Conventionality dies an easy death in time of war. Erezée is new to me,
but in less than half an hour I have talked to more people than I do
in England in a twelve-month. They all have the same tale to tell of
sleepless nights, of ever-present horror at what may be at any moment.
But so far they have been spared atrocities.
There is a sudden scuttle of every able-bodied person in the direction
of the post office. The long-awaited post is in. An enterprising
postman, “_en vélo_,” who has rushed them through is congratulated on
every side. A crowd surges round the open window, stretching out eager
hands to the clerks who are swiftly sorting the numerous piles of
letters. The counter has long been appropriated by wrinkled peasants
whose one anxiety is for news of the husbands and brothers who are so
gallantly fighting for their rights at Liège.
Someone tears off a wrapper. The thin broad sheets of a Brussels
evening paper flutter in the breeze. Old men and women, young boys
and girls gather round the owner with uplifted, expectant faces.
Some do not know how to read, others have their eyes too full of
tears. Besides, good news is so much more convincing when read aloud.
The audience listens entranced. The gallantry of these Belgian
troops—peasants like themselves—their valour is almost past belief!
The work-worn, tired, rough-hewn faces turn to meet each other
transfigured into beauty by their mutual look of pride....
We cannot, dare not wait to hear it all. The Uhlans may be here at any
moment. I climb into the high dog-cart. The _dépêches_ are put under
the seat, even under my feet. I sit on a heap of them.... So does my
companion. They are for Vaux Chavannes, Grand-Mesnil, all the little
villages around, extending to Aywaille, twenty kilomètres away.
Carefully masking every sign of paper with a thick blue rug, we start
off on the homeward journey. Not without tremors, for if we fall into
the Uhlan hands anything may happen.
When we pass the last of the little cottages, and the last watching
peasant has waved us farewell, I begin to fear.
Six solid miles of thick woods stretch before us rolling down to
the roadside on either hand. Here it was they caught the _facteur_
yesterday. I suddenly loathe the sight of those green, feathery
branches; they may cover up so much.
I glance at M. A——. His round happy face is rounder and happier than
usual. He is even lighting a cigarette, though he finds it difficult,
as he is trying to hold the reins and watch the horse and the woods at
the same time.
Never have I seen an Ardennois without a pipe or cigarette in his
mouth. I think a true son of the soil would start to light one with the
death-rattle in his throat!
I imagine a dreaded Prussian behind every tree-trunk and under every
bush for some miles. Then I clear my throat and ask mildly as we jog
along (it would look suspicious to increase our pace):
“Supposing, just supposing we _did_ happen to run across any Germans,
and they _did_ threaten to shoot us unless we delivered up the letters,
which would you do?”
“Deliver up the letters, of course,” he says matter-of-factly, puffing
at his cigarette.
I breathe a sigh of relief. After all, a whole skin is a more precious
possession than much fine writing!
Providence watches over us again. As we near the beautiful avenue of
fir trees which connects the Bomale road with Manhay, a peasant scout
rushes out to warn us that Uhlans are ahead. We have just time to
escape into a little lane.
More peasants come running up presently to tell us the road is clear.
There is always the danger of being covered by field-glasses from
some wooded hill, with its sequence of surprise attack, so we jog
slowly along and drive into the yard instead of drawing up at the post
office. Three minutes later a company of Hussars passes through without
drawing rein. They are in high good humour, chattering, laughing, quite
unsuspicious that the peasants they despise have been quick-witted
enough to get the mails through under their very eyes!
Willing men are posted at intervals round the street and even in the
fields to prevent an attack. M. le Précepteur saunters over from the
post office and sets to work sorting letters in the back kitchen. It is
safer there....
The dining-room blinds are drawn down, and we all collect by the little
French window leading into the yard. The papers are taken round, and
unfolded. An enormous headline sweeps the page from end to end: