DRIVING EXTRAORDINARY
The task of arranging that party in the waggonette was anything but
easy.
The old Liège professor, in his sombre black, sat on the back seat,
while in front sat an equally enormous old banker from Brussels, also in
black, and those two huge men seemed to stick up out of the carriage
like vast black pillars.
They moved their seats afterwards, but it did not make any difference.
Wherever they sat, they stuck up like huge black pillars, calling
attention to us in what seemed to me a distinctly undesirable way.
Two horses we had for our long drive to Brussels, and uncommonly bony
horses they were.
Our carriage was a species of long-drawn-out victoria.
It had an extra seat behind, with its back to the horses, a horrid,
tilting little seat, as I soon discovered, for it was there that I found
myself sitting, with Jean beside me, as we started off through the
golden Saturday morning.
Jean and I had each to curl an arm round the back of the seat; otherwise
we should have been tipped out; for a tremendously steep white
hill-road, lined with poplars, began to rise before us, and we were in
constant danger of falling forward on our noses.
But the only thing I cared about by then, was to sit next to Jean.
He seemed to be my only safeguard, my only hope of getting through this
risky adventure.
And in low voices we discussed what I should do, if we did indeed meet
the enemy, a contingency which began to grow more and more probable
every moment.
All sorts of schemes were discussed between us, sitting there at the
back of that jolting carriage.
But it was quite evident to both, that, though we might make up a
plausible story as to why I was going to Brussels, although I might call
myself an American, or an Italian, or a Spaniard (seeing that I could
speak those languages well enough to deceive the Germans, and seeing
also that I had the letter to the Spanish minister in my bag from the
Vice-Consul at Antwerp), still, neither I nor Jean could do the one
thing necessary; we could not produce any papers of mine that would
satisfy the Germans if I fell into their hands.
"But we're not going to meet them!" said Jean.
He lit a cigarette.
"You had better give me all your papers," he added airily.
"What will you do with them?"
He smoked and thought.
"If we meet the Germans, I'll throw them away somewhere."
"But how on earth shall I ever get them again? And suppose the Germans
see you throwing them away."
I did not like the phrase, "throw them away."
It seemed like taking from me the most precious thing in the world, the
one thing that I had firmly determined never to part with--my passport!
But I now discovered that Jean had a thoughtful mood upon him, and did
not want to talk. He wanted to think. He told me so.
He said, "It is necessary that I think out many little things now!
Pardon!"
And he tapped his brow.
So I left him to it!
Along the white sun-bathed road, as we drove, we met a continual
procession of carts, waggons, fiacres, and vehicles of all shapes,
kinds, and descriptions, full of peasants or bourgeoisie, all travelling
in the direction of Ghent. Every now and then a private motor car would
flash past us, flying the red, white and blue flag of Holland, or the
Stars and Stripes of America. They had an almost impudent insouciance
with them, those lucky neutral motor cars, as they rushed along the
sunny Brabant road to Brussels, joyously confident that there would be
no trouble for them if they met the Germans!
How I envied them! How I longed to be able by some magic to prove myself
American or Dutch!
Every ten minutes or so we used to shout to people on the road, coming
from the opposite direction.
"_Il y a des Allemands?_" or
"_Il y a de danger?_"
The answer would come back:
"_Pas des Allemands!_" or
"_Oui, les Allemands sont là_," pointing to the right. Or
"_Les Allemands sont là_," pointing to the left.
I would feel horribly uncomfortable then.
Although apparently I was not frightened in the least, there was one
thing that undeceived me about myself.
I had lost the power to think as clearly as usual.
I found that my brain refused to consider what I should do if the worst
came to the worst. Whenever I got to that point my thoughts jibbed.
Vagueness seized upon me.
I only knew that I was in for it now: that I was seated there in that
old rickety carriage; that I was well inside the German lines; and that
it was too late to turn back.
In a way it was a relief to feel incapable of dealing with the
situation, because it set my mind free to observe the exquisite beauty
of the country we were travelling through, and the golden sweetness of
that never-to-be-forgotten September day.
Up and up that long steep white hill our carriage climbed, with rows of
wonderful high poplars waving in the breeze on either side of us, and
gracious grey Belgian châteaux shewing their beautiful lines through
vistas of flower-filled gardens, and green undulating woods, of such
richness, and fertility, and calm happy opulence, that the sound of the
cannon growing ever louder across the valleys almost lost its meaning in
such a fair enchanted country. But the breeze blew round us, a soft and
gentle breeze, laden with the scent of flowers and green things. Red
pears of great size and mellowness hung on the orchard trees. The purple
cabbage that the Brabant peasants cultivate made bright spots along the
ground. In the villages, at the doors of the little white cottages I saw
old wrinkled Belgian women sitting. Little fair-haired, blue-eyed
children, with peculiarly small, sweet faces, stood looking up and down
the long roads with an expression that often brought the tears to my
eyes as I realised the fears that those poor little baby hearts must be
filled with in those desperate days.
And yet the prevailing note of the people we met along that road was
still gaiety, rather than sadness or terror.
"_Il y a des Allemands?_"
"_Il y a de danger?_"
We went on perpetually with our questions, and the answers would come
back laughingly with shakings of the head.
"No! Not met any Germans!" or:
"They are fighting round Ninove. We've been making détours all the
morning to try and get out of their way!"
And now the road was so steep, that Jean and I jumped down from our
sloping seat at the back and walked up the hill to save the bony horses.
Every now and then, we would pause to look back at that wide dreamlike
view, which grew more and more magnificent the higher we ascended, until
at last fair Brabant lay stretched out behind us, bathed in a glittering
sunlight that had in it, that day, some exquisitely poignant quality as
though it were more golden than gold, just because, across that great
plain to the left, the fierce detonations of heavy artillery told of the
terrific struggles that were going on there for life and death.
Presently we met a couple of black-robed Belgian priests walking down
the hill, and mopping their pale faces under their black felt hats.
"The Germans are all over the place to-day," they told us. "And
yesterday they arrested a train-full of people between Enghien and Hall.
They suspected them of carrying letters into Brussels. So they cut the
train lines last night, and marched the people off to be searched. The
young men have been sent into Germany to-day. Or so rumour says. That
may or may not be true. But anyway it is quite true that the train-load
of passengers was arrested wholesale, and that every single one of them
was searched, and those who were found carrying letters were taken
prisoners. Perhaps to be shot."
"_C'est ça!_" said Jean coolly.
We bade the priests good-bye, and trudged on.
Jean presently under his breath, said:
"I've got a hundred letters in, my pockets. I'm taking them from Antwerp
people into Brussels. I suppose I shall have to leave them somewhere!"
He smiled, his queer high-up smile, showing all his white teeth, and I
felt sure that he was planning something, I felt certain he was not
going to be baulked.
At the top of the hill we got into our trap again, and off we started,
travelling at a great rate.
We dashed along, and vehicles dashed past us in the opposite direction,
and I had the feeling that I was going for a picnic, so bright was the
day, so beautiful the surroundings, so quick the movements along the
road.
"At Enghien," said Jean, turning round and addressing the other people
in the carriage (by now they had all made friends with each other, and
were chattering nineteen to the dozen), "at Enghien we shall get lunch!"
"But there is nowhere that one finds lunch at Enghien," protested the
fat Brussels banker.
"I promise you as good a lunch as ever you have eaten, and good wine to
wash it down!" was Jean's reply.
At last we arrived at Enghien, and found ourselves in a little brown
straggling picturesque village on a hillside, full of peasants, who
were gathered in a dense crowd in the "grand place," which was here the
village common.
They had come in out of the fields, these peasants, stained with mud and
all the discolourations of the soil. Their innocent faces spoke of the
calm sweet things of nature. But mixed with the innocence was a great
wonder and bewilderment now.
All this time, ever since we left Ghent, we had never seen a Belgian
_militaire_.
That of itself told its own story of how completely we were outside the
last chance of Belgian protection.--outside _la dernière ligne_.