Lieutenant Roger Fenton had a lump in his throat when he said
good-bye to his boys. There they were in a bunch on the station
platform, the ten wayward lads into whom he had sought to instil the
fear of God on Tuesday evenings in winter, and with whom he had
rambled and played cricket every Saturday afternoon in summer. Boys
of fourteen to seventeen are a tough proposition, and though Fenton
would answer for their bowling and batting he wasn't over sanguine
about their religion. But they had filled a big place in his lonely
life in the dull little country town, and now he had to leave them
and lose them. For the great call had reached him, and he bore the
King's commission, and in his heart of hearts he had the feeling
that he would never come back.
Now the chaff and the parting words of good luck were over, and the
train was panting to be off. "Boys," he cried suddenly, "I want you
to do something for me, something hard." "Anything you like, sir,"
they answered eagerly. But their faces fell when they heard their
teacher's word. "Look here," he said, "it's this. You'll meet in the
old place every Tuesday evening for a few minutes and pray for me
that I may do my duty, and, if it please God, that I may come back
to you all. And I'll pray for you at the same time even if I'm in
the thick of battle. Is it a bargain?"
I wish you had seen the dismay on those ten faces. It was any odds on
their blurting out a shamefaced refusal, but Ted Harper, their
acknowledged chief, pulled himself together just in time, and called
out as the train began to move:--"We'll do it, sir. I don't know how
we'll manage it, but we'll do our best. We'll not go back on you."
As Fenton sank into his corner he was aware of the mocking looks of
his brother officers. "I say," said one of them, "you don't really
think those chaps are going to hold a prayer-meeting for you every
week, and if they did you can't believe it would stop an enemy's
bullet or turn an enemy's shell. It's all very well to be pious, but
that's a bit too thick." Fenton flushed, but he took it in good part.
"Prayer's a big bit of our religion," he said, "and I've a notion
these prayers will help me. Anyhow I'm sure my lads will do their
part. Where Ted Harper leads, they follow."
And sure enough the boys did their part. It was fine to see them
starting out in the wrong direction, and twisting and doubling
through the crooked lanes till they worked round to the Mission Hall,
and then in with a rush and a scuttle, that as few as possible might
see. The doings of the Fenton crowd, as they were known locally,
were the talk of the town in those first days after Roger departed.
Would they meet? Would they keep it up? Would they bear the ridicule
of the other boys of their own age? And how in the world would they
pray?
Time answered all these questions except the last. They met, they
continued to meet, they faced ridicule like heroes. But how did they
pray? That mystery was as deep and insoluble as before, for whatever
awful oath of secrecy bound them to silence not a whisper of the
doings of those Tuesday evenings was divulged to the outside world.
I was the only one who ever knew, and I found out by chance. Ted
Harper had borrowed "Fights for the Flag" from me, and when I got it
back there was a soiled piece of paper in it with something written
in Ted's ungainly hand. I thought he had been copying a passage, and
anxious to see what had struck him, I opened the sheet out and read
these words:--"O God, it's a hard business praying. But Roger made
me promise. And you know how decent he's been to me and the crowd.
Listen to us now, and excuse the wrong words, and bring him back safe.
And, O God, make him the bravest soldier that ever was, and give him
the V.C. That's what we all want for him. And don't let the war be
long, for Christ's sake. Amen."
I felt a good deal ashamed of myself when I came to the end of this
artless prayer. I had got their secret. I could see them kneeling
round the Mission forms, two or three with crumpled papers in their
hands. They were unutterably shy of religious expression, and to read
was their only chance. The boys on whom the fatal lot fell the
previous Tuesday were bound to appear with their written devotions a
week later. This war has given us back the supernatural, but no
miracle seems more wonderful to me than those ten lads and their
ill-written prayers. And, remember, that liturgical service lasted
six months, and never a break in the Tuesday meeting. What a grand
thing a boy's heart is, when you capture its loyalty and its
affection!
It was a black day when the news came. The local Territorials had
advanced too far on the wing of a great offensive, and had been
almost annihilated. The few survivors had dug themselves in, and
held on till that bitter Tuesday faded into darkness and night. When
relief came, one man was left alive. He was wounded in four places,
but he was still loading and firing, and he wept when they picked
him up and carried him away for first aid. That solitary hero,
absolutely the only survivor of our local regiment, was Lieutenant
Roger Fenton, V.C.
When his wounds were healed, and the King had done the needful bit
of decoration, we got him home. We did not make the fuss they did in
some places. Our disaster was too awful, and the pathos of that
solitary survivor too piercing. But some of us were at the station,
and there in the front row were the ten men of prayer. Poor Roger
quite broke down when he saw them. And he could find no words to
thank them. But he wrung their hands till they winced with the pain
of that iron grip.
That night I got a chance of a talk with him alone. He was too
modest to tell me anything of his own great exploit. But there was
evidently something he wanted to say, and it was as if he did not
know how to begin. At last he said, "I have a story to tell that not
one in fifty would listen to. That Tuesday evening when I was left
alone, and had given up all hope, I remembered it was the hour of
the old meeting, and I kept my promise and prayed for the boys of my
Class. Then everything around me faded from my mind, and I saw the
dear lads in the Mission Room at prayer. I don't mean that I went
back in memory. I knew with an absolute certainty that I was there
invisible in that night's meeting. Whether in the body or out of the
body, I cannot say, but there I was, watching and listening."
"How wonderful!" I said.
"That's not all, there's something stranger still," he went on.
"They were kneeling on the floor, and Ted Harper was reading a prayer,
and when it was done they said 'Amen' as with one voice. I counted
to see if they were all there. I got to ten right enough, but I did
not stop there. I counted again, and this is the odd thing--_there
were eleven of them_! In my dream or vision or trance, call it what
you will, I was vaguely troubled by this unexpected number. I saw
the ten troop out in their old familiar way, and I turned back to
find the eleventh, _The Comrade in White_, and to speak to Him. I
felt His presence still, and was glad of it, for the trouble and
perplexity were all gone and in their place a great expectation. I
seemed to know the very place where He had been kneeling, and I
hurried forward. But there was nothing to be seen, nothing but the
well-remembered text staring down at me from the wall--'For where
two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the
midst of them.' I remembered no more, till I found myself in the
base hospital. But of course I knew then how I had been saved, and
what my boys had done for me.
"It makes a man feel strange to have his life given back to him like
that; it's as if God would expect a great deal in return. But
there's a stronger feeling still in my heart. I believe the lads got
their answer not for my sake but for their own. Think what it means
to them. They've got their feet now on the rock of prayer. They know
the truth of God. I'm not sure, but I don't think I'll ever tell
them that I saw Christ in their midst. They know it in their own way,
and perhaps their own way is best."
And as he said it, I saw that Lieutenant Roger Fenton was prouder of
his boys than of his Victoria Cross.