The Chaplain

by Paul Almond

  Praise for The Alford Saga

  “For adventure seekers... a journey full of promise and danger.”

  — The Globe and Mail

  “Can you talk about thrill-a-minute Canadian history? You can now. Paul Almond has worked for many years as a TV and film director, and his skill shows in the drama and pacing of this first-rate read.”

  — Carole's BookTalk

  “I believe this series should be placed into the hands of every young student learning the history of Canada... ”

  — Mrs. Q Book Addict

  “The Saga has garnered much international and national acclaim, and for good reason — it provides an in-depth look into Canadian life in the late nineteenth century.”

  — Barbara Burgess bookpleasures.com

  “These are important books in an essential series: essential reading for all Gaspesians, Quebecers and Canadians. Thrilling..enthralling... interesting and compelling.”

  — The Gaspé Spec

  Also by Paul Almond

  THE ALFORD SAGA

  The Deserter: Book One

  The Survivor: Book Two

  The Pioneer: Book Three

  The Pilgrim: Book Four

  THE CHAPLAIN

  BOOK FIVE of THE ALFORD SAGA

  PAUL ALMOND

  Copyright © 2013 by Paul Almond

  All rights reserved.

  The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise stored in a retrieval system, without the express written consent of the publisher, is an infringement of the copyright law.

  First published in Canada in 2013 by Sulby Hall Publishers

  eBook edition © 2013 by Red Deer Press

  ISBN-13: 978-1-55244-323-1

  Red Deer Press acknowledges with thanks the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Ontario Arts Council for their support of our publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) for our publishing activities.

  Cover photograph by Joan Almond

  Map by David Stansfield

  Interior design by Tania Craan

  eBook revision © Red Deer Press

  For my companion and wife

  Joan

  who walks beside me always

  Preface

  The Boer War is remembered nowadays for its famous, or perhaps infamous, inventions: Boer warriors roaming in kommando groups using guerilla tactics; the British policy of “scorched earth” so hatefully practised in later wars; and putting prisoners in concentration camps, where some fifteen thousand blacks and thirty thousand whites, including half of all Boer children, died.

  The Canadians entered the war before any of these inventions were put into play. The first year was marked by fierce fighting, heroic acts, devastating disease, and especially — in contrast to today’s battles — a gentlemanly attitude that above all bore witness to good manners in warfare.

  The Royal Canadian Regiment, perhaps through a series of mistakes but also by great courage and fortitude, managed to turn the tide of the war in the historic battle of Paardeberg Drift in February 1900. Until then, a raggle-taggle bunch of farmers (“Boer”’ means farmer) had roundly beaten a far larger army of Imperial troops. The Canadian victory in February 1900 gave a great lift to the British, although it ushered in a new and dirtier form of warfare. Boer leadership and tactics changed to focus on hit-and-run raids and sabotage; this later provoked a British scorched earth policy, with farm burnings and concentration camps, until victory was simply a matter of time, arriving with the Treaty of Vereeniging in May 1902.

  This victorious first contingent, which left Canada on Oct 31st 1899, finally departed Capetown for England a year later to be cheered by the British public and congratulated by Queen Victoria. They arrived home before Christmas, 1900, before the war itself ended.

  Paul Almond, Shigawake, Quebec

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  The South African (known as the Boer) War was Canada’s first trial by fire. Great Britain, the preeminent superpower of the day, had decided to wage one of its little wars against the Transvaal and the Orange Free State: two white, Protestant, Dutch-speaking Republics in southern Africa, who had declared their independence from all European empires. The British government had become alarmed by the shift of economic and strategic power in this unpredictable Afrikaaner-controlled interior towards closer relations with Britain’s European competitors, especially Germany. So they responded by sending more troops; then Paul Kruger, President of the two Boer Republics, issued an ultimatum demanding the British government withdraw these reinforcements from his Transvaal borders within forty-eight hours. At stake was the control of rich resources — gold and diamonds — and strategic advantage.

  The Boer War’s distant and bloody conflict occupied Canadians’ discourse, engaged their imaginations, and claimed much of their time and resources. Popular literature fired young men’s imaginations with the desire for adventure and travel — especially to defend their British Empire, which covered a fifth of the world’s surface and on which the sun never set. Increasingly, the curricula of public schools inculcated patriotism and loyalty, discipline and leadership, which were reinforced by school drills, demonstrations, exercises and patriotic anniversaries. In this era of missions and missionaries, the Bible and the English language and flag seemed as indivisible as the Trinity.

  Public support for the Canadian contingent was never in question. The public mobilized immediately to fête, honour, and support our soldier heroes. Once the government had announced its decision, public enthusiasm was infectious. Young men were urged to join this missionary crusade to win the world for Christ in their generation. Newspapers hailed the men as patriots; clergy, politicians, and public persons praised their courage and sense of Christian duty; poets sang their praises; no language seemed too exaggerated. Elaborate demonstrations were organized: parades, bands, banquets and interminable speeches by politicians, clergy and local notables. Cheering crowds lined streets decorated with flags, bunting, and patriotic slogans, and civic leaders granted their employees holidays to swell the noisy crowds cheering the Royal Canadian Regiment.

  Verbatim from Carman Miller’s Painting the Map Red, and Canada’s Little War

  NOTE: I have chosen throughout to use the language then in vogue: such as Kaffir (now a slur, from the Arabic Kaffar meaning infidel), Soudan for Sudan, kharki for khaki (the correct transliteration of the Urdu and Arabic), and the practise in wide use in 1900 of telling stories through the eyes of another narrator, as will be seen with Paardeberg. And Jack, or any English Gaspesian, never spoke with, or used, the accent on Gaspé. It was Gaspe, pure and simple.

  Chapter One

  Reverend John Alford awoke from frantic dreams of war, brutal soldiers, pure women sabered against pews, babies torn from tender wombs. He sat bolt upright. Where was he?

  In his boarding house in Quebec City in October, 1899. Then what was this all about? Oh yes, those troops crowding the narrow streets. And rumours that the Boers in their devilry had attacked the good Queen’s soldiers serving in South Africa. Jack, the nickname he preferred, pushed the images from his mind and dressed quickly.

  After a good breakfast in his lodging, he hurried along the flat land below the great ramparts of Quebec, the oldest city in Canada. Three- four-story houses lined this narrow rue du Petit Champlain, just as in mediaeval Bordeaux. He turned up Côte de la Montagne, its steep curves crowded with young soldiers. A calèche rattled past loaded with rowdy recruits singing, shouting, celebrating their one last leave. Beside him an overloaded horse dug its shoes into cobblestones as it hauled more revellers up to the plateau above with its finer house
s, important churches and government buildings. The soldiers wore Glengarry caps and kilts, or forage caps, some clad in the regulation rifle-green serge uniforms. All with loyal hearts, Jack could see, having assembled here from all over Canada for their great embarkation — volunteers, he reflected, who had been activated by the purest patriotism, responding to the call of religion, blood, glory and progress, to fight and bleed for the Empire’s greatest need.

  These past weeks ministering to his parishes in Northern Quebec, Jack had heard little of the rapidly approaching war in South Africa nor the frantic enlistments across Canada; far from newspapers on their remote but hard-worked acres, his farmers had little means of acquiring news. Only yesterday morning, as he checked in at the Cathedral office, had Jack received his first earful. That alarming report, and the city busy with excited recruits, had overcharged his imagination and nourished his nightmares.

  He heard from behind: “Beg pardon, Father...” He paused and turned. “Would you know where a fella might eat a good meal without all that Frenchie sauce?” The obligatory military moustache had begun to grace the young man’s lips, but no uniform indicated that hed just enlisted as he gleamed with enthusiasm. “It took us a long train journey to get here, fer shore. Now I’m rarin’ to go, but I gotta eat something.”

  “Go? You’re off to South Africa with the troops?”

  “Monday, they told us. The sooner the better. No time to lose — them Boers went and invaded the British Colony of Natal. They up and attacked Her Majesty’s forces on their own ground.”

  “Really? I knew the Boers sent an ultimatum three weeks ago. They demanded a reply from the British within forty-eight hours — got everyone in an uproar, so I’m told.”

  “Me too! Those hateful scum went and encircled Colonel Baden-Powell at Mafeking. And they’re advancing on Ladysmith! That’s why I volunteered. Hard to get in, you know, lotsa fellas got turned down: too short, too young, size of chest or fitness — though some got in because o’ who they knew.” He went on proudly. “They say about a thousand of us is gonna get on that there Sardinian Monday.”

  “Quite a force,” Jack exclaimed.

  “Bringin’ two or three doctors, some nurses, even a YMCA man — all to look after us.”

  “And who is the Chaplain, by the way? Someone from Ontario?” Jack wondered if the clergyman in question had volunteered or been selected by his bishop.

  “Chaplain? No chaplain, Father.”

  Jack frowned. “You sure?”

  “Yes, Father. My cousin, he’s Captain of “A” Company, we’re from Manitoba, regular churchgoer, so he got complaining last night on the train. The Frenchies, they got one, but we don’t.”

  Jack absorbed that. How dare they send off this young laddie with others his age to face death and suffering without a spiritual counsellor?

  He pulled himself together, and gestured. “Now if you just go on up straight ahead, turn left and go down rue St. Louis, you’ll be sure to find lots of restaurants with whatever you like to eat.”

  The soldier thanked him and set off. Jack turned right before Place d’Armes and strode up Sainte Anne Street, now even more worried and still haunted by his dreams. These young Canadians going into battle... How would he have felt if, even before attending university, he’d had to face a murderous foe? Not many hardened veterans hereabouts — just happy-go-lucky fellows with little hint of malice. Here they all were, for the first time in their lives traipsing up and down the quaint, old narrow streets that might have belonged to some crumbling city in Europe. How would they survive against those beastly and bloodthirsty Boers?

  He entered the close of Holy Trinity Cathedral, centre of the vast Quebec diocese, an area that included much of Labrador and most of Quebec, five times the size of England. As the seat of the Bishop, it drew Jack back every month or so from his little parishes around Lake St. John. The Cathedral’s day-to-day goings-on fell, as was usual, to the Dean, Lennox Williams, who’d been born in Lennoxville where Jack attended Bishop’s University. Jack had even coached a bit of rugby across the St. Francis river at Bishop’s College School which Lennox had attended, so they might have something in common. But no, on the whole the Dean paid Jack scant attention. And this weekend, the Bishop, Andrew Hunter Dunn, would have far too much on his hands, so the Dean was his only conduit to resolving the question of a chaplain.

  Opening the door to the church office, Jack saw his stiff figure bent over the desk of their prim secretary, Margaret. “May I have a word with you, Dean?”

  “Not just now, Alford. We’re expecting a packed Cathedral tomorrow. Canon Scott is preaching.” His high forehead over well-marked dark eyebrows, his dark, heavy moustache and short, neat beard, all signalled a fearsome presence to Jack.

  “Oh? I look forward to that. So all the troops are Church of England then?”

  “Mostly, I’d say,” mumbled Williams. “Some Presbyterians, I’m told, and of course, Romans, mostly French from this province. Father O’Leary is leading a Low Mass for them tomorrow in the Basilica. He’s embarking with them, we’ve heard.”

  As the Dean turned to go, Jack asked, “Have you heard who is representing us?”

  “No idea. Whoever he is, he’s not preaching tomorrow at any rate.”

  “I’ve heard they’ve not chosen a clergyman as chaplain yet.”

  “Impossible, Alford. Of course they have. They must’ve.”

  “No sir, I’ve heard not.”

  The Dean, preoccupied with tomorrow’s service, was paying little attention.

  But still, the horror of these young innocents heading off to fight and die for the Empire distressed Jack. Did they not deserve succour? Could it be true that not one of the clergy had volunteered? He had no intention of going off himself... But then again, as he reflected, ever since getting his B.A. degree recently he had wanted to visit that dark mysterious African continent.

  He blurted out, “Sir, I’ll take the challenge if no one else will.”

  The Dean stopped and turned.

  Now where did that come from? Jack asked himself. A ghastly mistake? But Jack was not one to shirk a challenge. After spending two years in the most inhospitable environment on earth, the Labrador Coast, he made up his mind: let their tramp steamer be shipwrecked, let his regiment be devastated by cannonball or bayonet, let the chaplains be slaughtered by those Devil’s henchmen, no matter — if he were chosen, yes, he would go.

  “You, Alford?” Lennox Williams snapped. “Out of the question! What about your parishioners? How would they get along if you went off adventuring?” The Dean shook his head. “Can’t have one shirking one’s duties now, can we?” He strode off down the hall and closed his door.

  So much for that. Jack’s shoulders sagged, but he saw Margaret, tight-lipped, watching. A few months ago, he’d even gone so far as to ask her out. His heavy-set athletic frame was shorter than hers, but his large and piercing eyes, although almost black, carried some warmth as they looked into parishioners’ souls. Well, with the ecclesiastic taboos on relations with parishioners, and his travelling, he’d not benefited from any female friendship since the Labrador, where the lovely Lorna had been a warm confidante, before she left. Margaret, though cold as those winter floes along the St. Lawrence, was at least a female. Still unmarried, she was skinny as a hoe, but ever since she had aborted his attempt at friendship, in his presence she kept extolling neat, handsome and well-dressed men, which of course quite excluded Jack, with his round moon-like face and his slightly rumpled appearance. But then, Lennox Willliams, of a wealthy family, could pay more attention to his wardrobe.

  For this reason she seemed partial to the Dean, by no means a romantic figure. Perhaps, thought Jack, like him I should start being unpleasant to her. But in truth, she was about as inviting as an icicle.

  Jack went to find a more sheltering environment: up the four Cathedral steps he leapt and let himself in through the great oaken doors. For all its plain, block-like exterior and bold ste
eple, the interior was impressive. But Jack didn’t notice. He paused at a pew, then slipped through its door, and sidled in to kneel. The small doors reminded him that only last year, the practice of pew-renting had been abolished. He glanced at the bold, brass eagle on the lectern from which he had occasionally read the lesson.

  In the peace of the cathedral, a certain calm descended. After a few moments, Jack bowed his head. The dream images still haunted him. “Please Lord,” he whispered, “in this great enterprise, make sure our lads have someone worthy to guide them spiritually.” He felt strongly that in their righteous battle against such inhuman devils, the soldiers needed a wise and courageous padre.

  After a time, Jack sat back on his pew, deep in thought. Should he press his point? No, of course not, he was much too inexperienced. He glanced up at the balcony to his left, which boasted the country’s only imperial box, fronted by a brass balustrade and decorated in royal blue. The Monarch’s coat of arms reminded him in no uncertain terms of the British Empire. As did the gift given by the King himself over a century ago: solid silver plate, chalice, pattens and candlesticks, all lying in a glass case along the right-hand wall. Jack’s country parishes bore no such splendour. One day, he thought, I might be Curate here.

  The doors broke open and the present curate, Ingall Smith, some ten years his senior, called out, “Ah, there you are, Jack!” He came up wearing a worried frown, frizzy hair falling about his ears but thinning on top, his large and piercing nose supporting thick steel glasses. “Jack, I’m frightfully sorry to ask, but would you mind doing me a tremendous favour, in fact doing us all one.”

  “Of course.”

  “The Bishop has asked me to get these orders of service to Canon Scott over at St. Matthews. But for some odd reason, I haven’t been as diligent as I might and I’m afraid we don’t have enough wine for all those troops’ Eucharist tomorrow. Our delivery’s not till Thursday. Would you mind awfully running down and picking up some? You do know our supplier?”