RUSHING THE MAILS THROUGH
Conventionalitydies an easy death in time of war. Erezée is new to me, but in less than half an hour I have talked to more people than I do in England in a twelve-month. They all have the same tale to tell of sleepless nights, of ever-present horror at what may be at any moment. But so far they have been spared atrocities.
There is a sudden scuttle of every able-bodied person in the direction of the post office. The long-awaited post is in. An enterprising postman, “en vélo,” who has rushed them through is congratulated on every side. A crowd surges round the open window, stretching out eager hands to the clerks who are swiftly sorting the numerous piles of letters. The counter has long been appropriated by wrinkled peasants whose one anxiety is for news of the husbands and brothers who are so gallantly fighting for their rights at Liège.
Someone tears off a wrapper. The thin broad sheets of a Brussels evening paper flutter in the breeze. Old men and women, young boys andgirls gather round the owner with uplifted, expectant faces. Some do not know how to read, others have their eyes too full of tears. Besides, good news is so much more convincing when read aloud. The audience listens entranced. The gallantry of these Belgian troops—peasants like themselves—their valour is almost past belief! The work-worn, tired, rough-hewn faces turn to meet each other transfigured into beauty by their mutual look of pride....
We cannot, dare not wait to hear it all. The Uhlans may be here at any moment. I climb into the high dog-cart. Thedépêchesare put under the seat, even under my feet. I sit on a heap of them.... So does my companion. They are for Vaux Chavannes, Grand-Mesnil, all the little villages around, extending to Aywaille, twenty kilomètres away.
Carefully masking every sign of paper with a thick blue rug, we start off on the homeward journey. Not without tremors, for if we fall into the Uhlan hands anything may happen.
When we pass the last of the little cottages, and the last watching peasant has waved us farewell, I begin to fear.
Six solid miles of thick woods stretch before usrolling down to the roadside on either hand. Here it was they caught thefacteuryesterday. I suddenly loathe the sight of those green, feathery branches; they may cover up so much.
I glance at M. A——. His round happy face is rounder and happier than usual. He is even lighting a cigarette, though he finds it difficult, as he is trying to hold the reins and watch the horse and the woods at the same time.
Never have I seen an Ardennois without a pipe or cigarette in his mouth. I think a true son of the soil would start to light one with the death-rattle in his throat!
I imagine a dreaded Prussian behind every tree-trunk and under every bush for some miles. Then I clear my throat and ask mildly as we jog along (it would look suspicious to increase our pace):
“Supposing, just supposing wedidhappen to run across any Germans, and theydidthreaten to shoot us unless we delivered up the letters, which would you do?”
“Deliver up the letters, of course,” he says matter-of-factly, puffing at his cigarette.
I breathe a sigh of relief. After all, a whole skin is a more precious possession than much fine writing!
Providence watches over us again. As we near the beautiful avenue of fir trees which connects the Bomale road with Manhay, a peasant scout rushes out to warn us that Uhlans are ahead. We have just time to escape into a little lane.
More peasants come running up presently to tell us the road is clear. There is always the danger of being covered by field-glasses from some wooded hill, with its sequence of surprise attack, so we jog slowly along and drive into the yard instead of drawing up at the post office. Three minutes later a company of Hussars passes through without drawing rein. They are in high good humour, chattering, laughing, quite unsuspicious that the peasants they despise have been quick-witted enough to get the mails through under their very eyes!
Willing men are posted at intervals round the street and even in the fields to prevent an attack. M. le Précepteur saunters over from the post office and sets to work sorting letters in the back kitchen. It is safer there....
The dining-room blinds are drawn down, and we all collect by the little French window leading into the yard. The papers are taken round, andunfolded. An enormous headline sweeps the page from end to end:
LA GUERRE VA DE MIEUX EN MIEUX.
Like most newspapers the contents are optimistic as regards their own side.
MlleIrma reads the news aloud. She begins with the heroic defence of Liège.
As she reads, we hear the cannon booming, booming across the distant wooded hills.
To judge from the printed page, the gallant little Belgians have defeated the entire German army to a man. Several regiments have already covered themselves with imperishable glory, notably the 11th and 14th Foot. Albert is in the 14th.
A man named Desmoulins has rushed out of a fort and slain four Germans with his own hands before darting back safely to shelter. The enemy’s losses are enormous. I notice that in war they usually are. The Belgian casualties are described as so small that they are, seemingly, scarce worth mentioning.
“The chief losses,” readsMlleIrma in her clear, pretty voice, “were sustained by the 11th” ... a slight pause quickly slurred over, “and the 32nd.”
“And the names!”
“There are no names as yet,” she returns quietly and goes on with the notes of a speech, “ce cher monsieur Askveeth,” had delivered in the English parliament only yesterday.
But Madame Job is not to be deceived. “It was the 14th which has been so cut up,” she says, putting up her apron to her eyes and beginning to cry again. “I know Albert is dead. Mon pauvre Albert in that terrible Liège!”
“Don’t fuss, Maman,” says M. Alfred the peacemaker. “It will be all right now the men in skirts are there....”