BARRICADES AND BAYONETS
The city of Edmonton was in an uproar, its streets thronged with
excited men, ranchers and cowboys from the ranches, lumberjacks from the
foothill camps, men from the mines, trappers with lean, hard faces, in
weird garb, from the north.
The news from the front was ominous. Belgium was a smoking waste. Her
skies were black with the burning of her towns, villages and homesteads,
her soil red with the blood of her old men, her women and children. The
French armies, driven back in rout from the Belgian frontier, were being
pounded to death by the German hordes. Fortresses hitherto considered
impregnable were tumbling like ninepins before the terrible smashing of
Austrian and German sixteen-inch guns. Already von Kluck with his four
hundred thousand of conquering warriors was at the gates of Paris.
Most ominous of all, the British army, that gallant, little sacrificial
army, of a scant seventy-five thousand men, holding like a bulldog to
the flank of von Bulow's mighty army, fifty times as strong, threatened
by von Kluck on the left flank and by von Housen on the right, was
slowing down the German advance, but was itself being slowly ground
into the bloody dust of the northern and eastern roads of Northern and
Eastern France.
Black days these were for the men of British blood. Was the world to
see something new in war? Were Germans to overcome men of the race of
Nelson, and Wellington and Colin Campbell?
At home, hundreds of thousands were battering at the recruiting offices.
In the Dominions of the Empire overseas it was the same. In Canada
a hundred thousand men were demanding a place in the first Canadian
contingent of thirty-five thousand, now almost ready to sail. General
Sam at Ottawa was being snowed under by entreating, insistent, cajoling,
threatening telegrams. Already northern Alberta had sent two thousand
men. The rumour in Edmonton ran that there were only a few places left
to be filled in the north Alberta quota. For these few places hundreds
of men were fighting in the streets.
Alighting from their train, Duff and his men stood amazed, aghast,
gazing upon the scene before them. Duff climbed a wagon wheel and
surveyed the crowd packing the street in front of the bulletin boards.
“No use, this way, boys. We'll have to go around. Come on.”
They went on. Up side streets and lanes, through back yards and shops
they went until at length they emerged within a hundred yards of the
recruiting office.
Duff called his men about him.
“Boys, we'll have to bluff them,” he said. “You're a party of recruits
that Col. Kavanagh expects. You've been sent for. I'm bringing you in
under orders. Look as much like soldiers as you can, and bore in like
hell. Come on!”
They began to bore. At once there was an uproar, punctuated with
vociferous and varied profanity.
Duff proved himself an effective leader.
“Here, let me pass,” he shouted into the backs of men's heads. “I'm on
duty here. I must get through to Colonel Kavanagh. Keep up there, men;
keep your line! Stand back, please! Make way!”
His huge bulk, distorted face and his loud and authoritative voice
startled men into temporary submission, and before they could recover
themselves he and his little company of hard-boring men were through.
Twenty-five yards from the recruiting office a side rush of the crowd
caught them.
“They've smashed the barricades,” a boy from a telegraph pole called
out.
Duff and his men fought to hold their places, but they became conscious
of a steady pressure backwards.
“What's doing now, boy?” shouted Duff to the urchin clinging to the
telegraph pole.
“The fusileers--they are sticking their bayonets into them.”
Before the line of bayonets the crowd retreated slowly, but Duff and his
company held their ground, allowing the crowd to ebb past them, until
they found themselves against the line of bayonets.
“Let me through here, sergeant, with my party,” said Duff. “I'm under
orders of Colonel Kavanagh.”
The sergeant, an old British army man, looked them over.
“Have you an order, sir--a written order, I mean?”
“No,” said Duff. “I haven't, but the colonel expects us. He is waiting
for me now.”
“Sorry, sir,” replied the sergeant, “my orders are to let no one through
without a written pass.”
Duff argued, stormed, threatened, swore; but to no purpose. The N. C. O.
knew his job.
“Send a note in,” suggested Barry in Duff's ear.
“Good idea,” replied Duff, and wrote hurriedly.
“Here, take this through to your colonel,” he said, passing the note to
the sergeant.
Almost immediately Colonel Kavanagh came out and greeted Duff warmly.
“Where in this wide creation have you been, Duff?” he exclaimed. “I've
wanted you terribly.”
“Here I am now, then,” answered Duff. “Six of us. We're going with you.”
“It can't be done,” said the colonel. “I have only twenty places left;
every one promised ten times over.”
“That makes it easy, Kavanagh. You can give six of them to us.”
“Duff, it simply can't be done. You know I'd give it to you if I
could. I've wires from Ottawa backing up a hundred applicants, actually
ordering me to put them on. No! It's no use,” continued the colonel,
holding up his hand. “Look here, I'll give you a pointer. We have got
word to-day that there's to be a second contingent. Neil Fraser is out
there in your district, Wapiti, raising a company of two hundred and
fifty men. We have stripped that country bare already, so he's up
against it. He wants Wapiti men, he says. They are no better than any
other, but he thinks they are. You get out there to-night, Duff, and get
in on that thing. You will get a commission, too. Now hike! Hike! Go!
Honest to God, Duff, I want you with my battalion, and if I can work it
afterwards, I'll get you exchanged, but your only chance now is Wapiti.
Go, for God's sake, go quick!”
“What do you say, boys?” asked Duff, wheeling upon his men.
“I say, go!” said Knight.
In this decision they all agreed.
“Go it is,” said Duff. “Right about turn. Good luck, Kavanagh, damn you.
I see you have got a good sergeant there.”
“Who? McDowell? None better. You couldn't beat him, eh?” said the
colonel with a grin.
The sergeant stood at attention, with a wooden face.
“He's the kind of man they want in the front lines,” said Duff. “The
devil himself couldn't break through where he is.”
“That's why I have him. Good luck. Good-bye!”
Throughout the night they marched, now and then receiving a lift from a
ranch wagon, and in the grey of the morning, weary, hungry, but resolute
for a place in the Wapiti company, they made the village.
Early as it was, Barry found his father astir, with breakfast in
readiness.
“Hello, boy!” cried his father running to him with outstretched hands.
“Hello, dad!” answered Barry. His father threw a searching glance over
his son's face as he shook his hand warmly.
“Not a word, Barry, until you eat. Not a word. Go get ready for your
bath. I'll have it for you in a minute. No, not one word. Quick. March.
That is the only word these days. As you eat I'll give you the news.”
Resolutely he refused to talk until he saw his son begin upon his
breakfast. Then he poured forth a stream of news. The whole country was
aflame with war enthusiasm. Alberta had offered half a million bushels
of oats for the imperial army, and a thousand horses or more. The
Calgary district had recruited two thousand men, the Edmonton district
as many more. All over Canada, from Vancouver to Halifax, it was the
same.
From the Wapiti district twenty-six ranchers, furnishing their own
horses, had already gone. Ewen Innes was in Edmonton. His brother
Malcolm was in uniform, too, and his young brother Jim was keen to
enlist. Neil Fraser was busy raising a company of Wapiti men. Young
Pickles and McCann had joined up as buglers.
And so the stream flowed, Barry listening with grave face but making no
response.
“And I'm glad you're back, my boy. I'm glad you're back,” said his
father, clapping him on the shoulder.
The rest of the meal was eaten in silence. They were having each his own
thoughts, and for the first time in their life together, they kept their
thoughts to themselves.
“You're going to your office, Dad,” said Barry, when they had cleared
away, and set the house in order.
“No, the office is closed, and will be for some time, I imagine. I'm
busy with Neil Fraser. I'm acting paymaster, quartermaster, recruiting
sergeant, and half a dozen other things.”
“I'll go down with you,” said Barry, as his father rose to go.
His father came back to him, put his hands on his shoulders, and said:
“Barry, I want you to go to bed.”
“Nonsense, dad. I'm all right. I'm going downtown with you.”
“Barry,” said his father, “we have hard times before us, and you must be
fit. I ask you to go to bed and sleep there this forenoon. You're half
asleep now. This afternoon we shall face up to our job.”
His father's voice was quietly authoritative and Barry yielded.
“All right, dad. I'll do as you say, and this afternoon--well, we'll
see.”
At the noonday meal they were conscious of a mutual restraint. For the
first time in their lives they were not opening to each other their
innermost souls. The experience was as distressing as it was unusual.
The father, as if in dread of silence, was obviously exerting himself
to keep a stream of talk flowing. Barry was listening with a face very
grave and very unlike the bright and buoyant face he usually carried.
They avoided each other's eyes, and paid little heed to their food.
At length Barry pushed back his chair.
“Will you excuse me, dad,” he said. “I think I shall step out a moment
into the garden.”
“Do, Barry,” said his father, in obvious relief. “You are fagged out, my
boy.”
“Thanks, dad. I am a bit played out.”
“And take it easy this afternoon, Barry. To-night you will tell me about
your trip, and--and--we'll have a talk.”
“Good old dad!” said Barry. “You do understand a chap. See you later,
then,” he called back as he passed through the door.
His father sat gazing before him for some moments with a deep shadow on
his face.
“There is something wrong with that boy,” he said to himself. “I wish I
knew what it was.”
He set his house in order, moving heavily as if a sudden weight of years
had fallen upon his shoulders, and took his way slowly down the street.
“I wonder what it is,” he mused, refusing to give form to a horrible
thought that hovered like a spectre about the windows of his soul.
The first glance at his son's face at the time of the evening meal made
his heart sing within him.
“He's all right again! He's all right!” he said to himself jubilantly.
“Hello, dad,” cried Barry, as his father entered the room. “Supper's
just ready. How do you feel, eh?”
“Better, my boy--first rate, I mean. I'm properly hungry. You're rested,
I can see.”
“I'm all right, dad! I'm all right!” cried Barry, in his old cheery way.
“Dad, I want to apologise to you. I wasn't myself to-day, but now I'm
all right again. Dad, I've joined up. I'm a soldier now,” he said with a
smile on his face, but with anxious eyes turned on his father.
“Joined up!” echoed his father. “Barry, you have enlisted! Thank God, my
boy. I feared--I thought--No, damned if I did!” he added, with such
an unusual burst of passion that Barry could only gaze at him with
astonishment.
“Forgive me, my boy,” he said, coming forward with outstretched hand.
“For a moment I confess I thought--” Again he paused, apparently unable
to continue.
“You thought, dad,” cried Barry, “and--forgive me, dad--I thought too. I
ought to have known you better.”
“And I, you, my son.”
They shook hands with each other in an ecstasy of jubilation.
“My God, I'm glad that's through,” said the older man. “We were both
fools, Barry, but thank God that horror is past. Now tell me all about
everything--your trip, your plans. Let's have a good talk as we always
do.”
“Come on then, dad,” cried Barry. “Let's have an eat first. By Jove,
I feel a thousand years younger. I go to the M. O. to-morrow for an
examination.”
“He is quite unusually severe in his interpretation of the regulations,
I understand,” said his father. “He is turning men down right and left.
He knows, of course, that there are plenty to choose from. But there is
no fear of your fitness, Barry.”
“Not much,” said Barry, with a gay laugh.
Never had they spent a happier evening together. True, the spectre of
war would thrust itself upon them, but they faced it as men--with a full
appreciation of its solemn reality, but without fear, and with a quiet
determination to make whatever sacrifice might be demanded of them. The
perfect understanding that had always marked their intercourse with
each other was restored. The intolerable burden of mutual uncertainty in
regard to each other's attitude toward the war was lifted. All shadows
that lay between them were gone. Nothing else really mattered.
The day following, Barry received a rude shock. The M. O., after an
examination, to his amazement and dismay, pronounced him physically
unfit for service.
“And why, pray?” cried his father indignantly, when Barry announced the
astounding report. “Is the man a fool? I understood that he was strict.
But you! unfit! It is preposterous. Unfit! how?”
“Heart murmur,” said Barry. “Sets it down to asthma. You remember I told
you I had a rotten attack after my experience last week in the river. He
suggested that I apply for a position in an ambulance corps, and he is
giving me a letter to Colonel Sidleigh at Edmonton. I am going to-morrow
to Edmonton to see Sidleigh, and besides I have some church business to
attend to. I must call upon my superintendent. You remember I made an
application to him for another mission field.”
He found Colonel Sidleigh courteously willing to accept his application,
the answer to which, he was informed, he might expect in a fortnight;
and so went with a comparatively light heart to his interview with his
superintendent.
The interview, however, turned out not entirely as he had expected. He
went with an idea of surrendering his appointment. His superintendent
made him an offer of another and greater.
“So they turned you down,” said the superintendent. “Well, I consider
it most providential. You have applied for a position on the ambulance
corps. As fine as is that service, and as splendid as are its
possibilities, I offer you something much finer, and I will even say
much more important to our army and to our cause. We are in need of men
for the Chaplain Service, and for this service we demand the picked men
of our church. The appointments that have been made already are some
of them most unsuitable, some, I regret to say, scandalous. Let me
tell you, sir, of an experience in Winnipeg only last week. It was, my
fortune to fall in with the commanding officer of a Saskatchewan unit.
I found him in a rage against the church and all its officials. His
chaplain had become so hilarious at the mess that he was quite unable to
carry on.”
“Hilarious?” inquired Barry.
“Hilarious, sir. Yes, plain drunk. Think of it. Think of the crime! the
shame of it! A man charged with the responsibility of the souls of these
men going to war--possibly to their death--drunk, in their presence!
A man standing for God and the great eternal verities, incapacitated
before them! I took the matter up with Ottawa, and I have this
satisfaction at least, that I believe that no such appointment will ever
be made again. That chaplain, I may say too, has been dismissed. I have
here, sir, a mission field suitable to your ability and experience. I
shall not offer it to you. I am offering you the position of chaplain in
one of our Alberta battalions.”
Barry stood before him, dumb with dismay.
“Of course, I want to go to the war,” he said at length, “but I am sure,
sir, I am not the man for the position you offer me.”
“Sir,” said the superintendent, “I have taken the liberty of sending in
your name. Time was an element. Appointments were being rapidly made,
and I was extremely anxious that you should go with this battalion. I
confess to a selfish interest. My own boy, Duncan, has enlisted in
that unit, and many of our finest young men with him. I assumed the
responsibility of asking for your appointment. I must urge you solemnly
to consider the matter before you decline.”
Eloquently Barry pleaded his unfitness, instancing his failure as a
preacher in his last field.
“I am not a preacher,” he protested. “I am not a 'mixer.' They all say
so. I shall be impossible as a chaplain.”
“Young man,” said the superintendent, a note of sternness in his voice,
“you know not what transformations in character this war will work.
Would I were twenty years younger,” he added passionately, “twenty years
sounder. Think of the opportunity to stand for God among your men, to
point them the way of duty, and fit them for it, to bring them comfort,
when they need comfort sorely, to bring them peace, when they most need
peace.”
Barry came away from the interview more disturbed than he had ever been
in his life. After he had returned to his hotel, a message from his
superintendent recalled him.
“I have a bit of work to do,” he said, “in which I need your help. I
wish you to join me in a visitation of some of the military camps in
this district. We start this evening.”
There was nothing for it but to obey his superintendent's orders. The
two weeks' experience with his chief gave Barry a new view and a new
estimate of the chaplain's work. As he came into closer touch with camp
life and its conditions, he began to see how great was the soldier's
need of such moral and spiritual support as a chaplain might be able
to render. He was exposed to subtle and powerful temptations. He was
deprived of the wonted restraints imposed by convention, by environment,
by family ties. The reactions from the exhaustion of physical training,
from the monotonous routine of military discipline, from loneliness and
homesickness were such as to call for that warm, sympathetic, brotherly
aid, and for the uplifting spiritual inspiration that it is a chaplain's
privilege to offer. But in proportion as the service took on a nobler
and loftier aspect, was Barry conscious to a corresponding degree of his
own unfitness for the work.
When he returned to the city, he found no definite information awaiting
him in regard to a place in the ambulance corps. He returned home in an
unhappy and uncertain frame of mind.
But under the drive of war, events were moving rapidly in Barry's life.
He arrived late in the afternoon, and proceeding to the military H.Q.,
he found neither his father nor Captain Neil Fraser in the office.
“Gone out for the afternoon, sir,” was the word from the orderly in
charge.
Wandering about the village, he saw in a field at its outskirts, a squad
of recruits doing military evolutions and physical drill. As he drew
near he was arrested by the short, snappy tones of the N. C. O. in
charge.
“That chap knows his job,” he said to himself, “and looks like his job,
too,” he added, as his eyes rested upon the neat, upright, soldier-like
figure.
Captain Neil he found observing the drill from a distance.
“What do you think of that?” he called out to Barry, as the latter came
within hailing distance. “What do you think of my sergeant?”
“Fine,” replied Barry. “Where did you get him?”
“What? Look at him!”
“I am. Pretty natty sergeant he makes, too.”
“Let's go out there, and I'll introduce him.”
As they crossed the parade ground, the sergeant dropped his military
tone and proceeded to explain in his ordinary voice some details in
connection with the drill. Barry, catching the sound of his voice,
stopped short.
“You don't mean it, Captain Neil! Not dad, is it?”
“Nobody else,” said Captain Neil. “Wait a minute. Wait and let's watch
him at his work.”
For some time they stood observing the work of the new sergeant. Barry
was filled with amazement and delight.
“What do you think of him?” inquired Captain Neil.
But Barry made no reply.
“My company sergeant major got drunk,” continued Captain Neil. “I had no
one to take the drill. I asked your father to take it. He nearly swept
us off our feet. In consequence, there he stands, my company sergeant
major, and let me tell you, he will be the regimental sergeant major
before many weeks have passed, or I'm a German.”
“But his age,” inquired Barry, still in a maze of astonishment.
“Oh, that's all right. You don't want them too young. I assured the
authorities that he was of proper military age, telling them, at the
same time, that I must have him. He's a wonder, and the men just adore
him.”
“I don't wonder at that,” said Barry.
Together they moved over to the squad. The sergeant, observing his
officer, called his men smartly to attention, and greeted the captain
with a very snappy salute.
“Sergeant major, let me introduce you to my friend, Mr. Barry Dunbar,”
said Captain Neil with a grin.
“I say, dad,” said Barry, still unable to associate his father with this
N. C. O. in uniform who stood before him. “I say, dad, where did you get
all that military stuff?”
“I'm very rusty, my boy, very rusty! I hope to brush up, though. The men
are improving, I think, sir.”
“I'm sure of it,” said Captain Neil. “How is that wild man from
Athabasca doing?”
“He is finding it hard work, sir, I'm afraid. He finds it difficult to
connect up this drill business with the business of war. He wants to go
right off and kill Germans. But he is making an effort to put up with
me.”
“And you, with him, eh, sergeant major? But turn them loose. They have
done enough for to-day, and I know your son wants to take you off with
him, and get you to explain how you go into the army.”
The explanation came as they were walking home together.
“You see, boy, I felt keenly your disappointment in being rejected from
the fighting forces of the country. I felt too that our family ought
to be represented in the fighting line, so when Captain Fraser found
himself in need of a drill sergeant, I could hardly refuse. I would have
liked to have consulted you, my boy, but--”
“Not at all, dad; you did perfectly right. It was just fine of you. I'm
as proud as Punch. I only wish I could go with you. I'd like to be in
your squad. But never mind, I've two jobs open to me now, and I sorely
need your advice.”
Together they talked over the superintendent's offer of the position of
chaplain.
“I can't see myself a chaplain, dad. The position calls for an older
man, a man of wider experience. Many of these men would be almost twice
my age. Now the superintendent himself would be the man for the job. You
ought to see him at his work with the soldiers. I really can't think I'm
fit.”
In this opinion his father rather concurred.
“An older man would be better, Barry--a man of more experience would be
of more service, and, yet I don't know. One thing I am sure of, if you
accept the position, I believe you will fill it worthily. After all, in
every department, this war is a young man's job.”
“Of course,” said Barry. “If I went as chaplain, it would be in your
unit, dad, and that would be altogether glorious.”
“I do hope so. But we must not allow that, however, to influence our
decision,” replied his father.
“I know, I know!” hurriedly agreed Barry. “I trust I would not be unduly
influenced by personal considerations.”
This hope, however, was rudely dashed by an unexpected call for a draft
of recruits from Captain Neil's company that came through from Colonel
Kavanagh to replace a draft suddenly dispatched to make up to strength
another western regiment. Attached to the call there was a specific
request, which amounted to a demand for the sergeant major, for whose
special qualifications as physical and military instructor there was
apparently serious need in Colonel Kavanagh's regiment.
With great reluctance, and with the expenditure of considerable
profanity, Captain Neil Fraser dispatched his draft and agreed to the
surrender of his sergeant major.
The change came as a shock to both Barry and his father. For some days
they had indulged the hope that they would both be attached to the same
military unit, and unconsciously this had been weighing with Barry in
his consideration of his probable appointment as chaplain.
The disappointment of their hope was the more bitter when it was
announced that Colonel Kavanagh's battalion was warned for immediate
service overseas, and the further announcement that in all probability
the new battalion, to which the Wapiti company would be attached, might
not be dispatched until some time in the spring.
“But you may catch us up in England, Barry,” said his father, when Barry
was deploring their ill luck. “No one knows what our movements will be.
I do wish, however, that your position were definitely settled.”
The decision in this matter came quickly, and was, without his will or
desire, materially hastened by Barry himself.
Colonel Kavanagh's battalion being under orders to depart within ten
days, a final Church Parade was ordered, at which only soldiers and
their kin were permitted to be present. The preacher for the day falling
ill from an overweight of war work, and Barry being in the city with
nothing to do, the duty of preaching at this Parade Service was suddenly
thrust upon him.
To his own amazement and to that of his father, Barry accepted without
any fear or hesitation this duty which in other circumstances would
have overwhelmed him with dismay. But to Barry the occasion was of such
surpassing magnitude and importance that all personal considerations
were obliterated.
The war, with its horrors, its losses, its overwhelming sacrifice, its
vast and eternal issues, was the single fact that filled his mind. It
was this that delivered him from that nervous self-consciousness, the
preacher's curse, that paralyses the mental activities, chills the
passions, and cloggs the imagination, so that his sermon becomes
a lifeless repetition of words, previously prepared, correct, even
beautiful, it may be in form, logical in argument, sound in philosophy,
but dead, dull and impotent, bereft of the fire that kindles the powers
of the soul, the emotion that urges to action, the imagination that
lures to high endeavour.
“I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that ye
present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God, which
is your reasonable service.”
The voice, clear, vibrant, melodious, arrested with its first word the
eyes and hearts of his hearers, and so held them to the end. With the
earnest voice there was the fascination of a face alight with a noble
beauty, eyes glowing as with lambent flame.
A second time he read the appealing words, then paused and allowed his
eyes to wander quietly over the congregation. They represented to him in
that hour the manhood and womanhood of his country. Sincerely, with
no attempt at rhetoric and with no employment of any of its tricks, he
began his sermon.
“This war,” he said, “is a conflict of ideals eternally opposed. Our
ambitious and ruthless enemy has made the issue and has determined the
method of settlement. It is a war of souls, but the method of settlement
is not that of reason but that of force--a force that finds expression
through your bodies. Therefore the appeal of the Apostle Paul, this
old-world hero, to the men of his time reaches down to us in this day,
and at this crisis of the world's history. Offer your bodies--these
living bodies--these sacred bodies--offer them in sacrifice to God.”
There was little discussion of the causes of the war. What need? They
knew that this war was neither of their desiring nor of their making.
There was no attempt to incite hatred or revenge. There was little
reference to the horrors of war, to its griefs, its dreadful agonies,
its irreparable losses.
From the first word he lifted his audience to the high plane of
sacrament and sacrifice. They were called upon to offer upon the altar
of the world's freedom all that they held dear in life--yea, life
itself! It was the ancient sacrifice that the noblest of the race had
always been called upon to make. In giving themselves to this cause they
were giving themselves to their country. They were offering themselves
to God. In simple diction, and in clear flowing speech, the sermon
proceeded without pause or stumbling to the end. The preacher closed
with an appeal to the soldiers present to make this sacrifice of theirs
at once worthy and complete. These bodies of theirs were sacred and were
devoted to this cause. It was their duty to keep them clean and fit.
For a few brief moments, he turned to the others present at the
service--the fathers, mothers, wives and sweethearts of the soldiers,
and reminded them in tones thrilling with tenderness and sympathy that
though not privileged to share in the soldiers' service in the front
lines, none the less might they share in this sacrifice, by patient
endurance of the separation and loss, by a cheerful submission to trial,
and by continual remembrance in prayer to Almighty God of the sacred
cause and its defenders they might help to bring this cause to victory.
In the brief prayer that followed the sermon, in words tender, simple,
heart-moving, he led the people in solemn dedication of themselves, soul
and body, to their country, to their cause, to their God.
The effect of the sermon and prayer was overpowering. There were
no tears, but men walked out with heads more erect, because of the
exaltation of spirit which was theirs. And women, fearful of the coming
hour of parting, felt their hearts grow strong within them with the
thought that they were voluntarily sending their men away. Upon the
whole congregation lay a new and solemn sense of duty, a new and
uplifting sense of privilege in making the sacrifice of all that they
counted precious for this holy cause.
It was the sermon that brought the decision in the matter of Barry's
appointment.
“What do you think of that, Colonel Kavanagh?” asked Captain Neil
Fraser, who came in for the service.
“A very fine sermon! A very notable sermon!” said the colonel. “Who is
he?”
“He is my own minister,” said Captain Neil, “and he gave me, to-day, the
surprise of my life. I didn't know it was in him. I understand there is
a chance of his being our chaplain. He is Sergeant Dunbar's son.”
“I wish to Heaven we could take him with us! What about it, Fraser?
We've got the father, why not the son, too? They'd both like it.”
“I say, Colonel, for Heaven's sake, have a heart. I hated to surrender
my company sergeant major. I don't think I ought to be asked to
surrender our chaplain.”
“All right, Fraser, so be it. But you have got a wonderful chaplain in
that boy. What a face! What a voice! And that's the kind of a spirit we
want in our men.”
That very afternoon, Captain Neil went straight away to Colonel
Leighton, the officer commanding the new regiment to which Captain
Neil's company belonged. To the colonel he gave an enthusiastic report
of the sermon, with Colonel Kavanagh's judgment thereon.
“I would suggest, sir, that you wire Ottawa on the matter,” he urged.
“If Colonel Kavanagh thought he had a chance, he would not hesitate. We
really ought to get this fixed. I assure you he's a find.”
“Go to it, then, Fraser. I'm rather interested to see your earnest
desire for a chaplain. The Lord knows you need one! Go up to
Headquarters and use my name. Say what you like.”
Thus it came that the following day Barry was informed by wire of his
appointment as chaplain of the new regiment of Alberta rangers.
“It's at least a relief to have the matter settled,” said his father, to
whom Barry brought his wire. “Barry, I'm glad of the opportunity to tell
you that since yesterday, my mind has undergone considerable change.
I am not sure but that you have found your place and your work in the
war.”
“No, dad,” answered Barry, “I wasn't responsible for that sermon
yesterday. The war was very near and very real to me. Those boys were
looking up at me, and you were there, dad. You drew that sermon stuff
out of me.”
“If once, why not again? At any rate, it greatly rejoiced me to know
that it was there in you. I don't say I was proud of you, my boy. I was
proud of you, but that is not the word that I should like to use. I was
profoundly grateful that I was privileged to hear a sermon like that
from a son of mine. Now, Barry,” continued his father, “this is our last
day together for some months, perhaps forever,” he added in a low tone.
“Don't, daddy, don't,” cried Barry, “I can't bear to think of that
to-day.”
“All right, Barry, but why not? It is really far better that we should
face all the possibilities. But now that we have this day--and what a
perfect day it is--for our last day together, what shall we do with it?”
“I know, dad--I think you would wish that we take our ride into the
foothills to-day.”
“It was in my mind, my boy. I hesitated to suggest it. So let us go.”
It was one of those rare November days that only Alberta knows, mellow
with the warm sun, and yet with a nip in it that suggested the coming
frost, without a ripple of the wind that almost constantly sweeps the
Alberta ranges. In the blue sky hung motionless, like white ships at
sea, bits of cloud. The long grass, brown, yellow and green in a hundred
shades, lay like a carpet over the rolling hills and wide spreading
valleys, reaching up on every side to the horizon, except toward the
west, where it faded into the blue of the foothills at the bases of the
mighty Rockies.
Up the long trail, resilient to their horses' feet, they cantered where
the going was good, or picked their way with slow and careful tread
where the rocky ridges jutted through the black soil.
They made no effort to repulse the thought that this was their last day
together, nor did they seek to banish the fact of the war. With calm
courage and hope they faced the facts of their environment, seeking
to aid each other in readjusting their lives to those facts. They
were resolutely cheerful. The day was not to be spoiled with tears
and lamentations. Already each in his own place and time had made his
sacrifice of a comradeship that was far dearer than life. The agony of
that hour, each had borne in silence and alone. No shadow should fall
across this sunny day.
By the side of the grave, in its little palisaded enclosure, they
lingered, the father recalling the days of his earlier manhood, which
had been brightened by a love whose fragrance he had cherished and
shared with his son through their years together, Barry listening with
reverent attention and tender sympathy.
“I had always planned that I too should be laid here, Barry,” said his
father, as they prepared to take their departure, “but do you know, boy,
this war has made many changes in me and this is one. It seems to me
a very little thing where my body lies, if it be offered, as you were
saying so beautifully yesterday, in sacrifice to our cause.”
Barry could only nod his head in reply. He was deeply moved.
“You are young, Barry,” said his father, noting his emotion, “and life
is very dear to you, my boy.”
“No, dad, no! Not life,” said Barry brokenly. “Not life, only you, dad.
I just want you, and, oh dad!” continued the boy, losing hold of himself
and making no effort to check or hide the tears that ran down his face,
“if one of us is to go in this war,--as is likely enough,--I only
want that the other should be there at the time. It would
be--terribly--lonely--dad--to go out myself--without you. Or to have you
go out--alone.--We have always been together--and you have been--so very
good to me, dad. I can't help this, dad,--I try--but I am not strong
enough--I'm not holding back from the sacrifice, dad,” hurrying his
words,--“No, no, not that, but perhaps you understand.”
For answer, his father put both his arms around his son, drew his head
down to his breast, as if he had been a child.
“There, there, laddie,” he said, patting him on the shoulder, “I know, I
know! Oh God, how I know. We have lived together very closely, without
a shadow ever between us, and my prayer, since this war began, has
been that in death, if it had to be, we might be together, and, Barry,
somehow I believe God will give us that.”
“Good old dad, good old boy! What a brick you are! I couldn't help that,
dad. Forgive me for being a baby, and spoiling the day--”
“Forgive you, boy,” still with his arms around his son, “Barry, I love
you for it. You've never brought me one sorrow nor will you. To-day and
every day I thank God for you, my son.”
They rode back through the evening toward the camp. By the time they
arrived there, the sun had sunk behind the mountains, and the quiet
stars were riding serenely above the broken, floating clouds, and in
their hearts was peace.