It is seldom in a
lifetime one is present at a perfect piece of irony like that of those
shouting Flemish peasants.
As Antwerp was falling, a letter was given to me by a friend. It was
written by Aloysius Coen of the artillery, Fort St. Catherine Wavre,
Antwerp. He died in the bombardment, thirty-four years old. He wrote:
Dear wife and children:
At the moment that I am writing you this the enemy is before us,
and the moment has come for us to do our duty for our country. When
you will have received this I shall have changed the temporary life
for the eternal life. As I loved you all dearly, my last breath
will be directed toward you and my darling children, and with a
last smile as a farewell from my beloved family am I undertaking
the eternal journey.
I hope, whatever may be your later call, you will take good care of
my dear children, and always keep them in mind of the straight
road, always ask them to pray for their father, who in sadness,
though doing his duty for his country, has had to leave them so
young.
Say good-by for me to my dear brothers and sisters, from whom I
also carry with me a great love.
Farewell, dear wife, children, and family.
Your always remaining husband, father, and brother.
ALOYS.
Then Antwerp fell, and a people that had for the first time in memory
found itself an indivisible and self-conscious state broke into sullen
flight, and its merry, friendly army came heavy-footed down the road to
another country.
Pages:
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100