The Chaplain

by Paul Almond

  The Bishop spotted him through the small group. “Good to see you, Alford. How are we this morning?”

  “Very well, thank you sir.”

  The Bishop went on without a pause, “I was wondering if you’d mind taking the evening prayer for the Dean and Curate tonight? We’re all going to the Citadel again at the invitation of Lord Minto, to dine with the Officers of the regiment.”

  “It will be a delight, sir.” Blast it, he thought, not invited again.

  “Very good then. Oh, and, er, would you mind holding the Bible for me when I read the Gospel? Ingall will carry the mitre.”

  “Of course.”

  The Bishop turned, but stopped himself, apparently feeling that he’d been a bit peremptory. “Well, how was your last time out in the province?”

  “It went well, sir.” And then Jack drew himself up and spoke out. “M’ Lord, may I impart an item of some importance?”

  The Bishop’s frown cut him off. Clearly not a time to be interrupted.

  But Jack pressed on regardless. “These young men coming to our wonderful service —”

  The Bishop turned away, mumbling, “Indeed they are.”

  “But Sir!” Jack blurted loudly, “they are going off to fight without any guidance. No Church of England chaplain!”

  The Bishop turned back. “No Alford, that’s quite impossible.”

  “Sir, it’s true.”

  The Bishop stood stock-still.

  “They do have Father O’Leary for the French Catholics,” Jack pressed. “But, no one to care for our own.”

  The Bishop paused, looking hard at him. “Dear me! After this service, my day is full. All these ongoing celebrations.” He stood, perplexed. The room had fallen silent. “How on earth does one find a chaplain now?” Then he added, “Alford, I’m sure the Primate has selected someone and the man is just a bit late arriving.”

  “You would think so, my Lord, but with the speed of the mobilization and the hectic enlistments, perhaps no one thought of it.”

  The cathedral bells began to peel. The gathering grew restless.

  Jack had never seen the great man so stunned; he appeared to be grasping for an idea, but none came.

  “Sir...”

  “Yes?” The Bishop quickened. “You have an idea?”

  “Yes sir.” Jack paused. “Me!”

  “You?”

  “Yes sir. I am not only ready, but very willing.” The words sounded extra loud among the assembled clergy. Jack blushed.

  The Bishop seemed taken aback. “But you already have such an onerous and time-consuming position here.”

  “Yes, but one thousand young men,” Jack pressed, “they are going forth to do battle, and perhaps to die...”

  The Bishop looked at him for a long moment. Then he turned, and as the organ blared out the opening bars of the processional hymn, he left the sacristy and with his retinue proceeded down a side aisle. Jack hurried to catch up, for his place was near the front.

  Jack marvelled at the assemblage as he moved down beside the troops, all singing lustily. Nine clergy followed the full choir in their sparkling white surplices and black cassocks, ending up with Canon Scott, then Lennox Williams, and finally the Bishop carrying his golden mitre. “Onward Christians Soldiers” echoed round the vast interior as the thunderous voices of five or six hundred men, Christian soldiers all, gave voice to this coming battle against a dreadful foe.

  Chapter Three

  During the hymn before the sermon, Jack went with the other clergy down into the pews where they could look up at the commanding figure of Canon Frederick George Scott, speaking with fierce eloquence. He faced out over the congregation with his prominent nose making him look like the prow of a proud windjammer. His words made a strong impression on Jack’s patriotic soul as he watched and listened.

  “We stand today as an Empire,” thundered Scott, “comprising one-fifth of the human race, in the van of civilization. The charter of the world’s freedom, once grasped by the warrior hands of ancient Israel, surely rests now in the keeping of England and her great daughter empire of the West, Canada.”

  No doubt about it, thought Jack, if the Bishop finds a way for me to go, then go I shall, for no more uplifting words were ever said in defence of an approaching engagement.

  Scott went on: “England and England’s flag must remain the symbol of our common patriotism: liberty, brotherhood and the welfare of man. We conquer and advance. Wild lands come under our sway. Savage races are subjugated, or turn to us for protection. With the result that the waste lands are cultivated, the hidden mines of the earth yield up their treasures, continents are spanned by vast railways and the bed of ocean by electric cables, so that the savage may be brought under the yoke of civilization; and religion, education and commerce raise him almost to the level of a European.”

  Jack felt a swelling of pride that perhaps he too might find a place alongside the gallant few. Even if, as more likely, he were to stay back here among his northern parishioners, at least he would have made the attempt. He turned his mind once again to the oratory.

  “Cruel and terrible as war is, there could not surely be a cause worthier than the giving of light, liberty and religious toleration, not only to those oppressed in the Transvaal, but, in the end, to the oppressors themselves. No ordinary departure of troops to the front is yours. You are the pioneers of a new era in our history.”

  Indeed. But Jack could not help remembering the voice of his storekeeper: the businessmen were just after gold and diamonds...

  “In the pause before the battle charge, in the silence of lonely picket duty, or during sleepless nights on the hospital pallet — the memory of this parting service in these hallowed walls will come back to you with the comfort that even the bravest need. And you will feel that in life and death the Eternal God is your >refuge and underneath are the everlasting arms.”

  Well said, Canon Scott! Jack thought. Well said...

  “Then like the knights of old, consecrate to-day your hearts and swords to God’s service. Go forth, then, in the consciousness of right, in the pride of patriotism, in the certainty of victory. The eyes of the Empire and the world are upon you.”

  And perhaps if I’m lucky, Jack concluded, I’ll be with them. He could hardly wait to see what his Bishop had decided.

  * * *

  After the service, Jack had lunch on rue St. Jean at a modest little eating-house crowded with young soldiers. He could not avoid hearing their excited chatter. This afternoon, Major General Hutton, Officer Commanding the Canadian Militia would address the entire Regiment in the Frontenac Hotel. Event piled upon event to augment the lads’ thrill at being in this new and very foreign city: their anticipation built ever more towards the great endeavour they were about to undertake. But would Bishop Dunn command Jack to undertake it too?

  What about the Virtanen family and their loss? They had become good friends, had taken him fishing on occasion, and often fed him a Finnish meal. He taught school sporadically and young Eino was one of his favourites. The needs both of parishioners and regiment were equally clear; but which way should he turn? Leave it in God’s hands? But the Lord helped those who helped themselves...

  When the recruits left the café for the Chateau Frontenac, Jack followed. This vast castle-like hotel towered over Quebec City. He smiled at the rumour, then prevalent, that it had been designed after an insane asylum in Buffalo, New York. Built and decorated just seven years earlier, the furnishings and open spaces were so sumptuous that it had every right to be considered the premier hotel in all the Province, if not all Canada. During the morning, onlookers and troops had crowded in to hear the coming speech. Jack was able to make his way through into the grand ballroom, above whose rows of brocaded chairs hung ten large crystal chandeliers.

  Not being tall, he could hardly see past the onlookers. But this time his clerical collar stood him in good stead, for the troops let him through so that he could stand right behind the chairs. Then
he heard a voice behind him: “Didn’t we see you this morning in the Cathedral, Father?”

  Jack turned to find a tall junior officer looking down at him. From his accent, he sounded as if he too were from the Maritimes.

  “Oh. Yes, you did. How did you like Canon Scott’s sermon?”

  “Inspiring, no other word. Seems we’re off to do the right thing. Though sometimes, a man can have his doubts.”

  “Aye, but there can be no doubt about the rightness of this expedition,” Jack said. “I only wish I were going on it.”

  “Oh, you’re not, Father? Then why are you here?”

  “Hard not to get caught up in all these proceedings, Lieutenant,” Jack admitted. “And where do you hail from?”

  “Down Fredericton way. Lieutenant George Dorsey, at your service.” The young Lieutenant had a warm face under the close-cropped brown hair.

  “And I’m John Alford, though my friends call me Jack. I’m from the Gaspe.”

  “And now you’re regularly at the Cathedral?”

  “No, I minister in a few wee villages a good way north of Quebec City: Arthabasca, Moose Park, Lake St. John, places like that. I travel there three or four weeks at a time, trying to meld them into parishes, then I come back here to report and catch up. Then off I go again.”

  With fifteen minutes before the proceedings were due to start, Jack and the brawny fellow fell to talking. In no time, Jack found out that he had joined the Militia to pay his way through college, which he was now attending, and then had volunteered for this. An unlikely candidate for a degree, thought Jack, being chunky and muscular, with country hands and a stout neck, every inch a farmer’s son. He surprised Jack with his hobby, the Romantic Revival: Byron, Shelley, and Keats.

  “So what do you think you’ll do when you return?” asked Jack, careful not to use “if”.

  “Not sure, Padre. Maybe I’ll go in for teaching. Maybe I’ll take up a trade, though I’m not much for engineering or lawyering.”

  “Ever thought of the church?”

  “Oh no, Padre, catch me in a collar like yours? Looking after ‘the lame, the halt, and the blind?’ No sir. I’ll only do this fight, help lick those dirty bastards, restore Queen Victoria to her rightful place down at the Cape, and then I’ll get back to my studying again. And it looks like we’re leaving tomorrow, now.”

  Tomorrow! Jack’s heart sank. No matter what the Bishop did, he’d never resolve this before the morrow. The big farmer patted him on the shoulder. “There’s lots like you who want to come, and cannot.” He shrugged. “It may not be all that exciting.”

  “You know you don’t believe that.”

  “No. You’re right — lots of excitement for sure. But just for a short time. Nowheres near long enough to get any of us killed. We’ll only stay until we can give them Boers a bloody nose.”

  Seeing Dorsey stiffen and crane his neck, Jack turned. Major General Hutton was making his way along the side aisle with his captains and majors. George pointed out the officer in charge of the actual regiment, Lt.-Col. William Dillon Otter, a regular army officer in his late fifties, wavy hair parted in the middle and sporting a bushy moustache — every inch the British officer. He had been born in Ontario, but his parents were British and his affinity for the Old Country well known.

  The general mounted the three steps onto the plush stage draped in velvet and a hush settled. This British general officer commanding all the Canadian Militia recalled the great battles of the past that the British had fought on their behalf, mentioning brave General Wolfe, but careful not to rub this victory into the noses of his French Canadian troops, who made up parts of F Company. This war in Africa, he told them, was the greatest military movement that Canada had ever undertaken.

  He had fought a campaign against the Boers and spoke of their tenacity. He’d taken pleasure in writing to General Buller, British commander of the Natal field force, that we were sending from the shores of Canada the best battalion that Canada could offer, headed by the best Canadian soldier he knew, Colonel Otter. Also he spoke highly of the second-in-command, Major Lawrence Buchan, who commanded four companies, and the third, Major Oscar Pelletier from Quebec, another four.

  Jack felt his excitement grow as phrase after phrase built his enthusiasm. Captured by eloquence, his rational side could no longer subdue his inflamed thoughts. But then he lectured himself: just when I can see there’s no chance of going, I’m getting all worked up. Better get out of here before I burst. He began to edge his way toward the entrance, and then the speeches ended.

  Among the cheers and scattered cries of victory and encouragement, Hutton began heading towards the entrance, too. So Jack found himself right in front of the speaker. Spying Jack’s clerical collar, Hutton paused for a second.

  From nowhere, Jack heard his own voice blurt: “Wonderful speech, General — it made me want to go with you.”

  “Yes, my boy, my biggest disappointment is that I am not going myself.”

  “But General, you do know that the troops have no chaplain?”

  He frowned. “Well, I believe we have a Catholic fellow.”

  “Yes sir, but none from the Church of England.”

  “No C. of E. chaplain? Are you sure?”

  “Yes sir, I myself spoke to the Bishop of Quebec this morning. I’m sure he would welcome the opportunity of sending someone.” And then he blurted out, “such as myself!”

  The Major General raised an eyebrow. “And what is your name, Father?”

  “John Alford, sir,” Jack replied.

  “Well, the Bishop is sure to be at the dinner tonight. I shall speak to him. And good luck!” The General moved off with his officers, who looked askance at this young upstart cleric taking precious time with their commanding officer.

  Oh-oh, thought Jack, you’re in for it now, breaking every rule of decorum, moving in where you shouldn’t, stepping on the Bishop’s toes, too. Dear me, in the doghouse for sure. And from the looks of the officers passing, he was heading into no small conflict with his own supposed comrades.

  The peaceful pastoral life among his pleasant parishes did not seem so bad after all.

  * * *

  During a light supper, Jack decided that, to calm his manifest dilemmas, he’d order a carafe of his favourite red wine. And then a second. In all, rather too many glasses for someone preparing to give Evensong. At the cathedral he hurriedly boiled up a pot of black coffee to sober up, consoling himself with the knowledge that the service was simple: two lessons to read, clearly and loudly and his sermon, roughed out during dinner, a eulogy for the valiant troops going off to face the barbarous foe.

  And so, while Ingall Smith, the Dean and Bishop were being entertained at the Citadel by the Governor General Lord Minto, Jack led a peaceful evening prayer service. He spoke a few words, very few — for which the tiny congregation were appreciative — but foremost in his mind was which direction his future might take.

  * * *

  On Sunday night, Jack tossed and turned in his bed. What about his sorrowing Finnish family? Horrid visions blasted his sleep again: a rotting, blue-lipped Eino calling from the lake’s murky depths, beseeching him with outstretched arms to lay them both to rest. Then his friend George reading a Keats poem in a trench — only to be smashed between the eyes by a Boer bullet, brains splattering all over as he fell backwards, crying Jack’s name. What a night!

  Finally, Jack gave up any attempt at sleep and opened his Pilgrim’s Progress, always such a comfort when he’d been on the Canadian Labrador. But even this could not quell the daggers of dreams that pierced his brain.

  What about Rudyard Kipling? He picked up the recently published Captains Courageous. He was at Chapter Eight, the description of young Harvey going with the Newfoundland cod-fishermen, an environment Jack knew and understood. It had a calming effect and, thus engrossed, Jack rid himself of these lingering nightmares. But he longed for the breakfast hour when his motherly landlady might place before him the morning p
orridge and maple syrup.

  Finally day broke. Descending the narrow staircase, Jack heard a knocking at the door and paused. The landlady opened the door.

  Young William, the Dean’s son, burst in, out of breath. “I ran all the way,” the youth blurted out. “I got this here message for ya, Mr. Alford sir.”

  Jack took the message and his eyes widened. “Be at the cathedral at quarter to nine sharp.”

  Chapter Four

  Early Monday morning, October 30, two carriages pulled up at the gates of Spencerwood, the residence of the Lieutenant Governor of Quebec, Sir Louis-Amable Jetté, KCMG. The low, white building, over a hundred and fifty feet long with its servants’ wing and winter garden, sat in the Bois-de-Coulonge, a park jutting out onto the river, commanding a view of the Isle d’Orleans and in the distance the Laurentian mountains. To accompany Jack and himself, the Lord Bishop had assembled a committee of Canon Scott and a couple of other senior clergyman to meet the recently knighted Sir Wilfred Laurier, Prime Minister of all Canada. The entourage got out of their carriages and surveyed the privileged enclosure, which many had not seen before.

  “What are we waiting for?” asked Canon Scott.

  “General Hutton said he’d join us, and mentioned that de Lotbinière might indeed come.” About twenty years ago, he’d been the fourth Premier of Quebec for a short time; now he was Minister of Internal Revenue in the Cabinet.

  “Goodness, two prime ministers in one day!” Scott commented. “Good for you, Bishop.”

  Promptly at nine, Hutton turned up with Sir Henri Joly de Lotbinière, now in his seventies and sporting enormous white sideburns. They were admitted to the elegant residence and shown into a living room.