The Hero

by Paul Almond

Eric looked up at the tree-covered mound behind them. “What’s up there?”

  “Pine mountain? About an hour’s walk to the top. Nice view. Don’t know if anyone goes. Might not be much of a trail. I used to hike there Sundays from time to time.”

  “The young fellows, do they go nowadays?”

  Selwyn sighed, shook his head. “They work on the farms all week, but Sundays, apart from church... I don’t find there’s enough for them to do.” He turned to Rene as she entered the parsonage. “Reverend Hatcher left behind some furniture. It might have been here before even he came. But there’s lots of room for your own things.”

  “I’m sure Rene will find just what we need,” Eric said.

  Rene wasn’t so sure; the Mater had written her that times were still hard: the Depression had struck England, too. Rents were not as forthcoming as she’d hoped so she could send the couple nothing; they would have to make do on Eric’s clergy stipend. Slightly more than at Trinity Memorial, it was hardly substantial. Rene would have to scrape to make things cheerful.

  When Selwyn turned for her opinion, she gave it graciously. “This will be just fine for us, Selwyn. I’m so pleased to have the furniture. I’ll supplement it from roadside sales. How are the farmers doing hereabouts?”

  “Very hard, Ma’am,” said Selwyn, perhaps intimidated by her British accent.

  “Oh, do please call me Rene.”

  “Well, we’re all hurting, but we have farms, we got sheep for wool, so we’re warmly clad, chickens for eggs, cattle for milk, space for gardens, so we have vegetables. But not a lot of cash to throw around. Hard to keep the tithes going, but we’ll do our best.” He smiled. Such an infectious grin.

  “Probably better than the rest of the country,” Eric commented. “I’ve heard that Germany raised its tariff on wheat to over $1.50 a bushel, and Italy and France raised theirs, too. With them shutting out our Canadian wheat, and our own terrible drought out west, we may be in for long hard times.”

  Selwyn nodded as they walked back to the express wagon. “There’s talk that some o’ them stockbrokers finally got stuck in jail.”

  “Yes,” Rene added, “I read that sixteen senior officers from the country’s best known brokerage houses have been charged. Unbelievable the graft that goes on. That’s why we’re so happy to be here in the country.”

  “Do you think the provincial election last week will help any?” Eric asked.

  “We met Houde, you know, Selwyn,” Rene said, “at the R100 send-off. His Conservatives lost so badly.”

  Selwyn knew. “Oh yes, that there Taschereau led them Liberals to seventy-nine seats, and Houde’s conservatives only ten.”

  “Even Houde lost his own seat!” Rene added. “But I find it shocking that women can’t vote in Quebec. You know, Selwyn, we were given that right in England three years ago.”

  “And in Canada, years before that, my dear, in 1919,” Eric put in. “Though only in Federal elections. Our beautiful province is just so backward...”

  Selwyn helped Rene up onto the wagon. “And now, come have a bite. A real farm dinner.”

  ***

  Pleased that they’d arrived at the beginning of the week, Eric immediately went on a round of coffee and teas, meeting churchgoers and organizing his three services, two in other churches: St. Augustine’s in East Farnham, and St. George’s in Adamsville, both about three miles away, half an hour in the buggy. He also wrote a sermon he would deliver at all three.

  But most of all, he wanted a staff for his hikes. “In a way,” he explained to Rene, “it makes me feel comfortable. A young poplar to dry would be best, but a good bit of straight maple would do. It has to have a cleft for a thumb-hold. Our Lord is often pictured with a staff; Bishops carry them. Good in case you meet some animal that doesn’t like you. Though I never have yet.”

  “But Eric,” Rene objected, trying to feed some mashed vegetable into the baby’s mouth, “I’m sure there’s nothing bigger than a groundhog in these hills.”

  “Oh yes, there’s bears, foxes, bobcats, and cougars, the farmers tell me, even wolves...” He chuckled at the look on Rene’s face. “Don’t worry, my dear, no danger. Well, off I go. With any luck I’ll be back by lunchtime with poles for a staff.”

  Behind the church, Eric hit on one of the older trails and, zigzagging upward, he could feel himself coming alive. Back in his own environment, his hearing quickened, eyesight grew sharper. In no time he was rewarded by a little pathway running off to the right, made by a rabbit, or perhaps even a fox. Should he follow? Another time. Get to the top first, he told himself, see what else is there. A straight stick for a staff comes first.

  He strode down a slight dip and found at the bottom a clear footprint in the mud. Some large cat. He knelt and studied it. Same size roughly as a cougar’s but with smaller palm and toe pads. A bobcat.

  Getting interesting, he thought. Not only did he have the parish he wanted, the congregation he had longed for, but right on his doorstep, trails for hiking, woods full of wild creatures. Better and better.

  As he climbed further, he kept searching for saplings. A fallen tree blocked the trail. Aha, he thought, I’ll just check out those roots. He followed the long trunk and found, under its upturned roots, a burrow. He knelt and inhaled. Fox. Well, that’s good. Next trip, he might stop and wait here. Nothing he liked more than watching fox cubs play. Almost as good as having a dog. Poor Marshall Foch. Too bad the old fellow had passed on, albeit peacefully. But Earle had given him a decent burial.

  As he neared the summit, the words of Selwyn came back to him: the lads here don’t have enough to do. He wondered how many of them were trained in wood-lore. These last few days, he had found out that expeditions so normal in the Gaspe, moose hunting, canoe trips, snowshoeing into the interior, were not a part of daily life here. Lots of forest, yes, but nothing like the miles of uncharted wilderness and caribou plateaus behind Shigawake.

  He reached the summit and looked out across at the rolling countryside with its dotting of lakes, fields and woods. A great place for respite, for solitude, for communicating with his God. And then it struck him.

  Boy Scouts!

  That’s what Iron Hill needed: a Scout troop. Yes, he’d start one. Excited by the idea, he gave a last check around, and soon found an ideal stick of maple. He tested it, checked for a notch. Good. Yes sir! Fine place to bring his troop, once formed. The thought excited him more than his forthcoming services. His first sermon he’d already written, and how he looked forward to delivering it. Sure to be a goodly crowd.

  And a good crowd there was. All three churches were packed — everyone wanted to see what their new clergyman looked like. Word had gone out from Selwyn that his British wife had been a dancer on the London stage, and many wanted to meet her, too. Rene rose to the occasion, proudly showing off her son to all and sundry. A fine beginning.

  C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - E I G H T

  Eric had set the date for the first meeting of the Scouts for the last Wednesday of the month. How soon it came! And how gratifying to find the church hall just crowded with rowdy lads, twelve to eighteen, wrestling, shouting, fooling around; they delighted Eric. “Lots of energy to be channelled,” he told Rene, who seemed taken aback by his untroubled mien.

  “I’ll just go over to the house and organize the food. Three parents answered your call to bring sandwiches and soft drinks. We shall have a lovely party at the parsonage when you’ve finished.”

  “Thanks. I hope these lads aren’t here just for that!”

  As Rene left, Eric snapped into his officer’s demeanour, calling the meeting to order. No doubting his authority!

  Selwyn came forward to introduce their new scoutmaster. “Now boys, we’re real lucky. Not only do we have here a veteran of the Great War, but Reverend Alford has been camping and canoeing and exploring all over the back country of Quebec.” Eric could see they were looking at him with new eyes. “Now, how many of you ever heard of Vimy Ridge?” Most in t
he room put up their hands. “What about Passchendaele?” Again the same response. “The battles around Ypres?” More hands went up. “Well boys, listen to this. Our priest here fought through every one of those battles, commanding a Howitzer group on the Firing Line.”

  Eric hadn’t commanded the Howitzer group all through the war, but anything to impress these lads.

  “And I don’t suppose many here have been off alone with a real Indian guide, and shot your own food and made your own campsites at night. How many fellas faced winter blizzards on snowshoes with only a rifle and pack on your back, and a knife fer to skin the animal when you shot it? Well, that’s what this here clergyman’s done.”

  Eric could see all eyes on him; Selwyn’s introduction had excited them and his own sermons had whetted his congregation’s interests during the month. He had wanted to make sure his parishioners would send their lads. Not enough young fellas in church, but once this Boy Scout troop got going, they’d be there, all right.

  So Selwyn handed the meeting over to Eric, and sat down to listen. He seemed as interested as the rest.

  Eric took over. “Now boys, you’ve all heard of Lord Robert Baden Powell?” He looked around the room. Several nodded. “He fought in the Boer war. My brother did too, with that first Canadian force in South Africa for our Queen, who was then -- anyone know?” Several yelled with British accents, “Queen Victoria!”

  Eric grinned and nodded. “Good lads. Well, my brother probably met Sir Robert, as he was then. Anyway, that great man started this Scout movement in 1907 and it’s spread all over — a million fine scouts, worldwide. So it’s high time you fellows around here enjoyed the same manly training: forest lore, and how to serve your country and your fellow man. That’s what this movement is all about.

  “This is Scouting for Boys.” He held the book up. “I’ll be getting several copies for you to pass around. You’ll read about chivalry, lifesaving, dealing with accidents and your duty as citizens. I want everyone to know trees by their bark and birds by their note, and to climb any tree or crag you come across.

  “There’s no pleasure that comes near preparing your own meal over wood embers at the end of a long day in the wilderness. And no scent like the smell of that fire. Can you stalk your own stag? Stop a runaway horse? Rescue a drowning person? Close a cut artery? These are some of the skills you’re going to learn. He opened his book and read:

  “* The tracks of wheels, of men and animals, and how to read them.

  * Fire making, and how to find the right tents for camping.

  * Sewing with needle and thread — no laughing now! We’ll need that, and the use of an axe and how to care for it.

  * Map reading — finding your way by landmark, compass, stars, and direction of winds.

  * Eyesight — by practice, we’re going to strengthen that. Hearing too.

  * Your sense of smell — what’s down that burrow? A fox? Groundhog?

  * Judging distance, and weather— how to read the signs.

  “You see, the whole idea of joining the Scouts is to become healthy, happy, and useful citizens. I’ll leave you to study the books when they come, but I’ve printed out the Scout Law.” Eric handed it out, and then read:

  “A Scouts honour is to be trusted

  A Scout is loyal to the King, his officers, and his parents.

  A Scout’s duty is to be useful and to help others.

  A Scout is friend to all and a brother to every other scout.

  A Scout is courteous, and a friend to animals.

  A Scout obeys orders of his parents, his patrol leader, and his scoutmaster.

  A Scout smiles and whistles under all difficulties.

  A Scout is thrifty.

  And finally, a Scout is clean in thought, word and deed.”

  “When you’ve had some training, we’ll go on hikes up Pine Mountain and over on Spruce Mountain, and then further into the real wilderness; we’ll go in the sun and we’ll go in rain. We’ll go on snowshoes and in canoes. We’ll learn the knots for rope and the tracks of animals. We’re going to have the time of our lives. By the time we’re finished, you’ll all be trained as fine scouts and, when we attend the Scout jamboree next summer, who do you think will be the best troop there?”

  The room erupted in cheers: “We will, we will!”

  And by the next summer that indeed proved to be true.

  ***

  “Have you finished your preparations for the jamboree?” Rene asked. She glanced at her husband, smoking his pipe beside her on the balcony. On this peaceful mid-summer evening in early August, 1932, their little son was playing on the lawn with a toy dump truck.

  “Just a few touches tomorrow, but we are as ready now as we’ll ever be.” He glanced at her. “Did I ever think I’d see the day you sat rocking on a veranda, knitting?” He chuckled. In the distance, a team of horses mowed hay on one of the rolling fields. The year had been good. Eric had all three parishes under control, his Scout troop was the envy of other villages, he’d developed other sports, and intended to set up a soccer team this autumn.

  “I’ve been hearing a bit of that new Canadian radio station,” Rene said, casting off stitches, finishing up a wool sweater for little Paul. “This parliament, though they don’t seem to be doing much right, did establish the new Canadian Radio Broadcasting Commission in May, funded by the government. I hated having to listen to American stations all the time.”

  Eric nodded. “Would we ever hear of my brother being made an Archdeacon on an American station?”

  “I thought he’d refused that position before.”

  “He did,” Eric replied. “He’s done so much administration, he now wants only to minister to a flock. Otherwise he’d have been a bishop long ago.”

  A load of hay came rattling by on the road. Rene and Eric waved to Walter Mount, from Britain, and his son Stanley lying at the back, waving at his collie dog trotting behind. Not many cars these evenings, just the occasional buggy.

  “What about Amelia Earhart’s solo flight over the Atlantic?”

  “She took off from Newfoundland, didn’t she?” asked Eric.

  “Yes, in a Lockheed Vega, whatever that is. May 20th, I believe.”

  “But Amy Johnson did that two years ago. Flew from England to Australia. A lot further in my estimation. And more adventuresome.”

  “No, Eric, she flew eastward, and in short hops, mostly over land. Never across a great ocean. And look at the dangers she faced. Didn’t you read about her weather changing, how her altimeter broke and gasoline was leaking into the cockpit. Her plane even went into a spin but she got out of it. Fifteen hours before she reached the coast of Ireland. May 21st.”

  “Courageous lady,” Eric agreed. “Crossing the Atlantic by plane — seems to be getting easier nowadays.” Then he added quickly, “Not to put her down, of course. It was a tremendous achievement. But we’re going to see that more and more.”

  “Talking of achievements...” Rene dropped the knitting in her lap and leaned forward to watch little Paul run off to one side, then soon toddle back. “What do you think of this new CCF formed in Winnipeg? I read in the Family Herald: our first Socialist party! Frank Scott from McGill went out there. And J.S. Woodsworth, he’s the head. They do seem to be concerned about our terrible unemployment, the thousands upon thousands riding the rails with no homes and nowhere to go. That awful Bennet, he keeps on saying everything is fine.”

  “We can but hope.” Eric sighed. “I may miss that hobo jungle sometimes, but I do prefer it here. Did you like my sermon the other day about welcoming the stranger at our door as if it were the Lord himself?”

  Rene nodded. “Yes, very good. But not a lot of tramps coming by. Two last week.”

  “Several over in East Farnham.” Eric travelled to the other churches on Sundays, and one evening for vestry meetings and such. For his hospital visits, Delmar Hadlock had offered his truck two evenings a week after finishing work. Normally they were much too busy to enjoy
gentle evenings like this, when nothing seemed to be happening, and they could bask in a brief communication, soul to soul. Eric took the pipe from his mouth and pointed with the stem. “Our red tailed hawk, I see. Wasn’t around the early part of this week.”

  Rene nodded. Well, she thought, this is a far cry from teaching dancing in Australia. But every day she found something to delight in her little son and to admire in her husband. This country life seemed to be doing them both good. She hoped it would last...

  ***

  Eric burst into the house, excited. “We won again, Rene. Last game of the season!” He took off his coat and threw it on the chair. November was cold, bare trees, ground hard. Farmers were battening down their hatches for winter.

  “I know, my dear. You must be so excited.” Rene was sitting with her son Paul on the floor as he daubed coloured paint onto a large sheet of paper.

  “Our team only started this summer and we’ve ended second in the league. Can you imagine!”

  “Your Scout Troop was pretty well best at the jamboree, the soccer team finished strongly. What other worlds will you conquer?”

  “And we’ve been here just over a year.”

  Rene nodded. “Do you know, I’ve been thinking about starting a troop of Guides. The girls are getting jealous of your Scouts. Last time I went to Montreal, I bought The Handbook for Girl Guides and I’ve been studying it. I’ll start right after Christmas, if that’s all right?”

  “Wonderful idea.” Just then the telephone rang, and Eric sighed. He looked exhausted. He shook his head, rose and went into the dining room to pick it up.

  Rene watched him, as he grew serious, then frowned and spoke into mouthpiece of the black upright phone. He came back.

  Rene asked, “Who was that?”

  “Bishop Farthing.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. He wants me to take on West Shefford as well. They don’t have enough money for another priest and theirs left last month.” Rene shook her head: her husband was taking on far too much.

  “It’s far too much,” echoed Eric, reading her thoughts, and growing agitated. “I can only just handle these three parishes already. You know what a job it’s been. And now West Shefford! Right there, that Church of St. John, it’s almost a full-time occupation by itself. I can never handle all that.”