XII
FIRST DAYS OF THE WAR
Next morning I took a walk into the village, and just as I was enteringit saw a group of youths reading a placard on the wall. It was headed bythe British Coat of Arms, and contained an appeal from Lord Kitchenerfor five hundred thousand men. The youths looked at it stolidly. Theydid not seem to think that it affected them. Farther on I saw a womanbrushing the little pathway which led to the front door of her cottage.By this time I had become on friendly terms with many of the people inthe village, who spoke of me as "the poor young man, staying up toFather Abraham's hut." They evidently knew why I had come to Cornwall,and looked on me pityingly as I passed by.
"Mornin', sur."
"Good-morning, Mrs. Crantock."
"This es ter'ble news, sur."
"Yes, very terrible."
"I d' think et es judgment from God."
"Why do you think that, Mrs. Crantock?"
"Ah, sur, w've a forgot God, sur. Things be'ant what they used to be,and God's goin' to teach us a lesson."
She was a woman perhaps sixty years of age, and had a patient, kindlyface, even although it was not without signs of determination and vigor.
"What reason have you for saying that we have forgotten God?" I asked. Ireflected that she was an intelligent woman, and represented the classto which she belonged.
"Ah, sur, I've lived in Cornwall all my life, and I ca'ant 'elp seein'the deffurence between things now and what they used to be."
"Oh," I said, "and how is that?"
"Ah, sur, the young people be'ant the same. Why, sur, when I was a youngwoman, we didn't spend all our time gaddin' about, like young people donowadays. We wad'n all for pleasure then. Why, sur, every Sunday mornin'I used to go to seven o'clock prayer-meetin', and there would be thirtyor forty of us. The people had'n forgot 'ow to pray then, sur."
"And have they now?" I asked.
"Why, sur, there ed'n no seven o'clock meetin'; we d'ardly ever 'aveprayer-meetin' like we used to. There ed'n nobody to pray, so to speak,and when they do pray, 'tis deffurent. Ah, sur, we 'ad power then. Wefelt the power, too. As for the Chapel, it was full nearly every Sunday,and nearly everybody went."
"And they don't go now?" I suggested.
"No, sur, they do'ant go now. That is, nothin' like they used to. Youngpeople do'ant seem to have no relish for the House of God."
"What is the reason of it?" I asked.
"Worldliness and pleasure, sur. Everybody be a thinkin' 'ow they shallenjoy theirselves. Yes, sur, we 'ave forgotten God, and He is goin' tobring us back to our senses. Yes, war is a ter'ble thing, but ef et willdo that et'll be good for us. We d'need strong physic sometimes."
I waited, for I could see that she was in a communicative mood, and waspleased with the attention I gave to her.
"Then ther's the class-meetin's," she went on; "when I was a youngwoman, all the professin' Christians went to class-meetin', andeverybody did give their experience. It was a means of grace to go then,sur. Men and women 'ad somethin' to tell of what God had done for them,and now, it do'ant seem as ef anybody 'ad any experience to give. Why,sur, we 'ad cottage prayer-meetin's all over St. Issey, and we was'appy. We knawed then that God loved us, but now we do'ant seem to thinkabout God. Religion wad'n a formal thing then, sur, it was everything tous. Yet, I dunno; people seem to have more worldly goods than they 'adthen, we 'ave better wages, and more of the good things of this life,but then we knawed God; now we do'ant."
"Do you mean to say that every one has forgotten Him, Mrs. Crantock?"
"No, sur, I do'ant go so fur as that. There be a few who 'aven't removedthe ould landmarks. There's Tommy Yelland, and Mary Tresidder, and a fewlike they, to whom the Word of God is precious, but there be'ant many.You can remember, sur, the story of Sodom and Gomorrah. The Lorddestroyed those cities because there wad'n ten righteous men. I do'antsay things is so bad as that wi' we, but we have lost certainty, sur,and we 'ave lost power. Be you a professin' Christian yerself, sur?"
"I am afraid I am not, Mrs. Crantock, but I am very interested in it."
"Ah, sur, I wish you 'ad come down 'ere in the ould days, when we 'adRevivals. I've knawed the time when every one in St. Issey who went toChapel was converted."
"Revivals?" I said, for I scarcely understood her.
"Yes, sur, the Spirit of the Lord used to move mightily, and after aSunday evening service I 'ave knawed lots of people come out and besoundly converted; but that is all over now."
"Why is that?" I asked.
"Ted'n the Lord's fault, sur; His arm is not shortened, neither is Hisear heavy. We have resisted His Spirit, sur, and come away from Him. Weare fulfilling words of Scripture, 'Ephraim is joined to his idols; lethim alone.' Why, sur, at our last special services nobody wad'nconverted."
"Special services?" I queried.
"Yes, sur, we call it a 'mission' now, and we 'ad a special preacherdown, but there wad'n no results."
"And are things no better at the Church?" I asked.
"Well, sur, they d'think of things deffurent up there. We do'ant lookupon they as thinking about religion, like we Wesleyans do, or used todo," she added, correcting herself. "Now, sur, we be all alike. Theredo'ant seem any deffurence between the Church and the world. That is whyGod 'ave allowed this ter'ble war to come; for 'twill be ter'ble, do'antyou think so, sur?"
"Yes," I replied, "I am afraid it will."
"I d'ear they Germans be ter'ble fighters, and that every man in thecountry is a sojer. Es that true, sur?"
"Yes, practically true."
"Ah, 'tis a wisht thing ed'n et, then? but ef all the people wouldreturn to the Lord I shudd'n fear, but we seem to 'ave forgot the powerof prayer. Be you better then, sur, makin' so bold?"
"Not much better, I am afraid," I replied.
"You do look fine an' slight, sur," she added, looking at me pityingly.
At first I scarcely understood what she meant, but I discovered that theword "slight" was commonly used among the Cornish people when they spokeof people looking ill.
"Pardon me," I said, for although the old dame was comparativelyignorant, and lived in a narrow world of her own, her conversation hadgreatly interested me. She had made me realize the power of Methodism inthe county half a century before, and I wondered whether, in thesimplicity of her mind and heart, she had got hold of a greater truththan I had realized. I remembered some words of the Founder ofChristianity, "He hath hid these things from the wise and prudent, andhath revealed them unto babes." "Have you lost the knowledge of God,which you once possessed, with the rest of the people?"
"No, sur; that is," she added, correcting herself, "I do'ant think Ihave. Sometimes I am in danger of forgetting Him, and then He d'seem along way off like, but I know et es my own fault, for direckly I spend alot of time on my knees the Lord d'come real again to me. I d'remembermy ould man's death-bed, too, and, sur, he was like Enoch of old, hewalked with God, and when he came to die it was like heaven to hear himtalk. He was triumphant, sur, triumphant."
As I left Mrs. Crantock, and made my way into the village, I could nothelp reflecting on what she had said. I had now been in St. Issey tenweeks, and had had time to form some impression on the life of thepeople. I could not help being convinced, too, that the old woman, inher simple way, had spoken the truth. As far as I could see there was noreligion in Cornwall such as she had described. The people were, on thewhole, well conducted, but, as I understood the word, there was no deepsense of religion at all. Both at Chapel and Church the people werelistless, and, to a large extent, indifferent. The fact of God was notreal. That consciousness of the presence of God, which, as far as Icould judge, had been common to the people fifty years before, no longerexisted.
And yet, perhaps, I am not altogether right in saying this. The idealsand the thoughts of the people were largely because of what religion hadbeen in the olden days. Whether the distinctive doctrines of Methodismwere largely superstition I am not going to argue here, but they had, inthe past,
permeated the county, and their effects had not altogetherdied out. On the other hand, however, they were no longer a presentpossession, neither was religion, in a large number of cases, adistinctive factor in their lives. The people were comfortable, wellfed, well housed, and, generally, well conditioned, and, as aconsequence, they did not feel the need of God. The fear of hell, whichwas prevalent in the old days, had died out, and with its death therealization for the need of religion had died out too. They were socomfortable, so self-satisfied, that everything appertaining to thespiritual world was a long, long way off. No one seemed to be stirred tothe depths of life, never anywhere was there a deep calling unto thedeep; and thus, while the majority of people were respectable and wellbehaved, they sought for satisfaction in the life around them.
As I walked through the village I came upon a number of miners loungingaround, with, apparently, nothing to do. They were, they informed me,working afternoon "core" that week, and thus had their mornings atliberty. They greeted me heartily as I came up, and willingly enteredinto conversation with me. The subject of conversation was the war, andthe two things which impressed me were, first of all, that it would soonbe over, and, second, that they had nothing to do with it. In themajority of cases they did not seem to feel that Lord Kitchener's appealwas to them at all. They imagined that soldiers would be forthcoming,and that England would be able to get all the men she wanted, but theidea that they should leave their homes and go away for training did notseem to occur to them. I am speaking now of those early days of the war,before the terror of it really gripped the country.
"I d'give they Germans about six weeks," said one miner to me. "What canGermany do 'gainst Russia and France and we? I tell you what, maaster,they have bite off a bigger piece than they can chow, tha's what they'vedone; do'ant you think so?"
"I hope they have," I replied; "but I think you are over-confident. Yousee, in Germany, every man is trained to be a soldier, and thus theyhave an army nearly twenty times as big as we have."
"But you do'ant think they'll bait we, do 'ee, maaster?"
"I think we shall have difficult work to beat them," was my reply, "andthe sooner you chaps enlist the better."
"What! we go for sojers; do'ant you believe it. I never fired a gun inmy life."
"Then I think the sooner you begin to learn the better."
But I could make no impression on them. The war, to them, was a long wayoff, and they had only a kind of detached interest in it. They quiteagreed with me that, as we were in it, we should have to see it through,only some one else must see it through, not they. The thought of theirbecoming soldiers seemed utterly alien to them. I discovered, too, thatall of them had a kind of feeling that they would lower themselves inthe social grade if they donned the King's uniform. In the past, theArmy had largely been recruited from men of the extreme lower orders. Ofcourse, I am referring now to privates. When a young fellow got intotrouble, or had disgraced himself in any way, the Army was a kind ofharbor of refuge. Indeed, it was quite common for magistrates to giveincipient criminals the choice between joining the Army and being sentto prison. As a consequence, these Cornish miners, who in their way wereexceedingly proud, thought it beneath them to don the King's uniform.Besides, as Mr. Lethbridge had said on a previous occasion, the wholespirit of the county was utterly alien to anything like militarism.
As, towards noon, I found my way back to my hut, a great feeling ofbitterness came into my heart. "Wouldn't I enlist, if I were able?" Isaid to myself. "I would to heaven that I were strong and well, and ableto do something; but I am nothing but a useless hulk. If the spiritshown by these young fellows is the spirit of the country, the Germanswill smash us in a few weeks."
For I was not blind to the problem which faced us. I knew that Francewas not prepared in the same way that Germany was. I remembered that,forty-five years before, Von Moltke with his perfectly trained army hadswept down like an avalanche, and carried away the French army as if bya flood. I knew, too, that the German forces were far stronger now thanthey were then, and that, with the thoroughness which characterizedthem, they had prepared everything to the minutest detail. I reflectedthat at that time the German guns were thundering at the Liege forts,and that, except some miracle happened, the German hordes would sweeptowards Paris, as in the great _debacle_ of 1870. I knew we had a littlearmy of, perhaps, 200,000 men, but what could they do against such amighty host? I wondered, too, whether our guns were equal to those ofthe Germans. Altogether, I was very pessimistic.
After this, some days passed without anything happening. For some reasonor other I seemed to be left severely alone. No one visited me, neitherdid I go out of the house. The weather was somewhat inclement, and I wastoo depressed to brave the angry clouds which hung in the sky. I wentneither to Church nor to Chapel, but hung around my hut, sometimeslistlessly walking along the cliffs, but, in the main, staying in mylittle room.
"I suppose, sir," said Simpson, one evening, "that there is going to bea recruiting meeting in the village schoolroom."
"How did you find that out, Simpson?" I asked.
"Saw a bill, sir. Squire Treherne is going to take the chair, and theVicar and several others are going to speak."
"When is the meeting to be, Simpson?"
"To-morrow night, sir."
Although I felt far from well, I determined to go. I was far away fromthe centres of life, and felt utterly incapable of doing anything; but Iwanted to feel the throb of humanity's pulses, longed to take my sharein the great world struggle.
I had not time to ask any more questions, however, for at that minuteHugh Lethbridge walked into my room, and I saw by the look on his facethat he was much perturbed.
I did not ask him any questions, for at that moment Simpson was busilyclearing away the dinner utensils. It was evident, however, thatsomething had excited him greatly. He could not sit still, and his handswere constantly clenching and unclenching themselves.
"Erskine," he said presently, when Simpson had left the room, "I wantyou to help me."
"Help you, my dear fellow, how?"
"I have been and done it," he said.
"Done what?"
"I could not help it, my dear chap. You have seen the placards all overthe place. You know the call there has been for men. What could I do?Here am I, healthy and strong, and just the kind of man that is needed.How could I hang back like a coward?"
"Then you have enlisted?"
"Yes," he cried, "I have enlisted; I could not help myself."
"As a private?"
"Yes, as a private. I am not fit to be an officer."
"But didn't you belong to the Officers' Training Corps when you were atschool?"
"The pater would not allow me. No, it was no use my thinking anythingabout it, so I went to a recruiting station and joined up. I shall haveto go to the front immediately."
"How is that?" I asked. "What is the use of your going to the frontwithout training? They won't allow you. You will be kept in England atleast six months."
"No, I shan't. You see, I know the Colonel of the regiment I have joinedvery well, and he is off to the front immediately, and I am going too."
"But how?"
"Well, you see, for one thing, I know French and German, and foranother, I am not a bad hand at mechanics. I know all about a motor-car,inside and out, and they can find work for me."
"Then you are not going as an ordinary Tommy?"
"In a way I am, and in a way I am not; but there it is. They are goingto make a special case of me. I am off to-morrow to join my regiment,and from what I can hear, the regiment is off in two or three days. Idon't know exactly what my duties will be; but there it is, I am off."
"What will your father say?" I asked.
"That is what I have come to see you about. I never realized until I haddone it what the pater would say. You know I am fond of him, evenalthough we have never got on well together. He has never understood me,and I am afraid I have never understood him--there is no link ofsympathy be
tween us; but then, you know, he is my pater after all. Yes,I have joined; but that is not all, Erskine."
"Not all?" I queried. "What is there besides?"
"I have been and got married," was his reply.
"Got married!"
"Yes. I expect it was a mad thing to do, but I could not help myself.You don't know what it is to be in love, Erskine, and I could not bearthe idea of leaving Mary without knowing she was my wife."
"And, of course, your father knows nothing about that either?"
"No, he knows nothing. You see, I got married by special license. I wasafraid to tell the pater what was in my mind,--afraid he would interferesomehow and stop me,--so I thought I would do it first and tell himafterwards."
Our conversation was not nearly so connected and straightforward as Ihave described it here. What he said was uttered in quick, disjointedsentences. Sometimes he would break off in the middle of what he wassaying, and talk about something else. That he was greatly excited waseasy to see. It was evident, too, that his duty towards his fathertroubled him greatly.
"I don't mind mother," he said; "she will be all right--motherunderstands me. Of course, Bella and I laugh at her, and all that sortof thing, because she is always making plans for us, and mapping out ourday's program, and telling us what we ought to do. We call her thegeneral manager; but she is a good sort is mother, and she understandsus, too. But the pater is different. Somehow, he cannot understand us,and we cannot understand him. I suppose, in a way, he is just, and inmany things he is generous to me, but in others----Well, there it is. Iwondered what I ought to do. At first I thought I would go away withouttelling him anything, but that would be acting like a sneak. Mind you,Erskine, I would not undo anything I have done. If ever a man had a callto serve his country, I have, and I think it is a splendid piece of luckthat I can be useful at a time like this, without going through thetraining of an ordinary soldier. I jumped at the chance of going to thefront straight away; but then, there was Mary. How could I leave herwithout being sure that I had her? I was afraid the pater would takesteps to hinder me from ever getting her. You have some idea what heis--and I was afraid. Besides, she was willing, and so I--I----Godforgive me if I have done wrong, Erskine, but I could not help it."
"Well, what can I do to help you?" I asked.
"There it is, and that is why I have come to-night. I have always hadthe reputation of having a fair amount of pluck; I do not fear death abit, and I haven't a single qualm about going to the front; but it's thepater, you see."
"What about your father?" I asked.
"I am afraid to tell him, Erskine. I simply dare not go home and tellhim what I have done."
"Nonsense!" I said; "he cannot eat you; you have done nothing to beashamed of. For that matter you have done what thousands of otherfellows have done. You have joined the Army at the call of your King andCountry, and it was the right thing to do. I would to God that I wereable to do it too!"
"Would you, Erskine?" he cried eagerly. "You think I have done right,then?"
"I think you should have gone to your father first and asked for hisconsent. Then, if he would not give it, I think you, being of age, andfeeling it your duty, should go in spite of him."
"But he would not have consented."
"Exactly; still, you should have asked him. As for getting married----"
"Yes, yes, what about that?" and he looked towards me feverishly.
"Well," I said, "hundreds of fellows are doing it. I have seen scores ofsuch cases in the newspapers. Hurried marriages have been arranged byyoung fellows going to the front."
"Yes, but, you see, they have been different. They have been marriedwith their father's blessing, and all that sort of thing; but I, I amafraid to go and tell him, Erskine, unless----"
"Unless what?" I asked.
"The pater thinks no end of you," he said excitedly. "He doesn't saymuch, but I can see it. You see, you promised to do well at the Bar, andhe thinks you are clever, and all that sort of thing. Of course hehasn't said much to you, but I know it."
"Well, what if he does?" I asked.
"Look here, Erskine, that is what I came for. Will you come with me? Ifyou are with me, I believe I can tell him. I have got the car outside,and I can run you up in five minutes."
Although I ought to have seen what was in his mind all the time, hisrequest came almost as a shock to me. Josiah Lethbridge was almost astranger to me. It is true I had been to his house twice, and had methim on two other occasions, but he was not a man to whom one could speakfreely. At least I thought so. As I have intimated before, he was astrong, capable man, and, like many of his class, was overbearing,almost repellent. He had risen from a poor lad by his own energy anddetermination and ability. He had swept difficulties out of his path. Hehad succeeded because he had made others yield to his stronger will. Allthese things had left their mark upon him. He could not bear opposition,and he took it as a personal grievance when others did not fall in withhis way of thinking. I knew, too, his thoughts and desires with regardto his son, knew how he hated militarism, knew how ambitious he was thatHugh, his only son, should take a high place, not only in the county butin the nation. Therefore, when he was told that Hugh had not only joinedthe Army as a common soldier, but had married, against his will, a smalltenant farmer's daughter, his anger would know no bounds.
Besides, what had it to do with me? I had known none of them before Icame to Cornwall, less than three months before. Why should I be draggedinto this imbroglio? Then I looked at Hugh Lethbridge's face, saw thequiver of his lips, saw the eager look in his eye. Although I had knownhim only a few weeks, I had conceived a strong affection for him, and,in spite of myself, could not help sympathizing with him.
"Will you help me?" he said pleadingly.
I nodded.
"You will come with me now and see the pater?"
"If you wish it."
"Thank you, my dear chap," and his voice became husky as he spoke.
A few minutes later we stood at the door of Josiah Lethbridge's house.