The Major

R >> Ralph Connor >> The Major


"Friends, we have just learned that a great and terrible evil has fallen
upon the world. Five days ago the world was shocked by the announcement
that Austria had declared war upon Servia. Through these days the powers
of Europe, or at least some of them, and chief among them Great Britain,
have been labouring to localise the war and to prevent its extension.
To-day the sad, the terrible announcement is made that Germany has
declared war upon both Russia and France. What an hour may bring forth,
we know not. But not in our day, or in our fathers' day, have we faced
so great a peril as we face to-day. For we cannot forget that our Empire
is held by close and vital ties to the Republic of France in the entente
cordiale. Let us beseech Almighty God to grant a speedy end to war
and especially to guide the King's counsellors that they may lead this
Empire in the way that is wise and right and honourable."

In the brief prayer that followed there fell upon the people an
overpowering sense of the futility of man's wisdom, and of the need of
the might and wisdom that are not man's but God's.

Two days later Mr. Murray and the children accompanied Dr. Brown and
Jane to Kenora on their way back to the city. As they were proceeding to
the railway station they were arrested by a group that stood in front
of the bulletin board upon which since the war began the local newspaper
was wont to affix the latest despatches. The group was standing in awed
silence staring at the bulletin board before them. Dr. Brown pushed his
way through, read the despatch, looked around upon the faces beside him,
read the words once more, came back to where his party were standing and
stood silent.

"What is it?" inquired Mr. Murray.

"War," said Dr. Brown in a husky whisper. Then clearing his throat,
"War--Britain and Germany."

War! For the first time in the memory of living man that word was spoken
in a voice that stopped dead still the Empire in the daily routine of
its life. War! That word whispered in the secret silent chamber of the
man whose chief glory had been his title as Supreme War Lord of Europe,
swift as the lightning's flash circled the globe, arresting multitudes
of men busy with their peaceful tasks, piercing the hearts of countless
women with a new and nameless terror, paralysing the activities of
nations engaged in the arts of peace, transforming into bitter enemies
those living in the bonds of brotherhood, and loosing upon the world the
fiends of hell.

Mr. Murray turned to his boy. "Jim," he said, "I must go to Winnipeg.
Take the children home and tell their mother. I shall wire you to-morrow
when to meet me." Awed, solemnised and in silence they took their ways.

Arrived at the railway station, Mr. Murray changed his mind. He was a
man clear in thought and swift in action. His first thought had been of
his business as being immediately affected by this new and mighty fact
of war. Then he thought of other and wider interests.

"Let us go back, Dr. Brown," he said. "A large number of our business
men are at the Lake. I suppose half of our Board of Trade are down
here. We can reach them more easily here than any place else, and it is
important that we should immediately get them together. Excuse me while
I wire to my architect. I must stop that block of mine."

They returned together to the launch. On their way back to their island
they called to see Mr. McPherson. "You were right," was Mr. Murray's
greeting to him. "It has come; Britain has declared war."

Mr. McPherson stood gazing at him in solemn silence. "War," he said at
length. "We are really in."

"Yes, you were right, Mr. McPherson," said Dr. Brown. "I could not
believe it; I cannot believe it yet. Why we should have gone into this
particular quarrel, for the life of me I cannot understand."

"I was afraid from the very first," said McPherson, "and when once
Russia and France were in I knew that Britain could not honourably
escape."

As they were talking together a launch went swiftly by. "That's the
Rushbrooke's launch," said Jim.

Mr. Murray rushed out upon the pier and, waving his hand, brought it to
a halt and finally to the dock. "Have you heard the news?" he said to
the lady who sat near the stern. "Britain has declared war."

"Oh," replied Mrs. Rushbrooke, "why on earth has she done that? It is
perfectly terrible."

"Terrible, indeed," said Mr. McPherson. "But we must face it. It changes
everything in life--business, society, home, everything will immediately
feel the effect of this thing."

"Oh, Mr. McPherson," exclaimed Mrs. Rushbrooke, "I can hardly see how it
will quite change everything for us here in Canada. For instance," she
added with a gay laugh, "I do not see that it will change our bonfire
tonight. By the way, I see you are not gone, Dr. Brown. You and Jane
will surely come over; and, Mr. Murray, you will bring your young people
and Mrs. Murray; and, Mr. McPherson, I hope you will be able to come. It
is going to be a charming evening and you will see a great many of your
friends. I think a bonfire on one of the islands makes a very pretty
sight."

"I am not sure whether I can take the time, Mrs. Rushbrooke," said Mr.
Murray. "I had thought of seeing a number of our business men who are
down here at the Lake."

"Oh, can't you leave business even while you are here? You really ought
to forget business during your holidays, Mr. Murray."

"I mean in relation to the war," said Mr. Murray.

"Good gracious, what can they possibly do about the war down here? But
if you want to see them they will all be with us to-night. So you had
better come along. But we shall have to hurry, Lloyd; I have a lot of
things to do and a lot of people to feed. We have got to live, haven't
we?" she added as the launch got under way.

"Got to live," said Mr. McPherson after they had gone. "Ah, even that
necessity has been changed. The necessity for living, which I am afraid
most of us have considered to be of first importance, has suddenly given
place to another necessity."

"And that?" said Mr. Murray.

"The necessity not to live, but to do our duty. Life has become all at
once a very simple thing."

"Well, we have got to keep going in the meantime at any rate," said Mr.
Murray.

"Going, yes; but going where?" said Mr. McPherson. "All roads now, for
us, lead to one spot."

"And that spot?" said Mr. Murray.

"The battlefield."

"Why, Mr. McPherson, we must not lose our heads; we must keep sane and
reasonable. Eh, Doctor?"

"I confess that this thing has completely stunned me," said Dr. Brown.
"You see I could not believe, I would not believe that war was possible
in our day. I would not believe you, Mr. McPherson. I thought you had
gone mad on this German scare. But you were right. My God, I can't get
my bearings yet; we are really at war!"

"God grant that Canada may see its duty clearly," said Mr. McPherson.
"God make us strong to bear His will."

They hurried back to their island, each busy with his thoughts, seeking
to readjust life to this new and horrible environment.

Mrs. Murray met them at the dock. "You are back, Dr. Brown," she cried.
"Did you forget something? We are glad to see you at any rate." Then
noticing the men's faces, she said, "What is the matter, James? Is there
anything wrong?"

"We bring terrible news, Mother," he said. "We are at war."

Mrs. Murray's' mind, like her husband's, moved swiftly. She was a life
partner in the fullest sense. In business as in the home she shared his
plans and purposes. "What about the block, James?" she asked.

"I wired Eastwood," he replied, "to stop that."

"What is it, Mother?" inquired Isabel, who stood upon the dock clinging
to her mother's dress, and who saw in the grave, faces about her signs
of disaster.

"Hush, dear," said her mother. "Nothing that you can understand." She
would keep from her children this horror as long as she could.

At lunch in the midst of the most animated conversation the talk would
die out, and all would be busy fitting their lives to war. Like waves
ever deepening in volume and increasing in force, the appalling thought
of war beat upon their minds. After lunch they sat together in
the screened veranda talking quietly together of the issues, the
consequences to them and to their community, to their country, and to
the world at large, of this thing that had befallen them. They made the
amazing discovery that they were almost entirely ignorant of everything
that had to do with war, even the relative military strength of the
belligerent nations. One thing like a solid back wall of rock gave them
a sense of security--the British Navy was still supreme.

"Let's see, did they cut down the Navy estimates during the last
Parliament? I know they were always talking of reduction," inquired Mr.
Murray.

"I am afraid I know nothing about it," said Dr. Brown. "Last week I
would have told you 'I hope so'; to-day I profoundly hope not. Jane, you
ought to know about this. Jane is the war champion in our family," he
added with a smile.

"No, there has been no reduction; Winston Churchill has carried on his
programme. He wanted to halt the building programme, you remember, but
the Germans would not agree. So I think the Navy is quite up to the
mark. But, of course," she added, "the German Navy is very strong too."

"Ah, I believe you are right, Jane," said Dr. Brown. "How completely we
were all hoodwinked. I cannot believe that we are actually at war. Our
friend Romayne was right. By the way, what about Romayne, Jane?"

"Who is he?" inquired Mr. Murray.

"Romayne?" said Dr. Brown. "Oh, he's a great friend of ours in the West.
He married a sister of young Gwynne, you know. He was an attache of
the British Embassy in Berlin, and was, as we thought, quite mad on the
subject of preparation for war. He and Jane hit it off tremendously last
autumn when we were visiting the Gwynnes. Was he not an officer in the
Guards or something, Jane?"

"Yes," replied Jane, fear leaping into her eyes. "Oh, Papa, do you think
he will have to go? Surely he would not."

"What? Go back to England?" said Dr. Brown. "I hardly think so. I do not
know, but perhaps he may."

"Oh, Papa!" exclaimed Jane, the quick tears in her eyes. "Think of his
wife and little baby!"

"My God!" exclaimed Dr. Brown. "It is war that is upon us."

A fresh wave of horror deeper than any before swept their souls. "Surely
he won't need to go," he said after a pause.

"But his regiment will be going," said Jane, whose face had become very
pale and whose eyes were wide with horror. "His regiment will be going
and," she added, "he will go too." The tears were quietly running down
her face. She knew Jack Romayne and she had the courage to accept the
truth which as yet her father put from his mind.

Dumb they sat, unschooled in language fitted to deal with the tides of
emotion that surged round this new and overwhelming fact of war. Where
next would this dread thing strike?

"Canada will doubtless send some troops," said Dr. Brown. "We sent to
South Africa, let me see, was it five thousand?"

"More, I think, Papa," said Jane.

"We will send twice or three times that number this time," said Mr.
Murray.

And again silence fell upon them. They were each busy with the question
who would go. Swiftly their minds ran over the homes of their friends
and acquaintances.

"Well, Doctor," said Mr. Murray, with a great effort at a laugh, "you
can't send your boy at any rate."

"No," said Dr. Brown. "But if my girl had been a boy, I fear I could
not hold her. Eh, Jane?" But Jane only smiled a very doubtful smile in
answer.

"We may all have to go, Doctor," said Mr. Murray. "If the war lasts long
enough."

"Nonsense, James," said his wife with a quick glance at her two little
girls. Her boy was fifteen. Thank God, she would not have to face the
question of his duty in regard to war. "They would not be taking old men
like you, James," she added.

Mr. Murray laughed at her. "Well, hardly, I suppose, my dear," he
replied. "I rather guess we won't be allowed to share the glory this
time, Doctor."

Dr. Brown sat silent for a few moments, then said quietly, "The young
fellows, of course, will get the first chance."

"Oh, let's not talk about it," said Ethel. "Come, Jane, let's go
exploring."

Jane rose.

"And me, too," cried Isabel.

"And me," cried Helen.

Ethel hesitated. "Let them come, Ethel," said Jane. "We shall go
slowly."

An exploration of the island was always a thing of unmixed and varied
delight. There were something over twenty-five acres of wooded hills
running up to bare rocks, ravines deep in shrub and ferns, and lower
levels thick with underbrush and heavy timber. Every step of the way new
treasures disclosed themselves, ferns and grasses, shrubs and vines, and
everywhere the wood flowers, shy and sweet. Everywhere, too, on fallen
logs, on the grey rocks, and on the lower ground where the aromatic
balsams and pines stood silent and thick, were mosses, mosses of all
hues and depths. In the sunlit open spaces gorgeous butterflies and
gleaming dragon flies fluttered and darted, bees hummed, and birds sang
and twittered. There the children's voices were mingled in cheery shouts
and laughter with the other happy sounds that filled the glades. But
when they came to the dark pines, solemn and silent except when the wind
moved in their tasselled tops with mysterious, mournful whispering, the
children hushed their voices and walked softly upon the deep moss.

"It is like being in church," said Helen, her little soul exquisitely
sensitive to the mystic, fragrant silences and glooms that haunted the
pine grove.

On a sloping hillside under the pines they lay upon the mossy bed, the
children listening for the things that lived in these shadowy depths.

"They are all looking at us," said Isabel in a voice of awed mystery.
"Lots and lots of eyes are just looking, looking, and looking."

"Why, Isabel, you give me the creeps," laughed Jane. "Whisht! They'll
hear you," said Isabel, darting swift glances among the trees.

"The dear things," said Jane. "They would love to play with you if they
only knew how." This was quite a new idea to the children. Hitherto
the shy things had been more associated with fear than with play. "They
would love to play tag with you," continued Jane, "round these trees, if
you could only coax them out. They are so shy."

Stealthily the children began to move among the bushes, alert for the
watching eyes and the shy faces of the wild things that made their homes
in these dark dwellings. The girls sat silent, looking out through the
interlacing boughs upon the gleam of the lake below. They dearly
loved this spot. It was a favourite haunt with them, the very spot for
confidence, and many a happy hour had they spent together here. To-day
they sat without speech; there was nothing that they cared to talk
about. It was only yesterday in this same place they had talked over all
things under the sun. They had exchanged with each other their stores of
kindly gossip about all their friends and their friends' friends. Only
yesterday it was that Ethel for the twentieth time had gone over with
Jane all the intricately perplexing and delightful details in regard
to her coming-out party next winter. All the boys and girls were to be
invited, and Jane was to help with the serving. It was only yesterday
that in a moment of quite unusual frankness Ethel had read snatches of
a letter which had come from Macleod, who was out in a mission field in
Saskatchewan. How they had laughed together, all in a kindly way, over
the solemn, formal phrases of the young Scotch Canadian missionary,
Ethel making sport of his solemnity and Jane warmly defending him. How
they had talked over the boys' affairs, as girls will talk, and of their
various loves and how they fared, and of the cruelties practised upon
them. And last of all Ethel had talked of Larry, Jane listening warily
the while and offering an occasional bit of information to keep the talk
going. And all of this only yesterday; not ten years ago, or a year
ago, but yesterday! And to-day not a word seemed possible. The world
had changed over night. How different from that unshaded, sunny world
of yesterday! How sunny it was but yesterday! Life now was a thing of
different values. Ah, that was it. The values were all altered. Things
big yesterday had shrunk almost to the point of disappearance to-day.
Things that yesterday seemed remote and vague, to-day filled their
horizon, for some of them dark enough. Determined to ignore that gaunt
Spectre standing there, in the shadow silent and grim, they would begin
to talk on themes good yesterday for an hour's engrossing conversation,
but before they were aware they had forgotten the subject of their talk
and found themselves sitting together dumb and looking out upon the
gleam of the waters, thinking, thinking and ever thinking, while nearer
and ever more terrible moved the Spectre of War. It was like the falling
of night upon their world. From the landscape things familiar and dear
were blotted out, and in their place moved upon them strange shapes
unreal and horrible.

At length they gave it up, called the children and went back to the
others. At the dock they found a launch filled with visitors bringing
news--great news and glorious. A big naval battle had been fought in the
North Sea! Ten British battleships had been sunk, but the whole German
fleet had been destroyed! For the first time war took on some colour.
Crimson and purple and gold began to shoot through the sombre black and
grey. A completely new set of emotions filled their hearts, a new sense
of exultation, a new pride in that great British Navy which hitherto
had been a mere word in a history book, or in a song. The children who,
after their manner, were quickest to catch and to carry on to their
utmost limits the emotions of the moment, were jubilantly triumphant.
Some of them were carrying little Union Jacks in their hands. For the
first time in their lives that flag became a thing of pride and power, a
thing to shout for. It stood for something invisible but very real. Even
their elders were not insensible to that something. Hitherto they had
taken that flag for granted. They had hung it out of their windows on
Empire Day or on Dominion Day as a patriotic symbol, but few of them
would have confessed, except in a half-shamed, apologetic way, to any
thrill at the flapping of that bit of bunting. They had shrunk from a
display of patriotic emotion. They were not like their American cousins,
who were ever ready to rave over Old Glory. That sort of emotional
display was un-Canadian, un-British. But to-day somehow the flag had
changed. The flag had changed because it fluttered in a new world, a new
light fell upon it, the light of battle. It was a war flag to-day. Men
were fighting under it, were fighting for all it represented, were dying
under its folds, and proudly and gladly.

"And all the men will go to fight, your father and my father, and all
the big boys," Ethel heard a little friend confide to Isabel.

"Hush, Mabel," said Ethel sharply. "Don't be silly."

But the word had been spoken and as a seed it fell upon fertile soil.
The launch went off with the children waving their flags and cheering.
And again upon those left upon the dock the shadow settled heavier
than before. That was the way with that shadow. It was always heavier,
thicker, more ominous after each interlude of relief.

It was the same at the bonfire in the evening at the Rushbrookes'.
The island was a fairy picture of mingling lights and shadows. As the
flaming west grew grey, the pale silver of the moon, riding high and
serene, fell upon the crowding, gaily decked launches that thronged the
docks and moored to the shore; upon the dark balsams and silver birches
hung with parti-coloured gaudy Chinese lanterns; upon the groups of
girls, fair and sweet in their white summer camping frocks, and young
men in flannels, their bare necks and arms showing brown and strong;
upon little clusters of their fathers and mothers gravely talking
together. From the veranda above, mingling with the laughing, chattering
voices, the alluring strains of the orchestra invited to waltz, or fox
trot. As the flame died from the western sky and the shadows crept down
from the trees, the bonfire was set alight. As the flame leaped high the
soft strains of the orchestra died away. Then suddenly, clear, full and
strong, a chord sounded forth, another, and then another. A hush fell
upon the chattering, laughing crowd. Then as they caught the strain men
lolling upon the ground sprang to their feet; lads stood at attention.


"Send him victorious,"


some one sang timidly, giving words to the music. In one instant a
hundred throats were wide open singing the words:


"Happy and glorious,
Long to reign over us,
God save our King."


Again the chords sounded and at once the verse from the first was sung
again.


"God save our gracious King,
Long live our noble King,
God save our King,
Send him victorious,
Happy and glorious,
Long to reign over us,
God save our King."


As the last note died Ramsay Dunn leaped upon a huge boulder, threw up
his hand and began,


"In days of yore, from Britain's shore."


A yell greeted him, sudden, fierce, triumphant, drowned his voice, then
ceased! And again from a hundred throats of men and women, boys and
girls, the words rang out,


"There may it wave, our boast and pride,
And joined in love together,
The thistle, shamrock, rose entwine,
The Maple Leaf forever."


Again and again and once again they followed Ramsay in the quick, shrill
Canadian cheer that was to be heard in after days in places widely
different and far remote from that gay, moonlit, lantern-decked,
boat-thronged, water-lapped island in that far northern Canadian lake.
Following the cheers there came stillness. Men looked sheepishly at each
other as if caught in some silly prank. Then once more the Spectre drew
near. But this time they declined not to look, but with steady, grave,
appraising eyes they faced The Thing, resolute to know the worst, and in
quiet undertones they talked together of War.

The bonfire roared gloriously up through the dark night, throwing far
gleams out upon the moonlit waters in front and upon the dark woods
behind. The people gathered about the fire and disposed themselves in
groups upon the sloping, grassy sward under the trees, upon the shelving
rocks and upon the sandy shore.

But Mr. Murray had business on hand. In company with Dr. Brown and the
minister, Mr. McPherson, he sought his host. "Would it be possible,
Mr. Rushbrooke," he said, "to gather a number of business men here
together?"

"What for?" inquired Rushbrooke.

"Well, I may be all wrong," said Mr. Murray apologetically, "but I have
the feeling that we ought without delay to discuss what preliminary
steps should be taken to meet with the critical conditions brought on by
the war."

"But, Mr. Murray," cried Mrs. Rushbrooke, who was standing by her
husband's side, "they are all so happy it would seem a great pity to
introduce this horrible thing at such a time."

"Do you really think it necessary, Murray?" said Mr. Rushbrooke, who was
an older man than Mr. Murray, and who was unwilling to accede to him any
position of dominance in the business world of Winnipeg. "There's really
nothing we can do. It seems to me that we must keep our heads and as far
as possible prevent undue excitement and guard against panic."

"Perhaps you are right, Mr. Rushbrooke. The thought in my mind was that
we ought to get a meeting together in Winnipeg soon. But everybody is
away. A great many are here at the Lake; it seemed a good opportunity to
make some preliminary arrangement."

"My dear Mr. Murray," said Mrs. Rushbrooke, "I cannot help feeling that
you take this too seriously, besides there can hardly be need for such
precipitate action. Of course, we are at war, and Canada will do her
part, but to introduce such a horrible theme in a company of young
people seems to me to be somehow out of place."

"Very well, Mrs. Rushbrooke, if you say so. I have no desire to
intrude," said Mr. Murray.

"But, Mr. Rushbrooke, the thing has to be faced," interposed Mr.
McPherson. "We cannot shut our eyes to the fact of war, and this is the
supreme fact in our national life to-day. Everything else is secondary."

"Oh, I do not agree with you, Mr. McPherson," said Mrs. Rushbrooke,
taking the word out of her husband's mouth. "Of course war is terrible
and all that, but men must do their work. The Doctor here must continue
to look after his sick, Mr. Murray has his business, you must care for
your congregation."

"I do not know about that, Mrs. Rushbrooke," said the minister. "I do
not know about that at all."

"Why, Mr. McPherson, you surprise me! Must not my husband attend to his
business, must not the Doctor look after his patients?"

A number of men had gathered about during the course of the
conversation. "No," said Mr. McPherson, his voice ringing out in decided
tones. "There is only one 'must' for us now, and that is War. For the
Empire, for every man, woman, and child in Canada, the first thing, and
by comparison the only thing, is War."