“THANK YOU”
We had left Middelkerke, “armes et bagages,” as we say in French.
When I say arms and baggage it is a mere figure of speech, as our
fowling-guns had been confiscated by the municipal authorities at
Middelkerke and had been placed in the town hall. This precaution was
taken in all communes of Belgium, to avoid untimely intervention of
armed civilians, who, prompted by justified but unlawful indignation,
might have committed acts which, under international rights, are
contrary to the laws of war. An edict calling upon all citizens to
surrender to the municipal authorities all kinds of arms in their
possession had been posted and read everywhere, and, with rare
exception, all Belgian citizens had strictly obeyed the decree. It may
not be out of place to state here that when the German authorities
subsequently claimed that the Belgian Government was an accomplice
of the civil population which, the Germans alleged, fired on German
soldiers, they were only trying–but the effort was in vain–to find an
excuse or justification for the inhuman acts they committed in Belgium.
On August 5 we left by train for Ostend on our way to Antwerp. A state
of war then actually existed between Germany and Belgium. There were
five people in the same compartment–three children, my wife and myself;
one seat remained vacant.
The train was pulling out of the station when an excited individual,
quite out of breath, rushed to our compartment, opened the door, but,
before entering, turned and said–repeating the phrase several times
in English–“Thank you,” to a person he left behind, at the same time
waving his hand in farewell.
Entering the compartment, the newcomer took the vacant seat, and as I
had heard him speaking English, I asked him, “Are you English, sir?”
“No,” he replied, “I am an American.”
“Well,” I continued in English, “if you are an American we belong to
the same continent; I am a Canadian.”
He did not appear to relish my overtures, but turned to admire the
landscape from the window.
“May I inquire where you are going?” I ventured to ask after a short
interval of silence.
“To Russia,” he answered.
“But why?” I said. “My dear man, you will never reach Russia; Germany
is at war with Belgium, and I don’t see how you can get through to
Russia.”
“Oh,” he said, “I shall go by way of Holland.”
His abruptness and reserve convinced me that he had no desire to
continue the conversation. I began to entertain suspicions of the
stranger, and my wife, who occupied the seat opposite to us, indicated
by a significant glance that she, too, thought there was something
extraordinary in the demeanor of our travelling companion.
The train was running at express speed and a few minutes later we
reached Bruges. On the station platform an expectant excited crowd had
gathered.
The passenger I had addressed took up his suitcase and was hurriedly
leaving the train when fifty voices in the crowd cried together: “C’est
lui! C’est lui! C’est lui!” “It is he! It is he! It is he!”
On the platform the man was immediately taken in charge by four or five
gendarmes, who asked him abruptly: “Are you German?”
He made no reply, but nodded his head affirmatively.
He was surrounded by the irate crowd and several individuals attempted
to take him by force from the custody of the gendarmes, who, however,
maintained their guardianship and protected the stranger against the
threatened assault, though with great difficulty and at the risk of
their own lives.
What happened to this man, or where he was placed, I do not know. Was
he the belated traveler he pretended to be, or was he actually a spy?
I cannot say, but if he was a spy in the employ of Germany, and if he
ever goes back to his country, one story he will be able to relate will
describe the narrow escape he had at Bruges from the violence of a
crowd of Belgians whose righteous indignation had been aroused by the
insult to the nation’s honor and dignity by the great Central Empire.