In the days to come the historian will find fruitful scope for a work
on faith, as shown in the Great War. And among the "Angels of Mons" and
other celestial visitants I hope he will find a niche for the "Child of
Terbeeke."
I came across the story--and the child himself, for that matter--when
I was billeted with my battalion at Durdegem. Durdegem is as ugly a
little Walloon village as you need look for, but, internationally
speaking, it is as interesting as ugly. It stands on French soil; you
could almost throw a tin of bully-beef, if you were so unpatriotically
wasteful, into Belgium; what is, for all practical purposes,
temporarily Germany is not more than three miles away; yet English
is almost the only language you will hear in the streets. Even the
children, those who are left of them, speak English; they say "Na
poo" or "No bon," and sometimes, it is to be feared, a swearword, as
patly as a bombardier. This is really less surprising than that there
should be any children at all, with the German lines so close; but
things have been comparatively quiet thereabouts for months past,
and though some of the houses are still ruinous and others have had
their windows blocked with sandbags so long that already the grass is
beginning to grow upon them, the inhabitants have settled down to the
not unprofitable task of selling comforts to the British soldiers who
are always passing and repassing.
I was billeted upon Madame Tavernier, who owned the Blanchisserie du
Cygne and was rapidly making her fortune out of the laundry bills she
rendered to British officers, who are notoriously millionaires and well
able to pay for the privilege of defending Northern France. With Madame
Tavernier there was also staying--while other arrangements were being
made for him--Hippolyte, otherwise famous as the Child of Terbeeke.
Hippolyte was not yet six, but already he could say "Slee-o-pums" and
"Stunt-ease" and "Fum-fers" so plainly that any drill-sergeant would
have wept with pride to hear him. Also he wore the full uniform of a
British sergeant-major, with puttees and a walking-stick and the badge
of a famous Line regiment, all specially made and presented to him
for his very own. Also, although he was temporarily the paying-guest
of Madame Tavernier and allowed himself to be petted by a whole
serial-story of British officers, he had a service-battalion to act
as his father and to fight for him any battles he might wish fought.
It is to be feared that a precocious understanding of these facts had
made him rather conceited, and I do not think I should have liked him
very much had I remained with Madame Tavernier longer than three days.
Anyhow, this was his story, as related to me by that excellent lady and
vouched for by a cloud of witnesses.
Hippolyte came from Terbeeke, which is in the south of flat Flanders.
Madame declared that he was the son of a professor at Louvain
University, and added that the professor quarrelled with his wife soon
after the birth of Hippolyte, and that the wife thereupon returned to
her native village.
Hippolyte, therefore, at a very early age indeed, went to live at
Terbeeke. Terbeeke, I understand--for I was never there--lies just at
the southward edge of the Flemish flats. Northwards the country is as
flat as a drawing-board, criss-crossed with dykes and little canals;
to the east is a wide State forest, and to the south a range of low
hills. Between the little town and the hills lies what in pre-war days
was Terbeeke's one claim to fame--the Terbeeke mere or marsh, forming
a crescent to the south and west. I do not know how broad or wide it
is, but it has been famous for centuries as bottomless, and a whole
cycle of legend has grown up round it, dealing with the notabilities of
one kind or another who have been drowned in its brown, oozy depths.
Perhaps because of this evil fame it has never been drained, and is
to-day as darkly ominous as in the times of fairies and lubber-fiends.
The mother of Hippolyte lived in a small and lonely house at the other
side of the marsh from the town of Terbeeke. She must have possessed
some private means, for she seems to have carried on no business of any
kind, but to have devoted most of her time to religion, crossing the
marsh-arm several times daily to the parish church, which stood in the
centre of the town. Otherwise her days were passed in solitude, for she
lived quite alone with the child, their only companion being a large
dog. She passed the time not taken up by religion in wandering about
the marsh, for she had few friends, and the people of Terbeeke often
saw the three moving about the surface of the quagmire in places where
there was no known track.