The Major

R >> Ralph Connor >> The Major


"Why, I hardly know if I can tell you. I will, though," he added with a
sudden impulse, "if you care to hear."

"Oh, do tell us," said Ethel. But Kellerman looked at Jane.

"If you care to tell, Mr. Kellerman," she said.

The little Jew stood silent a few minutes, leaning upon his rifle and
looking down upon the ground. Then in a low, soft voice he began: "I was
born in Poland--German Poland. The first thing I remember is seeing my
mother kneeling, weeping and wringing her hands beside my father's
dead body outside the door of our little house in our village. He was a
student, a scholar, and a patriot." Kellerman's voice took on a deeper
and firmer tone. "He stood for the Polish language in the schools. There
was a riot in our village. A German officer struck my father down
and killed him on the ground. My mother wiped the blood off his white
face--I can see that white face now--with her apron. She kept that
apron; she has it yet. We got somehow to London soon after that. The
English people were good to us. The German people are tyrants. They have
no use for free peoples." The little Jew's words snapped through his
teeth. "When war came a week ago I could not sleep for two nights. On
Friday I joined the Ninetieth. That night I slept ten hours." As he
finished his story the lad stood staring straight before him into the
moving crowd. He had forgotten the girls who with horror-stricken faces
had been listening to him. He was still seeing that white face smeared
with blood.

"And your mother?" said Jane gently as she laid her hand upon his arm.

The boy started. "My mother? Oh, my mother, she went with me to the
recruiting office and saw me take the oath. She is satisfied now."

For some moments the girls stood silent, unable to find their voices.
Then Jane said, her eyes glowing with a deep inner light, "Mr.
Kellerman, I am proud of you."

"Thank you, Miss Brown; it does me good to hear you say that. But you
have always been good to me."

"And I want you to come and see me before you go," said Jane as she gave
him her hand. "Now will you take us out through the crowd? We must get
along."

"Certainly, Miss Brown. Just come with me." With a fine, soldierly tread
the young Jew led them through the crowd and put them on their way. He
did not shake hands with them as he said good-bye, but gave them instead
a military salute, of which he was apparently distinctly proud.

"Tell me, Jane," said Ethel, as they set off down the street, "am I
awake? Is that little Kellerman, the greasy little Jew whom we used to
think such a beast?"

"Isn't he splendid?" said Jane. "Poor little Kellerman! You know, Ethel,
he had not one girl friend in college? I am sorry now we were not better
to him."

The streets were full of people walking hurriedly or gathered here and
there in groups, all with grave, solemn faces. In front of The Times
office a huge concourse stood before the bulletin boards reading
the latest despatches. These were ominous enough: "The Germans Still
Battering Liege Forts--Kaiser's Army Nearing Brussels--Four Millions
of Men Marching on France--Russia Hastening Her Mobilisation--Kitchener
Calls for One Hundred Thousand Men--Canada Will Send Expeditionary Force
of Twenty-five Thousand Men--Camp at Valcartier Nearly Ready--Parliament
Assembles Thursday." Men read the bulletins and talked quietly to each
other. They had not yet reached clearness in their thinking as to how
this dread thing had fallen upon their country so far from the storm
centre, so remote in all vital relations. There was no cheering--the
cheering days came later--no ebullient emotion, but the tightening of
lip and jaw in their stern, set faces was a sufficient index of the
tensity of feeling. Canadians were thinking things out, thinking keenly
and swiftly, for in the atmosphere and actuality of war mental processes
are carried on at high pressure.

As the girls stood at the corner of Portage Avenue and Main waiting for
a crossing, an auto held up in the traffic drew close to their side.

"Hello, Ethel! Won't you get in?" said a voice at their ear.

"Hello, Lloyd! Hello, Helen!" cried Ethel. "We will, most certainly. Are
you joying, or what?"

"Both," said Lloyd Rushbrooke, who was at the wheel. "Helen wanted to
see the soldiers. She is interested in the Ninetieth but he wasn't there
and I am just taking her about."

"We saw the Ninetieth and the Kilties too," said Ethel. "Oh, they are
fine! Oh, Helen, whom do you think we saw in the Ninetieth? You will
never guess--Heinrich Kellerman."

"Good Lord! That greasy little Sheeney?" exclaimed Rushbrooke.

"Look out, Lloyd. He's Jane's friend," said Ethel.

Lloyd laughed uproariously at the joke. "And you say the little Yid was
in the Ninetieth? Well, what is the Ninetieth coming to?"

"Lloyd, you mustn't say a word against Mr. Kellerman," said Jane. "I
think he is a real man."

"Oh, come, Jane. That little Hebrew Shyster? Why, he does not wash more
than once a year!"

"I don't care if he never washes at all. I won't have you speak of him
that way," said Jane. "I mean it. He is a friend of mine."

"And of mine, too," said Ethel, "since to-night. Why, he gave me thrills
up in the armoury as he told us why he joined up."

"One ten per, eh?" said Lloyd.

"Shall I tell him?" said Ethel.

"No, you will not," said Jane decidedly. "Lloyd would not understand."

"Oh, I say, Jane, don't spike a fellow like that. I am just joking."

"I won't have you joke in that way about Mr. Kellerman, at least, not
to me." Few of her college mates had ever seen Jane angry. They all
considered her the personification of even-tempered serenity.

"If you take it that way, of course I apologise," said Lloyd.

"Now listen to me, Lloyd," said Jane. "I am going to tell you why he
joined up." And in tones thrilling with the intensity of her emotion and
finally breaking, she recounted Kellerman's story. "And that is why he
is going to the war, and I am proud of him," she added.

"Splendid!" cried Helen Brookes. "You are in the Ninetieth, too, Lloyd,
aren't you?"

"Yes," said Lloyd. "At least, I was. I have not gone much lately. I have
not had time for the military stuff, so I canned it."

"And we saw Pat Scallons and Ted Tuttle in the Ninetieth, too, and
Ramsay Dunn--oh, he did look fine in his uniform--and Frank Smart--he is
going if he can," said Ethel. "I wonder what his mother will do. He is
the only son, you know."

"Well, if you ask me, I think that is rot. It is not right for Smart.
There are lots of fellows who can go," said Lloyd in quite an angry
tone. "Why, they say they have nearly got the twenty-five thousand
already."

"My, I would like to be in the first twenty-five thousand if I were a
man," said Ethel. "There is something fine in that. Wouldn't you, Jane?"

"I am not a man," said Jane shortly.

"Why the first twenty-five thousand?" said Lloyd. "Oh, that is just
sentimental rot. If a man was really needed, he would go; but if not,
why should he? There's no use getting rattled over this thing. Besides,
somebody's got to keep things going here. I think that is a fine British
motto that they have adopted in England, 'Business as usual.'"

"'Business as usual!'" exclaimed Jane in a tone of unutterable contempt.
"I think I must be going home, Lloyd," she added. "Can you take me?"

"What's the rush, Jane? It is early yet. Let's take a turn out to the
Park."

But Jane insisted on going home. Never before in all her life had she
found herself in a mood in which she could with difficulty control her
speech. She could not understand how it was that Lloyd Rushbrooke, whom
she had always greatly liked, should have become at once distasteful to
her. She could hardly bear the look upon his handsome face. His clever,
quick-witted fun, which she had formerly enjoyed, now grated horribly.
Of all the college boys in her particular set, none was more popular,
none better liked, than Lloyd Rushbrooke. Now she was mainly conscious
of a desire to escape from his company. This feeling distressed her. She
wanted to be alone that she might think it out. That was Jane's way. She
always knew her own mind, could always account for her emotions, because
she was intellectually honest and had sufficient fortitude to look facts
in the face. At the door she did not ask even her friend, Ethel, to come
in with her. Nor did she make excuse for omitting this courtesy. That,
too, was Jane's way. She was honest with her friends as with herself.
She employed none of the little fibbing subterfuges which polite manners
approve and which are employed to escape awkward situations, but which,
of course, deceive no one. She was simple, sincere, direct in her mental
and moral processes, and possessed a courage of the finest quality.
Under ordinary circumstances she would have cleared up her thinking
and worked her soul through the mist and stress of the rough weather
by talking it over with her father or by writing a letter to Larry. But
during the days of the past terrible week she had discovered that her
father, too, was tempest-tossed to an even greater degree than she was
herself; and somehow she had no heart to write to Larry. Indeed, she
knew not what to say. Her whole world was in confusion.

And in Winnipeg there were many like her. In every home, while faces
carried bold fronts, there was heart searching of the ultimate depths
and there was purging of souls. In every office, in every shop, men went
about their work resolute to keep minds sane, faces calm, and voices
steady, but haunted by a secret something which they refused to call
fear--which was not fear--but which as yet they were unwilling to
acknowledge and which they were unable to name. With every bulletin from
across the sea the uncertainty deepened. Every hour they waited for news
of a great victory for the fleet. The second day of the war a rumour of
such a victory had come across the wires and had raised hopes for a
day which next day were dashed to despair. One ray of light, thin but
marvellously bright, came from Belgium. For these six breathless days
that gallant little people had barred the way against the onrushing
multitudes of Germany's military hosts. The story of the defence of
Liege was to the Allies like a big drink of wine to a fainting man. But
Belgium could not last. And what of France? What France would do no man
could say. It was exceedingly doubtful whether there was in the French
soul that enduring quality, whether in the army or in the nation, that
would be steadfast in the face of disaster. The British navy was fit,
thank God! But as to the army, months must elapse before a British army
of any size could be on the fighting line.

Another agonising week passed and still there was no sure word of hope
from the Front. In Canada one strong, heartening note had been sounded.
The Canadian Parliament had met and with splendid unhesitating unanimity
had approved all the steps the Government had taken, had voted large
sums for the prosecution of the war, and had pledged Canada to the
Empire to the limit of her power. That fearless challenge flung out into
the cloud wrapped field of war was like a clear bugle call in the
night. It rallied and steadied the young nation, touched her pride,
and breathed serene resolve into the Canadian heart. Canadians of all
classes drew a long, deep breath of relief as they heard of the action
of their Parliament. Doubts, uncertainties vanished like morning mists
blown by the prairie breeze. They knew not as yet the magnitude of the
task that lay before them, but they knew that whatever it might be, they
would not go back from it.

At the end of the second week the last fort in Liege had fallen;
Brussels, too, was gone; Antwerp threatened. Belgium was lost. From
Belgian villages and towns were beginning to come those tales of
unbelievable atrocities that were to shock the world into horrified
amazement. These tales read in the Canadian papers clutched men's
throats and gripped men's hearts as with cruel fingers of steel.
Canadians were beginning to see red. The blood of Belgium's murdered
victims was indeed to prove throughout Canada and throughout the world
the seed of mighty armies.

At the end of the second week Jane could refrain no longer. She wrote to
Larry.



CHAPTER XXIII

A NEUTRAL NATION


The first days of the war were for Larry days of dazed bewilderment and
of ever-deepening misery. The thing which he had believed impossible had
come. That great people upon whose generous ideals and liberal Christian
culture he had grounded a sure hope of permanent peace had flung to the
winds all the wisdom, and all justice, and all the humanity which the
centuries had garnered for them, and, following the primal instincts of
the brute, had hurled forth upon the world ruthless war. Even the great
political party of the Social Democrats upon which he had relied to make
war impossible had without protest or division proclaimed enthusiastic
allegiance to the war programme of the Kaiser. The universities and the
churches, with their preachers and professors, had led the people in mad
acclaim of war. His whole thinking on the subject had been proved wrong.
Passionately he had hoped against hope that Britain would not allow
herself to enter the war, but apparently her struggle for peace had
been in vain. His first feeling was one of bitter disappointment and of
indignation with the great leaders of the British people who had allowed
themselves to become involved in a Mid-European quarrel. Sir Edward
Grey's calm, moderate--sub-moderate, indeed--exposition of the causes
which had forced Britain into war did much to cool his indignation, and
Bethmann-Hollweg's cynical explanation of the violation of Belgium's
neutrality went far to justify Britain's action consequent upon that
outraging of treaty faith. The deliberate initiation of the policy
of "frightfulness" which had heaped such unspeakable horrors upon the
Belgian people tore the veil from the face of German militarism and
revealed in its sheer brutality the ruthlessness and lawlessness of that
monstrous system.

From the day of Austria's ultimatum to Servia Larry began to read
everything he could find dealing with modern European history, and
especially German history. Day and night he studied with feverish
intensity the diplomacy and policies of the great powers of Europe till
at length he came to a somewhat clear understanding of the modern theory
and world policy of the German state which had made war inevitable. But,
though his study made it possible for him to relieve his country from
the charge of guilt in this war, his anxiety and his misery remained.
For one thing, he was oppressed with an overwhelming loneliness. He
began to feel that he was dwelling among an alien people. He had made
many and close friends during the months of his stay in Chicago. But
while they were quick to offer him sympathy in his anxiety and misery,
he could not fail to observe on every hand the obvious and necessary
indications of the neutral spirit. He could expect nothing else. In this
conflict America had decided that she was not immediately concerned and
she was resolute to remain unconcerned. A leading representative of the
Chicago press urged Americans to be careful not to "rock the boat." The
President of the United States counselled his people "to keep calm"
and to observe the strictest neutrality. Larry discovered, too, an
unconfessed, almost unconscious desire in the heart of many an American,
a relic of Revolutionary days, to see England not destroyed or even
seriously disabled, but, say, "well trimmed." It would do her good.
There was, beside, a large element in the city distinctly and definitely
pro-German and intensely hostile to Great Britain. On his way to the
office one afternoon Larry found himself held up by a long procession
of young German reservists singing with the utmost vigour and with an
unmistakable note of triumph the German national air, "Die Wacht Am
Rhein," and that newer song which embodied German faith and German
ambition, "Deutschland Uber Alles." When he arrived at the office that
afternoon he was surprised to find that he was unable to go on with his
work for the trembling of his hands. In the office he was utterly alone,
for, however his friends there might take pains to show extra kindness,
he was conscious of complete isolation from their life. Unconcerned,
indifferent, coolly critical of the great conflict in which his people
were pouring out blood like water, they were like spectators at a
football match on the side lines willing to cheer good play on either
side and ready to acclaim the winner.

The Wakehams, though extremely careful to avoid a word or act that might
give him pain, naturally shared the general feeling of their people.
For them the war was only another of those constantly recurring European
scraps which were the inevitable result of the forms of government which
these nations insisted upon retaining. If peoples were determined to
have kings and emperors, what other could they expect but wars. France,
of course, was quite another thing. The sympathy of America with
France was deep, warm and sincere. America could not forget the gallant
Lafayette. Besides, France was the one European republic. As for
Britain, the people of Chicago were content to maintain a profoundly
neutral calm, and to a certain extent the Wakehams shared this feeling.

In Larry's immediate circle, however, there were two exceptions.
One, within the Wakeham family, was Elfie. Quick to note the signs of
wretchedness in him and quick to feel the attitude of neutrality assumed
by her family toward the war, the child, without stint and without
thought, gave him a love and a sympathy so warm, so passionate, that
it was to his heart like balm to an open wound. There was no neutrality
about Elfie. She was openly, furiously pro-Ally. The rights and wrongs
of the great world conflict were at first nothing to her. With Canada
and the Canadians she was madly in love, they were Larry's people and
for Larry she would have gladly given her life. Another exception to the
general state of feeling was that of Hugo Raeder. From the first Raeder
was an intense and confessed advocate of the cause of the Allies. From
personal observation he knew Germany well, and from wide reading he had
come to understand and appreciate the significance of her world policy.
He recognised in German autocracy and in German militarism and in German
ambition a menace to the liberties of Europe. He represented a large and
intellectually influential class of men in the city and throughout the
country generally. Graduates of the great universities, men high in the
leadership of the financial world, the editors of the great newspapers
almost to a man, magazine editors and magazine writers untinged by
racial or personal affinity with Germany, these were represented by
Raeder, and were strongly and enthusiastically in sympathy with the aims
of the Allies, and as the war advanced became increasingly eager to have
their country assume a definite stand on the side of those nations whom
they believed to be fighting for the liberties and rights of humanity.
But though these exceptions were a source of unspeakable comfort to him,
Larry carried day by day a growing sense of isolation and an increasing
burden of anxiety.

Then, too, there was the question of his duty. He had no clear
conviction as to what his duty was. With all his hatred and loathing of
war, he had come to the conviction that should he see it to be the
right thing for him, he would take his place in the fighting line. There
appeared, however, to be no great need for men in Canada just now.
In response to the call for twenty-five thousand men for the First
Expeditionary Force, nearly one hundred thousand had offered. And yet
his country was at war; his friends whether enlisted for the fighting
line or in the civilian ranks were under the burden. Should he not
return to Canada and find some way to help in the great cause? But
again, on the other hand, his work here was important, he had been
treated with great consideration and kindness, he had made a place for
himself where he seemed to be needed. The lack of clear vision of his
duty added greatly to his distress.

A wire had informed him in the first days of the war that his
brother-in-law had gone to rejoin his old regiment in the Coldstream
Guards. A letter from Nora did not help much. "Jack has gone," she
wrote. "We all felt he could do nothing else. Even poor, dear Mother
agreed that nothing else was possible. Kathleen amazes us all. The very
day after the awful news came, without a word from Jack, I found her
getting his things together. 'Are you going to let him go?' I asked
her, perfectly amazed at her coolness. 'Let me go?' said Jack, who was
muddling about her. 'Let me go? She would not let me stay. Would you,
Kathleen?' 'No,' she said, 'I do not think I would like you to stay,
Jack.' And this is our pacifist, Kathleen, mind you! How she came to see
through this thing so rapidly I don't know. But sooner than any of us
Kathleen saw what the war was about and that we must get in. She goes
about her work quietly, cheerfully. She has no illusions, and there is
no bravado. Oh, Larry dear, I do not believe I could do it. When she
smiles at the dear wee man in her arms I have to run away or I should
howl. I must tell you about Duckworth. You know what a dear he is. We
have seen a good deal of him this year. He has quite captivated Mother.
Well, he had a letter from his father saying, 'I am just about rejoining
my regiment; your brother has enlisted; your sister has gone to the Red
Cross. We have given our house to the Government for a hospital. Come
home and join up.' What a man he must be! The dear boy came to see us
and, Larry, he wanted me. Oh, I wish I could have said yes, but somehow
I couldn't. Dear boy, I could only kiss him and weep over him till he
forgot himself in trying to comfort me. He went with the Calgary boys.
Hec Ross is off, too; and Angus Fraser is up and down the country with
kilt and pipes driving Scotchmen mad to be at the war. He's going, too,
although what his old mother will do without him I do not know. But she
will hear of nothing less. Only four weeks of this war and it seems like
a year. Switzer has gone, you know, the wicked devil. If it had not been
for Sam, who had been working around the mine, the whole thing would
have been blown up with dynamite. Sam discovered the thing in time. The
Germans have all quit work. Thank God for that. So the mine is not
doing much. Mother is worried about the war, I can see, thinking things
through."

A letter from Jane helped him some. It was very unlike Jane and
evidently written under the stress of strong emotion. She gave him full
notes of the Reverend Andrew McPherson's sermons, which she appeared
to set great store by. The rapid progress of recruiting filled her with
delight. It grieved her to think that her friends were going to the
war, but that grief was as nothing compared to the grief and indignation
against those who seemed to treat the war lightly. She gave a page of
enthusiastic appreciation to Kellerman. Another page she devoted to
an unsuccessful attempt to repress her furious contempt for Lloyd
Rushbrooke, who talked largely and coolly about the need of keeping
sane. The ranks of the first contingent were all filled up. She knew
there were two million Canadians in the United States who if they were
needed would flock back home. They were not needed yet, and so it would
be very foolish for them to leave good positions in the meantime.

Larry read the last sentence with a smile. "Dear old Jane," he said to
himself. "She wants to help me out; and, by George, she does." Somehow
Jane's letter brought healing to his lacerated nerves and heart, and
steadied him to bear the disastrous reports of the steady drive of the
enemy towards Paris that were released by the censor during the last
days of that dreadful August. With each day of that appalling retreat
Larry's agony deepened. The reports were vague, but one thing was
clear--the drive was going relentlessly forward, and the French and the
British armies alike were powerless to stay the overwhelming torrent.
The check at the Marne lifted the gloom a bit. But the reports of that
great fight were meagre and as yet no one had been able to estimate the
full significance of that mighty victory for the Allied armies, nor
the part played therein by the gallant and glorious little army that
constituted the British Expeditionary Force.

Blacker days came in late September, when the news arrived of the
disaster to the Aboukir and her sister ships, and a month later of the
destruction of the Good Hope and the Monmouth in the South Pacific
sea fight. On that dreadful morning on his way downtown he purchased
a paper. After the first glance he crushed the paper together till he
reached his office, where he sat with the paper spread out before him on
his desk, staring at the headlines, unable to see, unable to think, able
only to suffer. In the midst of his misery Professor Schaefer passed
through the office on his way to consult with Mr. Wakeham and threw him
a smile of cheery triumph. It was a way Schaefer had these days.
The very sight of him was enough to stir Larry to a kind of frenzied
madness. This morning the German's smile was the filling up of his cup
of misery. He stuffed the paper into his desk, took up his pen and began
to make figures on his pad, gnawing his lips the while.