But when the stolid Dutchman in charge of the telegraph office saw my dispatches he shrugged his shoulders discouragingly.  “It is not possible to send them from here,” he explained.  “We have no instrument here but have to telephone everything to Hulst, eight miles away.  As I do not understand English it would be impossible to telephone your dispatches.”  There seemed nothing for it but to walk to Hulst and back again, for the Dutch officials refused to permit me to take the car, which was a military one, across the frontier.  Just at that moment a young Belgian priest—­Heaven bless him!—­who had overheard the discussion, approached me.  “If you will permit me, monsieur,” said he, “I will be glad to take your dispatches through to Hulst myself.  I understand their importance.  And it is well that the people in England and in America should learn what is happening here in Belgium and how bitterly we need their aid.”  Those dispatches were, I believe, the only ones to come out of Antwerp during the bombardment.  The fact that the newspaper readers in London and New York and San Francisco were enabled to learn within a few hours of what had happened in the great city on the Scheldt was due, not to any efforts of mine, but to this little Belgian priest.

But when we got back to Doel the launch was gone.  The boatman, evidently not relishing another taste of bombardment, had decamped, taking his launch with him.  And neither offers of money nor threats nor pleadings could obtain me another one.  For a time it looked as though getting back to Antwerp was as hopeless as getting to the moon.  Just as I was on the point of giving up in despair, Roos appeared with a gold-laced official whom he introduced as the chief quarantine officer.  “He is going to let you take the quarantine launch,” said he.  I don’t know just what arguments Roos had brought to bear, and I was careful not to inquire, but ten minutes later I was sitting in lonely state on the after-deck of a trim black yacht and we were streaking it up the river at twenty miles an hour.  As I knew that the fall of the city was only a matter of hours, I refused to let Roos accompany me and take the chances of being made a prisoner by the Germans, but ordered him instead to take the car, while there was yet time, and make his way to Ostend.  I never saw him again.  By way of precaution, in case the Germans should already be in possession of the city, I had taken the two American flags from the car and hoisted them on the launch, one from the mainmast and the other at the taffrail.  It was a certain satisfaction to know that the only craft that went the wrong way of the river during the bombardment flew the Stars and Stripes.  As we came within sight of the quays, the bombardment, which had become intermittent, suddenly broke out afresh and I was compelled to use both bribes and threats—­the latter backed up by a revolver—­to induce the crew of the launch to run in and land me at the quay.  An hour after I landed the city surrendered.