September 8, 1914.
Oh, the things I have seen and felt since I last wrote to you over two
weeks ago. Here I am again cut off from the world, and have been since
the first of the month. For a week now I have known nothing of what was
going on in the world outside the limits of my own vision. For that
matter, since the Germans crossed the frontier our news of the war has
been meager. We got the calm, constant reiteration--"Left wing--held by
the English--forced to retreat a little." All the same, the general
impression was, that in spite of that, "all was well." I suppose it was
wise.
On Sunday week,--that was August 30,--Amelie walked to Esbly, and came
back with the news that they were rushing trains full of wounded
soldiers and Belgian refugies through toward Paris, and that the
ambulance there was quite insufficient for the work it had to do. So
Monday and Tuesday we drove down in the donkey cart to carry bread and
fruit, water and cigarettes, and to "lend a hand."
It was a pretty terrible sight. There were long trains of wounded
soldiers. There was train after train crowded with Belgians--well-dressed
women and children (evidently all in their Sunday best)--packed on to
open trucks, sitting on straw, in the burning sun, without shelter,
covered with dust, hungry and thirsty. The sight set me to doing
some hard thinking after I got home that first night. But it was
not until Tuesday afternoon that I got my first hint of the truth. That
afternoon, while I was standing on the platform, I heard a drum beat in
the street, and sent Amelie out to see what was going on. She came back
at once to say that it was the garde champetre calling on the
inhabitants to carry all their guns, revolvers, etc., to the mairie
before sundown. That meant the disarming of our departement, and it
flashed through my mind that the Germans must be nearer than the
official announcements had told us.
While I stood reflecting a moment,--it looked serious,--I saw
approaching from the west side of the track a procession of wagons.
Amelie ran down the track to the crossing to see what it meant, and came
back at once to tell me that they were evacuating the towns to the north
of us.
I handed the basket of fruit I was holding into a coach of the train
just pulling into the station, and threw my last package of cigarettes
after it; and, without a word, Amelie and I went out into the street,
untied the donkey, climbed into the wagon, and started for home.
By the time we got to the road which leads east to Montry, whence there
is a road over the hill to the south, it was full of the flying crowd.
It was a sad sight. The procession led in both directions as far as we
could see. There were huge wagons of grain; there were herds of cattle,
flocks of sheep; there were wagons full of household effects, with often
as many as twenty people sitting aloft; there were carriages; there were
automobiles with the occupants crowded in among bundles done up in
sheets; there were women pushing overloaded handcarts; there were women
pushing baby-carriages; there were dogs and cats, and goats; there was
every sort of a vehicle you ever saw, drawn by every sort of beast that
can draw, from dogs to oxen, from boys to donkeys. Here and there was
a man on horseback, riding along the line, trying to keep it moving in
order and to encourage the weary. Every one was calm and silent. There
was no talking, no complaining.
The whole road was, however, blocked, and, even had our donkey wished
to pass,--which she did not,--we could not. We simply fell into the
procession, as soon as we found a place. Amelie and I did not say a
word to each other until we reached the road that turns off to the
Chateau de Conde; but I did speak to a man on horseback, who proved to
be the intendant of one of the chateaux at Daumartin, and with another
who was the mayor. I simply asked from where these people had come, and
was told that they were evacuating Daumartin and all the towns on the
plain between there and Meaux, which meant that Monthyon, Neufmortier,
Penchard, Chauconin, Barcy, Chambry,--in fact, all the villages visible
from my garden were being evacuated by order of the military powers.
One of the most disquieting things about this was to see the effect of
the procession as it passed along the road. All the way from Esbly to
Montry people began to pack at once, and the speed with which they fell
into the procession was disconcerting.
When we finally escaped from the crowd into the poplar-shaded avenue
which leads to the Chateau de Conde, I turned to look at Amelie for the
first time. I had had time to get a good hold of myself.
"Well, Amelie?" I said.
"Oh, madame," she replied, "I shall stay."
"And so shall I," I answered; but I added, "I think I must make an
effort to get to Paris to-morrow, and I think you had better come with
me. I shall not go, of course, unless I am sure of being able to get
back. We may as well face the truth: if this means that Paris is in
danger, or if it means that we may in our turn be forced to move on, I
must get some money so as to be ready."
"Very well, madame," she replied as cheerfully as if the rumble of the
procession behind us were not still in our ears.
The next morning--that was September 2--I woke just before daylight.
There was a continual rumble in the air. At first I thought it was the
passing of more refugies on the road. I threw open my blinds, and then
realized that the noise was in the other direction--from the route
nationale. I listened. I said to myself, "If that is not artillery,
then I never heard any."
Sure enough, when Amelie came to get breakfast, she announced that the
English soldiers were at the Demi-Lune. The infantry was camped there,
and the artillery had descended to Couilly and was mounting the hill on
the other side of the Morin--between us and Paris.
I said a sort of "Hm," and told her to ask Pere to harness at once. As
we had no idea of the hours of the trains, or even if there were any, it
was best to get to Esbly as early as possible. It was nine o'clock when
we arrived, to find that there should be a train at half past. The
station was full. I hunted up the chef de gare, and asked him if I
could be sure of being able to return if I went up to Paris.
He looked at me in perfect amazement.
"You want to come back?" he asked.
"Sure," I replied.
"You can," he answered, "if you take a train about four o'clock. That
may be the last."