The Chaplain

by Paul Almond

  After a short wait, the Lieutenant-Governor came out from breakfast with his guest, Sir Wilfred Laurier. This first French-speaking Canadian Prime Minister was highly respected, though he had been in office only four years. Jack felt distinctly sheepish and stood well to the rear, listening casually at first, and then taken aback as he realized the Bishop was actually praising him.

  General Hutton outlined the problem, and then the Bishop took over. “We have a young clergyman here who has done sterling work on that boldest of environments, the Canadian Labrador. He has undergone life-threatening blizzards, crossed icy waters, and done a thoroughly fine job of ministering to those lonely parishioners who inhabit such a bleak and wild coastline. Afterwards, I sent him northward to turn some small settlements scattered across the interior of Quebec into parishes that might soon be worthy of a church or two, a mighty challenge, I must say.

  “He has filled both jobs with courage, honesty, and loyalty to the church. I beg leave, as General Hutton suggested, to have him accompany our troops, even at this late date.”

  Sir Wilfrid looked around. “Is that the young man at the back?”

  The Bishop turned. “It is, sir.”

  He motioned and a stunned Jack came forward. Sir Wilfred shook hands and then spoke. “I see it as absolutely imperative that the Church of England be represented among our troops. And from what they tell me, you are the ideal man to do it. Godspeed, go in peace, and do your best to uphold the faith in what will doubtless be very trying times.”

  Hutton added, “Sir, I should like to gazette our fine chaplains as Honorary Captains, if no one has any objections?”

  Jack could hardly believe his ears — this simple Shigawake laddie was now finding himself a Canadian Army Captain.

  Now that the deed was done, Jack did not know what to think. He sat in the calèche with none other than Canon Scott, who seemed to have taken a liking to him. In fact, Scott had not only complimented him on undertaking this great endeavour but hinted that he’d heard somehow that it had been Jack’s own doing.

  They trotted briskly along St. Louis Boulevard and then onto the Grande Allée with its large homes, and the Canon asked him about his previous ministries. Jack, delighted at the diversion, filled him in with some exuberance on the two years he had spent along the Canadian Labrador Coast.

  “No finer people, and none hardier,” Jack concluded, after describing some of his adventures to the older clergyman. “I was indeed sorry to leave.”

  “And then I gather you served as our travelling Missionary further afield in the northern reaches of the province, even as far as Lake St. John?”

  At the mention of the lake, Jack found himself overwhelmed again at his dilemma with his drowned friend, Eino. Whatever should he do? He shifted in his seat and looked out the side of the carriage at the plains of Abraham now rolling past. Clearing his throat, he made himself respond, “Again, another fine group of parishioners, though perhaps these missions occasion rather too much travelling, though a good deal safer than the Labrador.”

  Thankfully, a plan sprang into his mind; he turned this conversation towards another vexing question. Perhaps the good Canon had an answer. “Sir, travelling in those far-flung villages, I returned with little news of the coming conflict. But once back here, I’ve been given to understand that not every Quebecer is behind our enterprise.”

  “Indeed no! During the last month Sir Wilfrid has been hard put to reconcile opposing factions. He’s been under pressure from Lord Minto, Governor General of Canada, appointed just two years ago, and also from the more conservative newspapers in Ontario, and one even in Montreal, all of whom want to send an even larger force.

  “Last night, there was quite a fracas, or so the Bishop told me on our way to the residence. Hutton didn’t take kindly to all the political interference in Ottawa associated with this whole event. He blamed the Minister of Militia, F.W. Borden, who, being drunk, took his remarks rather badly. Fine soldier, Hutton, though British born. Too bad he’s not going with all of you.”

  With us... That’s right, Jack was now part of the contingent, going off to fight. Taking his chances in skirmishes and battles right along beside his men, sharing their pain, ministering to their afflictions. He had hardly absorbed this enormity.

  * * *

  The calèche drew up outside the cathedral and Jack descended, thanking the Canon for his kind words and for the lift. He saw the Dean talking to a couple at the gate, and quickly went up to him as he excused himself from his parishioners.

  “I hope you won’t mind my bringing up the subject, sir,” Jack began, “but as you may know, two of my parishioners in Lake St. John were drowned on the weekend. The funeral is to be tomorrow. Of course, I am pleased that the Bishop did end up putting the welfare of a thousand young fighting men ahead of this one funeral. But the family were my special friends, and I feel we must address the problem.”

  The Dean seemed somewhat taken aback. He scratched his chin. “We’ll just have to let it go, I suppose,” he said at last. “Perhaps some lay person could pronounce the funeral rites?”

  Jack frowned, and shook his head. “May I propose a solution, sir?”

  The Dean looked up.

  “Ingall Smith does have duties here, but surely none too onerous that he could not make that long and possibly arduous journey. He’d make do so splendidly at the funeral.” Jack watched the Dean. “You see, I hope you’ll agree that my far off parishioners deserve a proper burial rather than some awkwardly managed business.”

  The Dean paused, thinking. Then he exclaimed, “Splendid idea!”

  Jack was tickled pink.

  “Only if you think he’s up to it, sir,” he added mischievously

  “Course he is! And in fact, while he’s there, he might as well stay for a bit. I know a young deacon who could fill his spot beautifully here at the cathedral.”

  Thanking the Dean, Jack rushed off to his lodgings, smothering his delight at Smith’s comeuppance.

  * * *

  With his large and hastily packed bag, Jack had to hire a calèche, its top folded back behind, its large wheels clattering over the cobblestones as they set off. The city seemed deserted; most of the inhabitants were attending ceremonies up on the Esplanade where Sir Wilfrid, Lord Minto, and General Hutton were addressing the troops. When the calèche drew up at the Allan wharf where the Sardinian lay docked, Jack beheld a scene of apparently some turbulence.

  Jack stepped down, paid the driver, and took in his future home. Just over four hundred feet long and forty-six feet wide and recently converted for this crossing, it sat ominously low in the water, with no fo’c’sle quarters nor any real superstructure for the bridge. Seaworthy? Hardly, Jack thought, but then, he had no good idea of what made a large vessel sail or sink. All night long, officers and various details of men had been busily loading stores from the wharf to the ship, and these operations were still under way: piles of blankets to be baled up, boxes of boots and uniforms loaded, men’s kit bags checked over, and provisions for a thousand hungry men brought up gangplanks.

  He lifted his bag out of the calèche and struggled with it toward the troopship.

  A strapping private came over. “Excusez moi, mon Père, est-ce >que je peux vous aider?”

  “Ah oui, merci,” replied Jack. In his clerical collar, he knew he’d been mistaken for a Catholic priest, whose parishioners paid even greater respect to their clerics. The young man took his bag, and they walked along together toward the gangplank, while Jack asked if he were one of the contingent.

  “Certainement, un militaire de carrière,” the young soldier replied proudly. Several regulars among the men had been posted to help sort out the departure.

  At the gangplank, an NCO stopped them. “Good day, Father. Your name, please. Votre nom, s’il vous plaît.”

  “Reverend John Alford.” Jack knew this would be a futile exercise, and so it proved to be, after the NCO had scanned his lists. “Vous avez dit Reveren
d Fullerton? You have said — ”

  “No, Alford, and I’m English, but no need for translation — I’m just not on the list. I was only just seconded to the contingent this very morning.”

  “Very sorry, Father,” said the NCO in broken English, “but no permission for go on ship. You must to wait for Adjutant. J’ai >reçu les ordres.”

  The private beside Jack frowned. Jack went on amiably, “There was a special meeting at the Lieutenant-Governor’s this morning with General Hutton. I am definitely licensed to go on board.”

  “Mais vous voyez, many peoples, they say many things to come wit’ us. We must be extremely careful. Many men, they want come for fighting. Déjà quatre, four, I must reject.”

  “But surely, Corporal you can see that a priest would not stow away. We priests tend to be quite honest.”

  The NCO thought for a moment. Jack waited, wondering what his next step should be. Then the NCO shook his head, and sighed. “Bon, but please to report at the orderly room. I will make the note you have no permission.”

  Jack and his soldier went up the gangplank and onto the afterdeck where the officers were quartered. Before going down the companionway to the staterooms, the soldier showed him the orderly room. “The office, mon Père. When officers on ship, you must to see them ’ere.”

  “Thank you, soldier. Of course.”

  They paused to read the posted lists to find out Jack’s stateroom; already some officers had arrived and stowed their bags before going back up to the Esplanade. Because of his last-minute posting, Jack found his name nowhere. “Oh, well,” he said, “not the first time I’ve slept on deck.”

  His young friend persisted. “Regarde. Ici, mon Père. Ici, il y a >une cabine avec seulement un officier. C’est le seul avec un lit qui est >libre. Je pense qu’on peut vous y installer.”

  “A double cabin with only one occupant? Yes, good idea.”

  Without further ado, Jack followed his guide down a passageway and into a cabin with two bunks: on one lay an officer’s greatcoat and dunnage bag; Jack threw his gear on the other and thanked the private who saluted and left.

  He stood for a moment, taking in his situation. In fact, he realized he had little idea of what was required of a chaplain. But then, who else would: this was the first incursion on foreign soil by any Canadian force. Jack had read something of the Indian wars: Otter at the battle of Cut Knife Creek, the capture of Batoche, Louis Riel’s headquarters, and other battles where troops had seen action, but all on Canadian soil. So what actually did a chaplain do, apart from taking Sunday services? Well, he’d soon find out. Perhaps Father O’Leary would guide him. It couldn’t be worse than being thrust into the Labrador with no training whatsoever. He had already seen at first hand poverty, starvation and death, and tried to reassure himself that whatever lay ahead would not prove beyond his powers of adaptation.

  He had not long to wait. Through the open door burst Captain Forbes, officer commanding H battalion. He seemed slight, with white hair, pale skin, and the very lightest cold blue eyes, like an albino animal in winter, dead white and somehow cruel.

  He stopped short when he saw Jack. “I’m sorry, Father, you seem to have wandered into the wrong cabin!” He stowed another small bag and turned to go. “Some enlisted men have been detailed to help — one of them should put you right.” With that, he left. Jack saw that his future room-mate was not at all pleased with his intrusion. Well, no matter what, this was now his new home, and stay he would, consequences be damned.

  Chapter Five

  The noise in the distance grew louder. Jack hurried to the rail to watch the regiment in their new uniforms of dark green serge and white helmets, led by the bands of Montreal’s Fifth Royal Scots, and Quebec’s garrison of Royal Canadian Artillery, an impressive sight amidst the cheering spectators as they formed up in companies and then marched in double file towards the gangplank, row after row, dozens after dozens, hundreds upon hundreds. He wondered how on earth this converted cattle boat would ever contain them all. Glancing up, he saw three or four braided officers on the stern deck watching with what seemed equal concern.

  After the last man boarded, a sudden, deafening whistle sounded their departure. The ropes were lifted from their bollards and the great ship’s engines began to throb. Jack knew he had to report to the orderly room, but he wanted to watch them pull out into the black currents of the mighty Saint Lawrence. A wildly enthusiastic multitude cheered farewell as the vessel slipped past the sullen rocks of the Citadel. Guns from the Citadel, whistles from harbour ships, and cheers from the crowds and from soldiers in the rigging drowned out the sound of God Save the Queen from the little artillery band on the dock. Then steam yachts and tugs, pleasure boats and barges, all followed the transport as it steamed down river. Those on the escort boats rushed to the railings of their crafts, cheering and catching whatever souvenirs the departing soldiers threw them.

  Finally, Jack made himself leave the rail and push his way aft. The ship was so cluttered and disorganized, the deck so blocked by baggage, crates and bodies, that he took a good while getting to the queue for the Regimental Adjutant, Major J.C. Brown. Upon noticing his clerical garb, those in the queue motioned him forward, placing him next in line.

  The frazzled Captain at the Adjutant’s door was fretting over the chaos of rapid comings and goings, orders being shouted, and the general tumult prevailing as men tried to locate their accommodations, sort out gear, and find their way around. This officer also had a list, which he surveyed skeptically on hearing Jack’s name.

  “I’m sorry, Padre, we have two chaplains marked, but no one else. You’ll have to disembark on the next skiff with those two stowaways we’ve caught.”

  Army bureaucracy again. However, Jack persevered. “I’m sorry Captain, but I’ve been assigned to the Regiment by the orders of General Hutton. Please let me see the Adjutant at once.”

  “The Adjutant,” he snapped, “is busy, as you might imagine. I have orders that none but the most urgent cases be admitted.”

  “Mine is not urgent? If the commanding officer of all our forces and our Prime Minister both find out that some Captain has put their chaplain ashore, there might be trouble.”

  Jack watched the man’s eyes narrow: he knew he was making another enemy. Careful — use more tact, he told himself.

  The Captain turned angrily and went in, leaving Jack to ponder his indiscretion. After a spell, the Captain returned and jabbed his thumb, motioning Jack in with him.

  The Captain announced with a grimace, “Major Brown, sir, this fellow claims to be attached, but we have absolutely no record of his name.” With that he turned and stationed himself behind Jack at the door.

  The Adjutant, a hearty man with a bulbous drinker’s nose and florid face, appeared to be dealing with three or four crises at once. Jack waited patiently until he saw the officer glance up at him. “Name?”

  “Captain, The Rev. John M. Alford, Church of England chaplain assigned to the First Battalion of the Royal Canadian Regiment of Infantry.” And then he added as an afterthought, “Reporting for duty, sir.”

  That should achieve something, thought Jack, smiling to himself.

  And achieve something it did. “Sorry, my good man, but every type of scoundrel has been trying all sorts of trickery to get on board. Not hard to lay your hands on a clerical collar and suit! I’ve sent three ragamuffins off already. So I couldn’t help, even if you were a real chaplain. Captain Smith,” he ordered, “take the imposter off and put him on the first skiff ashore.”

  Now what?

  The tug at his arm compelled Jack to turn to the door, which the Captain opened with a complacent grin.

  Once ashore, how would Jack get back on the boat? And if he did, could he manage that before the ship left Canadian waters? Something must be done at once.

  At the door, he stopped and turned. “Major, I demand to see the Colonel!”

  “What?”

  “And I shall not move until
I do.”

  The group around the Adjutant tensed as he straightened and looked at Jack. Silence fell in the room. No one ever challenged an officer like that. Major Brown paused, then controlled himself. “The Colonel is busy. Captain Smith, please take this man away.”

  The Captain took Jack’s arm firmly, but he shook it off.

  “No! Major Brown, the Prime Minister himself, Sir Wilfred Laurier, at Spencerwood this morning, decreed that I am to join your Regiment. If you would let me speak to Colonel Otter, I’m sure he could enlighten you.”

  Silence greeted this firm pronouncement.

  Jack waited.

  Brown got up.

  Jack flinched, but tried to show nothing.

  “For heaven’s sake, man,” the Adjutant said, “why didn’t you tell us that right away?” But Jack saw his heart was not in it. “Come this way.”

  With that, the Major knocked at a door behind him. He opened it and motioned Jack forward.

  Jack nervously entered the large stateroom with its portholes and heavy desk anchored to the floor. The door closed behind him. He faced the fearsome Lieutenant Colonel William Otter, every inch a commander.

  “Captain the Reverend John Alford reporting for duty, sir.”

  Otter rose. “Ah yes, the new Church of England chaplain? I suppose we should be pleased —” He certainly didn’t seem to be, Jack thought. “ — that the Bishop of Quebec has seen fit to assign us one.”

  Jack relaxed somewhat.

  “But would I be right,” Otter went on, “in stating that you have absolutely no experience of military life? Battles? Deprivations? Of the hazards of the South African terrain? Of forced marches and nights under canvas, or out in the open?”

  Jack frowned. How should he respond? Well, better try. He gathered himself. “Colonel, I have spent two years on the Labrador. I travelled six hundred miles in every sort of weather — by sail and by komatik pulled by a team of savage dogs. I have slept snowbound under trees, faced white-outs and blizzards at minus fifty, and nearly drowned on two occasions during those spring storms for which the Gulf is famous. I have also acted as policeman, magistrate, nurse, and doctor under the most trying and arduous circumstances. I would never have volunteered for this demanding position had I not the confidence that I could fulfill whatever duties you placed upon me. Sir,” he added as an afterthought.