Not being politicians or war prophets, but only tourists, we didn't
realize what a flame would sweep over Europe on the winds of fury from
this one far-off fiery spark. Tony read us out the news at breakfast in
a hotel at Bruges: "Austria's Ultimatum to Servia"; whereupon we went on
drinking our coffee and eating our crisp rolls as if nothing had
happened.
"Dear me, what a pity!" sighed Mrs. Dalziel absently. She was thinking
of our sight-seeing expedition for which we were already late. Milly
remarked that somebody was always throwing an ultimatum at somebody
else's head, and asked for jam. Tony said intelligently that it was just
what he had expected, after the murder of the archduke and the duchess,
and looked at his watch. As for me, it did shoot through my mind that
Russia might have something to say if Servia were attacked; and I
thought that if I were Milly I should have a qualm of anxiety about my
captain-count. But I didn't wish to worry her with such a remote
suggestion, and our war conversation ended there. None of us bothered
seriously with the papers for the next day or two. Sight-seeing in
Belgium seemed to us the last thing on earth which could possibly
connect itself with an ultimatum, or even a declaration of war on
Servia. We went from Bruges to Ghent, from Ghent to Antwerp, from
Antwerp to Brussels, from Brussels to Namur, to Louvain, and Spa, and so
at last arrived at Liége. The next item on our programme was a run into
Luxemburg, which was to finish our trip; and in a few days more Tony was
to leave us to catch his ship for home, as his holiday was over. He had
been behaving so well that I minded being engaged less than I'd
expected; and it was nice to be petted by Milly and Mrs. Dalziel and
loaded with presents. It was the first time in my life that I had
experienced anything of the sort, for I had always been the one who
didn't matter, at home. Each place we visited seemed more beautiful than
the last, and I was trying hard to say to myself, "This is happiness, or
all you can expect to know. Make the most of it, and be a sensible
Peggy!"
It was late on the night of Wednesday, July 29th, when we arrived at
quaint old Liége; and though we knew that Austria had declared war, and
that all the great powers were muttering thunderously, it didn't seem as
if anything devastating would really happen. That was much too bad to be
true, and everything seemed so peaceful and comfortable. Hotel keepers
smiled and said that the war scare was sure to blow over as it had blown
over time after time in the past. We met other people gayly touring like
ourselves. They all appeared to be easy in their minds and free from
care, so we followed their pleasant example; and the sun shone on us,
and Belgium seemed the prettiest and most pacific of all countries,
basking under a cloudless sky.
"Telegram for you, dear," Mrs. Dalziel said to Milly as she sorted the
post handed to her by the man in the hotel bureau at Liége. Then she
dealt out envelopes to Tony and me, and we were rather sleepily busied
with them when Milly gave a gasp. "Oh, Mamma, he's got to _fight_!" she
squealed.
"He--who?" questioned Mrs. Dalziel dazedly in the midst of deciphering a
closely written and crossed page of thin foreign paper.
"Stefan!" Milly choked on the name. "Oh, it's awful! His father has
consented to his marrying me all right, but _of course_ he'll go
and--and be _killed_ now, and I shall never see him again! I'm the
unluckiest girl that ever lived. And just when I thought everything was
going to be so splendid."
I heard her wailing as I finished my letter, which was from Di: the
first she had written me. It had gone to Brussels and been forwarded
from there to Liége. "Sidney and I are rushing back to London as fast as
the car will take us," she wrote. "This war news is terrible. Any minute
we may hear that England's mixed up in the business. There's no more fun
motoring about the country in this suspense; and if there's war, all the
house parties we were asked to in Scotland are sure to be given up. We
want to be where we can have news every minute, and will hurry up the
decorators so we can get into our house, even if things are at sixes and
sevens there. From what I hear, everybody will be congregating in London
to be in the heart of things. It makes me sick to think of all my
_lovely_ clothes! If there's war, nobody will be wearing _anything_. All
the nicest men will be away at the front. Isn't it _sickening_? Luckily,
Sidney won't have to fight, as America's not involved. But I don't want
to go over there and have people at home calling me a _coward_, to sneak
away from under the Zeppelins and things the Germans will be sending
over. I want to do what everybody else does, though Heaven alone knows
yet what that will be. I expect Bally and Kitty will come back from
Harrogate, where poor dear Bally is celebrating his honeymoon by taking
a strict cure, and I hear Kitty is doing mud baths to reduce her flesh.
They wire that there isn't one waiter out of sixty left in their
hotel--all were _Germans_; so you see what that means. And Kitty's maid
had hysterics this morning because war's to be declared on her country,
and because the hotel chambermaids are all turned into waitresses, and
she had to make Bally's and Kitty's beds. One realizes that war will be
horrible for _all classes_. Your life won't be safe on the Continent,
you know, and you'd better persuade Mrs. D. to bring you back
immediately. Though you've been so horrid to Sidney, he'll overlook it
in this crisis, for my sake, when even Ulsterites and Nationalists are
forgiving each other. Father and Kitty will have to stay with us when
they arrive, as the Norfolk Street house is given up; and you must of
course come, too. You can be our guest till you and Tony are married, if
you don't want your engagement to last _too_ long."
I hardly knew whether I most wanted to laugh or cry over that letter.
All I did know was that nothing would induce me to stay with Diana and
Sidney Vandyke. I would even rather be married, if worst came to worst;
but though Tony and I were playing at being engaged, the thought of
actually marrying him was like jumping over a precipice. I wasn't ready
for the precipice yet, and must avoid it if I could.
I folded up the letter and kept its news and its suggestions to myself.
I sympathized with Milly; and hoped that, after all, even if Russia and
Austria and Servia and Germany flew in each others' faces, it might be
possible for England and France and Italy to keep the peace. Di was
always inclined to exaggerate, and probably she was glad of any excuse
by this time to put an end to a motoring _tête-à-tête_ with Sidney.
I went to bed and tried to believe that I had had a bad dream, but next
morning I was still dreaming it. The papers told us how the Stock
Exchange in London had closed, which seemed like hearing that England
had suddenly gone under the sea. Belgrade was being bombarded. The
Germans as well as Russians were mobilizing furiously. King George had
telegraphed to the Czar, but before his message had time to reach
Petrograd, the Kaiser had declared war on Russia. Belgium had begun
mobilizing too, and only just in time. Trains were wanted for the
soldiers. Frightened tourists clamoured in vain to get away. Even those
who had automobiles could hardly move along the roads, and many
chauffeurs were called to their colours. Ours was French, and went off
at a moment's notice, with just time for a polite "_Adieu, peut-être
pour toujours._" Tony hated everything mechanical except rifles and
revolvers, and had never learned to drive a car; Belgian chauffeurs had
something better to do than help travellers out of trouble; so there we
were!
It seemed only another phase of the dream from which we could not wake,
when glittering hordes of German cavalry, the Kaiser's beloved uhlans,
were said to be clanking over the frontier to violate the neutrality of
Belgium, and we heard that Great Britain had declared war on Germany. I
would have given anything to be back in England then, not because I was
afraid of what might happen in Belgium, but because my blood was hot
with pride of my country, and I wanted to be there to see the spirit of
the people rise. There was little time to think, however, for Liége was
seething with excitement. Fugitives began to pour into the town, with
children and bundles in queer little carts drawn by dogs. Soldiers bade
their families good-bye in the streets, and marched or rode off in
clouds of dust. Wounded men were brought from the frontier, and an annex
of our old-fashioned, dormer-windowed hotel was hastily turned into a
hospital. Red Cross nurses appeared from somewhere, and several women
among the penned-up tourists volunteered to help. Mrs. Dalziel could do
nothing, because she had collapsed with fear, and was sure that she was
in for nervous prostration. Milly had her mother to care for; but I was
free, and thanks to my work in Ballyconal, I knew something about first
aid. Ever since I met Eagle and he had given me the old cadet chevron,
which I carried with me everywhere, I had grown more and more keen on
learning to do what I could for others, and war talk in Texas had
prompted me to buy books on nursing.
I mentioned this as a personal recommendation; the real nurses smiled.
But they accepted my services as a probationer, strong and willing, and
glad to do what she was told, even to scrub floors with disinfectant
fluid.
"You'll spoil you hands," said Milly.
I laughed.
Almost at once after this began the bombardment of the forts at Liége;
and all day long and most of the night we were deafened with the boom of
great guns across the river. It was a relief to be allowed to watch
through the dark hours beside soldiers whose wounds were not serious
enough to need expert care that I could not give. Even if I had been in
bed I should not have slept. I felt as if my brain were part of the
battlefield where armies marched and fought. My heartbeats were the
drums. We grew used to the firing of cannon. It seemed a part of
everyday life. It was hard to remember after the first that each "boom!"
meant lives ended in violence. Perhaps if we had remembered we should
have gone mad.
Suddenly, on the third day, just at dawn, came a new sound, a great
whirring like a thousand racing automobiles, and then two loud
explosions, one after the other, different from the roar of cannon or
the shots from the field guns that night at El Paso. The whole building
shook as if it must fall, and wounded men who had slept restlessly
through the thunder from the forts waked with a wild start. My charge, a
Belgian boy of nineteen whose arms had been amputated, shivered and then
relapsed into stoical calm as the house ceased to shake. "Zeppelin," he
said, in a quiet voice. "They have dropped bombs."
It seemed that two must have fallen and burst close by, the noise had
been so ear-shattering. Up from the street below our windows came a
clamour of voices, shrill and sharp, which cut through the constant
whirr of the giant motor. Near the head of the bed was an open window,
and mechanically, rather than of my own free will, I leaned far out, as
some of the professional nurses were leaning from other windows.
"You might get a bomb on your head," said my soldier, in his tired
voice. But I did not draw back. I was surprised to find that I was not
afraid. It seemed just then ridiculous, puny, to care about one's self.
I was awe-struck rather than terrified, realizing with a solemnity I had
never known that the next minute might be the last on earth for all of
us in that dimly lit room of narrow beds.
The sky was faintly gray with coming dawn. I looked up, up into the pale
dome, seeking with my eyes the great bird of evil that had laid its eggs
of death. There it was, immensely high above the black, shadowy roofs
and steeples of the hill and plain; a sinister shape, like all the
German sausages in the world rolled into one; and hanging from it cars
full of men reduced to the size of beetles by that great height.
The thing was almost directly overhead as I looked up, and it seemed
that if it dropped a parting bomb as it sailed our poor little hospital
must be struck. Yet I continued to stare, fascinated. Life and death
were twin brother and sister, equally terrible and splendid.
"I wish I could have seen Eagle just once again," I heard myself
thinking, as one hears the ticking of a watch under a pillow. But I felt
a strange, throbbing eagerness to know quickly the great secret of what
comes next after this world, with its seeming muddle of injustice and
disappointment, its joys and broken aspirations. "Why! it was like this
with me when we had our accident in the _Golden Eagle_!" I thought. And
even as the remembrance flitted ghostlike through my brain, I saw
tearing through the sky, far above the big bulk of the Zeppelin, a
monoplane etched in black against the light of dawn.
I could hardly believe that it was really there. It must be an image
called up by memory of that long-past moment, some strange illusion of
an exalted mind: but the image persisted. Like a hawk it swept along the
sky, coming from a direction opposite to that of the Zeppelin, as if to
swoop upon it from above. I thought I heard shots. The great dirigible
turned and sailed faster. I felt as if I were all eyes and pounding
heart. Could the sight be real, this duel in the sky? Perhaps others
watched it with me--I do not know. It seemed that I was alone on earth
gazing at the incredible battle.
The Zeppelin made off, away from the town toward the fortifications, but
the monoplane kept above it, despite the shots which spattered futilely.
Just as the dirigible passed over the bridge, which hadn't yet been
blown up, looking enormous, for it hung lower now, the monoplane--tiny
in comparison--dived full upon it. With an explosion of gas from the
huge cigar-shaped balloon, the dirigible dropped earthward, its bird
enemy seeming to fall with it.
I gave a cry and covered my eyes with both hands.
* * * * *
I felt that I had been broken, crumpled up like a singed moth, burnt by
the vivid flame of that awful sight. But arms caught me from behind, as
I would have sunk to the floor with the roar of another explosion in my
ears, each brick of the house quivering on another. A kind Belgian voice
was soothing me: "_Pauvre enfant!_" and hands, strong, though womanly,
would have pulled me away from the window to lay me down on some
unoccupied bunk, if I had not struggled to keep my place. "No--no!" I
stammered. "I'm not going to faint. I must see! I must!" And shaking off
the nurse's protecting arms, I stared out toward an open space away from
the town, where a vast mass of wreckage blazed, turning the gray dawn
red.