THE REFUGEES
Father Sheehan, opening the door of the class-room, stood back for
me to enter. I did, and then fell back in surprise, for the little
class-room was almost filled with French civilians and piles of
bedding. The seven or eight little children looked wide-eyed at me,
but they smiled brightly when they saw Father Sheehan. The older
people greeted me simply, as is the way of the French peasant with the
stranger.
They were refugees from Dainville and were stopping at the convent over
night. Tomorrow, Good Friday, they were to continue their sorrowful
journey. They were mostly women, though there was one old man among
them who did most of the talking. He seemed somewhat apologetic as to
his position. “Do you think,” he said to me, “that if it were not for
these women and children I would be here? I, sir, would stay to meet
the enemy. In 1870 I was a soldier in the army of France, and I was a
prisoner of war, but now I must look after these women and children.”
I expressed my sympathy with the old soldier and asked him a few
questions about the Franco-Prussian war of 1870. When I had finished,
he looked at me keenly. “You, monsieur, you are an Englishman?”
“No,” I answered, “I am a Canadian, chaplain to the Canadian soldiers.”
The keen look in the old man’s eyes became more intense as they
searched my face. “Ah!” he said with a slow intake of breath. “Ah!”
he repeated. Then he stood erect. “The soldiers of Canada are good
soldiers,” he half-shouted.
As I bowed my appreciation of his praise, he turned and spoke to the
women, but his words were uttered so rapidly that I could not catch
their sense.
Presently he turned to me again, and there was a bright, hopeful look
in his eyes. “Are the Canadians going to remain here?” he asked. I said
I thought we were, for we had come to stop the German advance. I did
not add “if we are able,” for I wished to give him courage. “Ah!” the
old man said again.
The next morning as I came down to the convent to breakfast I met a
great number of refugees, only this time instead of leaving their homes
they were returning to them. Almost in the lead of the procession,
pushing a wheel-barrow stacked high with bedding came the old man that
I had talked with the previous evening. He greeted me warmly, as did
the women; the little children smiled.
“We are returning home,” the old man said. “I don’t think the enemy
will advance any farther now.”
As I left him and his companions and turned in towards the gates of the
convent, I felt a great gladness coming over me. Yesterday these poor
people were going out from their homes; but since then the Canadian
lads had come and now were lined up between the homes of these French
peasants and the enemy. These people knew the Canadian soldiers, so
they were going back to their homes.
I felt proud of my Canadian lads.