by Paul Almond
“Just like that?”
Should he be truthful? Why not? “Towards dawn, I’d had a restless night, and... Well, I felt a hand on my shoulder. That grip was so very firm, almost as strong as if a giant had taken hold of me, but at the same time, gentle. Then I knew who it was and that I would be His forever.
“Just like that? Didn’t you struggle? I mean, that was a pretty big decision you chose for yourself.”
“No no, not myself, God chose it. And when He whispers in your ears, or He grabs you by the shoulder, I guess you have to just listen.” Jack went on, “So I started on theology and church history; the more I studied, the more I knew my role in life was to spread His word and do His works, not only among the children of misfortune, but any who might have lost Him through no fault of their own.” Jack hoped that was not too pointed.
“Padre, I still don’t understand. Maybe this was the thing every family did in that province of yours? Have one kid in every family go into the church?”
“Could be a bit traditional among the French. But see, to be an Anglican clergyman, of course, you need a degree. On the Coast, no one really got to University. My father was determined I would.”
“A degree? To do good?”
Jack nodded; he was getting irritated.
“So were you always a do-gooder? And so you thought this was a way to do more good?”
Jack shook his head. “I was a bit of a hell-raiser, actually. I just never looked at my obeying this call in that way. I just got it, and I obeyed.” He decided to go back to his sermon. “Sorry I can’t explain it any better.’
“Well, thank you for being honest, Padre. But I’ll also thank you for not trying to swing me round to your persuasion. I don’t see any evidence of this precious all-loving Saviour you fellows go on about. Especially with this war coming at us.”
Jack focussed on his sermon; to him the matter was now closed. And then he heard, “If you’re so wrapped up in doing good, why are you coming with a regiment of men whose aim is to kill, wound, maim, and win.”
Oh-oh. The captain had voiced a question that Jack had been suppressing ever since he had received this call to join up. The question did demand an answer — an answer he had so far not found.
“Got you there, eh Padre?” The Captain chuckled.
To be honest, yes, the Captain did “have him there.” Jack struggled to find words. Why indeed had he let himself be swept up in the euphoria? Had he thought it through? Not really. “Simply, Captain, I just... Well, haven’t faced all that. I did know I was needed at the front, rather than at my parishes in Quebec, which would not be facing danger on such a scale.”
At least that might bring this conversation to a close so that he could get on with his sermon. But it was not to be. “Now all these bastard Boers,” Forbes went on, “that we’re going to South Africa to try to kill and conquer, did you know that they are all strong churchmen? That they too believe in your loving God? Possibly even more than we do?”
Jack shook his head. “I haven’t done as much research into our enemy as I might.” Worse and worse, Jack thought. What am I doing, me, a young clergyman, now an Honorary Captain, pretending to help others?
The Captain persisted. “I took a course in Halifax before we left: ‘know thine enemy.’ The Boers do absolutely no work on Sunday, just as the Bible orders. They avoid any entertainment that we think of as fine in case it might lead to something your Bible calls defilement.”
As the Captain paused, Jack hoped his denunciation was at an end. So very much to ponder on. The nature of war. What had he learned at university? They had touched on the subject, but for Canadians, such a peaceful nation, this was indeed a remote topic.
The Captain was relentless. “So Padre, if they believe in God, and there is one, and He’s all merciful as you fellows like to preach, how come He’s letting us go in and beat the daylights out of a bunch of farmers who also pray to Him for protection? Didn’t Canon Scott say it was our moral duty to kill as many as possible? Even with Bibles in their hands and crosses held high?”
Got me there too, thought Jack. Then he blurted out, “You’ll have to give me time, Captain.” He smiled ruefully. “There’s an answer, somewhere. Oh yes.” But Jack still had no idea how to find it.
Chapter Seven
On Sunday, a couple of days after the storm, the Rev. Jack Alford held his communion service, as he intended to do during the voyage. He had decided to modify his exhortations to the men and concentrate on lessons from the four Gospels. As the vessel proceeded through the straits south of Newfoundland and headed out into the Atlantic, the swells became heavier and broader, but Jack made himself face up to the incessant rolling and pitching, for weeks of it lay ahead. He usually sought the bow, and so got to know others of the same mind. He would make his way forward through the enlisted men’s territory, which housed bakers’ quarters, cooks’ galleys, two miniature rifle and revolver ranges, old hoisting machinery, seven horse stalls, carpenters’ and armourers’ shops, and so on. Apart from the long hours of dull, daily drill, the men made good use of their spare time in this limited space: sharpening bayonets or sensibly using coffee to die their brilliant white helmets brown, others writing letters or playing cards, some reading or discussing the coming war, like one big grand family. Yes, Jack thought, probably as brave a contingent of fellows as ever donned a uniform.
They were forging southward through heavy seas, the screw beating, the engines throbbing, the whole ship pulsating and trembling from stem to stern as she struggled along at two hundred and sixty miles a day. The mornings began, for officers as well as men, with a bath parade on deck when sailors hosed down the enlisted men with seawater. Breakfast at seven sharp and after a “smoke time,” the relentlessly boring drill. Again after lunch more training, with a lecture by one of the senior officers at four, and then at 6.15, voluntary evening prayers. After dinner, often a lively concert was dreamed up by one of the companies, in competition with the others. After the last post at ten, Jack often found himself on the rear deck, muffled up against the soot and fumes from the smoke stack. He loved to sit back and admire the stars in their great dome of the heavens. He would dream of home, or try to sort out what duties he should think up. Often enough, he wondered how best to approach the young nurse. The four women ate together at one end of the officers’ mess and it was difficult to cut her out of the herd.
Soon after they had entered the Gulf with the ship in complete disarray, Otter had placed a British regular officer from the Dublin Fusiliers as Quartermaster in charge of the stores, and the ship began a more normal functioning.
One day as Jack headed toward the bow, Bible in hand, he passed this new Quartermaster who had paused by the rail to watch the raw recruits training with rifles. On the ocean, huge nets of seaweed swam past, notwithstanding that the sea was almost as calm as a pond, allowing everyone to recover from their mal de mer. Jack stood with the Captain and watched the recruits: in the space of five minutes, two dropped their rifles and another knocked himself on the head with his weapon.
The Captain rolled his eyes. “What a bunch! Imagine sending the likes of them into a war!”
Jack nodded, but then added, “Most of them are pretty intelligent; won’t take them too long. Though I have no idea why shouldering arms is so important. I should have thought learning how to fall on your face and fire at a moving target would serve them better.”
“Oh that’ll come, don’t you worry.”
After a pause, Jack congratulated the Captain on his new success as Quartermaster, which occasioned a modest tirade: “Fruit and medical supplies are pressing deficiencies. And uniforms — do you know we’re two hundred and sixty kharki tunics short? And we have a surplus of six hundred pairs of trousers!” Jack shook his head. How could the regiment have been sent off in such disarray? “And what is worse, our latrines and facilities below decks are quite inadequate. The food... well, I won’t say anything about it, but water! It’s so scarce I�
��m sure that later we’ll be posting a guard over the taps. You Canadians have put together a right old mess. You’d never find that with the British army, I can tell you.”
Jack was about to stick up for his country and its organization, but calmed himself. “Captain,” he said, “we are all just so thankful that you have taken command. Just this morning I heard the men congratulating each other on their fine new Quartermaster.”
No need to go on, that mollified him and he made no more direct criticism of the Canadian organizational skills. And happily, so far, no mention was voiced of Jack’s misadventure on deck, disobeying the ship captain’s orders.
* * *
One evening at dinner, Jack noticed his bashful nurse staring into space. As she was getting up to leave, he rose and joined her. “So Sister, how are we doing these days?”
The other three pretended not to notice and went on chatting, though they kept one ear on the conversation. The sister simply shook her head, not speaking.
“Are we getting a little homesick? I’ve noticed other soldiers feeling that way. Perhaps you too are a prey to this?”
She nodded, close to tears.
He started to reach out and touch her hand as he often did when ministering to his parishioners on the Labrador. But here in an officers’ mess, not wise.
Her mousy hair swept back over a long, plain face, but she radiated a warmth and vulnerability Jack found inviting. Slight of frame, he wondered if she had the toughness necessary to endure a battlefield hospital. He thought back to his lovely Lorna on the Labrador. He had rescued her from a schooner whose rough crew had subjected her to some dreadful goings-on. Unlike this nurse, Lorna had been tall, much taller than he and, in every sense of the word, strikingly attractive, with her jet black hair and strong dark eyes.
Many times over the last year he had thought of her. But each time, he had made himself put the image aside. They had spent a winter boarding in the same house, and had grown to be great friends. In fact, he admitted now that they might have been in love. But he had been too slow to acknowledge it, and she’d left on a schooner for Truro, her home. He’d written a couple of times, and her last letter informed him that she was now married and had just given birth to a lovely baby boy. So much for that. Next time, Jack thought, I’d better recognize love for what it is, and act on it. No time now to regret the vacillation on my part which had caused her to leave Labrador — but, he told himself, just do not let it happen again.
So now, hating to see one of the fairer sex in pain, he suggested they take a few moments of fresh air before retiring.
She seemed grateful at the suggestion and climbed with him onto the small deck above the mess, where they exchanged greetings and names — Kelsie McLaren, from Yarmouth.
“What did you think of that storm in the gulf, Padre?” Kelsie asked. “I hated it. And now we’re heading out into the Atlantic. I fear this ship will never get us through another tempest. In Yarmouth we all know about Atlantic storms. They’re terrible. We’ve lost a lot of fishermen.”
Jack nodded. “I think we all have our doubts... But then I say to myself, we don’t really know enough about the sea and its ships, do we?”
“And there’s the men...”
“They’re not bothering you?” He felt himself stiffen.
“Well, not exactly. It’s... We don’t have nearly enough medical supplies. Not even enough smallpox vaccinations.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, Doctor Wilson had me count them this morning, when the Quartermaster got after him for the third time. We’re about three hundred short. What are the men going to do when we get to South Africa?”
“Can’t the doctors pick up more in Cape Town?”
She shrugged. “Who knows? I hope so. But our head doctor said there’d be no time. Once we get there, we’ll go right into battle.”
“Well,” Jack tried to sound reassuring, “let’s just pray there is not a lot of pox going around.”
“If there isn’t,” she looked at him with soft brown eyes, full of worry, “why bring the vaccinations along in the first place?”
Jack did not know the answer to that one.
“I guess I’m just worrying for nothing,” she said. “It’s my nature, I suppose.” She faced into the wind and let it blow her hair. They both traced the quarter moon scribbling in foreign calligraphy on the inky waves. Jack acknowledged that he did feel comfortable talking to her. But what did that mean? “You know,” he said, “you’re not the only one with worries.”
She looked at him sharply.
Oh dear, had he spoken without thinking? But then, she did seem interested. “You know, when I was exhorting the men in my sermon to do their utmost for Queen and country, I felt my words sounded pretty hollow. I just can’t summon up that ringing oratory we all heard in Quebec City.”
“I thought you spoke very well, Padre. I liked your sermon.” When she glanced at him under the hanging lamp, he saw admiration and encouragement in her eyes. That quite heartened him.
“To be honest, I feel a bit leaden, too.” Jack paused. “Probably the letdown after all those marvellous speeches. Now, facing the daily grind, I see I didn’t bring enough books. I intended to spend more time studying. Of course,” he added quickly, “I have a Bible and one or two others I can read.”
“Yes, but aren’t they boring after a while?” She frowned. “I haven’t seen you on deck much.”
“Well, I was going out a bit, but then, I guess because of my Captain’s insignia, I found that every time I passed men just resting, they had to jump up and salute. I hated that.”
“Why not take off your clerical collar. Is it mandatory?” she suggested hesitantly. “Then they might not.”
“I checked with Forbes, my cabin-mate: he said the Colonel’s a stickler about form, as we all know. But no, apparently the collar’s not necessary. So good idea: I’ll wear an ordinary shirt like everyone else. Then at least I won’t cause all conversation to stop when I come up. But we have to look smart when we move about — representative of Her Majesty, and all that. So I do have to wear a uniform, which includes the helmet, that they do have to salute.”
They fell silent. Jack just enjoyed standing next to her in the semi darkness while the wind blew past. Perhaps the voyage might not be so bad after all.
* * *
The next afternoon in the bow, Jack met up with his companion from the Chateau Frontenac, George Dorsey. The grey ocean stretched flat before them to a thin horizon, above which an equally grey sky reached overhead with a jaundiced sun trying to break through.
“What ho, George. Got a moment off?” Jack’s greeting was punctuated by loud rifle reports.
“Too many moments off, if you ask me. My boys are learning to shoot, under the gunnery sergeant. As long as —”crack-crack “— I keep hearing this infernal noise, I know they’re busy. Certainly time they learned about rifles and such.”
“Isn’t it hard to hold target practice on board?”
“Well, they use a Morris tube — it’s a liner for the barrel so they can use low-power & low-cost .22 ammunition in place of the .303. Oh, and it’s also low-recoil, helpful for the new recruits.”
“Now I’ve been meaning to ask you, George, if you brought any decent books?”
George nodded. “I have. But did you check the supply they got for us when we left?”
“You mean those dear ladies in Quebec?” Jack went on, “Titus, Soldier of the Cross, and some Boy’s Own Papers; the Wrestler of Philippi, which I’ve already read, of course; Richard Bruce by the author of In His Steps; the Gospel Trumpet, which I tried to wade through, and Robert Louis Stevenson I’ve read. A bunch of romances but no Rider Haggard and not a set of Kipling, if you can believe it, save for one or two volumes of his least interesting works.”
“I’ve got some books of poetry,” George suggested, “and a survey of the Romantic Revival I’m studying for when I go back. That interest you?”
“Yes i
ndeed. And then may I interest you in a couple of my works on religion?”
“You know, Jack, I sort of stopped going to church after I was confirmed. Up to then, my parents made me go every Sunday, but I found those sermons so long and boring.” He heaved an exasperated sigh. “I guess that’s what finished me on religion.”
“But George, you can find the most beautiful poetry in parts of the Bible. Listen to this.” Jack flipped through it, as the rifles blasted away, and found a place he’d dog-eared for George, which he read out loud:
“My beloved is like a roe or a young hart: behold he standeth behind our wall, he looketh forth at the windows, showing himself through the lattice.
My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away.
For, lo, the winter is passed, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth, the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.
The fig tree putteth forth her green shoots, and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away. Song of Solomon, George. You should try reading it.”
“Okay.” George waited for a pause amongst the rifle noise. “What about this from Keats:
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
close bosom friend of the maturing sun,
conspiring with him how to load and bless
with fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run...”
He had quoted it from memory, and went on for a few more lines among the resuming bursts of gunfire. “I tried it out on Dad, but he didn’t go for it. Bunch of mush, he said. But in the autumn, I always think of it, down home on our farm. And now, this autumn, here we are...”
“Heading into a war...”
George shook his head. “Beats me how mankind gets into these scrapes. I’d much rather be back on that farm, to tell the truth. But this way, at least I get to see the world, earn some money, and then head home for what’s going to be a good and enjoyable career.”