmerie, glare fiercely round. They have learned the feeling of the countryside in those barred tree-trunks which have crossed their path. They suspect a plot and are keen to fight. Charging down the road they come, lance out, heads erect, the sun glinting a thousand sparks from the rim of their metal helmets where it is left unprotected by the light cloth shield. They are not quite so smart as when parading last before their adoring women-kind. Their horses’ flanks are streaming, their uniforms dusty. “What splendid men they are!†is my first impression. “This is just like comic opera,†is my second. But when, at closer range, my eyes meet those long, sharp lances and that Teuton glare, I confess my third is funk!
I shall never forget that first moment of invasion. The forest of lances, the grey steel of pointed revolvers, sobbing women and frightened children. The desertion of the little village street and the scuttling of agonised peasants into their houses. The banging and locking of doors, the sudden silence as they scatter in the stable ... cellar ... fields. I can see it now.... I shall see it always.
One peasant is not fortunate enough to escape. A Uhlan with an over-developed (Teuton) sense of humour, pricks him in the fleshy part of the shoulder with the point of the lance. Having secured a good hold, the German gallops up and down the village, driving the unlucky man before him at a furious speed.
The remainder of the troop form up and charge towards us down the road. They interrupt their dash at the post office. The officer points a revolver at M. le Précepteur’s head in the ingratiating German way and asks some question. I swear that M. le Précepteur’s hair is standing on end in the manner hair so frequently assumes in novels, so very seldom in real life.
Something grey and cold intercepts itself between me and the sun. Something cold and grey touchesmy forehead and a gleaming face comes on a level with my own. The first contact of that revolver makes my knees tremble and gives me a cold sensation down my spine. But I do not budge. My captor neither addresses me nor I him. We simply stare stupidly at one another. A wasp, attracted by the bright metal helmet rim, plays about his face. The hand that holds the revolver trembles. I am almost but not quite amused. Suddenly the weapon is withdrawn. The troop gather up their reins, canter on through the village and halt in consultation at the head of the street.
A curious intuition tells me that the Uhlans are afraid ... of our fear, that those tightly barricaded doors and closed windows suggest plots—perhaps armed resistance. It occurs to me that it would be wiser to show ourselves, to feign indifference. In times like these men are shot for showing the white feather.
I rush out and call the peasants by name. One or two stare stupidly from the windows, the rest do not budge. Many are in the fields, some probably in the cellars. I sit down on theterrasseand draw the little white chair close up to the painted white table. The moustached postman in the dirty white ducks comes to my side, so doesthe poacher, unshaven but ever picturesque in his brown corduroys.
The order has been given to charge. They are coming back, the gallant Uhlans! Will they shoot us down? We shall know soon enough. I lift my glass of bock with a rather shaky hand while the postman puffs at his pipe and the poacher half smiles. He is a feckless, fearless rascal. Here they come, lances and all. The foremost misses my head by half an inch. I wince. The soldiers look unutterably fierce as they clatter past. The last few cover us with their revolvers until they turn the corner of the road. Clitter-clatter—fainter—then silence. The postman, ever solemn, turns to me and reaches over an enormous hand.
“Vous êtes—bon soldat, Mademoiselle,†he says, as he rises abruptly and saunters away down the street, puffing at his everlasting pipe.