Chapter 1

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LIÉGE ON THE LINE OF MARCH

An American Girl's Experiences When the Germans Came Through Belgium

GLENNA LINDSLEY BIGELOW

New York: John Lane Company London: John Lane, The Bodley Head MCMXVIII

_TO THE KING OF THE BELGIANS_

_Multitudes upon multitudes they throng And thicken: who shall number their array? They bid the peoples tremble and obey: Their faces are set forward, all for wrong. They trample on the covenant and are strong And terrible. Who shall dare to say them nay? How shall a little nation bar the way Where that resistless host is borne along?_

_You never thought, O! gallant King, to bow To overmastering force and stand aside. Safe and secure you might have reigned. But now Your Belgium is transfigured, glorified, The friend of France and England, who avow An Equal here, and thank the men who died._

_H. M._ _London Times, August 14, 1914._

FOREWORD

Liége on the Line of March, or An American Girl's Experience When the Germans Came Through Belgium, is a unique story. No other American probably was in the exact position of Miss Bigelow who was at the Château d'Angleur, Liége, Belgium, with the family of Monsieur X. at the outbreak of the war and experienced with them and the people of their country those tragic events which, up to the present, have hardly even been sketched for the world.

What the public already knows of armies, guns, trenches, etc., has little to do with the suffering that the people of an invaded country endures, when the white-hot flame of the enemy invasion sweeps over the land scorching every flower and leaving in its wake only desolation and pain and despair. This narrative describes in detail just what might come to any one of its readers if the Germans were victorious in Europe. Let him picture to himself his line of action or even his line of thought if an insolent officer came into his home, took his paintings from the wall, his rugs from the floor, his private papers from his desk and, finally, his sons to--what fate? The most pacific of pacifists would draw a tight breath at such proceedings. And these are the least of things that have happened in Belgium.

But the journal was not written with exhortative design. It is the simple and truthful story of daily events as they occurred; if, at times, the words seem brutal, the circumstances were brutal. Why should one not know them?

The Château d'Angleur was respected as far as real pillaging and destroying were concerned for the fact that a cousin of Monsieur X., a Belgian by birth, is the wife of the Count von M. of Germany, at one time Grand Chancellor of the Imperial Court and a trusted friend of Emperor William the Second. As was proven afterwards this relationship, surprisingly enough, had some influence on the side of clemency.

Monsieur X. was one of that family of famous Belgian bankers which has existed for four generations. He was also President of the International Sleeping Car Company of Europe to which honor he was appointed at the death of his brother Monsieur Georges X., the originator and founder of the Company.

Madame X. is a Russian by birth, the great-granddaughter of Prince ----, who was at one time Grand Chancellor of the Court of Russia, and a cousin of Princess ----, a lady in waiting to Her Former Majesty the Czarina of Russia. The daughter of Madame X., Baronne de H., wife of a Belgian nobleman of Brussels, is a personal friend of Their Majesties, the King and Queen of Belgium.

Miss Bigelow, though a neutral subject, was nevertheless a virtual prisoner of the Germans from August to November, 1914, owing to the lack of facility in getting away from Belgium. The railroad was taken over entirely by the German Army; automobiles, horses, carriages, etc., being long since confiscated and appropriated by the Germans. Considerable anxiety was felt as to her safety as no communication with the outside world was possible during those three months of internment. Therefore, her journal was faithfully kept for the benefit of her family and depicts the comfortable luxurious life of the days preceding August, 1914, the shock of the Declaration of War, the terrific battle of Sartilmont, three kilometres from the château, which entailed indirectly the death of Monsieur X. in the early morning of the following day while the guns were still booming. It also includes the bombardment of Liége which lasted twelve days, the care of soldiers burned in the forts, the capture of the city by the Prussians, their brutal shooting of civilians, the burning of parts of the town and the taking of citizens as hostages.

The passing of the German army with all its accompanying paraphernalia that went to the front in the first days is described as it was photographed on the brain of the writer, looking down from her window, day after day, onto the highroad.

The journal ends with the attempted withdrawal to Brussels, the final escape to Holland by the aid of the Dutch Consul of Maestricht, the journey from Flushing, Holland, to Folkestone, England, to Calais and to Paris. The last part of this journal will appeal to those who have known and loved Paris in the old days, and portrays her to the world as the flower she is, revealing her truth and her worth tho' stripped of that individual worldliness which was yet a charm.

_Note.--All except German names in the Journal are fictitious._

LIÉGE

ON THE LINE OF MARCH

LIÉGE, ON THE LINE OF MARCH

_July 30th, Thursday._

To-day has been warm, very warm and sultry, a day of surprises, beginning with the sudden disappearance of Monsieur X.'s trusted head clerk--a German boy who has been in the office for fifteen years and who knew every phase of the situation. What reason on earth could he have had for vanishing like that with all his personal belongings, not leaving one trace behind to show that such a person had ever been? Odd, but certainly done with studied thoroughness.

This afternoon we sat at the end of the garden by the little lake, listless and content to do nothing. The air was ominously still, as I remember it now, and the sun beat down through a yellow haze. Suddenly, without the slightest warning, huge drops of rain began to fall. You can imagine that we scurried up the path as fast as possible, past the old oak, and reached the terrace just before the very heavens opened in a flood and a great shaft of lightning, like a sword, swept down from the sky straight to the oak tree, crushing it completely. My hand trembles a little as I write tonight--it was the suddenness of the onslaught which unnerved me, I suppose, for it was a curious thing that there were no signs of approaching storm except the dull yellow light which we did not notice then.

There was a small dinner this evening and the table was beautiful as usual with old silver and candles which shed their warm light about--all lovely and luxurious. Monsieur R., M.P., did his best to draw out the political opinions of the party, but conversation, quite contrary to custom, was fitful. I think every one was a little unstrung by the afternoon's experience and the air even yet is full of electricity.

During one of the unwelcome pauses of the dinner a motor came panting up the drive and "Uncle Henri" burst in, virtually hatless and coatless, fairly bristling with political news and very much annoyed that something, anything, had wrecked his normal existence for a moment. But this something which has happened is terribly serious. The French trains are not going beyond the frontier to-night, and part of "Uncle Henri's" agitation was due to this fact as he had been obliged to walk a few hundred yards to get the Belgian train. In the excitement of such an unheard of proceeding he had plunged ponderously along in the dark and mud with his fellow-travellers and incidentally lost his luggage and his valet, the ineradicably English James. Nobody took in the seriousness of such a strange tale at first, for Uncle Henri is, before all, _très comédien_. But why was he not in Russia as he was expected to be? Very good reasons indeed, for it appears that Austria and Serbia and Germany and Russia are about to jump down each other's throats, according to widespread rumor. France, too, is writhing in suppressed excitement which one cannot understand, with conditions growing worse every minute. It would seem rather left-handed for Germany and Russia to reach around through France to cross swords.

Timid little Madame N. asked if these things might indicate War. Everybody scouted the idea and ridiculed the thought of the hard-headed, common-sense, Western world doing anything so absurd. So we will leave it to the _diplomats_ to settle the difficulty. I am glad that they can.

_July 31st, Friday._

Yesterday was only a preliminary to the seething in the tea-pot which exists as to-day's events show--everybody is bewildered at the tremendous things that have started and the equally tremendous things that have stopped. What does it all mean? There is the greatest excitement aroused by the foreign news in the evening papers, announcing in glaring headlines a diplomatic rupture between Germany and Russia. So it's true! Probably your seismic stock market has already foretold coming disturbance, but for Europe it is a positive bomb. Already here in Liége not more than half of the daily four hundred and eighty trains have passed the city, and it is reported that none of these go beyond the frontier.

_August 1st, Saturday._

Today the papers announce the stunning news that Germany has declared war against Russia. The report must be sufficiently authentic, for, as if by magic, the Belgian army is already gathering itself together with an almost superhuman rapidity, proof of which we have had in the masses of troops that have been passing the château all day. Yesterday, trouble was a newspaper rumor; today, deadly earnestness. And what excitement all about! The air is positively charged and the whole community is agog; people with anxious faces accost each other in the street; farmers neglect their crops to come into town, bank clerks lay down their pens and shop doors are beginning to close.

_August 2nd, Sunday._

The world has suddenly become nothing but people, and the transition from the peaceful, care-free existence of four days ago is so great that I cannot write intelligently, today, because so much is happening. Following on His Majesty King Albert's magnificent discourse [_Vive le roi!_], the spirit of a great and glorious decision has set the empire in motion. The vast machine moves--though some of the bolts creak and protest a little in their rusty coats and the earth trembles to the rhythm of tramping feet. Hundreds of soldiers and cannon have been passing all night, and this morning routes in every direction are blockaded by detachments from different regiments. There are uniforms of all types and colors, the ensemble looking like a variegated bouquet snatched hurriedly by the wayside; the sorting will come later, one doesn't ask how. The old farm at the end of the garden has been turned into a barracks, and recruits are being drilled among the apple trees in the orchard. The excitement is intense--one treads carefully fearing to be the first to prick the bubble. The newspapers are disquieting, as it appears now that Germany will probably declare war against France, too, and is contemplating passing through Belgium by Namur or Luxembourg to the French frontier. That is a rather offensive threat, as, of course, there is the neutrality of Belgium and one cannot get away with that. We consider ourselves most lucky to be here rather than in France.

A detachment of Belgian soldier boys slept in the stables last night. Monsieur X. sent them his best cigars, and this morning, as soon as they tumbled out, they made a straight line for the kitchen whence they scented hot coffee. The good heart of the old, fat cook, who is a native of Amsterdam, was melted at once and she gave unsparingly until they flattered and coaxed her into such a state of bewilderment that even Dutch patience was at last exhausted when she saw them pouring in and pouring in and boldly attacking her sumptuous pantries _en masse_.

_August 3rd, Monday._

Preparations for war are going on rapidly; scores of automobiles are racing past like mad things, carrying Governmental messages no doubt and the Government itself, by its eternal prerogative, is commandeering for its use everybody's private property--horses, cows, automobiles, pigs, merchandise, provisions, etc. And how one gives for one's country! The men, their goods; the women, their sons. The spirit of the people is magnificent. Huge loads of hay in long processions like caravans are coming in from the country along with immense droves of cattle. In the orchard adjoining the château are already domiciled two hundred or more cows and the discordant melody from this hoarse-throated chorus, uninterrupted day or night, is driving us to madness. Indoors, we ourselves are laying in a supply of things in case of necessity and the kitchen is piled high with bags of flour, coffee, beans, tinned goods, etc., and in the pasture is a new cow. Beef will probably be the _pièce de resistance_ for many a day.

Monsieur X.'s old coiffeur came out from town today. He is French and by far the most volatile person about the news of the moment that I have seen. It is like a play to hear him declaim on the situation, but, poor man, having endured the Siege of Paris for six months in 1870, he doubtless has recollections. And he makes the most of them as well as of his dramatic ability, describing in an eloquent manner how he fried rats in a saucepan, which with some spice and plenty of onion all around, he admitted, were "_pas mal du tout_." Madame X. herself was in the "Siege of Paris" in 1870 and is therefore taking thought.

These details of the equipment and provisioning of the army will be as interesting to you as they are engaging to us here in the midst of it, for they are not commonly even included in a rapid conception of "War" though being in reality the biggest part of it.

What masses of convoys and munitions! They must constitute that same impressive "impedimenta" that one used to read about in Cæsar's Wars which by its unfailing late arrival constantly threw the old Romans into such a frightful _dépit_. But happily, in this case, it comes first instead of last.

The whole world seems to be changing place like sand on a moving disc and my mind is losing its grip on what is real--it's a curious feeling. Madame X. and her family, like everybody else, are extremely anxious, as one would naturally be with his country, his home and his future in peril, but I, in my superb (what shall I say?) Americanism or optimism, am sure it will come out all right: nevertheless I feel confused.

_August 4th, Tuesday._

The situation, already grave, has taken a definite turn. Germany is going to attack France through Belgium. Completely ignoring the neutrality of the latter, she demands to "just pass through peaceably," but being refused permission, so much the worse for those who are in the road. Personally speaking, I should say we are decidedly in the road--Aix-la-Chapelle--Liége--Namur. Don't you think the crow would agree with me?

We saw a charming spectacle this morning if anything connected with war can be so called,--a little company of _mitrailleuses-à-chien_, that is, small, shrapnel gun carriages drawn by the famous Belgian dogs. It sort of made my heart crinkle up to see those magnificent animals, detailed for fatal duty without doubt, pushing on so joyously. Straining in the traces and really smiling with their great tongues hanging out, they were performing their work, proud as Punch, and eager to get on.

In the afternoon we were suddenly startled by the booming of nearby cannon. I shall never forget the first sound of it! It might have been the Last Trumpet and we didn't know that it was not. My soul turned sick and seemed to be tumbling down a fathomless abyss while a pair of unprejudiced eyes watched its descent. Please do not think I am not serious--it is a moment when one meets things face to face and the inevitable is happening. We hear that the firing is for the purpose of demolishing houses and churches before the forts, which might in any way obstruct the range of the guns. Did I explain that Liége is encircled by twelve forts, built about twenty-eight years ago under the personal direction of Général Brialmont? They are on the same principle as those of Namur and Bucharest, and are large affairs of concrete, sunk three stories under ground and furnished with elaborate electrical apparatus. Covering and protecting the cannon are automatic, armored cupolas, rising and falling with the modern, disappearing guns. Here is a tiny, freehand map which will give you an idea of the country as well as the situation of Château d'A----, where I am and which is just between the city and the enceinte of forts. A shell overreaching this latter, from the enemy's field cannon, would, I should say, tumble right into our "zone." But we do not even admit of such a possibility in speaking to each other. Isn't it funny how we continue to deceive ourselves and life is a sham to the last throw?

Général Brialmont warned the Government when the forts were under construction, that if it could not maintain an army sufficiently strong to defend the open country between them, he was building them for the Germans. That statement revived suddenly, gives rise to an apprehension hitherto unfelt by the _Liégeois_, who have absolute faith in the impregnability of Liége.

Madame X.'s oldest son, Monsieur S., and his wife, arrived tonight from France by auto. They would never have been able to get here if Monsieur S. had not the royal seal on some state papers which he was bringing from the Belgian Embassy in Paris. Was there ever such a wildly exciting ride, plunging through two battle lines (French and Belgian) into massed formations everywhere? Nevertheless Madame S. said she used to fall asleep from sheer fatigue during the long drives in the blackness of the night or when they were stopped for hours at a time to identify even a king's messenger.

_August 5th, Wednesday._

I wonder what you are thinking of events, at home? You will marvel that I can write at such length when the very skies seem to be pressing down upon us. But it is the greatest relaxation possible and a kind of safety valve. It makes me think of some lines of Shakespeare where different conditions "oft make the wise dumb and teach the fool to speak." So I write on. The news we get may not be altogether authentic, as we receive nothing now except by word of mouth. By report it seems that England, France and Russia are prepared to defend the neutrality of Belgium with their armies. Liége is now in a state of siege with the Prussians before the forts. Commerce in the city has ceased completely with the railroad, telegraph, telephone, post, tramcars, newspapers, shops and factories. Can you understand what that means? At one time or another in our lives most of us have been the victim of a social condition called a "strike"--horribly inconvenient circumstances, when the mail-man did not come, for instance, or train service was laid off or the electric light went out for a time. But these instances were all individual, that is, they happened separately, while here the whole Universe has shut down together. I could not make you comprehend the criticalness of our position. I feel as if we were suspended by the finest thread between heaven and earth, for there is nothing very solid under our feet and only a sea of ether over our heads. This description is wholly inadequate to interpret the sensation or the uncertainty. Can you imagine what it would be like? I cannot exactly say I feel "fear"; perhaps I cannot define fear; but a heaven-sent optimism buoys me up. In our journeys 'round, having previously experienced cold plunges in the dark, the fascination of "chance" lets us hope.

"War!" What other lone factor could bring about at the same moment, such circumstances, the absolute cessation of every living element of our existence? I know that you will be amused at my sudden plunging into the psychological realm, but it all makes me wonder. Oh, our dear civilization and the convenient things we are used to! A puff of smoke, a hostile shot and they are gone. And here we are, groping like the veriest savage for a hole to hide in and something to eat. I assure you, nothing else occupies us for the moment. How is it that the whole house of cards falls down together? In all these centuries of Struggle and Learning and Science and Dissent has nobody found a common leaven for bread?

It is not yet decided if we shall go to Brussels considering what is rather sure to happen. Several days ago large quantities of gasoline were buried in the garden under the shrubbery in the event of our leaving quickly by automobile. However, Brussels is an open city and it is a question if we would be as well off there as here in this strongly fortified place.

But Dieu! If they do come--? There is the sub-cellar of the château whose fine arches and solid vaulting two hundred years old, would hold even if the house were burned down about our ears. But no! To be suffocated under burning ruins, no, no! We will not think of that!

A moment of reckless mirth assails me: I want to scream! I feel like the fair Dido mounting her funeral pyre.

One other hiding place has been thought of. Up in the woods on the hill-side is a long tunnel about four feet in diameter which conducts a tiny mountain stream down to the lake. It is dark and wet. Could we stay there on our knees in the water for many hours, perhaps days? Heavens! It is unthinkable. Let us die in the open, if die we must.

I am writing this morning in my room, which looks out on the highroad and the hurrying troops. It is not a time that one would choose for composition, but I want you to get as vivid an impression as possible of events as they occur, _et enfin_, I must do something. The booming of cannon has commenced again, which is sufficiently frequent and of a certain terrifying decision to assure us that fighting has really begun.

This ceased during the early evening and we went to bed in peace. That is, we went to bed. Madame X.'s oldest son was detailed for sentinel duty on the little road at the side of the château leading up to the plateau from where the sound of guns came during the day. Monsieur J., the other son, with a friend of his, was carrying messages from one fort to another in his auto, miraculously scooting between the shots.