Читать книгу The Spell of Flanders - Edward Neville Vose - Страница 8

When the war is over, and the era of commemoration begins, Belgium, if she is free, should erect at Nieuport, close to the great locks that mark the outlet of the Yser Canal—or at some point along the canal where the fighting was the fiercest—a monument higher than that at Leipzig where the Germans recall their victory over Napoleon, higher than the great lion that guards the field of Waterloo. At its summit should stand a heroic-sized figure in imperishable bronze of a Belgian infantryman, one of the round-capped “demons” whose indomitable will and unwavering courage held this last bit of Belgian soil against overpowering numbers for days. It was here that Germany’s magnificent rush from Antwerp to the Channel ports was stopped, and it was the last remnant of the little Belgian army that, turning on its foe like a lion at bay, hurled back every assault until the little Yser Canal ran red and until, at last, the great reinforcing hosts of the allies came.

The little straggling town of Nieuport, peaceful and sleepy as it looked last summer, is not a stranger to battles and sieges. In the time of William the Conqueror Lombartzyde, now a little hamlet on the chemin de fer vicinal behind the dunes from Nieuport to Ostende, was the shipping port of this region, but great storms filled the harbour with sand and the citizens established a “New Port” on another branch of the Yser in 1160. It was fortified three years later, and for several centuries was one of the strong towns defending the Low Countries on the French frontier. Its strategic importance made it the scene of many battles and sieges. It was destroyed by the English and their allies, the men of Ghent, in 1383. The lonely tower or Donjon of the Templars, standing on the edge of the town, is all that remains of a monastery of that order which was ruined at that time.

The city itself, however, was quickly rebuilt, and among other memorable sieges beat off a great French force in the year 1489. In 1568 the Spanish, under Condé, beat a French army commanded by Turenne not far from the city. Another famous fight before the walls of the old town took place in the year 1600 during the long war between Spain and her revolted Provinces. Count Maurice of Nassau, at the head of twelve thousand men from the United Provinces, had invaded Flanders, which still remained under the power of Spain, and marching rapidly from the Scheldt past Ostende, proceeded to besiege Nieuport. The Archduke Albert, hastily raising an army of fifteen thousand Spaniards, advanced unexpectedly on the Dutch, who were taken completely by surprise. Perceiving that he was caught in a trap, Count Maurice—in order to give his men the courage of despair—ordered the Dutch fleet to withdraw, and told his soldiers that they must either conquer or “be prepared to drink all the water behind them.”

Meanwhile an advance guard of the Dutch army was driven back by the advancing Spaniards who, thinking they had met the whole army, sent couriers to Bruges and Ghent announcing the victory. Bells were rung to celebrate the Archduke’s supposed success which, as the event proved, was a strategic victory for Nassau as it delayed the enemy several hours. It was three o’clock in the afternoon when the advancing Spaniards found themselves face to face with the main army of the republic, drawn up on the very beach outside the city walls. Perceiving their sturdy ranks and unyielding front the Archduke hesitated, but the Spaniards urged him not to let them lose their prey, whom they regarded as hateful rebels and heretics.

Thus encouraged, the Archduke gave the order to advance and the battle soon became general. The fate of the day was decided by the artillery of the Dutch which, by a fortunate order of their far-sighted commander, had been lifted off from the sand and mounted on platforms made from boughs, brush and such timber as was handy. That of the Archduke, mounted in haste directly on the beach, embedded itself in the sand at each discharge until it became useless, while that of the republicans became more accurate and deadly. At the same time the rays of the setting sun falling directly in the eyes of the Spanish soldiers, who were facing westward, blinded them and caused them to fire wildly. The Archduke performed prodigies of valour, having two horses killed under him and being himself slightly wounded, but as darkness began to fall on the bloody beach Count Maurice ordered a charge by a force of cavalry he had held in reserve. This fresh force proved irresistible, the Spanish lines began to give way on all sides, and the retreat quickly turned into a rout. Even the proud Archduke had to seek safety in flight, and the day, which had begun so auspiciously, ended in one of the greatest disasters of the disastrous war.

Nieuport and its sister cities in this, until lately, half-forgotten corner of Flanders were, in former times, renowned for other contests happily less bloody than these famous battles. Here, during the Middle Ages, flourished a group of societies devoted to rhetoric. In place of the still more ancient tourneys, where armed knights fought with lance and sword, these “Chambers of Rhetoric” held annual contests of oratory. From one end of Flanders to the other the movement spread; and these debating societies did much to cultivate a regard for learning and dialectic skill among the mass of the population. Sternly suppressed by Alva, implacable foe of every form of free thought, these societies were revived after the Spanish scourge was withdrawn, and some of them continue to the present day.

The visitor who wandered around the long, slightly hilly streets of the Nieuport of last July would have had little trouble in locating plenty of the “monuments” of its famous past, although the beach has now receded two or three miles to the northward and pleasant fields extend along the edge of the wide marshes which then were probably part of the sea. A curious old lighthouse with a pointed tower stands about midway between the present town and Nieuport Bains, as the beach town is called, showing where the coastline lay some three hundred and fifty years ago. Even this spot is now too far inland for the light to be seen at sea and a new lighthouse has been built on the rampart of dunes that runs, like a miniature mountain range, almost to Ostende toward the east, and westward to Coxyde and beyond.

Our first visit at Nieuport was to the Tower of the Templars, a huge square pile of brick standing in the midst of a potato patch. This prosaic environment detracted not a little from the sentimental interest of the edifice, and we were unable to get into the structure, although one of the gens d’armes of the village was said to have a key to the low wooden door at its base. Equally disappointing was a visit to the ancient Halle aux Draps, or Cloth Hall, now used on certain days as a local butter market. Here again, the door was locked and no one seemed to know who had the key. Curiously enough, although situated very close to the French frontier, we found in this little town and its neighbours, Dixmude and Furnes, very few people who understood French. Flemish is the universal language hereabouts apparently, but it was only on this little trip that we were at all inconvenienced by our inability to speak it. Elsewhere in Flanders—even at Ypres and Audenaerde, where our friends said we would have trouble—we were able to make our French universally understood.

On the Grande Place, close to the Cloth Hall, we found a little inn, called the Hotel du Pelican, where the Professor proposed that we should get some liquid refreshment. We failed, however, to obtain any response to our raps and thumps on the door, and concluding that the establishment must be run for pelicans only we took ourselves and our patronage elsewhere. The Church of Notre Dame, which stands just off the Grande Place, we found to be a most quaint and interesting old structure dating, it is said, from the thirteenth century. While less imposing externally than St. Nicholas at Furnes its massive square baroque tower was very striking, and formed a fine picture in conjunction with the more slender tower of the Cloth Hall hard by. The approach to the main entrance of the church was beneath some lofty trees and we did not see a solitary human being either outside of the edifice or within it. This church has an interesting jubé or rood loft, a fine wooden pulpit, and we also noticed a curious winding stairway that seemed to lead upward within one of the pillars at the intersection of the transept and the choir. As the tower is not built at this point, but at one end of the edifice, it was quite a mystery where this stairway went and what its purpose might be, but as it seemed exceedingly narrow and dark we did not explore it, nor did we find any one to whom we could apply for information about it.

It was in this church, by the way, or possibly in one of those at Dixmude or Furnes, that the Madame developed a violent antipathy to a certain painting that seems to be one of the most cherished possessions of nearly every church in Flanders. As old Cotton and Increase Mather delighted in scaring and harrowing their audiences with word pictures of the tortures of the burning fiery pit, so nearly every old Flemish artist seems to have delighted in portraying most vividly the sufferings and martyrdoms of the saints, and one subject in particular appears to have caught the fancy of every one of them. This was the beheading of John the Baptist. At times the head is shown rolling in the dust or mire of the street, at times it is represented as being served on a platter—but to one and all of these works of art the Madame objected. This circumstance added not a little to the happiness of Mr. and Mrs. Professor, who were continually contriving to lead her artfully around to inspect some new wonder, which proved to be another representation of this agreeable scene. As works of art they were nearly all atrocities, but as jokes on the Madame they were one and all great successes, and it was really surprising how many of them there were.

The Hotel de Ville, a somewhat commonplace looking structure, is said to contain a small collection of paintings, but we were unable to make any of the phlegmatic gens d’armes whom we found lounging close by take enough interest in our questions to inform us where admission might be obtained. In fact the whole town seemed singularly uninterested in tourists, apparently caring not a bit whether they came or stayed away. While the war will undoubtedly change this, still any one desiring to visit it will do well to make the trip from Ostende or Furnes, returning for the night to some point where hotel accommodations are more adequate. In our case we went over to Ostende, where there are many good hotels. No doubt a pleasant week or month could be spent in this corner of Flanders, but for such a stay the best plan would be to go to one of the many little seaside resorts between Coxyde and Ostende for one’s hotel or pension, and explore the hinterland from there.

The ride by the little chemin de fer vicinal from Nieuport to Ostende is a very interesting one. At the outset the line crosses the huge locks that join the canals to Ostende and Furnes with the tidal river Yser. There are seven or eight bridges in all, the different canals and channels being separated by tiny islands. Had Madame Thebes only suggested that we explore the Yser Canals while we were there last July how much more interesting this part of the book would be! Unfortunately they looked then much as hundreds of other Belgian canals had looked and we gave them only a passing glance. While the newspapers in their accounts of the great battle of Flanders usually spoke of the Yser Canal as though there was but a single canal, in reality there are three canals that flow into the tiny Yser River at this point. One of these runs parallel with the coast to Ostende, and then onward to Bruges and beyond; the second runs behind the range of dunes westward to Furnes, where it divides and crosses the French frontier in two branches, one going to Bergues and the other to Dunkerque. It is the third branch that achieved immortality in the Battle of Flanders. This runs straight inland, at right angles to the other two, following the tortuous channel of the old river much of the way to Dixmude. A short distance beyond Dixmude the canal ceases to follow the River Yser, which here flows eastward from a source well across the French boundary, and ascends the Yser’s smaller tributary, the Yperlée, to Ypres. It did not seem like very much of an obstacle from a military standpoint, but brave hearts can make the most of a small advantage. Below the big locks the little river runs in its own bed to the sea. Here the tide was out the day of our visit and a few small fishing boats were lying tipped over sideways in the mud, while two or three English ladies were busily sketching the not over-picturesque scene. There will be a great many people sketching in this vicinity by and by!

About two miles from Nieuport the train passes the church of Lombartzyde, within which is a statue of the Virgin known among mariners far and wide as the Bonne Mére de Lombartzyde, and who is devoutly believed able to protect the faithful seaman from perils by sea, to aid the farmer in his harvest, to cure the sick and succour the distressed. Many are the little ships, patiently carved by fingers hardened by toil and exposure, that have been reverently hung before the good Virgin’s shrine. There are perhaps fewer now than formerly, but faith in her protection and power is still strong and will probably always continue to be so, for the Flemings are intensely loyal to the church.

Not a few of those who visit these little towns, rich in mementoes of the past, but otherwise apparently very sleepy and dull, wonder what the inhabitants do for amusement. No one who has ever spent a Sunday in a Belgian country village need ask this question. From one end of the country to the other, in the Borinage or mining provinces of the southwest as well as in the Flemish counties of the north, the male population devotes the greater part of the day to what may unhesitatingly be termed the Belgian national sport—archery. In the early part of the Middle Ages Flemish archers were as famous as the longbowmen of Merrie England, and on many a hard fought field they gave a good account of themselves. Curiously enough, the archery societies into which they formed themselves for practice have survived all the wars and changes of the centuries, have continued in spite of the invention of gunpowder and the perfection of firearms—an industry in which Liége, in southern Belgium, has led all other cities—and seem to be as vital a part of the national life of the country as ever they were. The fact that the bow and arrow is an anachronism troubles your Belgian peasant not at all; he shoulders his long bow as cheerfully on a Sunday morning as if he were carrying the latest model of smokeless powder repeater, with Maxim silencer and all modern improvements, instead of a weapon that was out of date and useless five hundred years ago.

As practised in Belgium, archery contests are carried on in two ways. There is first what is known as the Tir á l’oiseau or Perche. In the centre of the village green of the smaller towns, and in some open space in the suburbs of the larger places, the traveller cannot fail to notice what looks like a flag pole, the top of which, however, tapers to a slender point, from just beneath which four short arms point upward diagonally, while three cross arms are placed horizontally below them. On these are fixed the oiseaux, or birds—blocks of cork covered with tinsel or gaily-coloured paper, each with a tuft of feathers stuck at the top. The archers gather below the pole and shoot upward, aiming at the “birds” and endeavouring to knock them off cleanly. Each shoots in turn, and the prizes—which have been duly announced by posters for days beforehand—go to those capturing one of the “birds,” the value varying according to its position. In the contests entitled “Tir du Roi,” the archer bringing down the last bird wins the largest prize and is called the “Roi,” or King, and as by that time the archers have one and all consumed a goodly portion of their favourite beverages there is general hilarity—especially if the victor is a popular favourite. Immemorial custom decrees that the King should deal liberally with his subjects and dispense in libations whatever sum he may have gained as a prize, after which he is usually escorted, or if necessary carried, home in great state with a band in advance and all the members of the contest following in a disorderly, but jolly, crowd.

The second form of contest is known as the “Tir au berceau,” and consists of shooting at a target. The birds, in this case, are fastened about the bull’s eye. The archers stand at a distance of one hundred metres from the target, which is usually placed at the rear of a walled court or garden. Generally a series of wooden arches placed at intervals along the line of fire serve to arrest any arrows that go wild, while the back of the target is reinforced strongly with straws about a foot long laid lengthwise with the line of the shooting and packed under great pressure. There is invariably a public café or estaminet attached to the places where archery contests au berceau are conducted, while such places are always found close by the spot where a Tir á l’oiseau takes place. Between shots the men consume liberal quantities of lambic, faro, or the beer of some neighbouring brewer, and discuss politics or the news of the day. A circumstance that renders disorders comparatively rare is that each archery society consists of men of a single party. The Catholics have their favourite places that are patronised exclusively by Catholics, while the Socialists in the southern provinces, where that party is strong, have their own societies and places of rendezvous. The clergy are heartily interested in the Catholic contests, giving liberal prizes and attending in considerable numbers to cheer the victors and console the vanquished.

During the early part of the war numerous references were made in the despatches to the marvellous accuracy of the Belgian riflemen. To one who has attended scores of these archery contests it is not surprising that the Belgians are good shots. Out of date though the bow and arrow is, yet the sport cannot fail to train the eye and hand, and constant rivalry in such a pastime has made the Belgians literally a nation of sharpshooters. On one occasion the writer and a friend took a couple of shots with a carbine in one of the little shooting galleries that accompanied a village kermesse. We both missed. A young man standing by, who worked in the village sugar mill, politely asked which of the various pipes and other objects we were aiming at. We indicated one of them and, zip! his bullet had shattered it. Half a dozen shots in quick succession at different objects we pointed out proved equally accurate. It was an exhibition of marksmanship such as one frequently sees on the stage in the United States, but being made by a casual bystander in a village street it was most impressive. Nor was the lad, as I took pains to inquire, noted particularly for his skill in this direction—having seldom won prizes in the official contests.

All ages join in this sport, the small boys erecting diminutive poles in the fields around the villages, where they imitate their elders with toy bows and arrows, while men of seventy or eighty take their turn with beardless youths in the prize competitions. While I was visiting in the Borinage two years ago the uncle of my hostess shouldered his two-metre bow and started off to a “meet” despite his eighty-seven years. What is more, his hand had lost none of its strength and firmness, and his eyes none of their keenness, for twice while I was present he brought down one of the “birds,” and I later learned that he had won one of the principal prizes. Only the year before he had been crowned “King” at one such contest, and the first time he ever won that coveted honour was when he was sixteen—or seventy-one years before. I doubt whether there is any athletic game in the world of which the devotees can point to a longer record of success.

This fine old athlete had two brothers older than himself alive at the time, the combined ages of the three aggregating two hundred and eighty years. One of them, aged ninety-four, recently expressed some anxiety as to what would become of him in the event of the death of the daughter with whom he was living.

“What will I do if Amèlie should die?” he asked of one of his other daughters.

“Why, papa, then you would come and live with me,” she replied, adding with a flash of characteristic Belgian humour, “and when I am dead you’ll go to live with Fèlicienne” (a grand-daughter still in her ’teens). As this provided safely for his future for at least another fifty years, the old gentleman was greatly relieved, feeling perhaps that if he survived Fèlicienne her children would by that time be old enough to take care of him.

While archery is everywhere the dominating pastime of the working class it is by no means the only form of popular amusement. The bicycle has not yet gone out of vogue in Belgium, and societies exist in hundreds of cities and communes for the encouragement of bicycle racing. The day of our arrival in the village where Tante Rosa spread for us the banquet mentioned in the second chapter, we were so fortunate as to witness the final sprint of a twenty-five kilometre race. A score of contestants had pedalled ten times over a course consisting for the most part of roadways paved with ragged cobble-stones, the rest being dirt roads filled with mud puddles owing to a recent rain. The riders, as they rushed by, were literally covered with mud and had evidently struggled hard to gain one of the five prizes which aggregated, as we afterwards learned, the munificent sum of eighty francs, sixteen dollars, of which the winner received thirty—six dollars!