In their
carriages little families of refugees had made their homes. They are
still living in them, hanging their washing from the windows, cooking
their meals in these narrow rooms. They have settled down as
though the rest of their lives is to be spent in a siding. We heard their
voices, speaking Flemish, as our train passed on. One woman was
singing her child to sleep with a sweet old lullaby. In my train there
was singing also. A party of four young Frenchmen came in, forcing
their way hilariously into a corridor which seemed packed to the last
inch of space. I learnt the words of the refrain which they sang at
every station:
A bas Guillaume!
C'est un filou
II faut le pendre
Il faut le pendre
La corde a son cou!
The young Fleming with a pale beard and moustache smiled as he
glanced at the Frenchmen.
"They have had better luck," he said. "We bore the first brunt."
I left the train and the friends I had made. We parted with an "Au
revoir" and a "Good luck!" When I went down to the station the next
morning I learnt that a train of refugees had been in collision at La
Marquise, near Boulogne. Forty people had been killed and sixty
injured.
After their escape from the horrors of Antwerp the people on this train
of tragedy had been struck again by a blow from the clenched fist of
fate.
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