The Major

R >> Ralph Connor >> The Major


That dread word rang out sharp, insistent, penetrating through the quiet
hum of voices rising from the groups about the fire. By this time a very
considerable number of men present had joined themselves to the group
about the speakers.

"Well, Mr. Murray," said Mr. Rushbrooke, with a laugh, "it seems to me
that we cannot help it very well. If you wish to discourse upon the war,
you have your audience and you have my permission."

"It is not my intention to discourse upon the war, Mr. Rushbrooke, but
with your permission I will just tell our friends here how my mind has
worked since learning this terrible news this morning. My first impulse
was to take the first train to Winnipeg, for I know that it will be
necessary for me to readjust my business to the new conditions created
by war. My second thought was that there were others like me; that, in
fact, the whole business public of Winnipeg would be similarly affected.
I felt the need of counsel so that I should make no mistake that would
imperil the interests of others. I accepted Mrs. Rushbrooke's invitation
to come to-night in the hope of meeting with a number of the business
men of Winnipeg. The more I think of it the more terrible this thing
becomes. The ordinary conditions of business are gone. We shall all need
to readjust ourselves in every department of life. It seems to me that
we must stand together and meet this calamity as best we can, wisely,
fairly and fearlessly. The main point to be considered is, should we
not have a general meeting of the business men of Winnipeg, and if so,
when?"

Mr. Murray's words were received in deep silence, and for a time no one
made reply. Then Mr. Rushbrooke made answer.

"We all feel the importance of what Mr. Murray has said. Personally,
though, I am of the opinion that we should avoid all unnecessary
excitement and everything approaching panic. The war will doubtless be
a short one. Germany, after long preparation, has decided to challenge
Great Britain's power. Still, Britain is ready for her. She has
accepted the challenge; and though her army is not great, she is yet
not unprepared. Between the enemy and Britain's shores there lies that
mighty, invisible and invincible line of defence, the British navy. With
the French armies on the one side and the Russian on the other, Germany
can not last. In these days, with the terrible engines of destruction
that science has produced, wars will be short and sharp. Germany will
get her medicine and I hope it will do her good."

If Mr. Rushbrooke expected his somewhat flamboyant speech to awaken
enthusiastic approval, he must have been disappointed. His words were
received in grave silence. The fact of war was far too unfamiliar
and too overwhelming to make it easy for them to compass it in their
thoughts or to deal in any adequate way with its possible issues.

After some moments of silence the minister spoke. "I wish I could agree
with Mr. Rushbrooke," he said. "But I cannot. My study of this question
has impressed me with the overwhelming might of Germany's military
power. The war may be short and sharp, and that is what Germany is
counting upon. But if it be short and sharp, the issue will be a German
victory. The French army is not fully prepared, I understand. Russia is
an untrained and unwieldy mass. There is, of course, the British navy,
and with all my heart I thank God that our fleet appears to be fit for
service. But with regard even to our navy we ought to remember that
it is as yet untried in modern warfare. I confess I cannot share Mr.
Rushbrooke's optimistic views as to the war. But whether he be right
or I, one thing stands out clear in my mind--that we should prepare
ourselves to do our duty. At whatever cost to our country or to
ourselves, as individuals, this duty is laid upon us. It is the first,
the immediate, the all-absorbing duty of every man, woman and child in
Canada to make war. God help us not to shrink."

"How many in this company will be in Winnipeg this week, say to-morrow?"
inquired Mr. Murray. The hand of every business man in the company went
up. "Then suppose we call a meeting at my office immediately upon the
arrival of the train." And to this they agreed.

The Rushbrooke bonfire was an annual event and ever the most notable
of all its kind during the holiday season at the Lake. This year the
preparations for the festive gathering had exceeded those of previous
years, and Mrs. Rushbrooke's expectations of a brilliantly successful
function were proportionately high. But she had not counted upon War.
And so it came that ever as the applause following song or story died
down, the Spectre drew near, and upon even the most light-hearted of
the company a strange quiet would fall, and they would find themselves
staring into the fire forgetful of all about them, thinking of
what might be. They would have broken up early but Mrs. Rushbrooke
strenuously resisted any such attempt. But the sense of the impending
horror chilled the gaiety of the evening and halted the rush of the fun
till the hostess gave up in despair and no longer opposed the departure
of her guests.

"Mr. McPherson," she said, as that gentleman came to bid her good-night,
"I am quite cross with you. You made us all feel so blue and serious
that you quite spoiled our bonfire."

"I wish it were only I that had spoiled it, Mrs. Rushbrooke," said Mr.
McPherson gravely. "But even your graceful hospitality to-night, which
has never been excelled even by yourself at the Lake of the Woods, could
not make us forget, and God forgive us if we do forget."

"Oh, Mr. McPherson," persisted Mrs. Rushbrooke, in a voice that strove
to be gaily reproachful, "we must not become pessimistic. We must be
cheerful even if we are at war."

"Thank you for that word," said the minister solemnly. "It is a true
word and a right word, and it is a word we shall need to remember more
and more."

"The man would drive me mad," said Mrs. Rushbrooke to Mr. Murray as
they watched the boats away. "I am more than thankful that he is not my
clergyman."

"Yes, indeed," said her husband, who stood near her and shared her
feelings of disappointment. "It seems to me he takes things far too
seriously."

"I wonder," said Dr. Brown, who stood with Mr. Murray preparatory to
taking his departure. "I wonder if we know just how serious this thing
is. I frankly confess, Mr. Rushbrooke, that my mind has been in an
appalling condition of chaos this afternoon; and every hour the thing
grows more terrible as I think of it. But as you say, we must cheer up."

"Surely we must," replied Rushbrooke impatiently. "I am convinced this
war will soon be over. In three months the British navy together with
the armies of their allies will wind this thing up."

Through a wonder world of moonlit waterways and dark, mysterious
channels, around peninsulas and between islands, across an open traverse
and down a little bay, they took their course until Jim had them safely
landed at their own dock again. The magic beauty of the white light upon
wooded island and gleaming lake held them in its spell for some minutes
after they had landed till Mrs. Murray came down from the bungalow to
meet them.

"Safe back again," she cried with an all too evident effort to be
cheery. "How lovely the night is, and how peaceful! James," she said in
a low voice, turning to her husband, "I wish you would go to Isabel. I
cannot get her to sleep. She says she must see you."

"Why, what's up?"

"I think she has got a little fright," said his wife. "She has been
sobbing pitifully."

Mr. Murray found the little thing wide awake, her breath coming in the
deep sobs of exhaustion that follows tempestuous tears. "What's the
trouble, Sweetheart?"

"Oh, Daddy," cried the child, flinging herself upon him and bursting
anew into an ecstasy of weeping, "she--said--you would--have--to--go.
But--you won't--will you--Daddy?"

"Why, Isabel, what do you mean, dear? Go where?"

"To the--war--Daddy--they said--you would--have--to go--to the war."

"Who said?"

"Mabel. But--you--won't, will you, Daddy?"

"Mabel is a silly little goose," said Mr. Murray angrily. "No, never
fear, my Sweetheart, they won't expect me to go. I am far too old, you
know. Now, then, off you go to sleep. Do you know, the moon is shining
so bright outside that the little birds can't sleep. I just heard a
little bird as we were coming home cheeping away just like, you. I
believe she could not go to sleep."

But the child could not forget that terrible word which had rooted
itself in her heart. "But you will not go; promise me, Daddy, you will
not go."

"Why, Sweetheart, listen to me."

"But promise me, Daddy, promise me." The little thing clung to him in a
paroxysm of grief and terror.

"Listen, Isabel dear," said her father quietly. "You know I always tell
you the truth. Now listen to me. I promise you I won't go until you send
me yourself. Will that do?"

"Yes, Daddy," she said, and drew a long breath. "Now I am so tired,
Daddy." Even as she spoke the little form relaxed in his arms and in a
moment she was fast asleep.

As her father held her there the Spectre drew near again, but for the
moment his courage failed him and he dared not look.



CHAPTER XXII

THE TUCK OF DRUM


In the midst of her busy summer work in field and factory, on lake and
river, in mine and forest, on an August day of 1914, Canada was stricken
to the heart. Out of a blue summer sky a bolt as of death smote her,
dazed and dumb, gasping to God her horror and amaze. Without word of
warning, without thought of preparation, without sense of desert, War,
brutal, bloody, devilish War, was thrust into her life by that power
whose business in the world, whose confidence and glory, was war.

For some days, stunned by the unexpectedness of the blow, as much as by
its weight, Canada stood striving to regain her poise. Then with little
outcry, and with less complaint, she gathered herself for her spring.
A week, and then another, she stood breathless and following with eyes
astrain the figure of her ally, little Belgium, gallant and heroic,
which had moved out upon the world arena, the first to offer battle to
the armour-weighted, monstrous war lord of Europe, on his way to sate
his soul long thirsty for blood--men's if he could, women's and little
children's by preference, being less costly. And as she stood and
strained her eyes across the sea by this and other sights moved to her
soul's depths, she made choice, not by compulsion but of her own
free will, of war, and having made her choice, she set herself to the
business of getting ready. From Pacific to Atlantic, from Vancouver to
Halifax, reverberated the beat of the drum calling for men willing to go
out and stand with the Empire's sons in their fight for life and faith
and freedom. Twenty-five thousand Canada asked for. In less than a
month a hundred thousand men were battering at the recruiting offices
demanding enlistment in the First Canadian Expeditionary Force. From
all parts of Canada this demand was heard, but nowhere with louder
insistence than in that part which lies beyond the Great Lakes. In
Winnipeg, the Gateway City of the West, every regiment of militia at
once volunteered in its full strength for active service. Every class in
the community, every department of activity, gave an immediate response
to the country's call. The Board of Trade; the Canadian Club, that
free forum of national public opinion; the great courts of the
various religious bodies; the great fraternal societies and whatsoever
organisation had a voice, all pledged unqualified, unlimited,
unhesitating support to the Government in its resolve to make war.

Early in the first week of war wild rumours flew of victory and
disaster, but the heart of Winnipeg as of the nation was chiefly
involved in the tragic and glorious struggle of little Belgium. And when
two weeks had gone and Belgium, bruised, crushed, but unconquered, lay
trampled in the bloody dust beneath the brutal boots of the advancing
German hordes, Canada with the rest of the world had come to measure
more adequately the nature and the immensity of the work in hand. By
her two weeks of glorious conflict Belgium had uncovered to the world's
astonished gaze two portentous and significant facts: one, stark and
horrible, that the German military power knew neither ruth nor
right; the other, gloriously conspicuous, that Germany's much-vaunted
men-of-war were not invincible.

On the first Sunday of the war the churches of Winnipeg were full to the
doors. Men, whose attendance was more or less desultory and to a certain
extent dependent upon the weather, were conscious of an impulse to go
to church. War had shaken the foundations of their world, and men were
thinking their deepest thoughts and facing realities too often neglected
or minimised. "I have been thinking of God these days," said a man to
Mr. Murray as they walked home from business on Saturday, and there were
many like him in Canada in those first days of August. Without being
able definitely to define it there was in the hearts of men a sense
of need of some clear word of guiding, and in this crisis of Canadian
history the churches of Canada were not found wanting. The same Spirit
that in ancient days sent forth the Hebrew Isaiah with a message of
warning and counsel for the people of his day and which in the great
crises of nations has found utterance through the lips of men of humble
and believing hearts once more became a source of guidance and of
courage.

The message varied with the character and training of the messenger.
In the church of which Reverend Andrew McPherson was the minister the
people were called to repentance and faith and courage.

"Listen to the Word of God," cried the minister, "spoken indeed to men
of another race and another time, but spoken as truly for the men of
this day and of this nation. 'Thus saith Jehovah, thy Redeemer, the
Holy One of Israel; I am Jehovah thy God, which teacheth thee to profit,
which leadeth thee by the way that thou shouldst go. Oh, that thou
wouldst hearken to my commandments! then would thy peace be as a river,
and thy righteousness as the waves of the sea. . . . There is no peace,
saith Jehovah, to the wicked.' Echoing down through the centuries, these
great words have verified themselves in every age and may in our day
verify themselves anew. Peace and righteousness are necessarily and
eternally bound together." He refused to discuss with them to-day the
causes of this calamity that had fallen upon them and upon the world.
But in the name of that same Almighty, Holy God, he summoned the people
to repentance and to righteousness, for without righteousness there
could be no peace.

In the Cathedral there rang out over the assembled people the Call to
Sacrifice. "He that saveth his life shall lose it; and he that loseth
his life for My sake shall find it." The instinct to save life was
fundamental and universal. There were times when man must resist that
instinct and choose to surrender life. Such was the present time. Dear
as life was, there were things infinitely more precious to mankind, and
these things were in peril. For the preserving of these things to the
world our Empire had resolved upon war, and throughout the Empire the
call had sounded forth for men willing to sacrifice their lives. To this
call Canada would make response, and only thus could Canada save
her life. For faith, for righteousness, for humanity, our Empire had
accepted war. And now, as ever, the pathway to immortality for men and
for nations was the pathway of sacrifice.

In St. Mary's the priest, an Irishman of warm heart and of fiery
fighting spirit, summoned the faithful to faith and duty. To faith in
the God of their fathers who through his church had ever led his people
along the stern pathway of duty. The duty of the hour was that of united
and whole-hearted devotion to the cause of Freedom, for which Great
Britain had girded on her sword. The heart of the Empire had been
thrilled by the noble words of the leader of the Irish Party in the
House of Commons at Home, in which he pledged the Irish people to the
cause of the world's Freedom. In this great struggle all loyal Sons of
Canada of all races and creeds would be found united in the defence of
this sacred cause.

The newspaper press published full reports of many of the sermons
preached. These sermons all struck the same note--repentance, sacrifice,
service. On Monday morning men walked with surer tread because the light
was falling clearer upon the path they must take.

In the evening, when Jane and her friend, Ethel Murray, were on their
way downtown, they heard the beat of a drum. Was it fancy, or was there
in that beat something they had never heard in a drum beat before,
something more insistent, more compelling? They hurried to Portage
Avenue and there saw Winnipeg's famous historic regiment, the Ninetieth
Rifles, march with quick, brisk step to the drum beat of their bugle
band.

"Look," cried Ethel, "there's Pat Scallons, and Ted Tuttle, and Fred
Sharp, too. I did not know that he belonged to the Ninetieth." And as
they passed, rank on rank, Ethel continued to name the friends whom she
recognised.

But Jane stood uttering no word. The sight of these lads stepping to
the drum beat so proudly had sent a chill to her heart and tears to
her eyes. "Oh, Ethel," she cried, touching her friend's arm, "isn't it
terrible?"

"Why, what's the matter?" cried Ethel, glancing at her. "Think of what
they are marching to!"

"Oh, I can't bear it," said Jane.

But Ethel was more engaged with the appearance of the battalion, from
the ranks of which she continued to pick out the faces of her friends.
"Look," she cried, "that surely is not Kellerman! It is! It is! Look,
Jane, there's that little Jew. Is it possible?"

"Kellerman?" cried Jane. "No, it can't be he. There are no Jews in the
Ninetieth."

"But it is," cried Ethel. "It is Kellerman. Let us go up to Broadway and
we shall meet them again."

They turned up a cross street and were in time to secure a position
from which they could get a good look at the faces of the lads as they
passed. The battalion was marching at attention, and so rigid was
the discipline that not a face was turned toward the two young ladies
standing at the street corner. A glance of the eye and a smile they
received from their friends as they passed, but no man turned his head.

"There he is," said Jane. "It is Kellerman--in the second row, see?"

"Sure enough, it is Kellerman," said Ethel. "Well, what has come to
Winnipeg?"

"War," said Jane solemnly. "And a good many more of the boys will be
going too, if they are any good."

As Kellerman came stepping along he caught sight of the girls standing
there, but no sign of recognition did he make. He was too anxious to
be considered a soldier for that. Steadiness was one of the primary
principles knocked into the minds of recruits by the Sergeant Major.

The girls moved along after the column had passed at a sufficient
distance to escape the rabble. At the drill hall they found the street
blocked by a crowd of men, women and children.

"What is all this, I wonder?" said Ethel. "Let us wait here awhile.
Perhaps we may come across some one we know."

It was a strange crowd that gathered about the entrance to the drill
hall, not the usual assemblage of noisy, idly curious folk of the
lighter weight that are wont to follow a marching battalion or gather
to the sound of a band. It was composed of substantial and solid people,
serious in face and quiet in demeanour. They were there on business, a
business of the gravest character. As the girls stood waiting they heard
far down Broadway the throbbing of drums.

"Listen, Ethel," cried Jane. "The Pipes!"

"The Pipes!" echoed Ethel in great excitement. "The Kilties!"

Above the roll and rattle of the drums they caught those high,
heart-thrilling sounds which for nearly two hundred years have been
heard on every famous British battlefield, and which have ever led
Scotland's sons down the path of blood and death to imperishable glory.

A young Ninetieth officer, intent on seeing that the way was kept clear
for the soldiers, came striding out of the armoury.

"Oh, there's Frank Smart," said Ethel. "I wish he would see us."

As if in answer to her wish, Smart turned about and saw them in the
crowd. Immediately he came to them.

"I didn't know you were a soldier, Frank," said Jane, greeting him with
a radiant smile.

"I had almost forgotten it myself," said Frank. "But I was at church
yesterday and I went home and looked up my uniform and here I am."

"You are not going across, Frank, are you?" said Ethel.

"If I can. There is very strong competition between both officers and
men. I have been paying little attention to soldiering for a year or so;
I have been much too busy. But now things are different. If I can make
it, I guess I will go."

"Oh, Frank, YOU don't need to go, said Ethel. I mean there are heaps of
men all over Canada wanting to go. Why should YOU go?"

"The question a fellow must ask himself is rather why should he stay,"
replied the young officer. "Don't you think so, Jane?"

"Yes," said Jane, drawing in her breath sharply but smiling at him.

"Do you want to go in?" asked Frank.

"Oh, do let's go in," said Ethel.

But Jane shrank back. "I don't like to go through all those men," she
said, "though I should like greatly to see Kellerman," she added. "I
wonder if I could see him."

"Kellerman?"

"Yes, he's Jane's special, you know," said Ethel. "They ran close
together for the German prize, you remember. You don't know him? A
little Jew chap."

"No, I don't know him," said Smart. "But you can certainly see him if
you wish. Just come with me; I will get you in. But first I have got to
see that this way is kept clear for the Highlanders."

"Oh, let's wait to see them come up," said Ethel.

"Well, then, stand here," said Frank. "There may be a crush, but if you
don't mind that we will follow right after them. Here they come. Great
lads, aren't they?"

"And they have their big feather bonnets on, too," said Ethel.

Down the street the Highlanders came in column of fours, the pipe band
leading.

"Aren't they gorgeous?" said Smart with generous praise for a rival
battalion. "Chesty-looking devils, eh?" he added as they drew near. "You
would think that Pipe Major owned at least half of Winnipeg."

"And the big drummer the other half," added Ethel. "Look at his sticks.
He's got a classy twirl, hasn't he?"

Gorgeous they were, their white spats flashing in time with their step,
their kilts swaying free over their tartan hose and naked knees, their
white tunics gleaming through the dusk of the evening, and over all the
tossing plumes of their great feather bonnets nodding rhythmically with
their swinging stride.

"Mighty glad we have not to fight those boys," said Frank as the column
swung past into the armoury.

The crowd which on other occasions would have broken into enthusiastic
cheers to-night stood in silence while the Highlanders in all their
gorgeous splendour went past. That grave silence was characteristic of
the Winnipeg crowds those first days of war. Later they found voice.

"Now we can go in. Come right along," said Smart. "Stand clear there,
boys. You can't go in unless you have an order."

"We ar-r-e wantin' tae join," said a Scotch voice.

"You are, eh? Come along then. Fall into line there." The men
immediately dropped into line. "Ah, you have been there before, I see,"
said Smart.

"Aye, ye'er-r-r right ther-r-re, sir-r-r," answered the voice.

"You will be for the Kilties, boys?" said Frank.

"Aye. What else?" asked the same man in surprise.

"There is only one regiment for the Scotchman apparently," said Frank,
leading the way to the door. "Just hold these men here until I see
what's doing, will you?" he said to the sentry as he passed in. "Now,
then, young ladies, step to your right and await me in that corner.
I must see what's to be done with these recruits. Then I shall find
Kellerman for you."

But he had no need to look for Kellerman, for before he returned the
little Jew had caught sight of the young ladies and had made his way to
them.

"Why, how splendid you look, Mr. Kellerman," said Ethel. "I did not know
you were in the Ninetieth."

"I wasn't until Friday."

"Do you mean to say you joined up to go away?" inquired Ethel.

"That's what," said Kellerman.

"But you are--I mean--I do not see--" Ethel stopped in confusion.

"What you mean, Miss Murray, is that you are surprised at a Jew joining
a military organisation," said Kellerman with a quiet dignity quite
new to him. Formerly his normal condition was one of half defiant, half
cringing nervousness in the presence of ladies. To-night he carried
himself with an easy self-possession, and it was due to more than the
uniform.

"I am afraid you are right. It is horrid of me and I am awfully sorry,"
said Ethel, impulsively offering him her hand.

"Why did you join, Mr. Kellerman?" said Jane in her quiet voice.