The Chaplain

by Paul Almond

  She listened, leaning against the railing, her feet braced on the iron deck as the ship rolled. She kept staring down at the glittering reflection of the half moon on the black waters, not looking at him. When he finished, she nodded. “And you know, Padre— ”

  “I think now, you should start calling me Jack.”

  “Well, all right then. You know, Jack, these boys, I don’t want to add to your worries, but we’re having quite a few of them in with burns on their bare legs from those steam pipes when they are doing those silly drills. The Colonel’s foolish orders for the men to go about in bare feet on that blistering deck, with trousers rolled up above the knees, is causing a good deal of sunburn, and with it, not a little suffering. I thought you would have noticed.”

  “I have noticed. I thought it was just temporary. One or two days.”

  “You haven’t noticed very much then, Jack. It’s been going on for a long time.”

  Silence fell.

  “I guess I’ve pretty well messed up all down the line,” Jack said. “I’m very sorry.” His heart felt so heavy it might fall and smash into a thousand pieces.

  Kelsie reached out, took his hand, held it, and then brought it to her mouth and kissed it. Her grey eyes stared into his sympathetically. “Don’t take it so hard Jack. Now that you’ve heard and seen everything, you’ll know what to do.”

  Her voice sounded warm and comforting. A little encouragement felt so nourishing at times like these. Had he been perhaps too hard on himself this last while? “Thank you Kelsie, thank you.”

  * * *

  Jack went in once again to face his bête noire, Brown, who during the voyage had lost no chance in denigrating him, or casting aspersions on his experience, or his bearing as an officer.

  He made an ungraceful entrance, the heaving of the ship hurling him against a wall. He had to brace his hands on the Adjutant’s desk, an action his opponent took to mean he was being aggressive. Jack quickly straightened.

  “I need an appointment to see the Colonel, please, Major.” Jack stood at what he thought was attention.

  The Adjutant’s eyes narrowed. “On what matter?”

  “Personal,” barked Jack, ready for a fight.

  Brown tried to stare him down.

  Jack stared right back.

  “Am I given to understand that you, as Chaplain, are using your position to get access to our Colonel, busy though he may be, and although he has given instructions not to be disturbed?”

  “I’m doing just that,” Jack said, and nothing more.

  Again, Brown stared it him. Again Jack stared back.

  Brown rose and went and knocked on Otter’s door and announced the chaplain.

  Jack walked in, doing his best to hide his inner panic that recent days of army discipline had instilled. He used to feel afraid of neither man nor beast, but now the prospect of confronting the Commanding Officer of the entire regiment filled him with apprehension. Brown shut the door behind him and stood in the room at ease, listening.

  Otter clasped his hands together, put them behind his head, and leaned back in his chair. “I suppose you’ve come on some pastoral matter, Padre?”

  Jack sensed his superior was wary, but he also felt Otter was not about to throw him into the brig.

  “I wish it were a pastoral matter, Colonel, but I’m afraid not. Which is why I am hesitant to bring it your attention. But I beg leave, as your chaplain, to mention this problem of the men’s well-being, which you may not, perhaps, fully realize.”

  Jack heard an exclamation of disgusted astonishment behind, but did not turn, watching Otter. In any case, he persevered. “Your Standing Orders for the men, very well-intentioned, I’m sure, to toughen up their bare feet and legs for the South African sun, is having rather unfortunate effects.”

  He saw the Colonel lean forward, put his elbows on the desk, his shoulders hunch, and a grim expression form upon his face.

  Jack pressed on, “You see, Colonel, some of the men have become badly sun-burned. There are also unshielded steam pipes that have injured others. I believe, however well meaning, that you might want to go easy on this particular order for a short while — just until the men heal. We want them in good shape when we begin battle.”

  “Is that all, Padre?” Otter snapped.

  “Yes, Sir. That is all.”

  Behind, Jack heard Brown click to attention. He paused, looking at Otter, as neither spoke. Then Jack finished, “Thank you very much for taking the time to listen to me Colonel. I deeply appreciate it, no matter what your decision.” With that he turned and left the room.

  * * *

  The next day, after evening prayers that the nurses attended, Jack fell in with Kelsie as she headed towards the mess. “And so how are the boys doing with their sunburned arms and legs? I’ve been concerned.”

  “And well you might be, Padre.” Kelsie avoided looking at him. “As if there isn’t enough to keep us occupied, with all the aches and pains from those awful drills. Don’t I smell of liniment now? I’ve been rubbing it on them all for days.”

  “I still have a lot to learn about military conduct,” Jack said. “I often find myself confused as to the good intentions of our officers.”

  The mess doors hadn’t opened yet, so they drifted toward the side rail and leaned over. “Look, Kelsie!” Jack so wanted to talk to her about this latest contre-temps, but wasn’t sure if he should.

  Sleek forms sliced the waves near the bow keel, weaving their supple bodies to speed back and forth in a dolphin dance.

  “Seen any whales?” he asked

  “A couple of times. Spouting, far off.” Occasionally, the dorsal fin of a shark, grim wolf of the ocean, cleaved the open sea like a knife.

  “Such beautiful creatures, these dolphins,” Jack murmured. “I’ve never seen them before.” He paused. “You know, yesterday I saw a butterfly on deck. Its wings were moving up and down as though trying to keep its life flowing. A harbinger of a new continent, I suspect.”

  “Yes.” Kelsie nodded, then shook her head.

  “So,” Jack went on, “I guess we will soon be in Cape Town...”

  “Yes, and I’m not looking forward to it, Padre.”

  Jack grimaced. “Well, that butterfly did make me think, for a moment, of the souls that might indeed flutter up into an unknown paradise.” They both fell silent.

  She nodded. Then, Jack tried to sound optimistic: “Imagine, such a faraway and mysterious continent — ours at last. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been, either?”

  He glanced at her. He himself had even been aware that their voyage — and thus their new relationship — would be over... Had she considered that, too?

  “That’s when the killing starts,” she said simply. “I’ve seen enough accidents in Halifax to know what we’ll be facing. Our boys will get carried into hospitals, crying for help. I’ll tend them all right, but I don’t like the thought of my friends from the ship screaming in pain.” She looked at him with her big eyes. “Jack, they’re so young, even younger than me. How can any of us look forward to all this — having them butchered by savages they’re going over there to wallop?”

  She lapsed into silence, and Jack reached out. She came close to him. He put his arm round her. “I know,” she went on. “I’ve come over offering my help and all that... But I just can’t stop worrying. Rumours say the Boers are such fine marksmen... With those German guns of theirs, they’ll pick off our boys from an awful long way away.”

  She’s right, Jack thought, she’s absolutely right. But on the other hand, although it meant facing dangers he did not relish, he still felt a growing excitement at drawing closer to this unknown continent.

  “You’d think someone would at least say something to Otter,” Kelsie said after a time, bringing the subject back to sunburns.

  It was an opening that Jack still preferred not to take. “What perplexes me is why our second or third in command, Major Buchan or Major Pelletier, can’t go in and tell t
he old boy what’s happening. Does he have any idea of the havoc he’s causing?”

  She looked at him again, and he saw her steeling herself. “You’ve been told about it as well.” Then she looked back at the sea.

  “Yes.” He still resisted speaking about his confrontation. “I expected a change, but...”

  After a pause she went on. “One young kid was in, I’m sure he lied about his age to join up, anyway, he was grumbling loudly about the chaplains doing nothing.”

  Now that Jack did not want to hear. The good name of the clergy lay in the balance, so now at last, he had to speak up. It would relieve his distress. “As a matter of fact, Kelsie, I did go in. I faced Otter. I... I just didn’t want to mention it.”

  “Why not?” She turned to him with an entirely different look in her eyes. “That was so good of you, Jack. I’ll tell them.”

  “No, don’t. You see, I got nowhere. I really expected a change right away.” He shrugged. “And nothing happened. I failed.”

  “You didn’t fail, Jack. You didn’t. You tried. That’s what matters.” She paused, and went on as if to herself. “I will tell the lads. It’s your good name, and I want them to know.”

  “Well, I don’t want the lads to think ill of us chaplains.” Though he wondered why the other two had not stepped in as he had. Or maybe they had? A lot more to this army business than just preaching sermons, he was finding out. What would the next hurdle be?

  But in two days, Jack was pleased see that his request that the order be rescinded was listened to, and some form of normalcy restored.

  And then, too soon for Jack actually, early in the morning, on Monday, Nov 29, 1899, a dull hump appeared on the horizon, scarcely discernible between the slate coloured sky and water: the flat-topped mountain which heralded Cape Town. And with that, the imminent approach of war.

  Chapter Ten

  Capetown! The ship steamed — far too lazily it seemed to Jack — towards the long low shore, past what Jack was told was a lepers’ home on the parched, flat Robben Island, then seeming to crawl right under Lions Head on the top of Table Mountain. Jack quickened with excitement as he saw the harbour. Almost the entire regiment crowded to the near side of the ship, making it list slightly.

  On the way in to the dock, they passed another troopship that turned out to contain soldiers from the Australian colonies. So here again, Jack thought, six other colonies in a soon-to-be dominion had produced a Militia and sent them on an even longer voyage to come and fight for Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, who reigned over Australia as well.

  Although aching to get ashore, the regiment had to wait until the yellow flag was hoisted and a medical officer came on board to approve the ship for landing. Finally the ship came to moor at the dock and Kaffir (black) stevedores began to unload supplies. But the men still could not disembark, for orders came to spend another night in their cramped quarters.

  After dinner, Jack loitered on deck, looking longingly out at the thriving city. Two of their four war correspondents were getting ready to disembark. Did orders not apply to them? Well, thought Jack, maybe chaplains are exempted also. He thought for a bit, and then crossed over to Stanley Brown, of the Mail and Empire, and another fellow, Kandinsky, who looked ready to disembark. He had stayed well clear of them during the voyage: with notebooks at the ready, he suspected they might be focussed on reporting the worst, rather than the brighter, aspects of the voyage. But now, perhaps no damage would be done.

  “Mr. Brown!” Jack approached the friendly-looking writer who had grown a moustache during the voyage, perhaps to fit in better with the regiment. His inquisitive yet rather kind brown eyes suggested he might be an upright citizen. Jack was not so sure about the lean and hungry-looking Kandinsky, who had been tarred by the soldiers as a bit of a wastrel. “Do I detect your intention to go ashore tonight?”

  “Why yes,” came the answer from Brown. “We believe those orders have nothing to do with us. So, to better inform our readers across the Atlantic, we’re going down that gangplank. Can’t wait to set foot on this great new continent.”

  “My sentiment exactly,” Jack said. “May I join you?”

  Kandinsky scowled but Stanley nodded. “Of course, Padre. We’re just going to wander around a bit, get a feel for the town, and perhaps end with a celebration drink.” The last phrase seemed thrown out as a bit of a challenge.

  “A drink would be just what the doctor ordered!” Jack grinned. “As long as we’re not back too late... Like you, I shall take in the town with very curious eyes.”

  So it came to be that Jack, not glancing back but half-expecting a shouted command to return, hurried after them down the gangplank. Gingerly and proudly, he stepped for the first time on African soil.

  As he trod the quay, he felt a surge of elation such as he had not known since Sir Wilfrid had shaken his hand at Spencerwood. At last, the African continent! What other Shigawaker had such luck? And who might have thought, when he entered Bishop’s University seven or eight years ago, that one day he would become a world traveller? Did he ever think, snowed in by blizzards on the Canadian Labrador, that he would soon adventure on tropical lands?

  They turned off a waterfront street into the quaint old city thronged with dark-skinned, gaudily dressed Kaffirs, some refugees from the conflict to the north, and some slovenly, barefooted types in rags. Jack had never seen such variety: Malay and East Indians, Coolies, Soudanese, Arabs and Egyptians — turbans, fezzes, the woolly heads of Zulus and the slouch hats of the Cape “boys”. Red electric trolley cars clanged past, their passengers sitting in open seats on top. Jack and the others took in every storefront, every passer-by. He enjoyed the rather grand public buildings that lined this main thoroughfare. Such a monumental style of architecture he thought, must resemble European cities, particularly in Holland. Along the way, he noticed signs in Dutch as well as English. The colony had been an outpost of the Dutch East India Company until 1795, when the British seized it in the name of the Prince of Orange.

  “I’ve never been able to get this South African history straight, Stanley,” Jack confessed. “Mind you, I came at a moment’s notice, and there were no history books on board I could find.”

  “All you need to know is that the place went back and forth between the Dutch, or Boers, and the British —”

  “Until the Brits passed that Emancipation of Slaves Act. That’s what undone ’em,” Kandinsky added.

  “Oh yes, in 1833,” Stanley said. “I seem to remember a bunch of Boers trekked north, the Voortrekkers — “

  “Five thousand of them,” Kandinsky said. “Brought their Kaffirs with ’em. Crossed the Vaal River.”

  “Oh, so that set up the Transvaal,” concluded Jack. “They wanted more land?”

  “They wanted to get out from under British Control.” Stanley sounded vehement. “But then in the Zulu uprising, 1877, they needed British help and so they lost their independence again.”

  “Got it back seven years later, though, at that Convention in London,” Brown said. “But all the while, Germany was siding with the Boers. Didn’t hurt of course that they discovered diamonds in 1867, and gold near Kimberly a year earlier.”

  “That’s for sure.” Jack was grateful for them piecing it together, now that he was actually here. Parts of downtown Montreal, he thought, displayed the same magnificent frontages, but he found these more interesting. Old Quebec City still held his heartstrings: nowhere else could be as attractive as that place he now called his second home. But this city here could at least claim the magnificent Table Mountain dominating its whole scene.

  They squeezed back as a hansom cab trotted past, a Kaffir under a wide hat perched high on the back seat, snapping and cracking his whip like an expert as he wheeled two officers carelessly through some mud-packed, some stone-paved, streets. The three of them walked past rows of waiting carriages, brightly painted and gilded, rear danger lamps flaring red. Jack smiled at their names: Dashing and Bold, Napoleon the First, Swi
ft and Sure, and so on.

  One building, a newspaper office, rang bells to announce special war bulletins, and groups hastened to see what might be the latest. Jack took in the native drivers and porters, some in turbans, others in high-pointed straw hats rising like pagodas, and a group of Kaffirs guffawing at three jaunty young officers who strode past.

  Finally, they entered a saloon that didn’t look too costly. In front of a long counter, soldiers, civilians and sailors all stood drinking deep the health of the Empire. This bar, they soon discovered, circulated wild rumours and even wilder gossip about the war, as did most others.

  And what a week this last one had been. Jack and his journalist friends Kandinsky and Stanley learned from the bartender, a short bearded fellow with an unkempt apron covering his squat frame, that things were not going well for the British: the Boers had Ladysmith and Kimberly under siege, he told them, as well as Colonel Baden-Powell’s force at Mafeking. True, the British General Gatacre had successfully occupied Bushman’s Hoek, but the Imperial forces had been forced to fight for every foot of ground in all their battles, suffering great losses. So far not one shot had been fired in the territories of the Boer Republics.

  “Well, I suppose that augurs well for the Canadians,” Jack commented. “Means our boys will get into action pretty quick.”

  “Yes,” Stanley said, “at last we’ll have something real to report.” He nudged Kandinsky.

  They spent the next half hour listening to, and trading, all sorts of rumours. The somewhat partisan bartender told them that in this rather divided city, some people were hoping for a pro-Boer uprising in the British territories of Cape Colony and the Natal. Stanley countered this with the news of the Sardinian’s thousand fighting men, all raring to do battle for their Queen.

  Stanley proposed a second round of drinks, and Jack nodded. “But that’ll be the last for me.”

  “The fighting is still a long way North,” the bartender told them as he poured their beers. “You won’t see any of that for a good while yet.”