THE EXODUS TO ENGLAND.
All the Sisters who had arrived at Antwerp met in conference several
times during the week; but no final course of action could be decided
upon, owing to the danger and uncertainty which, like dark, ominous
clouds, cast a pall over the city and presaged disaster.
One afternoon two of us called on His Eminence, Cardinal Mercier,
Archbishop of Mechelen, who, since the bombardment of his city and the
destruction of his residence, had remained at times in rooms near the
Cathedral of Antwerp. His stately countenance was calm and peaceful,
notwithstanding the trials and overwhelming sorrows he had endured. We
could hardly control our feelings when the fatherly hand of this good
and faithful shepherd was raised to bless us for the journey and
undertakings we had in view.
On Saturday, October 10, we met in conference for the last time in the
Jesuit rooms in Antwerp. Our Sisters had no idea of leaving the city at
that time. The last advice of our Reverend Director before leaving was
“Observe well the regulations, be ever true to God and duty, and let no
day pass without doing some good work.” He is dead now, having
peacefully passed away on the night of December 24, 1914, shortly after
returning to his former residence in Willebroeck. Although an invalid
for years, he was an example of perfect zeal and accuracy in the
performance of every duty. He was noted as an author of hymns and poems,
and left many important works on Church and Bible history.
Requiescat in pace (rest in peace).
Having parted with our Sisters on the street in front of the church, in
company with Miss Broelinckx, I went at once to the docks of Antwerp to
make arrangements for crossing over to England. About noon on that day a
flag was hoisted on the lofty spire of one of the great churches,
denoting “Antwerp in danger.” In a short time the whole city was
panic-stricken. People carrying large and small bundles were seen
hurrying through the streets. At noon the signal was removed and
confidence restored. At the docks we found that the last passenger boat
was just ready to leave on her final trip and could accommodate no more,
being then full to overflowing.
Three different times we returned to the docks, but found no means of
departure. Even the small merchant boats were overloaded. Finally, on
Monday, October 12, I found a place on a small boat, which seemed fit
for sailing on an ordinary creek. There were about sixty or seventy
refugees on board. I then bade farewell to the beautiful plains of
Belgium, to the Sisters and acquaintances in whose company we had passed
so many happy and peaceful years; farewell to the Convent home, where we
had learned the one true way to that perfect peace, which neither the
storms of time nor the adverse fortunes of war can destroy; farewell to
those dear little pupils who daily attended school, the remembrance of
whose cheerful, innocent faces inspirit the days of exile, as does the
cool, fresh fountain, the weary, way-worn traveler.
Could this parting be final? No! a thousand times no! We shall meet
again when these trials are over. The Belgians are a courageous people.
Their country will rise from its grave of ashes; her exiled children
will return; her cities will stand up from their ruins and flourish as
they have never done before, and when Kings and Kaisers have become a
memory, Sisters will be found at the bedside of the dying, and in the
schools to teach the little children, and offer refuge to virtue and
innocence within the Convent walls.
We took our places on the deck of this little boat at one o’clock. The
deck was not covered in any manner, and there were seats for about half
of the number of passengers; but we crowded together as best we could,
with a certain feeling of security, for we all knew that within a few
hours we would be safely out of reach of those terrible bombs and
shrapnel, and we had a firm belief that our friends in Antwerp would
also succeed in finding a place of safety.
We had just left the docks bound for Flushing, Holland, when the rain
began to fall in torrents and a heavy wind came up. We huddled together
under the few umbrellas and tried to have patience with our steamboat
and the weather. One young lady, in the act of looking around, had the
unspeakable chagrin of seeing her umbrella snatched out of her hand by
the wind and carried away down the tide. A large ship at some distance,
seeing the strange-looking object on the wave, rapidly approached,
lowered a boat, and immediately the umbrella was taken on board.
About three o’clock we were out at sea. There was no land to be seen.
The wind grew stronger every moment, and our little boat rose and fell,
pitched and rolled, in a most alarming manner. Being on the open deck,
in the piercing cold wind, kept most of us from an attack of
seasickness. Some of the Belgian women, who had never been at sea
before, were nearly frantic with terror, and no wonder, for it was
certainly a heavy sea for such a small boat. How delighted we were when
the lights of Flushing, like so many stars reflected in the sea, began
to gleam in the distance. When we entered the harbor the wind ceased and
the waves settled down into a calm, dark, lakey surface.
Unfortunately, we had no opportunity of seeing much of this noted summer
resort, as it was quite dark when we left our little boat and stepped
into a large, pretty looking Mall boat, which carried passengers to and
from England.
After supper in the neatly furnished dining-room, we retired to our
cabin. We considered ourselves at a safe distance from the firing line,
and anticipated a good night’s rest. In this we were sadly disappointed.
Scarcely had we closed our cabin door, when the ship’s crew began to
load the boat with her cargo, and the unendurable noise continued all
night long. One old lady, who had suffered greatly in coming over from
Antwerp, began to scold at everybody and everything, then laughed
heartily, turned over in her berth and tried to rest.
Morning dawned, at last. The rain had ceased and the sun was shining
brightly. We expected a pleasant voyage over to Folkstone, England.
Again we were disappointed. Fearing the mines which might have been
encountered on the usual course, our boat had to take another route.
Instead of a pleasant trip of three or four hours, we had a voyage of
nine hours. On this occasion there was no chance to escape the
seasickness. The sea was rougher here than in some places on the
Atlantic ocean. Heavy waves dashed against our little boat and caused
her to roll and pitch terribly, while a cold, penetrating wind swept the
deck like a hurricane.
Some of us became so greatly indisposed that we were advised to go on
deck. We did so and stood grasping the railing for an hour or two.
Everyone was ill. While on deck we sighted something projecting from the
sea, but could not clearly distinguish the outline. It proved to be a
submarine; at any rate, we were told that it was; but our boat managed
to keep at a safe distance and hastened forth unmolested.
A short time afterward we were signalled by a warship. All action in our
boat ceased. The warship drew near and was soon alongside of the
Mallboat. An officer came on board to ask if there were soldiers among
the passengers. Having received a negative answer, greetings were
exchanged and the warship departed, greatly to the satisfaction of all
on board. Having lost about half an hour, our steamer forged ahead again
at full speed.
About three o’clock, benumbed with cold and indisposed, we staggered to
the gangway and were assisted downstairs, where we tried to rest for a
time. About five o’clock in the evening the hills and rugged banks of
England made their appearance. At six o’clock we entered the harbor of
Folkstone. Everyone was obliged to show his or her passport and undergo
the doctor’s examination. This occupied just an hour. Happy to again set
foot on “terra firma,” we hastened to the train, which stood waiting to
take us to London, a ride of two or three hours. In the meantime
darkness had closed in and we saw nothing outside of our compartment
until after nine o’clock, as we approached the suburbs of London.
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