During dinner the bombardment had been at its height. In that short half-hour almost twenty shells had burst quite close to us. It was our side of the town that was being attacked—already a poor woman, begging for something to eat, had told the portress that the roof of the college was struck. Mother Prioress, deaf to all entreaties, said that everyone without exception was to be ready at 2 o’clock. We went about, looking—perhaps for the last time—at the dear old scenes, which we had thought to leave only when death should knock at our door.
We had already placed on every window of the convent a paper badge of the Sacred Heart, and lastly erected a niche outside one of the garret windows, in which we put the miraculous statue of Our Lady of the Angels, which had remained unhurt outside the Monastery in the siege of Ypres, in 1744. We had done all we could and must now abandon all, leaving everything under the double protection of the Mother and the Son.
A little after 2 o’clock the hand-cart came round to the door. All the packages could not fit in it, in spite of Reverend Mother having made us take out nearly all we had gathered together; for she had learnt by experience, in carrying the things she had prepared for Lady Abbess as far as Vlamertinghe, three days before, the difficulties of walking so far, and carrying a heavy parcel at the same time. The enclosure door was then fastened on the inside, and all other important rooms or cupboards being likewise locked, we passed with a last farewell through the long-loved choir, which had known the joys and sorrows of our whole religious life.
We then went through the outer church into the sacristy, locking the door of the grille behind us. There was but one more door which separated us from the outside world—one door more! and we should be out of our enclosure, perhaps never more to return! There was a pause in our sad procession—the key was not there. Our Lord watched over us once more; for, had we then continued in our procession, some of us would inevitably have been badly hurt, if not indeed killed. After a few minutes’ waiting, the key was brought, and already placed in the key-hole, when a loud explosion, accompanied by a terrific crash which shook the entire building, laid us all prostrate.... Bewildered, rather than afraid, we arose, and saw, through the window, a shower of bricks and glass falling into the garden. The first—though not the last—shell had struck our well-loved Abbey.
We now realised that there was no time to waste. Already Edmund was screaming out from the other side of the still-locked door. ‘Why don’t you come? I told you, you should have left long ago. The convent is struck! We shall all be killed if you don’t make haste!’ The door was opened, and with an indescribable feeling of horror, mingled with uncertainty, we went out. In the street we raised our eyes in one sad farewell to our beloved Monastery; and there, out of the cell windows, principally that of Mother Prioress, a cloud of vapour and smoke told us of the passage of the shell; while the remains of the garret windows overhead and other débris of slates, bricks, wood and glass, strewn on the pavement, proved without a doubt, that Divine Providence had truly intervened in allowing the little delay in the sacristy, but for which we should have been just on the spot when all this had happened. A cry of anguish arose from our hearts as, hurrying along the deserted street, we saw our convent thus apparently burning.
Half-way down the street, another explosion behind us made us look round to see if the Abbey had again been struck, but no! this time it was the Institut Saint-Louis, just in front. Turning the corner, we saw some ‘Tommies’ scrambling out of a house which had also been shelled. As we stumbled over the bricks which covered the road, Edmund hurrying us on for bare life, one of the soldiers caught sight of us, and calling out to another to come to help ‘the Sisters’ he threw down the bundle he was carrying, and seizing two of ours, he walked along with us, his comrade doing the same. We shall continue the narrative from the notes of Dame Patrick:—
‘As we were nearing the Rue de Lille, where the shells were falling thickly, two soldiers came forward to help us with our packages. We chatted as we hurried along, stopping every one or two minutes, to avoid a shower of bricks, as we heard a shell hiss over our heads and fall on one of the houses by us. One of us remarked to the soldiers: “It is very kind of you to help us.” To our delight they answered, “It is our same religion, and our same country.” They were both Irish Catholics—one from Kerry, the other from Belfast. When we reached the outskirts of the town they were both obliged to turn back, not having leave to quit Ypres. The Kerry man left us hurriedly; but our man from Belfast ventured a little farther, though in the end he thought it wiser to return to his regiment. So we shook hands with him, and thanked him heartily, wishing him good luck and a safe return to dear old Ireland! Our good Mother Prioress had a bag of pears in her hand, so she said to him: “Here, take these pears and eat them, and we will pray for you.” But he turned away, and said, “No, no, keep them for yourselves.” Here the poor fellow broke down and cried. He hurried away, waved his hand, and wished us God-speed. I happened, during this little scene, just to have moved on, thinking Mother Prioress was by me. However, on looking round, I saw she was some distance behind, so I walked back to join her. To my surprise, I found her weeping. I felt very shaky myself, but did not want to seem so. I jokingly said, “Oh! Mother Prioress, what is the matter?” Then she told me what had happened, and said, “I could keep up no longer when I saw that dear, kind, genuine Irish-hearted man break down—how I wish I could know his name!” “Come along,” I said, “let us hope that one day we shall find it out, but don’t cry any more or you’ll have me joining in too.” I then thought on my brave, tender-hearted countrymen who had left home and country to serve in the British army as Belgium’s friends and protectors, and I felt proud and happy that we Irish Benedictines should have fallen in so often with Irishmen, always meeting with the same kind-heartedness.’
We had left the town in a terrible state. Through several streets which we passed, we could not see the other side on account of the clouds of smoke and dust, occasioned by the bursting of the shells and the falling buildings. Several telegraph posts lay across the road, with the wires hopelessly twisted and broken. Soldiers were running to and fro, propping up walls which had been shaken by an explosion in the vicinity, or making for some new ruin to see if they could be of any use. At last leaving the terrible sight behind us, we passed by the Rue d’Elverdinghe, on to the road leading to Poperinghe. Here we picked up the good fellow who was pushing the hand-cart. He took some more packages, tying them all together with a stout rope to prevent them falling off. His wife and little children were also there, for they dared not remain in the town. How glad were we now that Reverend Mother had listened to our chaplain, when he told her not to wait till the last moment to place dear Lady Abbess in safety. What would she have done in the midst of those dreadful shells, which, although we had left the town far behind us, still continued—though we heard them not so loudly now—to fly on their errand of destruction towards poor, unfortunate Ypres.
There is no need to describe the marching of the troops as they passed us on the way, as Mother Prioress has already mentioned it in her notes. What left the deepest impression on our memories was the thick slimy mire we had to wade through. In some places it was so bad that it was almost impossible to get on—we seemed to slide back two steps for every one that we made forward. We trudged bravely on, but before we had gone a quarter of the way some of us were already au bout. We, who for years had not walked more than six or seven times round our little garden, were certainly little fitted to go some nine miles in that dreadful mud, and carrying parcels which, by this time, seemed to weigh tons. At last Vlamertinghe came in sight. If only it had been Poperinghe! We were not even quite half-way. We could hardly push through the crowds of fugitives, each with his or her bundles of different colour, shape, and size. Some men had four packages, two in front and two behind, slung over their shoulders; others were bent in two with huge sacks on their backs; others pushed wheelbarrows or perambulators in front of them; while some were content with a little bundle tied up in a pocket-handkerchief. One respectable-looking man carefully hugged two umbrellas—were they his only treasures? We passed through the village, and on, on, on! always in company of troops, motor-cars, and refugees. The latter accosted us from time to time to ask who we were and where we came from. They nearly all seemed to know the Iersche Van Damen von S. Jacob’s Straat! Several officers and soldiers saluted us also as we passed. If only the driver of some motor-car would have given us a lift, but they flew past so quickly—they probably did not even see us. The mason’s little children took turn by turn to have a ride on the hand-cart, seated on the top of all the bundles, while the others hung out of the poor mother’s arms, who cheered them on, and told them wonderful tales in Flemish. One little boy was squeezing an almost imperceptible black puppy, which he would not let go for all the world. While the young gentleman was having his turn for a ride there was a sudden halt on the way. The wee doggie had managed to wriggle out of his master’s tight embrace and, making good use of his long-sighed-for liberty, had fallen out of the cart. Luckily, no bones were broken, owing to the soft carpet of mud into which he sank. Indeed, the poor cart was obliged to stop more than once, either to make way for two regiments who were marching in different directions, or for two or three motor-cars passing all at once, and, often enough, getting literally ‘stuck in the mud,’ or to give a rest to Edmund and the workman, who had a hard time of it.
It was now getting dark, and a thick mist was rising. The sound of the firing was getting more and more feeble as we left Ypres farther and farther behind. From time to time, a dead horse, stretched out in the ditch or in a field close by, would make us turn away from the mournful sight. We walked and walked—would we never arrive at our destination? It became darker at every moment—we were obliged to keep well together, for fear of being left behind. The trees which lined the road loomed out as though they had been some unearthly spectres, with their leafless branches like gaunt arms uplifted towards the sky to call down vengeance on the earth; while, magnified through the thick mist, the moon tinged with red seemed to reflect the bloodshed and carnage of the battle-field.
At last we caught sight of a feeble glimmer which—unlike the lights of the motor-cars, as they sped along, throwing an electric flash into our dazzled eyes and then vanishing, leaving the darkness more intense—grew brighter and brighter as we advanced. Could it really be Poperinghe? We hastened on, almost forgetting our fatigue. Yes, we were truly there—it was Poperinghe! But where were we to turn our steps? Soon we were surrounded by a crowd. Soldiers and civilians, men and women, looked with commiseration on this new group of fugitives who added to the number of those who already filled the town. Reverend Mother asked to be directed to the Carmelites, remembering the recommendation of Mr. Tack. Two girls offered to conduct us there. At this moment a gentleman came forward asking what we desired (we only discovered later that it was the Judge). In a few words, Mother Prioress explained the situation. On hearing mention made of La Sainte Union, where Lady Abbess had taken refuge, he informed us it was quite close at hand, that if we wished he would conduct us there first; and in case there should not be room for us all, he would undertake to find us lodgings. Needless to say, we willingly accepted the proposal, and in a few minutes we found ourselves in a cheery little parlour, awaiting the Superioress’ decision. The permission was accorded at first rather hesitatingly, and for one night only. Was it astonishing? The poor nuns had just given up the school premises to the French Ambulance; they had also given refuge to a community from Oostnienukerke, who were afterwards rejoined by their Sisters from Passchendaele, and now we arrived also! However, when they discovered that we really were what we made ourselves out to be, and not German spies, or vagrants—and especially as, during the conversation, one of the elder nuns found that she had formerly been the mistress of Mother Prioress when she had been to the convent at Hazebrouck in preparation for her first Communion, the community having been expelled from France eleven years before—they soon changed, and for a whole fortnight showed us every kind of hospitality.
Now Dame Placid and Sister Romana heard the news, and came running down to welcome us, then Sister Magdalen and dear Dame Josephine. The meeting was a happy one, which however soon changed to sadness, when we related what had happened to the old Abbey. We were impatient to see our beloved Lady Abbess. Soon our dear Prioress, who had gone first to break the news gently, reappeared, and we all trooped upstairs, little dreaming of the sad scene which that very little parlour would witness in less than a fortnight’s time. Lady Abbess was at once both anxious and pleased; so, after an exchange of greetings, and having received her blessing, we retired. We now began to realise what we had done. It was all so strange; we were now truly poor, not knowing what would befall us. ‘Sacré Cœur de Jésus, j’ai confiance en Vous!’ We were really and truly destitute of all human aid, and depended solely on our loving Father in Heaven for everything.
Soon the good nuns had prepared supper for us, after which we made a visit to the church, and then were not sorry to be shown the way to the dormitory. It had belonged to the children, who, owing to the war, had not returned after the holidays. Oh dear! Where were our cells? Here there were not even alcoves, but some pretty-looking curtains covering two sides of each bed. We were not even alone in the dormitory, several beds being already occupied. Suddenly, to our great surprise, Antoinette Doone, one of our old pupils, who had always remained especially attached to Mother Prioress, threw herself into Reverend Mother’s arms saying that she also was stopping at La Sainte Union with her two servants. She was delighted at the idea of sharing the dormitory with her old mistresses. Truly the war brought about strange coincidences, and made us meet with devoted friends when we least expected it. Soon we were reposing on a soft mattress and spring bed, and unaccustomed to such luxury, as well as worn out by the fatigues of the day, we were not long in falling asleep.