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.
“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.