Читать книгу My Three Years in a German Prison - Henri Severin Beland - Страница 7

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We had left Middelkerke, “armes et bagages,” as we say in French. When I say arms and baggage it is a mere figure of speech, as our fowling-guns had been confiscated by the municipal authorities at Middelkerke and had been placed in the town hall. This precaution was taken in all communes of Belgium, to avoid untimely intervention of armed civilians, who, prompted by justified but unlawful indignation, might have committed acts which, under international rights, are contrary to the laws of war. An edict calling upon all citizens to surrender to the municipal authorities all kinds of arms in their possession had been posted and read everywhere, and, with rare exception, all Belgian citizens had strictly obeyed the decree. It may not be out of place to state here that when the German authorities subsequently claimed that the Belgian Government was an accomplice of the civil population which, the Germans alleged, fired on German soldiers, they were only trying–but the effort was in vain–to find an excuse or justification for the inhuman acts they committed in Belgium.

On August 5 we left by train for Ostend on our way to Antwerp. A state of war then actually existed between Germany and Belgium. There were five people in the same compartment–three children, my wife and myself; one seat remained vacant.

The train was pulling out of the station when an excited individual, quite out of breath, rushed to our compartment, opened the door, but, before entering, turned and said–repeating the phrase several times in English–“Thank you,” to a person he left behind, at the same time waving his hand in farewell.

Entering the compartment, the newcomer took the vacant seat, and as I had heard him speaking English, I asked him, “Are you English, sir?”

“No,” he replied, “I am an American.”

“Well,” I continued in English, “if you are an American we belong to the same continent; I am a Canadian.”

He did not appear to relish my overtures, but turned to admire the landscape from the window.

“May I inquire where you are going?” I ventured to ask after a short interval of silence.

“To Russia,” he answered.

“But why?” I said. “My dear man, you will never reach Russia; Germany is at war with Belgium, and I don’t see how you can get through to Russia.”

“Oh,” he said, “I shall go by way of Holland.”

His abruptness and reserve convinced me that he had no desire to continue the conversation. I began to entertain suspicions of the stranger, and my wife, who occupied the seat opposite to us, indicated by a significant glance that she, too, thought there was something extraordinary in the demeanor of our travelling companion.

The train was running at express speed and a few minutes later we reached Bruges. On the station platform an expectant excited crowd had gathered.

The passenger I had addressed took up his suitcase and was hurriedly leaving the train when fifty voices in the crowd cried together: “C’est lui! C’est lui! C’est lui!” “It is he! It is he! It is he!”

On the platform the man was immediately taken in charge by four or five gendarmes, who asked him abruptly: “Are you German?”

He made no reply, but nodded his head affirmatively.

He was surrounded by the irate crowd and several individuals attempted to take him by force from the custody of the gendarmes, who, however, maintained their guardianship and protected the stranger against the threatened assault, though with great difficulty and at the risk of their own lives.

What happened to this man, or where he was placed, I do not know. Was he the belated traveler he pretended to be, or was he actually a spy? I cannot say, but if he was a spy in the employ of Germany, and if he ever goes back to his country, one story he will be able to relate will describe the narrow escape he had at Bruges from the violence of a crowd of Belgians whose righteous indignation had been aroused by the insult to the nation’s honor and dignity by the great Central Empire.