[6] Courage of the Irish Nation.
CHAPTER IV
IN THE CELLARS
We were soon recalled from our reflections; for Mother Prioress, emerging from the parlour, announced to us that we were to have visitors that night. Two priests and five ladies had begged to be allowed to come to sleep in our cellars, as news had been brought that the Germans might penetrate into the town that very evening. One could not refuse at such a moment, though the idea was a novel one—enclosed nuns taking in strangers for the night. But in the face of such imminent peril, and in a case of life or death, there was no room for hesitation. So to work we set, preparing one cellar for the priests, and another for the ladies. In the midst of dragging down carpets, arm-chairs, mattresses, the news soon spread that there was word from Poperinghe. We all crowded round Mother Prioress in the cellar, where, by the light of a little lamp, she endeavoured in vain to decipher a letter which Dame Placid had hurriedly scribbled in pencil, before the driver left to return to Ypres. The picture was worth painting! Potatoes on one side, mattresses and bolsters on the other—a carpet half unrolled—each of us trying to peep over the other’s shoulder, and to come as near as possible to catch every word. But alas! these latter were few in number and not reassuring. ‘We can only get one room for Lady Abbess.... Everywhere full up.... We are standing shivering in the rain.... Please send ——’ Then followed a list of things which were wanting. Poor Lady Abbess! Poor Dame Josephine! What was to be done? Mother Prioress consoled us by telling us she would send the carriage back the first thing next morning to see how everyone was, and to take all that was required. We then finished off our work as quickly as possible, and retired to our own cellar to say compline and matins; for it was already 10 o’clock. After this we lay down on our ‘straw-sacks’—no one undressed. Even our ‘refugees’ had brought their packages with them, in case we should have to fly during the night. Contrary to all expectations, everything remained quiet—even the guns seemed to sleep. Was it a good or evil omen? Time would show.
D. Patrick. D. Columban. D. Bernard. D. Teresa. D. Walburge.
D. Placid. Mother Prioress. D. Aloysius.
The Irish Dames of Ypres.
At 5 o’clock next morning the alarm-clock aroused the community, instead of the well-known sound of the bell. There was no need, either, of the accustomed ‘Domine, labia mea aperies’ at each cell door. At 5.30, we repaired to the choir as usual for meditation, and at 6 recited lauds—prime and tierce. At 7, the conventual Mass began; when, as though they had heard the long-silent bell, the guns growled out, like some caged lion, angry at being disturbed from its night’s rest. The signal given, the battle waged fiercer than before, and the rattling windows, together with the noise resounding through the church and choir, told that the silence of the night had been the result of some tactics of the Germans, who had repulsed the Allies. Day of desolation, greater than we had before experienced! Not because the enemy was nearer, not because we were in more danger, but because, at the end of Holy Mass, we found ourselves deprived of what, up till then, had been our sole consolation in our anguish and woe. The sacred species had been consumed—the tabernacle was empty. The sanctuary lamp was extinguished. The fear of desecration had prompted this measure of prudence, and henceforth our daily Communion would be the only source of consolation, from which we should have to derive the courage and strength we so much needed.
The Germans nearer meant greater danger; so, with still more ardour, we set to work, especially as we were now still more reduced in numbers. The question suddenly arose, ‘Who was to prepare the dinner?’ Our cook, as has already been said, had been one of the three German Sisters who had left us on September 8; subsequently, Sister Magdalen had replaced her, and she, too, now was gone. After mature deliberation, Dame Columban was named to fulfil that important function. But another puzzle presented itself—What were we to eat? For weeks, no one had seen an egg! Now, no milk could be got. Fish was out of the question—there was no one left to fish. To complete the misery, no bread arrived, for our baker had left the town. Nothing remained but to make some small loaves of meal, and whatever else we could manage—with potatoes, oatmeal, rice, and butter (of which the supply was still ample), adding apples and pears in abundance. Edmund was sent out to see if he could find anything in the town. He returned with four packets of Quaker oats, saying that that was all he could find, but that we could still have a hundred salted herrings if we wished to send for them.
We had just begun the cooking, when the tinkling of the little bell called everyone together, only to hear that a German Taube was sailing just over the Abbey; so we were all ordered down to the cellars, but before we reached them there was crack! crack! bang! bang! and the rifle-shots flew up, from the street outside the convent, to salute the unwelcome visitor. But to no purpose, and soon the sinister whistling whirr of a descending projectile grated on our ears, while, with a loud crash, the bomb fell on some unfortunate building. We had at first been rather amused at this strange descent to our modern catacombs; but we soon changed our mirth to prayer, and aspiration followed aspiration, till the ceasing of the firing told us that the enemy was gone. We then emerged from the darkness, for we had hidden in the excavation under the steps leading up to the entrance of the Monastery, as the surest place of refuge, there being no windows. This was repeated five or six times a day; so we brought some work to the cellars to occupy us. The firing having begun next morning before breakfast was well finished, one sister arrived down with tea and bread and butter. Later on, while we were preparing some biscuits, the firing started again; so we brought down the mixing-bowl, ingredients and all. We continued our work and prayers and paid no more attention to the bombs or the rifle-shots.
Our dear Lady Abbess was not forgotten. The next day Mother Prioress sent for the carriage, while we all breathed a fervent ‘Deo gratias’ that our aged Abbess was out of danger; for what would she have done in the midst of all the bombs? Owing to the panic, which was now at its height, all the inhabitants who were able were leaving the town, abandoning their houses, property—all, all—anxious only to save their lives. There was no means of finding a carriage.
Our life, by this time, had become still more like that of the Christians of the first era of the Church, our cellars taking the place of the catacombs, to which they bore some resemblance. We recited the Divine Office in the provision cellar under the kitchen, which we had first intended for Lady Abbess. A crucifix and statue of Our Lady replaced the altar. On the left were huge wooden cases filled with potatoes, and one small one of turnips—on the right, a cistern of water, with a big block for cutting meat (we had carefully hidden the hatchet, in case the Germans, seeing the two together, should be inspired to chop off our heads). Behind us, other cases were filled with boxes and sundry things, whilst on top of them were the bread-bins. We were, however, too much taken up with the danger we were in to be distracted by our surroundings. We realised then, to the full, the weakness of man’s feeble efforts, and how true it is that God alone is able to protect those who put their trust in Him. The cellar adjoining, leading up to the kitchen, was designed for the refectory. In it were the butter-tubs, the big meat-safe, the now empty jars for the milk. A long narrow table was placed down the centre, with our serviettes, knives, spoons, and forks; while everyone tried to take as little space as possible, so as to leave room for her neighbour. The procession to dinner and supper was rather longer than usual, leading from the ante-choir through the kitchen, scullery, down the cellar stairs, and it was no light work carrying down all the ‘portions,’ continually running up and down the steps, with the evident danger of arriving at the bottom quicker than one wanted to, sending plates and dishes in advance.