The Chaplain

by Paul Almond

  Oh dear. Although he might be reassuring Otter, Jack now saw he’d thrown down a challenge that would likely, as the voyage progressed, have unfortunate repercussions.

  * * *

  Two sittings of the officers’ mess were scheduled in the regular saloon of the ship to accommodate the numbers; the second only for senior men so they could relax around the table afterwards; the first for junior officers, surgeons, nurses, and the clergymen — Jack’s first chance to meet his brethren. Nurses possessed the rank, privileges and pay of a lieutenant.

  When Jack came in, he spotted opposite him a small, slightly older man wearing a uniform with a clerical collar and talking in French to a Lieutenant from a Quebec regiment — the Roman Catholic chaplain, Jack supposed.

  He sat down at one of the empty places on the bench and noticed at the other end another clerical collar on a clergyman whose captain’s uniform had a slightly worn look. Broad shouldered, balding though obviously in his thirties, this cleric had the usual military moustache gracing his rather handsome features. He noticed Jack’s collar and nodded, but went on talking to the officer next to him.

  The main conversation in the mess seemed to be between non-military guests, the four journalists who were accompanying the regiment: Fred Hamilton of the Toronto Globe, Stan Brown of Toronto’s Mail and Empire, Smith of the Montreal Star, and Kandinsky of the Montreal Herald. But Jack had little experience of the gentlemen of the press, and he wanted to avoid them at all costs. Some indeed ended up going to his services, but happily, they soon moved their meals to the second sitting, where they could speak to the senior officers, so his contacts with them were thus limited.

  Sipping his soup, Jack waited for a lull in the dinner conversation opposite, and then remarked in his best French, “Vous êtes du Québec, mon Père? ”

  “That I am, Father,” said Fr. O’Leary with an Irish accent. “And who might you be? I thought they let only two of us on board, me and Father Fullerton over there, though he doesn’t like ’Father’. Them Presbyterians,” he said in a loud voice, with a wink at Jack, “they like to ruin our standings by being called Mister — though I’m supposin’ we’ll all be callin’ each other Captain, or Padre, now that we’re under arms.”

  “Father O’Leary, we want none o’ your papist nomenclature,” said Fullerton in an attempt at humour.

  Jack introduced himself to both of them. “My coming was all rather last-minute. In fact, only this morning did I get leave to come from the higher-ups.”

  “You volunteered?” frowned the little man opposite, who then introduced himself as Peter O’Leary.

  “A crazy man, like all the Church of England,” said Fullerton, attempting more humour. “You don’t have a family back there, for sure, young Alford.”

  “No, I’m free as a bird.” Jack noticed across the table one of the nurses turning to stare at him. She caught his look and dropped her eyes. “I most certainly did volunteer. I can’t let our fine young Canadians be looked after by reckless Protestants (by which of course he meant Presbyterians) — or even worse, bigoted fellows from a great basilica.” He winked at the good Father O’Leary, who grinned in response.

  “Well, now that we all have our territories well staked out, I hope there’ll be some areas in which we can all cooperate.” O’Leary glanced back and forth between Fullerton and Jack, amused.

  “Oh,” said Jack, “I’m all for that, mon Père.”

  “And you can stop this ’mon Père’ stuff,” cracked O’Leary. “I’m Peter, Irish, straight from County Killarney, though I spent thirty years in Quebec, starved out of Ireland by those very British for whose Empire we’re going to fight. No idea why I’m here, actually. Except my Bishop sent me.”

  “So you didn’t volunteer?” asked Jack.

  “Not bloody likely,” said O’Leary, approaching blasphemy. “I was the only fella who spoke English well enough. They knew damn well only a real English speaker could hold his ground with this lot. Otherwise we French would get ourselves all walked over again, as Quebecers have for two hundred years.”

  “Ever since General Wolfe gave you that beating up on the ramparts of Quebec, I suppose,” cracked Fullerton.

  O’Leary glanced at him but didn’t smile. Not a very good joke either, thought Jack. Was he the kind of clergyman who opened his mouth and inserted his foot?

  To change the subject, Jack spoke to Fr. O’Leary. “Well, I’ve been serving up in Lake St. John, and Arthabaska, and all over your beautiful province,” he remarked. “I myself was born in Quebec, on the Gaspe Coast, la Gaspésie as you fellows like to call it. Little English community, Shigawake, no fairer place in all the world!”

  “I don’t doubt it,” replied O’Leary. “I’ve been dying to get there myself. But no, they put me in Montreal, they put me in Quebec city, last year they sent me to Cape Breton, they put me anywhere there’s an English congregation of Catholics. Not a lot of English Catholics where you come from, are there, Jack, if I may call you that?”

  “Please do,” Jack answered. “Not a lot. Some from the Jersey Isles in Bonaventure, but in New Carlisle the English are mainly United Empire Loyalists from south of the border. Up New Richmond way, all Loyalist and C of E, too; otherwise, the whole Coast is French.”

  “We have a few French down in Prince Edward Island,” Fullerton said, “but none of them have joined up. The French speakers from New Brunswick have been placed in F Company from Quebec. So our G Company is all English.”

  Jack glanced up and saw the little nurse looking at him again. He made a mental note to go and sit beside her at a future meal. The four nurses had formed their own cohesive group, talking quietly among themselves. Not a good time to open any new conversation. They appeared rather straight-laced, but the shy one who glanced at him had a fragile look. He wondered what she was doing, going off to fight a war.

  “And you, Father,” Jack asked O’Leary, “any experience with the troops?”

  “I’ve taken a few services at the Citadel, but never party to an armed conflict, no siree.”

  “I hear you preached a fine sermon in the Basilica yesterday, so one of the lads said.”

  O’Leary shrugged, and Jack turned to the other cleric. “And you, Mr Fullerton?”

  “I was, for my sins, already an honorary chaplain with the artillery in PEI, so there was nothing for it but to come. But Canadians have never fielded a Militia on foreign soil, I gather?”

  There was general agreement from the other junior officers, who had begun to listen in.

  Fullerton went on, “If only those cowardly and savage Boers had withheld their attack on the Cape Colony, we’d be back home now in our manse, slippers on, reading our Bibles by the fire.” He finished with a chuckle.

  “Serves you right,” O’Leary kidded, “for accepting that honorary Captainship. Did you think it’d look nice on your stationery?” He winked, and smiled.

  Fullerton did not take offense but rather grinned. “Actually it was my wife who pushed me into that. Now she’s got herself into a right old pickle: alone at home, looking after all the children by herself, and fearing she’ll lose her only support when a sharpshooter gets me... Not that I’m a great one at keeping her in a state she’d desire.” He nodded at O’Leary. “They pay me poorly.”

  “Ah, you can say that again, Father,” O’Leary chimed in. “You wouldn’t believe the pittance I live on. Not an easy life.” He looked over at Jack. “You Church of England chappies get more, perhaps?”

  Jack shook his head. “Probably less. The two years I served up on the Canadian Labrador, they had to scrounge funds from the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in England.”

  Both Fullerton and O’Leary reacted. “Pretty harsh environment up there, for sure,” O’Leary offered.

  Jack nodded. “But I rather liked that life. Born on a farm, and all that. Not that life is so tough on the Gaspe.”

  “So if life was good, why go into the church?” asked Fullerton. “When
I grew up in Charlottetown, a steady job working for the Lord had its appeal, I can tell you, with us seven children going hungry most nights.”

  “In any case,” Jack saw the Presbyterian was not quite so gung-ho, “I feel lucky being a part of all this now. I thank the Lord I got chosen.”

  Just then, the Orderly Corporal announced the end of the dinner.

  Jack got up, taking good look at the young nurse who, he noticed happily, was even shorter than he was. But now that he’d met the other clerics, he foresaw that his job might be more difficult than he had envisaged — not much real support coming from that sector.

  He made his way back to his cabin, thankful at least that his roommate, Forbes, would be out at the second sitting so that he could prepare for bed by himself, if only for tonight. But as he sat down on his narrow bunk and began to take off his shoes, he reflected that his life this one weekend had taken a complete turn: one full of surprises. In fact, just what he wanted.

  Chapter Six

  Steaming down the St. Lawrence River that first night out offered little hint as to what turbulence awaited them in the Gulf beyond, so Jack slept soundly. In fact, most of the men lucky enough to find beds did so as well, after all the festivities, excitement and inevitable inebriation — even among officers this first night on board. When the regiment was summoned by bugle and bell to breakfast, very few words were uttered.

  When Jack emerged from his quarters, he found the troopship in absolute chaos. Some fifty men had slept on deck, unable to find accommodation; all manner of stores lay about; bales of uniforms and foodstuffs awaited stowing along with cases of arms and armaments. The few officers and NCOs, none of whom had any experience of shipboard life, seemed at a complete loss as to how to cope. Quite a change from the orderly parades Jack had seen on shore, with the trilling of bagpipes and rattle of drums. He hoped that this did not presage the South African battlefield.

  On those calm waters with land still in sight, first on one side of the St. Lawrence and then on the other, the ship seemed seaworthy enough. But Jack’s fears about crossing the great Atlantic were not allayed; it was rumoured that the voyage might even last a month. Would the regiment be restored to some semblance of order before they faced the enemy — if indeed they were not all drowned? His worries were somewhat mollified by the issue of a new green serge uniform, which he began to wear on board. Being of average size, somewhat heavy set but by no means tall, he was easy to fit.

  A dense fog surrounded the vessel the next night and foghorns blared in monotonous regularity from ship and distant shore. Had the large vessel hove to? This occasioned some grumbling from the men, but on the third night when a storm descended all its fury, they had every reason to wish for the previous becalming.

  Jack had brought oilskins, being well aware of the vagaries of the Gulf of Saint Laurence and its currents. He put them on and lurched his way into the bow to stand clinging onto the railing — the best way to face a storm, for sure. The ship under him rolled and bucked, diving into wave troughs in spite of its four hundred and twenty-five foot length and then rising up high, only to splash down again with a mighty shaking. The blinding rain and freezing wind tore into him, but if he retired to his warm bunk and the ship sank, he’d have little chance of escaping. Of course, up here he’d have even less. He had always hated the sea and its torments, a fear he had retained since childhood.

  Out on deck facing into the weather, his sou’wester pulled down, the heavy collar buckled about his chin, he avoided the claustrophobia of a cabin and his room-mate Forbes vomiting with dreadful stench into a bucket. He and the officer had shared few words after that initial antagonism.

  He felt a tug at his elbow, and turned. “Captain sent me down to tell you to get off the deck,” the sailor yelled. “Too dangerous. Go back to your cabin!”

  “My compliments to the Captain, sailor, but this is my preferred post. If we’re going to be sent to a watery grave, I want to watch and be fully prepared.” They were shouting in each other’s face: the wind and crashing seas made it difficult to hear.

  “Sorry sir, but Captain’s orders.” With that the man turned and fled, a wave almost drenching them both.

  Jack turned and faced the sea again. Oh yes, getting rougher! Just in front, a mountain of water rose seemingly overhead, and then at the last minute the boat climbed it safely — only to crash down again, sending spray everywhere.

  Indeed what good would it do him to be swallowed by these tons of water? Better go aft, he thought, but as he turned, letting go his grip, a great wave swamped the bow and struck him with colossal force.

  Smashed back, he hit a steel stanchion with a tremendous crack. Had his back been broken? He lay, stunned, unable to move. Seconds passed, and another wave tore him away and swept him across the deck like a piece of flotsam. He brought up against the railing — and then almost over it as the ship plunged downwards, but then bucked upwards at the last second.

  Choking and gasping, he flailed, trying to get up by the railing, but without any luck. His every bone felt broken, his muscles made of water. He struggled to his knees but a third wave hurled him across the deck into another crate.

  Oh Lord, he was becoming really frightened. Imagine! the first member of the contingent to be swept overboard. “Fight”, he roared, “c’mon, get up and fight!” With a tremendous lurch, he got to his feet, only to be thrown sideways again when the ship lurched. He struck his head against a steel ventilator and blacked out.

  In just a few seconds he came to, and saw a sailor bent over him. He clutched at the outstretched hand and somehow got up, hurting like blazes. Falling twice, they made their way back to the crew’s quarters amidships. He sat inside the companionway, choking and gasping, while the sailor went to fetch a surgeon.

  “I don’t need a surgeon,” gasped Jack, wiping his eyes. But then he saw blood on his fingers. In any case, the man had gone.

  * * *

  Back in his state-room, sadder and wiser, Jack allowed his blood to be wiped away and a bandage applied by a Surgeon Major, thirty-four, French-speaking, wavy hair neatly parted in the middle. “Just a scratch, Padre,” he said. “If this is all I have to deal with on this campaign, I’ll be a lucky man.” He smiled reassuringly at Jack, who now felt very sheepish indeed.

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  “Eugene Fiset, from Rimouski, at your service. We’re going to be working together quite a bit. Those field hospitals — hundreds brought back, wounded and dying from the battlefield, screaming in pain.”

  “Good Lord, I do hope not.”

  “War, Padre. Many of us will not return. Please, just say a prayer for me that I may be one soul who does.” With that, the Major closed his small black bag and left Jack to himself. In the other bunk, Captain Forbes was groaning and retching, too sick to notice Jack’s doings.

  All the next day, the storm wreaked havoc with the boat and its passengers. Pretty well every one of the troops was sick, including Col. Otter who even had to relinquish his command.

  * * *

  Friday Jack found rather dispirited with its burial of Private Teddy DesLauriers, a 28-year-old Ottawa grocery clerk and member of the Princess Louise Dragoon Guards. Having imbibed too much alcohol during festivities ashore, he’d been helped aboard with severe delirium tremens and had given up the ghost.

  Father O’Leary led the service as four stalwart friends carried the canvas-wrapped and weighted body of their dead companion up the narrow hatchway and with slow steps placed his body half way across the ship’s rail. The rest of his heavy-hearted friends stood drawn up on the heaving deck, the spray drifting over them as they looked for the last time on their silent companion, covered in the flag he had just set out to defend. Jack crossed himself and offered up a prayer as the boards were tipped and down into the waves dropped the first member of the Regiment to die on overseas duties, but whose soul, Jack knew, had been claimed by its Maker.

  Later that night after the second sitting
, Jack returned to his cabin to write his sermon for Sunday. Later on, Captain Forbes came in, and Jack glanced up, then returned to his writing. Forbes washed, got undressed and into his bunk. They had not spoken so far, so Jack was surprised to hear: “Keeping a diary, Padre?”

  “No, I’m writing my sermon for Sunday. The Church of England service is Sunday at 11.30 in the morning.” Jack put down his fountain pen, and paused. “You will be joining us, I presume? Or are you a Presbyterian? Their service is earlier, at 10.30.”

  “Neither.”

  “Roman Catholic?”

  There was a pause. “I’m an atheist, Padre. I don’t believe any of that truck about a kindly God. Had it drummed into me when I was little, but let it go pretty damn quick when my Dad died. I was six.”

  Jack shook his head. “Poor lad. So you were brought up by your mother?”

  “Nope. This wonderful loving God you clergy talk about snatched her before I was a teenager. My grandparents were too hard up so they couldn’t take me. Had to make do. Went out finally to work on the railway. When I was sixteen, I lied about my age to get into the military. Saved my life. I don’t need no God to make me happy.”

  Now here was a challenge! Jack knew instantly why the Lord had placed him in this cabin. He had another three or four weeks to change the Captain’s mind. But how to start?

  To forestall further conversation, the Captain picked up a book and silence fell.

  After a time he glanced at Jack. “What made you become a clergyman, Padre?”

  “Well... at Bishop’s University, I studied all the general subjects: philosophy, history, English... and one night, it happened.”