Stranded in Brussels
It was late in the day when Kenneth and Rollo having partaken of a
plain but satisfying meal on the way, arrived in Belgium's capital.
The streets were crowded with refugees from the war-inundated
districts. Throngs of pale-faced women and children, for the most part
unnaturally apathetic, stood in mute despair around the country carts
piled high with their belongings. Many of them had seen their houses
torn by shot and shell, their neighbours slain by the German guns.
Rendered homeless, they had fled to Brussels; their villages might be
overrun and occupied by the invaders, but the capital--never! The
Allies would never permit that.
Old men related the tales of their grandsires, how, almost a hundred
years ago, England saved Brussels from the invader. History would,
they felt convinced, repeat itself. So in their thousands the refugees
poured into the already congested streets of the city.
Kenneth and his companion were indeed fortunate in securing the room
they had occupied during their previous stay in the Belgian capital.
Quickly divesting themselves of the civilian garb that they had managed
to procure, they threw themselves into bed and slept like logs until
nine the next morning.
When Rollo attempted to rise he found that his ankle had swollen to
such an extent that it was almost a matter of impossibility to set foot
to ground. The excitement and continual movement of the previous day
had tended to make him forget the injury, but once his boot was removed
and the limb allowed to rest, inflammation and consequent enlargement
of the joint were the result.
"Take it easy, old man," suggested Kenneth. "When we've had breakfast
I'll saunter out and see how things are progressing. Let me see,
what's the programme? New uniforms; money--we have about ten centimes
between the pair of us. It's lucky the pater placed that fifty pounds
to my credit in the bank. The trouble is, how am I to prove my
identity? Then there's Thelma. Perhaps Major Resimont's family has
returned to the Rue de la Tribune, so I'll find out. I'll be gone some
little time, old man."
"I don't mind," replied Rollo. "Before you go, you might get hold of a
paper."
The cost of their simple breakfast was an "eye-opener". Already famine
prices were being asked in the overcrowded city. Somewhat shamefacedly
Kenneth had to explain the reason for his pecuniary embarrassment; but
to his surprise the short, podgy woman who corresponded to the British
landlady expressed her willingness to wait until messieurs les Anglais
were accommodated.
"Perhaps, although I trust not, I may have to entertain Prussians," she
added. "Then I know it is hopeless to expect payment."
Having had breakfast, Kenneth went out. He had put on an overcoat,
lent by his obliging hostess, in order to conceal the nondescript
garments he had obtained as civilian clothes.
The crowded streets were strangely quiet. Beyond the occasional crying
of a child or the barking of some of the numerous dogs, there was
little sound from the listless throng.
When Kenneth was last in Brussels the people were vociferously
discussing the situation, especially the momentarily expected arrival
of the British Expeditionary Force. Now hope seemed dead. No longer
was there any talk of foreign aid. People began to accept as a matter
of course the fact that their city would be handed over to the Germans
without opposition. Already the seat of government had been removed to
Antwerp. The Civil Guards, who had at first commenced to erect
barricades on the roads approaching from the eastward, had been ordered
to remove the obstructions and to disarm themselves. In order to spare
their city from sack and destruction, the Bruxellois had decided to
admit the Huns without opposition.
Before Kenneth had gone very far his progress was barred by a vast
concourse of people. Civil Guards were forcing a way through the
throng, to allow the passing of a Red Cross convoy. There were thirty
wagons, all filled to their utmost capacity, for the most part with
mangled specimens of humanity. For every soldier wounded by a
rifle-bullet there were, roughly, twenty-nine maimed by shell-fire.
Another battle had just taken place, with the now usual result. The
Belgians, utterly outnumbered and outranged, had been compelled to fall
back in spite of a determined and vigorous defence. Of their army a
portion had retreated towards Ostend, while the greater part had
retired to the shelter of the vast and supposedly impregnable fortress
of Antwerp.
As soon as the convoy had passed, Kenneth hurried to the military
depot. He found the place locked up. Not a soldier was to be seen.
Enquiries brought the information that, regarding the fall of Brussels
as inevitable, the authorities had transferred practically the whole of
the military stores to Antwerp and Bruges.
"You want a uniform?" repeated the old citizen to whom Kenneth had
announced his requirements. "Ma foi! Your only chance, unless you get
a discarded uniform from the hospital (and there, alas! there are
many), is to follow the army to Antwerp. But you are not a Belgian?"
"No, English," replied Kenneth. "And I must remain in Brussels for a
few days."
"Then, mon garcon, put the idea of a uniform out of your head whilst
you are here. Otherwise, when the Bosches arrive---- Ah, mon Dieu,
they are barbarians!"
"Perhaps the old chap is right," thought Kenneth as he resumed his way.
"I cannot desert Rollo, and if I were to be found in Belgian uniform it
would mean at least a trip across the Rhine and confinement in a
barbed-wire compound till the end of the war. Now for the Credit
Belgique."
Upon arriving at the bank the lad had another setback. The premises
were closed; all the windows were heavily shuttered, whilst on the door
was a notice, printed in French and Flemish, to the effect that the
whole of the bullion and specie had been taken over by the Government,
and that the bonds had been sent to London for security until Belgium
was free from the invading German armies.
"Bang goes my fifty pounds!" thought Kenneth. "We'll have to exist on
our corporal's pay--one franc fifty centimes a week, if we can get it."
From the bank Kenneth made his way to the Rue de la Tribune. Here most
of the shops were shut and every other private house deserted. At the
house owned by the Resimont family there was no sign of occupation.
One of the windows on the ground floor had been broken. Through the
empty window-frame a curtain fluttered idly in the breeze. Already it
was frayed by the action of the wind. Obviously the damage had been
going on for some considerable time, without any attempt to prevent it.
Hoping against hope, Kenneth hammered at the knocker, but the door
remained unanswered.
From the doorway of a tobacconist's shop opposite, the portly,
well-groomed proprietor appeared. Raising a jewel-bedecked hand, he
beckoned to the shabby youth standing on the Resimonts' doorstep.
"Monsieur requires----?" he asked, raising his eyebrows to complete his
question.
"I wish to see Madame Resimont, monsieur."
"Madame set out soon after the war broke out. Whither I know not. But
Monsieur is not Belgian?"
"No, English," replied Kenneth promptly, at the same time wondering why
two people had asked that question that morning. It was a shock to his
self-confidence, for he was beginning to pride himself upon his perfect
French accent.
"You live in the city?"
"For a few days, monsieur."
"Good! Perchance I may hear news of madame. If you will let me have
your address, I will in that case let you know." Kenneth furnished the
desired information, and, having thanked the tobacconist, began to
retrace his steps. As he did so he glanced at the name over the shop.
In brass letters were the words "Au bon fumeur--Jules de la Paix ".
The worthy Jules did not wait until Kenneth was out of sight. Tripping
back into the shop, he grabbed an envelope from the counter and wrote
the name and address which he had obtained.
"English. Spy undoubtedly," he muttered gleefully. "In another two
days that will be worth much to me."
For Jules de la Paix was Belgian only as far as his assumed name went.
In reality he was a Prussian, a native of Charlottenburg, and a spy in
the pay of the German Government. For over twenty years he had been in
business as a tobacconist in the Rue de la Tribune, fostered by
Teutonic subsidies, waiting for the expected day when the Kaiser's
grey-clad legions were to strike at France through the supposedly
inviolate territory of Belgium.
"I'll call at the post office," decided Kenneth. "I don't suppose it
will be of any use, but on the off-chance there may be letters waiting
for Rollo or me. There's no harm in trying."
In blissful ignorance of the danger that overshadowed him, Kenneth made
his way through the crowd invading the post office. It was nearly
forty minutes before his turn came. In reply to his request, a
hopelessly overworked clerk went to a pigeonhole and removed a pile of
envelopes.
"Nothing, Monsieur Everest," he announced, after a perfunctory glance
at the various addresses. "Nor is there anything for Monsieur
Barrington."
"Hullo, Everest, old boy! What on earth are you doing here?" exclaimed
a voice in Kenneth's ear.
Turning, the lad found himself confronted by a tall, erect Englishman,
whose features were partly concealed by the turned-down brim of a soft
felt hat.
"I'm afraid I don't---- Why, it's Dacres!"
"Right, old boy! But you haven't answered my question. What are you
doing in Brussels at this lively moment?"
Dick Dacres was an old St. Cyprian's boy. He was Kenneth's senior by
several years, having left the Upper Sixth while young Everest was
still in the Third. Kenneth ought to have recognized him sooner, for
he had been Dacres's fag for one term.
"Let's get out of this crush," continued Dacres, grasping his old
schoolfellow by the arm. Once clear of the crowd he noticed for the
first time the lad's shabby clothes, but with inborn courtesy he
refrained from passing any remark that might cause any confusion on the
part of young Everest. "I'm out here on service; can't give you any
particulars. What are you doing here?"
"I'm with Barrington--you remember him? We're corporals of the 9th
Regiment of the Line--motor-cyclist section."
"Indeed! Where is Barrington?"
"In bed with a sprained ankle. Would you like to see him? It isn't
very far."
Dacres glanced at his watch.
"I should, only I can't stop very long. I have an appointment with
the----" He broke off suddenly.
"You're not in uniform, I see."
"No; we had to discard ours. I have been trying to get a fresh
equipment, but it seems hopeless in this place."
"Fire away and let's have your yarn," said Dacres encouragingly, as
they walked side by side along one of the fairly-unfrequented streets
running parallel with the Rue de la Tribune.
Before they reached the modest lodging Dacres had skilfully extracted
the main thread of his late college-chums' adventures.
"Then you're temporarily on the rocks," he observed.
"I didn't say so," expostulated Kenneth.
"My dear man, I know you didn't, but I can put two and two together.
It's a delicate subject, Everest, and I'm afraid I'm rather a blunt
sort of chap, so excuse me. You're on your beam-ends?"
"Unfortunately, yes," admitted Kenneth. "The pater sent a draft to the
Credit Belgique, but before I could draw on it the bank's been
transferred. But it will be all right soon, I expect."
"Very well then, until things get a bit straight, let me give you a
leg-up. Don't be uppish, old man. Remember we're Britons in a strange
land. Luckily I'm fairly flush."
So saying, Dacres produced his purse, and extracting five twenty-franc
pieces forced them into Kenneth's hand, abruptly checking the lad's
mingled protestations and thanks.
"Rollo, old man, I've brought someone to see you," announced his
comrade, as he opened the door of the room in which Rollo was lying in
bed.
"Hulloa, Barrington!"
"Hulloa, Dacres!"
That was the prosaic greeting, nothing more and nothing less; yet there
was a wealth of cordial surprise in the interchange of exclamations.
The time Dacres had at his disposal was only too short. He was, he
explained, a sub-lieutenant in one of the recently-raised naval
brigades, and had accompanied an officer of rank upon an important
mission to Belgium. More he was unable to say. He had already been to
Ostend, and was now about to proceed to Antwerp.
"We're returning home to-night," he concluded. "If you like to entrust
me with a letter, I'll see that it's posted safely the moment I set
foot ashore in England. If I've time I'll look your people up and let
them know you're doing your little bit. It all depends upon whether I
can get leave, but we are hard at it whipping recruits into shape."
"Awfully decent chap," commented Kenneth, when Dick Dacres had taken
his departure. "He would insist upon lending me a hundred francs.
Otherwise, old man, we would be on the rocks--absolutely. I've drawn
three blanks--no uniforms obtainable, no tidings of the Resimont
family, and no letters from home. I think we ought to hang on here a
little while until your ankle's fit. We may see the beastly Germans
marching through the city, for the burgomaster has gone, so I hear, to
obtain terms of capitulation."
"Where are the Belgian troops?"
"Mostly in Antwerp."
"Then if I were you, I'd make tracks for Antwerp while there's time."
"Are you fit, then?"
"I wasn't referring to myself. This ankle will keep me here some days
longer, I'm afraid. But you go, and if I have a ghost of a chance I'll
find you again within a week."
Kenneth shook his head.
"Can't be done," he declared. "I mean to stand by you till you're well
again. It would be interesting to watch how those Germans behave in
Brussels."
"It's risky," remarked Rollo.
"So is everything connected with this business, old man. Besides, we
are acting under the orders of Captain Doublebois, so that settles it."