The Chaplain

by Paul Almond

  Jack nodded. “I’d be delighted, Ingall.” Although the supplier was a good mile away, Jack saw he had no alternative. And indeed, a good brisk walk might do his spirit some good.

  “Ripping of you, old man. You see, then I must run home and change, because the Bishop has invited me, along with the Dean, to the banquet for the officers of the contingent. It’s being given by members of the Garrison Club in the Citadel itself. I’ve never been. Have you?”

  Jack shook his head. The Citadel, quite a landmark, had been designed in 1820 in the shape of a four-pointed polygon as a defence system; it covered thirty-seven acres and took thirty years to build. Jack would love to have gone, for it now served as the transit billet for the Royal Canadian Regiment’s officers heading to Africa.

  He watched Ingall whirl and hurry out. He had managed to throw not one but several barbs in Jack’s direction. Barbs? How uncharitable! But nonetheless, it did bother Jack that he had not been invited to the Citadel.

  Back at the office, he faced Margaret. “Any chance now of seeing the Bishop?”

  None, the Secretary confirmed, and pressed her lips together.

  Time’s awasting, thought Jack. Repressing his annoyance, he grabbed the money in an envelope she held out for the wine and headed across the cathedral close, passing a railway clerk who came hurrying in, telegram in hand. On impulse, Jack followed him back into the office where the clerk handed his telegram to the church secretary. Savagely, she tore it open. In her floral cotton frock and prim hairdo, she stared at the telegram and then looked up abruptly. “You should see this, Mr. Alford, before I hand it to the Bishop.”

  Jack looked down at it — one of his favourite students in his parish of Blue Point, Eino Virtanen, a Finnish lad, had been drowned along with his father, Heikki, in Lac St. Jean. Their funeral was Tuesday. Would Jack please return Monday to perform the last rites?

  He folded it and gave it back to the Secretary. What a shame. Such a fine student, and a good family too. Return for the funeral? Oh yes, he certainly would.

  * * *

  Jack walked into the store that already had a goodly share of visitors. Most of them were young men buying supplies to take on the troopship moored in the harbour. He threaded through the lads to the owner behind the counter, himself a rather portly English member of the Holy Trinity congregation. “I see business is good,” Jack offered, “with all the troops arriving.”

  “Business may be good, but not the soldiers’ mission, for sure.”

  “Oh?”

  The storekeeper shook his head. “We’ve got no business, no business at all messing with people like those Boers — after all, they’re colonists just like us. My wife says it’s a crime — put on us by politicians and businessmen — they’re just trying to make a dollar out of armaments and uniforms, and such. And you know what? They’re after the gold and diamonds there. They want to grab all that through the blood of our offspring.”

  A voice from behind Jack spoke up: “What’s that I hear?” A young lad with red hair and freckles had his dander up. “Say that again.”

  The plump, grey-haired storekeeper wiped his hands on his apron, looked at him, but did not speak.

  “We heard what you said,” the soldier went on. “No right to go over there? No right to go fight savages who’ve had the audacity to attack her Majesty the Queen?”

  The storekeeper raised his eyes. “They didn’t attack our Queen; they defended their land. Pushed into doing that by British politicians: Cecil Rhodes and businessmen like him. They be bigger savages than the Boers, if you ask me.” The red-haired lad tried to interrupt but the storekeeper kept right on. “Gold, that’s what they want. And diamonds! Once that got discovered in the Transvaal, those businessmen, they sure set their sights on that fortune. Why else go way down there and fight? That greedy bunch, it’s their problem, not ours.”

  “Do you hear that boys?” the redhead said. “I’m putting back my supplies right now. I’m not buying from anyone who won’t support Her Majesty and our fight for freedom!” With that, he dropped his supplies on the floor and stomped out.

  Jack stared as one after another the soldiers, some reluctantly, placed their provisions on counters and barrels and walked out, too. Jack was left standing, with the storekeeper angrily returning the goods to the shelves.

  Jack turned. “Are there many who feel as you do?”

  “All my wife’s family. She’s French Canadian. They’re against our fighting Britain’s battles for them. Read the Quebec Telegraph, or the Vérité — even our own Canadian Clergyman. They’re all against it, too. Not one single French Canadian in Quebec wants this war.”

  Jack frowned. “I’ve heard a good few French Canadians are leaving with the contingent.”

  “That’s as may be. Always fools in any bunch. If you ask me, those politicians in London, Chamberlain and — ”

  “He’s the Colonial Secretary?”

  “Yes sir, and that Lord Minto, our own Governor General, he’s British too, just as bad as the rest — they all want us to go get shot or killed so’s Rhodes and his bunch can get their hands on all the gold and diamonds. That’s what my family says. And that’s what I say too.” He glanced up. “You’ve come for wine?”

  Jack nodded and handed over the envelope from the church office. The man gave him two sizable bottles of port, and Jack went off, head spinning with new thoughts.

  Chapter Two

  By the time Jack reached the cathedral office with the wine, everyone had gone home to prepare for the evening’s festivities — and festivities there were sure to be, packed with fun: the officers and their clergy being feasted just outside the gate at the magnificent Garrison Club.

  At his desk, Jack found a message from the Rev. Lennox Williams saying that for the enlisted men, a grand smoking concert or party had been planned, and asking him if he would be kind enough to “show the flag” and attend that dinner beforehand, and say an appropriate Grace.

  Jack walked down from the Cathedral to the Lower Town, passing old draw-bridges and piers with barrels of oysters for sale; idle fishing smacks bobbing beside the last of the great sailing ships, moored incongruously next to docked steam-driven freighters loading freight from swaybacked horses’ carts. As dusk settled, he turned onto one of the southeast piers that reached out into the icy St. Lawrence, and headed for the low barrack-like immigration sheds, the Quebec home of the enlisted men of the Royal Canadian Regiment.

  He tramped through the gates of the high picket fence and joined a group gathering for supper. He lost no time in checking to see if anyone had heard of any Church of England chaplain being assigned. Not a one. When the doors opened, Jack went in with them and found himself at a folding table to the right of a grizzled old Corporal at its head. “God Save the Queen” began the proceedings, concluding with huzzas and cheers, and then Jack rose and proclaimed a suitable Grace.

  The Corporal proved quick to introduce himself as Joseph Ferguson, from Glace Bay. He asked, “You the new Chaplain?” Ferguson had a short mop of greying hair, trim frame, and grizzled brows under which knowing black eyes had clearly seen it all. But Jack saw that beneath the tough exterior and well-worn uniform beat a good heart.

  Jack shook his head. “I’m staying at the cathedral this week, and my Dean, he asked me to come down and say the Grace.”

  The ladies of the lower town had volunteered to help out, and now they dished up hearty knuckles of meat, mushy potatoes and coarse bread. Ferguson lost no time in tucking in. “We’ll not be seeing a lot of this on the battlefield, I can tell you.”

  “You been though a few battles, have you?”

  “Enough to know we should avoid them. Specially this bunch.”

  “You mean the enlistees who’ve come here?” Jack asked.

  Ferguson nodded, glanced at Jack, and lifted a heavy knuckle to gnaw at it.

  “They’re inexperienced, I know,” persisted Jack, “but they all seem healthy and hearty, and raring to go.”<
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  Ferguson nodded again. “Ask any o’ them what a Mauser is. Ask any o’ them what to do when you hear a shell whistling.” He shook his head.

  “A bit untrained?” Jack began eating, and oddly enough, found it tasty. Ferguson shot him a look, and put down his knuckle. “Half the boys here never fired a rifle, Padre. They think that me and us other NCOs are gonna whip ’em all into shape on that there cattle boat.” He snorted in disgust, and went on eating.

  “Cattle boat?”

  “The Sardinian. Converted it into a troopship. Fit for five hundred, maybe, maximum, and they’re gonna cram a thousand on it. You know how long it takes to get to South Africa?”

  Jack shrugged. “No idea. Probably a couple of weeks.”

  “More.” Ferguson shook his head, still chewing hungrily. “I’m not looking forward to it. You watch, they’re doing this in such a rush, I’ll take a bet there’ll not be enough food, or maybe it’s water, or maybe it’s ammunition, there’s always something missing, just when you need it.”

  His companion across the table, a corporal, nodded vigorously. “Corp’s right. He’s always right. Trust him.”

  “Lucky you’re not coming, Father,” Ferguson went on. “Stick to your nice safe cathedral up there on the hill. And just pray they don’t pick you.”

  “So it is true they have no chaplain yet.”

  “Not on your life. You think we’ve had a chaplain with us these last fifteen years? No sir. Not since they stuck a couple of theology students on us in them Indian battles. I was a private then, saw no use fer ’em m’self.”

  Jack was shocked. “Not even when you had to fight?”

  “Well... we haven’t done that much fighting, I will say that. Few knockabouts with some Indians, but nothing to write home about.” He coughed, and then shovelled in some mashed potatoes. “You just wait till we get to them dry deserts over there, crawling with blood-thirsty Boers. That’ll give the lads something to worry about —” he swallowed a mouthful — “even if they do hand us enough rifles and ammo, which I still frankly doubt.” He looked up as another Corporal at an adjacent table rose, clearly primed with the demon alcohol, and proposed a rambling toast to the Queen and their own speedy victory — which should come in just a few months, long before the one year term they had signed for, and more than enough time to vanquish that raggle-taggle Boer army.

  This was soon followed by other toasts, uproariously proclaimed and thoroughly enjoyed, for most men had already partaken of good amounts of intoxicants.

  As they continued eating and drinking, Jack found his need to be a part of this Militia mounting, in spite of the Corporal’s predictions. He admired the camaraderie amongst these men who had made the cut. In later conversations during the evening, he discovered that in Vancouver they had taken only seventeen of some sixty applications, in Nelson BC only eight out of seventy, and so on. These men clearly felt that they were “the chosen” and their spirit of patriotism was running high.

  As Jack moved around after they had risen from the tables, he found himself gravitating towards the companies from Nova Scotia and New Brunswick. One group of young men were being entertained by a tall, craggy youth whose accent showed him to be a Maritimer, and Jack wandered over. His face seemed as beaten up by the elements as one much older, and carried a few pocks and pimples.

  The merriment ceased due to Jack’s clerical collar. He wished on occasions such as this he could be seen as one of the boys; after all, was he not a Maritimer himself? Brought up on a farm, and with the same life, at least until he’d gone into the church.

  The lads formed a respectful circle, and after Jack introduced himself and where he was from, their leader took over. “Aye, a Gaspesian! Well sir, I’m from Dingwall, Eamon McAndrews at your service.” A couple of the others, still intimidated by Jack’s garb, bashfully gave their names.

  “And what induced you to leave that beautiful Cape Breton and set off for South Africa, Eamon? A sense of adventure?” Jack didn’t want to seem too patriotic at the start.

  “I know what you expect us to say, Father, that we’re off to defend her Majesty Queen Victoria. But none of us had that idea in our heads, did we boys?”

  One shrugged, but the others agreed with him. He went on, “Six younger in my family, four o’ them girls, so how d’ye expect mammy to feed us without me goin’ to work? And no work out there on the Cape, I’ll tell you. Pappy lost our boat last year when he drowned out in Aspy Bay. Lucky I had the grippe then or I would’a gone with ’im. So last summer we joined up — out of greed! Yeah, we need to eat!” The other gawky lads chuckled, but their skinny frames bore out his words.

  Then they joined in recounting their own backgrounds, laughing and talking; they did seem a happy bunch.

  “Yep, now we got three square meals and a roof over our heads that don’t leak.” The others chorused agreement. “And a set of new clothes. And I hear they’re going to be handing out another set on the boat.”

  “Well, good for you!” Jack smiled at their infectious jollity. As Cape Bretoners, they were no strangers to bottles of beer.

  “We send back what pay we can, and now looks like we get extra money fer goin’ over there to beat the bejesus out o’ that lot o’ Boers. Not a bad deal, I’d say.”

  Jack winced at his swear word, and Eamon looked guilty. “Begging your pardon, Father. So you looking to come with us then?”

  Jack glanced down, not knowing quite what to say. The Corporal had given him a quite other take on the whole proceedings, and yet... these lads here, they did need a chaplain, oh yes.

  “You’ll have a hard time with that Eamon there, Father. Only time he seen the inside of a church was when they buried his pa.”

  “Well,” Jack offered, “they’re saying it’s not going to last too long. And perhaps it won’t be too difficult.”

  Jack and his new friends left and joined the men surging up the hill and then along towards the imposing grey stone building of Quebec’s Armoury, just outside the walls of the city. Jack pointed out to the Nova Scotians this local and ancient architecture, the steep, high roofs, tall, thin windows with green frames piercing the roof in dormer style, and slits imitating the gun ports of old.

  Once inside the drill hall, the stone walls and hardwood floor magnified the raucous celebrations. In fact, the whole evening turned out to be rather more boisterous than Jack would have preferred. He found the entertainments a bit too “down home”: some half-learned recitations, skits, songs, even a boy’s choir from one of the churches, and a number of soloists.

  That night Jack found it hard to sleep. His Queen had been assaulted by mindless hordes, as some of the more conservative papers would have it. The boys he’d met represented an ideal cross-section of Canadian manhood, the pick of the nation’s sinew and brain. All they lacked was a chaplain. All well and good, but what about his duties northward in Lake St. John, with the Virtanen family facing their grief on Tuesday? How could he resolve this?

  For two years he had been working over a broad swatch of the Quebec countryside, trying hard to build his little settlements into proper parishes: Lake Edward, Blue Point, Moose Park, Forrestdale, Arthabaska. He’d been travelling mostly on horseback, sometimes by sleigh, and recently the new train line to Lake St. John. And of course shank’s mare. He had grown to admire his parishioners for their moral courage and hardiness, though their lives in no way approximated the harsh conditions of the parish in which he’d served the two years previously on the Canadian Labrador. But the similarity of the two postings was undeniable. And so was he not, he reasoned, ready for change? This new experience of a foreign country, the dark, mysterious continent of Africa which he’d often thought about visiting — would it not help mature him, bring him new insights, and build his spiritual stamina for the days to come?

  If only he knew someone to ask for guidance. The Bishop, from the Old Country, was altogether too haughty and the Dean usually overwhelmed with schedules. How he wished ther
e was some way to speak to his father back on the Gaspe Coast. Old Poppa would surely know how to handle this with always good instincts and ideas, even though he was not really educated nor wise in the ways of city doings, nor indeed did he know anything of the ecclesiastical goings-on in the diocese.

  In fact, Jack found himself caught by a wave of homesickness. It didn’t happen very often: much as he loved the Old Homestead, he was always so involved with his parishioners and his busy life that he had little time to think back on those glorious days he’d spent growing up in Shigawake, on the Gaspe, that peninsula jutting into the Gulf of St. Lawrence. But now he visualised his three sisters again: Winnie, Jean and Lillian. The latter had spent a year with him on the Labrador shore, and was now teaching in Shigawake. Winnie would soon be off to the big city to become a nurse, but Jeanie, too young to leave, still helped her mother as best she could. He would have loved to discuss all this with his brother Mac. Clare, still a teenager, worked on the farm, and little Earle kept getting in everybody’s way — but wanted very much to be a farmer like his brothers. Their dear mother, Mary Ann, so hard working — she would wear herself out. He hoped that Eric, her youngest, would be her last.

  The restless night did nothing to improve his disposition. Sunday morning he arrived at church in the pouring rain. He stripped off his sopping coat, brushed his trousers free of the worst splashing, and set about helping the other clergy gathered from around the city. He stowed their umbrellas and arranged for each to receive the printed orders of service. Then he got himself into his cassock and surplice.

  He just had to speak to the Bishop. But how? Right now the Bishop, tall and stately with an enormous white beard and moustache, was surrounded by clergy to whom he was giving last minute instructions and exchanging pleasantries. Should Jack discuss a matter of such importance, and at the same time so personal, here and now? Well, it did deal with the welfare of a thousand gallant soldiers going off to fight and possibly die, some of whom were already crowding into the cathedral. But did he feel secure enough in front of these others to make his proposal known? Unsure, he hovered nearby.