The Chaplain

by Paul Almond

  He stopped at one booth and asked about the small display of the eggs he saw, and inquired if he might buy a good many for his hospital up at Orange River.

  “These are just for our customers,” the woman replied, her grey hair piled under a bonnet, an apron covering a plump body. “Anything that has to do with the troops, you need to talk to our wholesaler.”

  “And how do I do that?” asked Jack.

  “You’d have to see my husband. He’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

  He tried at another booth where, as with others, he received the same evasive answer. Not so easy to walk in and order supplies! Perhaps they suspected him of being an undercover agent. So after a touristic look round, he headed for the Army depot. He reckoned that for the more important foodstuffs, the central Quartermaster would arrange it all, as suggested.

  Once there, he found which of the many officers suited his problem, and at the appointed desk, waited while the Quartermaster dealt with a tall and unusually thin Boer, fairly well dressed. He found them discussing something to do with the agricultural sector. So, in a pause, he asked if the Boer knew anything about a former farmer by the name of Gideon Prinsloo.

  He could see the man sizing him up. “I might. Why’d you ask?”

  Jack explained his errand: a Boer lad he had met in the Orange River Field Hospital wanted to get a message to his Uncle.

  “That might be possible,” the tall Boer answered warily. But after taking a good look at Jack, he went on, “If you wait at the corner of Riebeek and Bree streets around seven this evening, I shall try to meet you.”

  At the appointed time, Jack stood on Riebeek, and soon the tall Boer came up, introducing himself as Johannes Kamp. “I believe I can take you to the fellow. He wants to hear more. I suggested we meet at a tavern. If you’ll come, we can offer the fellow a drink.”

  So Jack followed Johannes along this main street until they turned down Buitenkant Street and entered the Perseverance Tavern, a rather disreputable looking bar.

  “May I buy you a drink?” asked Jack.

  “No thank you, Pastoor. I know you fellows of the cloth never have any money. I’ve made a somewhat decent living supplying the Imperial troops. Though it’s not always easy... What will you have?”

  “A beer, please.”

  As they leaned on the bar and talked of farming in the Cape Colony, Jack suddenly found himself spun round. He faced an enraged fellow with red eyes, bearded, and very drunk. Before he could see what was happening, a fist thudded into his jaw and down he went.

  The bar erupted in chaos.

  Groggily, he looked up to see above him the wild-eyed oaf, who yelled out, “You let one of them Imperials in here again and I’ll set the bar on fire.”

  “Steady on!” Johannes grabbed the drunken wretch and, assisted by another, hauled him to the door. “That’s a pastoor you hit!”

  “I don’t care what he is, this is an Afrikaner tavern, we’d don’t need the likes of Imperials coming in here telling us what to do — taking our land away from us!”

  With a mighty push Johannes and his helper thrust the man into the street, sending him sprawling into a puddle. Johannes came back, adjusting his clothes, while Jack picked himself up.

  “I’m sorry, Pastoor.” Johannes looked Jack in the face. “Did he hurt you?”

  Jack shook his head. “Just a bit dazed. But that was a mighty punch. Must have been a boxer.” He managed a weak smile.

  Seeing Jack was all right, the customers went back to their drinking; it seemed a fairly usual occurrence in this particular tavern. The bartender came over to apologize. “That Hendrik, he’s a troublemaker. This is a good tavern. We serve anyone.” He offered Jack another beer as a peace offering.

  After conversations had settled a bit, Jack asked, “So, Johannes, are there lots of Boer sympathizers hereabouts?”

  “No one likes their land taken away.” He took a draft of his ale. “Even before the war started, we could see problems coming. A few of us came over from the Transvaal into Cape Colony.” He seemed about to go on, but then closed his mouth.

  Jack nodded and took another slug of his new draft, then turned as Johannes looked over his shoulder and brightened.

  A short, heavyset man with the requisite black beard came up to them. His eyes kept darting around the room as he greeted Johannes, and then he looked hard at Jack.

  “You’ll have a beer, I think, Mr. Prinsloo?” asked Johannes.

  “Drop of Scotch,” grunted Gideon Prinsloo. Nothing was said until the bartender brought the Scotch, which he threw back in a jiffy and placed the small glass back on the bar. Johannes motioned with his head to the bartender, who filled it again. “So how is my nephew?” Prinsloo asked finally.

  “The lad’s been shot, or perhaps it was shrapnel. But he’s doing well. Won’t be too long before he’s back on his farm, which I understand you know?”

  “Aye,” replied Prinsloo. “Although I haven’t been there for four or five years. I moved my family into the Cape Colony — for which I got no thanks from the rest of them. A lot safer in these times; I have four children to think about and a hard-working wife. We found a small piece of land, not very productive, so I’m down here, doing whatever I can.”

  Johannes chuckled. “I hear ’whatever you can’ happens to turn a pretty penny, Gideon. No one can get an egg without your approval.”

  Jack registered this, and then looked at Gideon, who shrugged. “Eggs are perishable. The British send their main supplies from England, but eggs,” he grinned, “they cannot import.” Then he looked at Johannes. “From what I hear, you’re not doing too badly yourself.”

  “I get by,” Johannes agreed enigmatically.

  “So I guess, to get to the point,” Jack said, “young Pieter would like to know if you could come and help him on his farm. You see, now he’s an orphan. Parents killed in the war. He should be home within a month.”

  Gideon Prinsloo shook his head. “Too bad, I liked them.” He sighed. “Well, no question of me coming in a month, Pastoor. Too much to do here. But it’s a fine farm, and once this war is over, I’d be honoured to bring my family to help run it.”

  “That’s good news,” Jack said. “If it hasn’t all gone to rack and ruin by then...”

  “Those damned Imperials, forgive my swearing, Pastoor, but they think nothing of destroying a fine farm when they feel like it. I don’t know what they’ll do when it’s all over. The farms they’ve destroyed will produce nothing. Then what will they be getting?”

  “I’m sure they don’t want to take over, exactly,” said Jack. “I’m a Canadian, of course, but I’ve not heard of the British trying to take over farms. It’s the government they want to change.”

  “They want the gold. They want the diamonds. The farmers can go to hell.” Prinsloo swore and then gulped his jigger of Scotch, and put the glass down for more.

  “Is there some way,” Jack asked, “that you could scribble a message for me to bring to Pieter? He trusts me, but it may be a long time for a lad to wait until this terrible war is over: months, maybe —”

  “More like years,” Johannes interrupted

  “Nothing easier.” Prinsloo signalled to the bartender for pencil and paper and, as they were talking, wrote a short paragraph for Jack to take to his nephew. “I always liked that lad. He’s a decent one. Played with his cousins, my children, you see, they loved him too, fine generous lad. His parents and I stopped being on speaking terms, but the children didn’t know that.”

  With that accomplished, Jack felt he could move on to finding his Kelsie. And she’d probably be able to get her commander to introduce him to Lt.-Col. Ryerson.

  He hired a carriage, and they trotted off through the outskirts to Wynberg: a charming little British suburb with rows of houses and neat gardens with climbing wisteria. But on reaching the hospital, he discovered the four Canadian nurses had been moved up the line towards Kimberly. With hopes shattered, Jack felt more or less d
efeated.

  However the Director of the hospital was most helpful. He not only knew Ryerson, but also how to get in touch with him and promised Jack that he’d have some word the next day.

  As Jack turned to go, the Director called him back. “I almost forgot. Here’s a letter that someone left for you.”

  In his carriage trotting back to the centre of Cape Town, Jack read:

  Dear Jack,

  I just have a feeling that you will be coming here somehow, so I’m leaving you this note because tomorrow I am leaving for upcountry.

  Because this is war and we never know if we’re going to meet again, I wanted to tell you how much your friendship and wise counsel meant to me on the boat.

  You have often been in my thoughts since then. Funny how a person stays with you, even when he’s far away.

  I think of the times we stood at the railing on the boat, and of our last meeting in Cape Town.

  I guess there is not much point in writing when I don’t even know if you’ll get this. But if you do, please understand you brightened up my life when I needed it. For sure, when we get back, we must meet again, either in Halifax or in your beloved Gaspe.

  Your friend, Kelsie.

  Chapter Eighteen

  On the long train ride back to Belmont, Jack found that Kelsie’s letter had given him lots to occupy his thoughts, a welcome release from wartime vicissitudes. Clearly, she was expressing her liking for him. He wished he’d been a bit more forthright in his note to her. But then, it probably never reached her. So what now? Try to find her? Of course, but his duty came first. Would they run into each other? Surely, at some point. And what then? Well, better wait until then to decide. But one thing was sure, she needed him, and he himself wanted to look after her — perhaps even for a long time to come.

  But first, he was anxious to see Big George Dorsey again, and young Eamon; he wondered how they were getting on. But his orders had him first stopping in De Aar. When at last he arrived, he alerted the hospital commandant as to what he might expect by way of supplies.

  “We’ve already had crates of sulphate of magnesia, thanks to you,” the officer told him.

  “Thanks to Dr. Ryerson,” Jack corrected. “He made it possible. I just moved it along.”

  Jack offered a short evening service, and the next morning was able to find out the latest news. Lord Roberts, the new Commander-in-Chief, had paid a surprise visit to Belmont and General Kitchener inspected the men, and declared them ready. The Field Marshall had announced that the Canadians were to join a newly constituted Nineteenth Brigade under Major General Horace Smith-Dorrien, a protégé of Kitchener. This time, he told them, they would see all the fighting they’d ever want and in desperate and difficult conditions over harsh terrain.

  In order to help relieve the beleaguered British fortresses at Ladysmith, Kimberly and Mafeking, Roberts had decided on a different strategy: strike directly at the Boer capitals of Bloemfontein and Pretoria.

  On Sunday, February 11th, the RCR had left on a march to Graspan, where they had a short spell of sleep under the stars.

  At five in the morning, the brigade had then begun a twelve-mile trek to Ramdam. There, they joined a large military offensive of over thirty thousand men, plus five thousand native drivers managing twenty thousand mules and oxen and some fifteen thousand horses, all set to snake across the veldt in the hottest month of the year.

  Heavens, what news! Jack felt he must get with them as soon as possible, now that they were facing their first major engagement of the war. After breakfast, he headed off by train for Orange River, desperate to catch up with his unit beyond Belmont.

  When he arrived at the Orange River Field Hospital, he checked in with the officer commanding, the one who had sent him down to Cape Town. He reported fully on his doings and received welcome compliments. He set about visiting the wounded, and again was greeted by the ghastly sights of war: fever, exhaustion, wounds and death. He was accosted by a convalescent with a bandaged arm — a Corporal, in the best of spirits. “Padre! Welcome back!”

  “Thank you, Corporal.” Jack couldn’t remember his name, but the Corporal introduced himself and after some talk about his fresh wound, went on, “Padre, last week, imagine our surprise when they gave us eggs for breakfast!”

  Jack smiled. “Well, I’m glad they finally — ”

  “Not they, Padre, you. We heard you was doing it. Down at Cape Town. Good for you!”

  “Well, I only saw that they — ”

  “We toasted you with our fresh breakfast water. Next time, could you try for fruit juice?” The soldier laughed at his own joke and nudged Jack. “You here for long this time?”

  “No, I must rejoin the regiment. Just as soon as I’ve done some ministry here.”

  “Me too, I want to be with the lads.” He shrugged. They both knew that the Corporal would be here for a good while yet.

  Jack went on his rounds, and soon found the cot where young Pieter lay.

  “Well, Pieter,” Jack said, “you look as if you’re feeling better.”

  Pieter turned, and his eyes widened. “Pastoor! I never think I see you again.”

  “You decided I was all talk and no action?” Jack smiled. “Well, I’ve got something to show you.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out the paper on which Pieter’s uncle had written an address and his agreement. “There we are, Pieter, your Oom has written a note. He can’t join you right now. He’s the one helped me get all these eggs for us here. He seems to be making — for himself, and so for you and your farm — a pretty fine income.”

  “He is?”

  “Oh yes. And he told me to assure you that he will come with his family and help you, once this nightmare is over. So, you may find it hard for a time, but in the long run, your worries are over.”

  “Oh thank you, Padre!”

  Jack could see the news had done more to help young Pieter recover than all the medicines in the world. After exchanging a few words of comfort, Jack moved on.

  He wanted to leave early in the morning and so worked well into the night. Before finishing his rounds, he came upon a familiar form. There on a cot lay his cabin mate from the Sardinian, Captain Forbes.

  As he knelt he saw all the signs of enteric: the rising fever, headaches, and a stomach-ache. Diarrhea had not set in yet, nor the delirium that often accompanied the fever in its second week. Usually the disease ran its course for a month, but a proportion of sufferers did not survive; one never knew.

  “Well, Captain, indeed a sorry state of affairs! Did they bring you all the way here?”

  Forbes turned and saw Jack. “No, I was in Belmont trying to commandeer more transportation.” He nodded, holding his stomach. “So now what? You’ll try to cram thoughts of heaven down my throat?”

  “No,” Jack said with a tired smile, “I have discovered that talk of an afterlife doesn’t sit too well with lads who are in pain.”

  Forbes nodded. “Good for you.”

  “But let me try to help... Can I get you anything to ease your pain, Captain? Or shall we talk a while? You will find me a willing listener.”

  “I got no talk in me.” He made a face. “I haven’t slept for days. I know I’ve got to sleep, I know it helps, but I can’t seem to. Maybe tell me about that province of yours, filled with Frenchies.” He groaned with pain. “How about giving me your reasons for liking it?” He writhed, then asked for water.

  Jack rose, went to the orderly table at one end, poured a glass of the precious, clear liquid from the tank and brought it over to Forbes, who drank.

  “Well first off, I don’t minister much to the Frenchies, as you call them; my parishioners are mostly English. Not easy for them, being alone up there in northern Quebec. You’re from Nova Scotia?”

  Forbes nodded. “Halifax. Never been to Quebec. Is it nice?”

  Jack made himself comfortable on a camp chair beside Forbes. “Well Captain, our woods are lush and green: hay, wheat, oats, all come on their own. Yo
u just spread the seed and they grow. In fact, all the water you’ll ever want, we’ve got.” Jack found himself warming to his subject. “And our lakes, so still, so beautiful. Around the edges, I’ve seen foxes, deer, often moose, come and dip their noses in the clear surfaces to drink their fill.”

  Forbes nodded, and relaxed as if being told a bedtime story.

  “The streams that feed those lakes are homes to mink, otter, sometimes beaver. Many’s the time I’ve seen them splashing about. Trapping season, they hide, of course. You know, I used to go camp at the edge of a lake instead of staying at some parishioner’s. I’d watch the moon rise over the lake and listen to the loons with their unearthly calling. Spirits of departed ancestors, the Eskimos say.

  “In the morning, dawn, that’s when it all comes alive: I’d see across the still water deer bring their fawns to drink, so delicately do they nuzzle the water before sliding off into the woods. And then of course, there’s the splash of trout leaping for flies. Just drop in your line and there’s lunch in ten minutes! Heavens! How I loved to fry those trout crisp golden brown, slather them in farm butter and brew myself up a strong cup of tea. What else would a man want?

  “And our clouds! Such wondrous shapes, oh yes, romping high in that vivid blue sky. Every so often, they’d rear up and clap their hands in thunder, and open their hearts in a downpour to feed the forest and nourish the crops. Marvellous province, quite marvellous.” Jack lapsed in the silence and glanced down.

  The Captain was fast asleep.

  That’s one way to care for the wounded: paint them word pictures, take them by the hand and lead them away from their agony, away from conflict into a loving world of home and family. And for himself, oh yes, very curative. But tomorrow, the fray.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jack waited impatiently on the railway platform for a train heading north. But the first to arrive was heading south, loaded with wounded and with rumours of a major engagement being fought at Paardeberg Drift. It disgorged its veterans, and upwards of a hundred men began their agonised trek over the few hundred yards of desert to the tent hospital. Jack helped one man who was bent over, clutching his stomach; another beside him bled from an arm that hung lifeless.