The quaint, old-world little town of Dinant, with its crooked cobbled
streets--the resort of painters and dreamers--lay in a narrow ravine on
both sides of the winding Meuse, connected by a long iron bridge. High
limestone cliffs towered above the town, crowned by a good-sized but
out-of-date citadel--a fort which dominated the whole country. Across
the river lay the railway station, and some modern hotels, while the
modern town was built upon the pleasant wooded slopes behind.
It was here that Edmond Valentin found himself with the Sixth Brigade.
Five days ago they had arrived, after a forced march under the hot sun,
from Gembloux, beyond Namur, and, having joined the French force which
had crossed the frontier between Sedan and Givet, they were occupying
the heights above the town. Indeed, from where Edmond stood on that
bright, sunny morning, he could look down upon the tiny little white
village of Anseremme, just beyond Dinant, the place where he had, on
that memorable day before the war, lunched with Aimee so happily on the
long rose-embowered _terrasse_ beside the river, now sparkling in the
sun.
Had the red tide of war yet reached high-up Severac, he wondered? It
was not far off--perhaps fifteen miles or so beyond those blue hills.
Daily--nay, hourly--he thought of her, wondering how she fared in those
hot, breathless days when Belgium was fighting so desperately for her
very existence as a nation.
The Sixth Brigade, under General Thalmann--the fine, grey-moustached,
well-set-up man, who had been so grossly calumnified by Rigaux for his
own crafty purposes--had been in the very thick of the fighting ever
since that day when they had so suddenly arrived in Liege and found
themselves in the firing-line. They had helped to repulse the German
cavalry at Haelen, and had then fought their way desperately up to
Tirlemont, to Gembloux, and back to the Meuse again. With scarce any
sleep they had been in touch with the enemy practically the whole time,
and were, indeed, "The Flying Column" of the Belgian army. Their losses
around Charleroi had been considerable, and though so weary, dusty, and
worn, not a man among them was dismayed. The spirit of the men was
admirable.
General Joffre had already held council with the Belgian
Commander-in-Chief, a council at which General Thalmann had been
present, and from information they had gathered it was well known that
the Germans intended to make an assault upon the town of Dinant, and
take the citadel as one of the important and strategic points on the
Meuse.
The peaceful inhabitants of the place--which, besides being a tourist
centre, possessed a thriving trade in beaten brass-ware, and the making
of those grotesquely-shaped cakes of honey and flour called _conques_,
two industries which had survived in the place ever since the Middle
Ages--were, of course, in ignorance, and the authorities did not deem it
expedient to express their fears, in order, if possible, to avoid panic.
Edmond knew that the French army, on its way up the Meuse Valley, must
have passed beneath the great old chateau of Severac. If so, Aimee must
have watched those long, interminable lines of red-trousered infantry,
trudging on with their piled-up haversacks, the squadrons of
heavily-booted cavalry, and the snake-like processions of lumbering
field-guns, motor transport wagons, and drab vans marked with the red
cross.
Away across those blue hills, in the direction of France, Aimee was
probably watching and waiting in patience. He longed to write to her,
to send her words of hope and courage. But it was all utterly
impossible. No letter could ever reach her now, unless he could find
means to deliver it himself.
There was fighting in progress behind them--fierce fighting at
Charleroi--for they had learnt, only an hour ago over the
field-telephone, that the Germans were attacking the place, and that a
big battle had already opened.
The first few hours of that hot, breathless day were hours of
inactivity, welcome indeed to the hard-pressed Sixth Brigade.
Edmond's company had piled their arms, and were lying about on the
sun-scorched grass behind the citadel, smoking cigarettes and laughing
as gaily as though they were at manoeuvres, when of a sudden a German
Taube aeroplane, distinguishable by its shape, was seen crossing them at
a great altitude, whereupon many rifles were raised at it. But it was
far beyond range, and circled round and round over their camp, taking
observations.
"The enemy must be near," remarked a thin, little, dust-covered
lieutenant to a brother-officer. "They intend to attack, without a
doubt."
Hardly had he spoken when the aeroplane dropped two smoke-balls,
indicating the position of the defenders, and then sailed away across
the hills and was lost to view.
The old fortress in front of Edmond was occupied by Belgian artillery
ready for a desperate defence; but the force, though a gallant one, was,
unfortunately, not large.
Another hour went by. The men were still at ease, for perhaps, after
all, the enemy, with the strongly fortified town of Namur before them
lower down the river, might not think Dinant worth attack.
Suddenly, however, the truth became revealed.
Somewhere over in the direction of Severac the enemy had taken up
positions, and without warning a shell fell unexpectedly upon the
railway station, narrowly missing the dock, crashing through the roof,
and exploding with a crash which reverberated along the whole valley.
In a moment bugles sounded and the defenders were instantly on the
alert. A second shell tore out part of the front of the Hotel des
Postes, opposite the station, and then, from the citadel the guns
thundered in reply, sending shells in the direction where the grey
masses of the enemy were seen to be.
To watch the battle from that height was fascinating to Edmond. Below,
a French captain and a squad of couriers on motor-cycles crossed the
bridge rapidly and disappeared on the road to Namur, while, in the town,
a few French troops of the line regiments were marching. The
inhabitants were all indoors with closed doors and shutters, most of
them crowding into the cellars in fear.
Soon the cliffs resounded with rifle and gun fire, while away in the
east could be heard the continual rumble of the field howitzers of the
enemy. The Germans had, it seemed, also brought up several
mountain-batteries along the hills.
The enemy were advancing rapidly.
The bridge was being defended strongly by the French troops, while, very
soon, members of the Volunteer Hospital Corps began hurrying along the
streets in search of the wounded.
In half an hour the quiet, prosperous little town where, from the bulgy
slate-covered steeple of the church the bells had, for centuries, sent
their sweet carillon over the river, became swept by lead. Beneath the
pitiless shell-fire the houses in the narrow Rue Grande were suffering
severely and, at certain spots the street were covered with falling
debris, a rubble of stones and mortar mixed with articles of furniture.
Half-way down that long, narrow street, so well known to summer visitors
to the Ardennes, there stood, on the left, a quaint old-fashioned little
inn called the Hotel de l'Epee--the Hotel of the Sword--one of the most
ancient houses in Dinant, for it dated from the fifteenth century, and
had then been part of a Franciscan Monastery. The rooms were small,
with their original old oaten panelling; the floors were of great stone
slabs hollowed by the feet of many generations, and though the little
place was typical of the Ardennes, there was a curious medieval air
about it which was genuine.
The Hotel of the Sword was kept by a stout, prosperous, red-faced old
Belgian named Francois Mazy, who usually wore the blue linen blouse of
the Ardennois. "Uncle Francois" was known to all Dinant, on account of
his cheery good-nature and charitable disposition. And to his homely
inn, each summer, went many well-known people of Brussels, because there
they fared exceedingly well--Uncle Francois doing the cooking himself,
and charging his visitors, in each of whom he took a real personal
interest, only very modestly as compared with the more modern houses.
To Uncle Francois' hundreds of the townspeople, men, women, and
terrified children, now fled, because beneath the house, and running far
under the cobbled street, were huge vaulted cellars hewn in the
limestone rock--the cellars of the ancient monastery, the entrance to
which had, only a few years before, been discovered behind a walled-up
archway.
There, lit by flickering candles and one or two evil-smelling lamps, the
great cavernous vaults of the monks of old, were filled by those poor
excited and terrified people, who had taken refuge from the sudden
horrors of war.
Many of them were women, anxious for their husbands' safety, and little
children with big wide-open wondering eyes, while Uncle Francois
himself, with Marie, his stout, middle-aged daughter, moved among the
crowd in that hot, stifling atmosphere, uttering cheering words in his
native Walloon, and trying to comfort them.
"All will be well soon, my friends," he declared. "It is only a
skirmish."
Meanwhile, the fight was growing hotter every moment. Edmond, with his
ever-ready Maxim, had found cover behind a piece of thick, broken wall,
one of the ancient earthworks of the citadel, and from there he and his
men kept up a terrible rain of lead upon the oncoming Germans, who were
now fighting in the Place below.
Of a sudden, a shell struck the spire of the church, blowing off part of
the pumpkin-shaped top which fell into the Place with a heavy crash and
clouds of dust, the beautiful bells, which had rung out there so
musically for ages, coming down also.
On the long bridge, terrible fighting was now in progress. The
defenders were in cover under the abutment wings of the bridge, which
were about three feet high. Edmond could witness it all from where he
was, three hundred feet or so above. Suddenly there was a red flash
over the river, a great roar, and the air was filled with smoke and
debris.
The defenders had retired suddenly and blown up the bridge across the
Meuse, to prevent the enemy's advance.
It was magnificent--yet it was terrible. On every side the town seemed
to be now attacked by the enemy, who had sprung from nowhere. In the
position they had taken up, the Belgian Chausseurs were barely two
companies strong, and though they fought so bravely, they could see that
the enemy were surely, if slowly, advancing upon the citadel.
For another hour the fearful fight went on. From behind the debris of
the bridge the red-breeched French were replying gallantly to the enemy.
One could hear nothing save the irregular explosions of rifles, the
machine-like splutterings of the mitrailleuse punctuated by the shock of
shell-fire, and now and then, on explosion which caused the earth to
tremble.
Owing to the heavy firing, clouds now obscured the sun. The heavens
darkened, and it began to rain, but the firing in no way abated. From
where Edmond crouched behind his gun he could see what was happening
below in the Place, and across beyond the blown-up bridge, which lay a
mass of wreckage and twisted girders across the stream.
A sudden increase in the firing told that reinforcements had arrived,
and he saw a half-company of a line regiment hurriedly enter the hotel
opposite the station, expecting to find there a good field of fire.
They brought with them a dozen terrified, shrieking women, whom they had
found hiding in the waiting-room at the railway station.
An hour after noon the fire slackened, and the rain ceased. A few
limping figures, the French in blue coats and red trousers--that
unfortunately flamboyant uniform which always drew fire--staggered into
the hotel, while, during the lull, a hatless woman in black calmly
crossed the little Place and, quite unconcerned, dropped a card into the
letter-box!
At that moment Edmond's company heard the order to retire. Retire!
Every man held his breath. Their spirits fell. Dinant had fallen,
after all, notwithstanding the defence of the combined French and
Belgian forces. It was hopeless. The Germans meant to crush them and
to swarm over Belgium.
In perfect order the Sixth Brigade retired back, down the steep, grassy
slopes behind the citadel, and within half an hour the hated German flag
was, even as Edmond stood watching through his glasses a couple of miles
away, hoisted over the captured citadel.
He uttered a malediction beneath his breath, and turned to hand his
glasses to one of his men.
Sight of that flag was a signal for renewed fighting. Two French
batteries had, happily, arrived, and having taken up a position close to
them, opened fire upon the citadel from the rear. The enemy's flag had
roused the defenders to fury, and one of the first shots from the French
field-guns cut the German flag right across, at which the Belgians
cheered wildly to the echo. The French batteries threw their sheik upon
the ancient citadel with marvellous accuracy, and the fire was heavy and
incessant.
Another French line regiment arrived to reinforce the Belgians, marching
gaily in those fatal red trousers of theirs, and then so smothering was
their fire that, through his glasses, Edmond could see the heads of the
Germans, dotting the ramparts of the fort, begin to gradually disappear.
For four long hot hours the desperate struggle continued without a
moment's cessation. The Belgians were determined to drive the enemy
from their position, while the enemy were equally determined to hold it,
and the slaughter on all sides became terrible. One of Edmond's men
fell forward, dead, with a bullet in his brow.
Suddenly heavier firing was heard from across the river. The French
were shelling the citadel from the other side of the Meuse, and this
they continued to do until, at six o'clock, a long pontoon bridge, just
completed by the Germans a little higher up the river, was suddenly
swept by a hail of shell and destroyed. A regiment of German infantry,
who were at that moment upon it, in the act of crossing, were shattered
and swept into the river, the clear waters of which became tinged with
their blood. The French had waited until that moment, allowing the
Germans to construct the pontoon, and had then wiped it out.
So heavy had now become the attack of the Allies upon the citadel, that
not a living thing was to be seen upon the ramparts. Shell after shell
fell upon them, exploding, shattering the thick masonry everywhere, and
sending up columns of dense black smoke which hovered in the still
evening air.
Then, of a sudden, there was a roar, and a terrific explosion of greater
force than all the others before, which completely tore out one angle of
the fortress, some of the heavy masonry falling with a huge crash down
the hill-side into the Place below, which was already thick with dead
and dying.
A great cheer sounded somewhere in French, for another fresh regiment
had suddenly arrived.
Orders were swiftly given to the Sixth Brigade to re-advance, and in
half an hour Edmond found that victory was theirs after all--they had
retaken the fort! The German flag was hauled down and, in wrath,
destroyed, and amid vociferous cheering, the Belgian red, black, and
yellow tricolour was hoisted again in its place, Edmond at last
regaining the position he had held in the early morning.
Looking down upon the stricken town once again, he saw at what frightful
cost the fort had been retaken. That morning peace had reigned--but
alas, now?
The streets and the river-banks were dotted with the dead, French,
Belgian and German, lying in all sorts of contorted attitudes, the blue
coats of the French infantry splashed with red, and their red trousers,
alas! stained a deeper hue.
The Germans had retired away towards Namur, it was said. The fire had
ceased, and some Belgian infantry--in their round caps and blue
greatcoats--moving down the narrow street from the Place, were cheered
lustily. But the yells of triumph died from their lips as they saw the
ambulances eagerly and silently at work, and they paused at that grim,
awful testimony of what war really meant.
A big grey armoured car of the French, with the muzzle of a machine-gun
pointing out, tried to pass out of the town, but was unable to do so
because of the bodies heaped in the streets, for the fronts of several
houses were lying across the roadway. Then, at that moment, there was
heard in the air, the whirr of a scouting aeroplane which, at a second's
glance, was seen to be French, observing what positions the enemy were
taking up for the night.
The sun had set, and the red afterglow--that crimson light of war--was
showing in the west over where lay Great Britain, the chief objective of
the Kaiser and his barbaric hordes of brigands, hangmen, executioners,
and fire-bugs--the men doing the bidding of that blasphemous antichrist
who was daily lifting his hands to Heaven and invoking God's blessing
upon his hell-hound impieties.
In the twilight, sparks of fire were beginning to show in the shadows
across the river, where the French were encamped, while below, in the
town, after that thirteen hours of fierce bombardment, the Dinantais,
much relieved, came forth from every cellar and every shelter to
assemble in animated groups and discuss the terrible events of that
never-to-be-forgotten day--a day unequalled since Charles the Bold
reduced the old tower of Creve-Coeur--the Tower of the Broken Heart--
opposite at Bouvignes, and the streets of the town had run with blood.
Slowly--very slowly--the twilight faded and night crept on. The quiet
of death spread over the historic little town. The streets were not
lit, because the electric plant had been wrecked. The great vaulted
cellars of the Hotel of the Sword had disgorged its crowd of terrified
refugees, and all, thankful that they had survived that fierce attack,
returned to their fire-swept homes again, while the Allies holding the
town prepared their evening meal and tended their wounded, of whom,
alas! there were so very many.
And as night fell, Edmond Valentin, who had flung aside his shako, flung
himself upon the ground near his gun, and fell to wondering--wondering
as he always did--how Aimee, his dearly beloved, was faring now that the
enemy had advanced up the valley, from the misty hills of the German
frontier.
The men about him were smoking, laughing, and joking, but he heard them
not. One thought alone filled his mind--that of Aimee, always Aimee.