The Major

R >> Ralph Connor >> The Major


"Speaking of citizenship, I have always wanted to know about the
Delbruck Law, Professor Schaefer, in regard to citizenship," said Larry.

The professor hesitated, "The Delbruck Law?"

"Yes," said Larry. "How does it affect, for instance, your American
citizenship?"

"Not at all, I should say. Not in the very least," replied Professor
Schaefer curtly and as if dismissing the subject.

"I am not so sure of that, Professor Schaefer," said Hugo Raeder. "I
was in Germany when that law was passed. It aroused a great deal of
interest. I have not looked into it myself, but on the face of it I
should say it possesses certain rather objectionable features."

"Not at all, not at all, I assure you," exclaimed Professor Schaefer.
"It is simply a concession to the intense, but very natural affection
for the Fatherland in every German heart, while at the same time it
facilitates citizenship in a foreign country. For instance, there are
millions of Germans living in America who like myself shrank from taking
the oath which breaks the bond with the Fatherland. We love America, we
are Americans, we live in America, we work in America; but naturally our
hearts turn to Germany, and we cannot forget our childhood's home. That
is good, that is worthy, that is noble--hence the Delbruck Law."

"But what does it provide exactly?" enquired Mr. Wakeham. "I confess I
never heard of it."

"It permits a German to become an American citizen, and at the same
time allows him to retain his connection, his heart connection, with the
Fatherland. It is a beautiful law."

"A beautiful law," echoed his friend, Mr. Meyer.

"Just what is the connection?" insisted Hugo Raeder.

"Dear friend, let me explain to you. It permits him to retain his place,
his relations with his own old country people. You can surely see the
advantage of that. For instance: When I return to Germany I find myself
in full possession of all my accustomed privileges. I am no stranger.
Ah, it is beautiful! And you see further how it establishes a new bond
between the two countries. Every German-American will become a bond of
unity between these two great nations, the two great coming nations of
the world."

"Beautiful, beautiful, glorious!" echoed Meyer.

"But I do not understand," said Larry. "Are you still a citizen of
Germany?"

"I am an American citizen, and proud of it," exclaimed Professor
Schaefer, dramatically.

"Ach, so, geviss," said Meyer. "Sure! an American citizen!"

"But you are also a citizen of Germany?" enquired Hugo Raeder.

"If I return to Germany I resume the rights of my German citizenship, of
course."

"Beautiful, beautiful!" exclaimed Meyer.

"Look here, Schaefer. Be frank about this. Which are you to-day, a
citizen of Germany or of America?"

"Both, I tell you," exclaimed Schaefer proudly. "That is the beauty of
the arrangement."

"Ah, a beautiful arrangement!" said Meyer.

"What? You are a citizen of another country while you claim American
citizenship?" said Raeder. "You can no more be a citizen of two
countries at the same time than the husband of two wives at the same
time."

"Well, why not?" laughed Schaefer. "An American wife for America, and
a German wife for Germany. You will excuse me," he added, bowing toward
Mrs. Wakeham.

"Don't be disgusting," said Hugo Raeder. "Apart from the legal
difficulty the chief difficulty about that scheme would be that whatever
the German wife might have to say to such an arrangement, no American
wife would tolerate it for an instant."

"I was merely joking, of course," said Schaefer.

"But, Professor Schaefer, suppose war should come between Germany and
America," said Larry.

"War between Germany and America--the thing is preposterous nonsense,
not to be considered among the possibilities!"

"But as a mere hypothesis for the sake of argument, what would your
position be?" persisted Larry.

Professor Schaefer was visibly annoyed. "I say the hypothesis is
nonsense and unthinkable," he cried.

"Come on, Schaefer, you can't escape it like that, you know," said Hugo
Raeder. "By that law of yours, where would your allegiance be should war
arise? I am asking what actually would be your standing. Would you be a
German citizen or an American citizen?"

"The possibility does not exist," said Professor Schaefer.

"Quite impossible," exclaimed Meyer.

"Well, what of other countries then?" said Hugo, pursuing the subject
with a wicked delight. His sturdy Americanism resented this bigamous
citizenship. "What of France or Britain?"

"Ah," said Professor Schaefer with a sharpening of his tone. "That is
quite easy."

"You would be a German, eh?" said Raeder.

"You ask me," exclaimed Professor Schaefer, "you ask me as between
Germany and France, or between Germany and Britain? I reply," he
exclaimed with a dramatic flourish of his hand, "I am a worshipper of
the life-giving sun, not of the dead moon; I follow the dawn, not the
dying day."

But this was too much for Larry. "Without discussing which is the sun
and which is the moon, about which we might naturally differ, Professor
Schaefer, I want to be quite clear upon one point. Do I understand you
to say that if you were, say a naturalised citizen of Canada, having
sworn allegiance to our Government, enjoying the full rights and
privileges of our citizenship, you at the same time would be free to
consider yourself a citizen of Germany, and in case of war with Britain,
you would feel in duty bound to support Germany? And is it that which
the Delbruck Law is deliberately drawn, to permit you to do?"

"Well put, Larry!" exclaimed Hugo Raeder, to whom the German's attitude
was detestable.

Professor Schaefer's lips curled in an unpleasant smile. "Canada,
Canadian citizenship! My dear young man, pardon! Allow me to ask you a
question. If Britain were at war with Germany, do you think it at all
likely that Canada would allow herself to become involved in a European
war? Canada is a proud, young, virile nation. Would she be likely to
link her fortunes with those of a decadent power? Excuse me a moment,"
checking Larry's impetuous reply with his hand. "Believe me, we know
something about these things. We make it our business to know. You
acknowledge that we know something about your mines; let me assure you
that there is nothing about your country that we do not know. Nothing.
Nothing. We know the feeling in Canada. Where would Canada be in such
a war? Not with Germany, I would not say that. But would she stand with
England?"

Larry sprang to his feet. "Where would Canada be? Let me tell you,
Professor Schaefer," shaking his finger in the professor's face. "To her
last man and her last dollar Canada would be with the Empire."

"Hear, hear!" shouted Hugo Raeder.

The professor looked incredulous. "And yet," he said with a sneer,
"one-half of your people voted for Reciprocity with the United States."

"Reciprocity! And yet you say you know Canada," exclaimed Larry in a
tone of disgust. "Do you know, sir, what defeated Reciprocity with this
country? Not hostility to the United States; there is nothing but the
kindliest feeling among Canadians for Americans. But I will tell you
what defeated Reciprocity. It was what we might call the ultra loyal
spirit of the Canadian people toward the Empire. The Canadians were
Empire mad. The bare suggestion of the possibility of any peril to the
Empire bond made them throw out Sir Wilfrid Laurier and the Liberal
Party. That, of course, with other subordinate causes."

"I fancy our Mr. Taft helped a bit," said Hugo Raeder.

"Undoubtedly Mr. Taft's unfortunate remarks were worked to the limit by
the Conservative Party. But all I say is that any suggestion, I will not
say of disloyalty, but even of indifference, to the Empire of Canada is
simply nonsense."

At this point a servant brought in a telegram and handed it to Mr.
Wakeham. "Excuse me, my dear," he said to his wife, opened the wire,
read it, and passed it to Hugo Raeder. "From your chief, Hugo."

"Much in that, do you think, sir?" inquired Hugo, passing the telegram
back to him.

"Oh, a little flurry in the market possibly," said Mr. Wakeham. "What do
you think about that, Schaefer?" Mr. Wakeham continued, handing him the
wire.

Professor Schaefer glanced at the telegram. "My God!" he exclaimed,
springing to his feet. "It is come, it is come at last!" He spoke
hurriedly in German to his friend, Meyer, and handed him the telegram.

Meyer read it. "God in heaven!" he cried. "It is here!" In intense
excitement he poured forth a torrent of interrogations in German,
receiving animated replies from Professor Schaefer. Then grasping the
professor's hand in both of his, he shook it with wild enthusiasm.

"At last!" he cried. "At last! Thank God, our day has come!"

Completely ignoring the rest of the company, the two Germans carried
on a rapid and passionate conversation in their own tongue with excited
gesticulations, which the professor concluded by turning to his hostess
and saying, "Mrs. Wakeham, you will excuse us. Mr. Wakeham, you can send
us to town at once?"

By this time the whole company were upon their feet gazing with
amazement upon the two excited Germans.

"But what is it?" cried Mrs. Wakeham. "What has happened? Is there
anything wrong? What is it, Professor Schaefer? What is your wire about,
Garrison?"

"Oh, nothing at all, my dear, to get excited about. My financial
agent wires me that the Press will announce to-morrow that Austria has
presented an ultimatum to Servia demanding an answer within forty-eight
hours."

"Oh, is that all," she said in a tone of vast relief. "What a start you
all gave me. An ultimatum to Servia? What is it all about?"

"Why, you remember, my dear, the murder of the Archduke Ferdinand about
three weeks ago?"

"Oh, yes, I remember. I had quite forgotten it. Poor thing, how terrible
it was! Didn't they get the murderer? It seems to me they caught him."

"You will excuse us, Mrs. Wakeham," said Professor Schaefer, approaching
her. "We deeply regret leaving this pleasant party and your hospitable
home, but it is imperative that we go."

"But, my dear Professor Schaefer, to-night?" exclaimed Mrs. Wakeham.

"Why, Schaefer, what's the rush? Are you caught in the market?" said
Wakeham with a little laugh. "You cannot do anything to-night at any
rate, you know. We will have you in early to-morrow morning."

"No, no, to-night, now, immediately!" shouted Meyer in uncontrollable
excitement.

"But why all the excitement, Schaefer?" said Hugo Raeder, smiling at
him. "Austria has presented an ultimatum to Servia--what about it?"

"What about it? Oh, you Americans; you are so provincial. Did you read
the ultimatum? Do you know what it means? It means war!"

"War!" cried Meyer. "War at last! Thank God! Tonight must we in New York
become."

Shaking hands hurriedly with Mrs. Wakeham, and with a curt bow to
the rest of the company, Meyer hurriedly left the room, followed by
Professor Schaefer and Mr. Wakeham.

"Aren't they funny!" said Rowena. "They get so excited about nothing."

"Well, it is hardly nothing," said Hugo Raeder. "Any European war is
full of all sorts of possibilities. You cannot throw matches about in a
powder magazine without some degree of danger."

"May I read the ultimatum?" said Larry to Mrs. Wakeham, who held the
telegram in her hand.

"Pretty stiff ultimatum," said Hugo Raeder. "Read it out, Larry."

"Servia will have to eat dirt," said Larry when he had finished. "Listen
to this: She must 'accept the collaboration in Servia of representatives
of the Austro-Hungarian Government for the consideration of the
subversive movements directed against the Territorial integrity of
the Monarchy.' 'Accept collaboration' of the representatives of the
Austro-hungarian Government in this purely internal business, mind you.
And listen to this: 'Delegates of the Austro-Hungarian Government will
take part in the investigation relating thereto.' Austrian lawyers and
probably judges investigating Servian subjects in Servia? Why, the thing
is impossible."

"It is quite evident," said Hugo Raeder, "that Austria means war."

"Poor little Servia, she will soon be eaten up," said Rowena. "She must
be bankrupt from her last war."

"But why all this excitement on the part of our German friends?"
inquired Mrs. Wakeham. "What has Germany to do with Austria and Servia?"

At this point Professor Schaefer and his friend re-entered the room
ready for their departure.

"I was just inquiring," said Mrs. Wakeham, "how this ultimatum of
Austria's to Servia can affect Germany particularly."

"Affect Germany?" cried Professor Schaefer.

"Yes," said Hugo Raeder, "what has Germany to do with the scrap unless
she wants to butt in?"

"Ha! ha! My dear man, have you read no history of the last twenty years?
But you Americans know nothing about history, nothing about anything
except your own big, overgrown country."

"I thought you were an American citizen, Schaefer?" inquired Hugo.

"An American," exclaimed Schaefer, "an American, ah, yes, certainly; but
in Europe and in European politics, a German, always a German."

"But why should Germany butt in?" continued Hugo.

"Butt in, Germany butt in? Things cannot be settled in Europe without
Germany. Besides, there is Russia longing for the opportunity to
attack."

"To attack Germany?"

"To attack Austria first, Germany's ally and friend, and then Germany.
The trouble is you Americans do not live in the world. You are living
on your own continent here removed from the big world, ignorant of all
world movements, the most provincial people in all the world. Else
you would not ask me such foolish questions. This ultimatum means war.
First, Austria against Servia; Russia will help Servia; France will help
Russia; Germany will help Austria. There you have the beginning of a
great European war. How far this conflagration will spread, only God
knows."

The car being announced, the Germans made a hurried exit, in their
overpowering excitement omitting the courtesy of farewells to household
and guests.

"They seem to be terribly excited, those Germans," said Miss Rowena.

"They are," said Hugo; "I am glad I am not a German. To a German war is
so much the biggest thing in life."

"It is really too bad," said Mrs. Wakeham; "we shall not have the
pleasure of Professor Schaefer's music. He plays quite exquisitely. You
would all have greatly enjoyed it. Rowena, you might play something.
Well, for my part," continued Mrs. Wakeham, settling herself placidly
in her comfortable chair, "I am glad I am an American. Those European
countries, it seems to me, are always in some trouble or other."

"I am glad I am a Canadian," said Larry. "We are much too busy to think
of anything so foolish and useless as war."



CHAPTER XXI

WAR


"Come, Jane, we have just time to take a look at the lake from the top
of the hill before we get ready for church," said Ethel Murray. "It will
be worth seeing to-day."

"Me too, me too," shrieked two wee girls in bare legs and sandals,
clutching Jane about the legs.

"All right, Isabel; all right, Helen. I'll take you with me," said Jane.
"But you must let me go, you know."

They all raced around the house and began to climb the sheer, rocky hill
that rose straight up from the rear.

"Here, Jim, help me with these kiddies," said Jane to a lank lad of
fifteen, whom she ran into at the corner of the house just where the
climb began.

Jim swung the younger, little Helen, upon his shoulder and together they
raced to the top, scrambling, slipping, falling, but finally arriving
there, breathless and triumphant. Before them lay a bit of Canada's
loveliest lake, the Lake of the Woods, so-called from its myriad,
heavily wooded islands, that make of its vast expanse a maze of
channels, rivers and waterways. Calm, without a ripple, lay the glassy,
sunlit surface, each island, rock and tree meeting its reflected image
at the water line, the sky above flecked with floating clouds, making
with the mirrored sky below one perfect whole.

"Oh, Ethel, I had forgotten just how beautiful this is," breathed Jane,
while the rest stood silent looking down upon the mirrored rocks and
islands, trees and sky.

Even the two little girls stood perfectly still, for they had been
taught to take the first views from the top in silence.

"Look at the Big Rock," said Helen. "They are two rocks kissing each
other."

"Oh, you little sweetheart," said Jane, kissing her. "That is just what
they are doing. It is not often that you get it so perfectly still as
this, is it, Jim?"

"Not so very often. Sometimes just at sunrise you get it this way."

"At sunrise! Do you very often see it then?"

"Yes, he gets up to catch fishes," said wee Helen.

"Do you?"

Jim nodded. "Are you game to come along to-morrow morning?"

"At what hour?"

"Five o'clock."

"Don't do it, Jane," said Ethel. "It tires you for the day."

"I will come, Jim; I would love to come," said Jane.

For some time they stood gazing down upon the scene below them. Then
turning to the children abruptly, Ethel said, "Now, then, children, you
run down and get ready; that is, if you are going to church. Take them
down, Jim."

"All right, Ethel," said Jim. "See there, Jane," he continued, "that
neck of land across the traverse--that's where the old Hudson Bay trail
used to run that goes from the Big Lakes to Winnipeg. It's the old war
trail of the Crees too. Wouldn't you like to have seen them in the old
days?"

"I would run and hide," said Isabel, "so they could not see me."

"I would not be afraid," said Helen, straightening up to her full height
of six years. "I would shoot them dead."

"Poor things," said Jane, in a pitiful voice. "And then their little
babies at home would cry and cry."

Helen looked distressed. "I would not shoot the ones that had babies."

"But then," said Jane, "the poor wives would sit on the ground and wail
and wail, like the Indians we heard the other night. Oh, it sounded very
sad."

"I would not shoot the ones with wives or babies or anything," said
Helen, determined to escape from her painful dilemma.

"Oh, only the boys and young men?" said Jane. "And then the poor old
mothers would cry and cry and tear their hair for the boys who would
never come back."

Helen stood in perplexed silence. Then she said shyly, "I wouldn't shoot
any of them unless they tried to shoot me or Mother or Daddy."

"Or me," said Jane, throwing her arms around the little girl.

"Yes," said Helen, "or you, or anybody in our house."

"That seems a perfectly safe place to leave it, Helen," said Ethel.
"I think even the most pronounced pacifist would accept that as a
justification of war. I fancy that is why poor little Servia is fighting
big bullying Austria to-day. But run down now; hurry, hurry; the launch
will be ready in a few minutes, and if you are not ready you know Daddy
won't wait."

But they were ready and with the round dozen, which with the visitors
constituted the Murray household at their island home, they filled the
launch, Jim at the wheel. It was a glorious Sunday morning and the whole
world breathed peace. Through the mazes of the channels among the
wooded islands the launch made its way, across open traverse, down long
waterways like rivers between high, wooded banks, through cuts and gaps,
where the waters boiled and foamed, they ran, for the most part drinking
in silently the exquisite and varied beauty of lake and sky and woods.
Silent they were but for the quiet talk and cheery laughter of the
younger portion of the company, until they neared the little town,
when the silence that hung over the lake and woods was invaded by other
launches outbound and in. The Kenora docks were crowded with rowboats,
sailboats, canoes and launches of all sorts and sizes, so that it took
some steering skill on Jim's part to land them at the dock without
bumping either themselves or any one else.

"Oh, look!" exclaimed Isabel, whose sharp eyes were darting everywhere.
"There's the Rushbrooke's lovely new launch. Isn't it beautiful!"

"Huh!" shouted Helen. "It is not half as pretty as ours."

"Oh, hush, Helen," said the scandalised Isabel. "It is lovely, isnt it,
Jane? And there is Lloyd Rushbrooke. I think he's lovely, too. And who
is that with him, Jane--that pretty girl? Oh, isn't she pretty?"

"That's Helen Brookes," said Jane in a low voice.

"Oh, isn't she lovely!" exclaimed Isabel.

"Lovely bunch, Isabel," said Jim with a grin.

"I don't care, they are," insisted Isabel. "And there is Mr. McPherson,
Jane," she added, her sharp eyes catching sight of their Winnipeg
minister through the crowd. "He's coming this way. What are the people
all waiting for, Jane?"

The Reverend Andrew McPherson was a tall, slight, dark man, straight but
for the student's stoop of his shoulders, and with a strikingly Highland
Scotch cast of countenance, high cheek bones, keen blue eyes set deep
below a wide forehead, long jaw that clamped firm lips together. He came
straight to where Mr. Murray and Dr. Brown were standing.

"I have just received from a friend in Winnipeg the most terrible news,"
he said in a low voice. "Germany has declared war on Russia and France."

"War! War! Germany!" exclaimed the men in awed, hushed voices, a
startled look upon their grave faces.

"What is it, James?" said Mrs. Murray.

Mr. Murray repeated the news to her.

"Germany at war?" she said. "I thought it was Austria and Servia. Isn't
it?"

"Yes, my dear," said Mr. Murray hastily, as if anxious to cover up his
wife's display of ignorance of the European situation. "Austria has
been at war with Servia for some days, but now Germany has declared war
apparently upon France and Russia."

"But what has Germany to do with it, or Russia either, or France?"

They moved off together from the docks toward the church, discussing the
ominous news.

"Oh, look, Jane," said Isabel once more. "There's Ramsay Dunn. Isn't he
looking funny?"

"Pickled, I guess," said Jim, with a glance at the young man who with
puffed and sodden face was gazing with dull and stupid eyes across the
lake. On catching sight of the approaching party Ramsay Dunn turned his
back sharply upon them and became intensely absorbed in the launch at
his side. But Jane would not have it thus.

"Ask him to come over this afternoon," she said to Ethel. "His mother
would like it."

"Good morning, Ramsay," said Ethel as they passed him.

Ramsay turned sharply, stood stiff and straight, then saluted with an
elaborate bow. "Good morning, Ethel. Why, good morning, Jane. You down
here? Delighted to see you."

"Ramsay, could you come over this afternoon to our island?" said Ethel.
"Jane is going back this week."

"Sure thing, Ethel. Nothing but scarlet fever, small-pox, or other
contectious or infagious, confagious or intexious--eh, disease will
prevent me. The afternoon or the evening?" he added with what he meant
to be a most ingratiating smile. "The late afternoon or the early
evening?"

The little girls, who had been staring at him with wide, wondering eyes,
began to giggle.

"I'll be there," continued Ramsay. "I'll be there, I'll be there, when
the early evening cometh, I'll be there." He bowed deeply to the young
ladies and winked solemnly at Isabel, who by this time was finding it
quite impossible to control her giggles.

"Isn't he awfully funny?" she said as they moved off. "I think he is
awfully funny."

"Funny!" said Ethel. "Disgusting, I think."

"Oh, Ethel, isn't it terribly sad?" said Jane. "Poor Mrs. Dunn, she
feels so awfully about it. They say he is going on these days in a
perfectly dreadful way."

The little brick church was comfortably filled with the townsfolk and
with such of the summer visitors as had not "left their religion behind
them in Winnipeg," as Jane said. The preacher was a little man whose
speech betrayed his birth, and the theology and delivery of whose sermon
bore the unmistakable marks of his Edinburgh training. He discoursed in
somewhat formal but in finished style upon the blessings of rest, with
obvious application to the special circumstances of the greater part
of his audience who had come to this most beautiful of all Canada's
beautiful spots seeking these blessings. To further emphasise the value
of their privileges, he contrasted with their lot the condition of
unhappy Servia now suffering from the horrors of war and threatened with
extinction by its tyrannical neighbour, Austria. The war could end only
in one way. In spite of her gallant and heroic fight Servia was doomed
to defeat. But a day of reckoning would surely come, for this was not
the first time that Austria had exercised its superior power in an act
of unrighteous tyranny over smaller states. The God of righteousness was
still ruling in his world, and righteousness would be done.

At the close of the service, while they were singing the final hymn, Mr.
McPherson, after a whispered colloquy with Mr. Murray, made his way to
the pulpit, where he held an earnest conversation with the minister.
Instead of pronouncing the benediction and dismissing the congregation
when the final "Amen" had been sung, the minister invited the people to
resume their seats, when Mr. McPherson rose and said,