THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.
The _Ajax_ was to remain two days or so longer in Antwerp, and the boys
readily obtained permission from the captain to make all the use they
could of their passes. They had already exhausted what they wished to
see of Antwerp, including the famous fort on the Tête de Flandre on the
opposite bank of the river, the great cathedral, the home of Rubens’
parents, and the magnificent picture gallery.
Now they could enlarge their opportunities, and they decided to take a
trip to Brussels and from there to the field of Waterloo. Accordingly,
they started in high spirits on their tour as soon as they could get a
train. Their passes were marked “first-class,” so they soon ensconced
themselves in a leather-lined compartment, while their less fortunate
fellow passengers had to be content with “second” and “third.”
“I wonder how this arrangement would go in America?” asked Jack as they
sank back in the soft-padded cushions.
“I guess everybody would go first-class,” laughed Raynor. “We haven’t
anyone at home willing to brand himself ‘second’ or ‘third’ in the
race.”
“Now who on earth is this?” wondered Jack presently, as a brightly
uniformed official entered the compartment which they had to themselves.
“Conductor, I guess,” hazarded Raynor.
The official removed his cap and bowed low.
“_Bonjours, messieurs_,” said he; “_les billets, si vous plait._”
“I guess he wants our tickets,” said Jack, fishing for his. This surmise
proved to be correct.
The politeness of the official was more marked, if it could be possible,
when he saw, from the signature on the passes, that the boys were
traveling under “royal auspices.” He raised his cap and bowed again. Not
to be outdone, the boys bowed back with equal suavity.
“_Merci bien_,” he said.
“_Merci bien_,” responded Jack, who had acquired some French at high
school.
“Mercy beans, too,” sputtered young Raynor, thinking that Jack was
giving an order for a Boston lunch. The conductor bowed again and
vanished, a bell rang and they were off. The ride lay through a farming
region and the road was cool, clean and smooth.
On their arrival in Brussels, they found accommodation at a hotel
overlooking the public square. The windows, although the _maître de
hotel_ had assured them that it was one of the best rooms in the house,
were only four feet high.
“Gee, we have to lie down to look out!” exclaimed Raynor.
“On the square?” asked Jack with a grin.
“No; on the level; that’s the way I lie,” chuckled Raynor. Both lads
were in high spirits. Their unexpected stroke of luck had surely proved
a windfall.
In the center of the Place Royale, the first place the boys explored,
stands an equestrian figure of Godfrey of Bouillon.
“It was on that spot that he first assembled his crusaders who won back
Jerusalem to the Christians,” said Jack, wise with guide-book knowledge.
“And to think that up to now I always thought Bouillon was a soup,”
remarked Raynor dryly.
Before the train left for Waterloo, they had time to visit the Royal
Museum, walking down the _Rue de La Régence_. The Royal Museum was
filled with fine pictures and statuary, but, to tell the truth, the boys
had become a little bit cloyed with art at Antwerp. It takes some
experience and training to be interested in, and gauge properly, such
things, although both felt that what they had seen had done them
permanent good.
Several times during their walk to the railroad station where they were
to take a train for Waterloo, the boys were much amused and interested
by the working dogs hitched to small carts. Sometimes the working dogs
got into a fight with the leisure-class canines, and then there was a
fine racket among the owners and the dogs, till things were straightened
out and humans and canines, both growling, went on their way.
“Almost all the shops say they cater to the King or the Court of
Flanders,” commented Raynor as they strolled along.
“I guess they get most of their real money from Americans, at that,” was
Jack’s comment.
The _Gare du Midi_, or Central Station, they found surrounded by a crowd
of shouting, noisy, officious guides, and also several individuals who
looked none too honest. They buttonholed every arrival, volunteering all
sorts of information in bad English. This, despite the fact that there
were plenty of signs in plain view.
It was half an hour’s ride to _Braine-l’Alleud_, for the most famous
battle of modern history was fought several miles from the village whose
name it bears. This is because Wellington sent his victorious despatches
from Waterloo, which has ever since claimed the honor of naming the
place of Napoleon’s downfall.
They took a small, rickety carriage at the station, and before long
Raynor was pointing to a mound with an ugly, clumsy-looking lion on it.
“Zat is zee Lion of Belgium,” volunteered the driver. “Eet ees model
from French cannon and mark zee spot where zee Prance of Orange was
wounded.”
“Is that so?” muttered Raynor. “Well, it looks more like a Newfoundland
dog than a lion to me.”
“Eet weigh twenty-eight ton,” volunteered the driver again, pointing
with his whip to the lion, close access to which was gained by a steep
flight of steps. There are two hundred and twenty-six of these steps,
and the boys, on climbing them, were considerably out of breath when
they reached the summit and saw the historic plain spread out under
their feet.
“I’m disappointed,” confessed Jack frankly. “I thought it was much
larger. Why, it doesn’t look like much more than a parade ground!”
“Well, it wasn’t much of a ‘parade’ at the time of the battle, with
three hundred thousand men tearing at each other’s throats for five or
six hours and leaving fifty thousand dead and wounded on the field,”
commented Raynor, who was well up in history.
Then they drove over the road built by Napoleon fifteen years before the
battle.
“Might have been a good cavalry road, but it sure is a bone-shaker in
this rig,” remarked Jack, and his companion agreed with him. They were
much interested in the farm house of Hougomont, or rather its
shell-battered ruins. This was the hottest point of the battle. The
French assaulted it for hours, but did not succeed in taking it.
The family, who own the house, make a good living selling souvenirs to
visitors.
“I’ve been told,” said Jack, with a smile, “that every fall they plant
little bullets and souvenirs. The winter snow and spring rains make the
crop ready to be plowed up.”
“Profitable farming,” laughed Raynor. However, the boys bought a grape
shot and what purported to be an insignia from an artilleryman’s cap.
“It must have been a great battle,” said Raynor as they paid off their
hack bill, the size of which made them raise their eyebrows.
“Yes, and the Belgians are still able to charge,” remarked Jack dryly.
In the railroad carriage on the way back a self-assertive Englishman was
holding forth on what a great victory Wellington had achieved. “Which,”
he added, turning to the boys, “was all the more creditable because he
fought with raw recruits. Most of our seasoned soldiers were in your
country at the time.”
“And most of them are planted there yet,” remarked Raynor.
The Englishman glared at him; but Jack smoothed things over and
everything was amiable till Raynor again disrupted international peace.
“Deuced funny clothes those beggars wear,” remarked the son of Britain,
gazing out at a wooden-shoed, baggy-breeched peasant.
“Oh, I don’t know. Not so much funnier than an Englishman’s,” said the
American lad; after which there ensued a silence lasting till the train
rolled into Brussels.
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