At the Front

Front matter

At The Front

BY

H. FOSTON.

Arrested

The village life with its simplicity all came back to him.

AT THE FRONT

CHAPTER I Arrested

ppoem|{fine} “I know not what awaits me; God kindly veils mine eyes, And o’er each step of my onward way He makes now scenes to rise.”

“You’re arrested!”

These words were uttered by two of London’s stalwart guardians of the law, as Ralph Messenger was walking along one of the busy thoroughfares in the East End.

He was more than surprised. He was startled, and almost stunned by the words. Arrested? Surely there was some mistake?

Before he knew where he was, the officers of the police force had applied the iron bracelets. What did it all mean?

“By whose authority do you place me in this position?”

“Come along quietly, young man, and make no statements which may incriminate you!”

He was too overwhelmed to offer any resistance, and in a short time he found himself in the lock-up at the police station, to await further investigation. His brain was in a whirl. What had happened? Surely there was some terrible mistake? Had he a double? Arrested! Arrested!

He thought, and thought, and thought. What was the cause? Why was he there?

Ralph Messenger’s history was full of interest. Born in the East End of London, his childhood was marred through the conditions which surrounded his natal day. Some men and women are born into the world severely handicapped. Ralph was one of these. Early in life he had lost his mother, who had been persuaded to leave the country, and the village hedge-rows, and the meadows, with their carpet of wild-flowers, the singing of the robin and the sky-lark, and the familiar haunts of the cuckoo.

Yes, Rachael Manning remembered her childhood days, and how she gathered the cowslip and buttercup in the meadows, and the violets on the hedge-row banks; how she played on the newly mown grass in the hayfields, amusing herself making ornaments of the various grasses. How happy were those days!

She remembered in her girlhood chanting the refrain— ppoem|{fine} “Cuckoo sings in April, Cuckoo sings in May, Cuckoo sings in June, And in July she flies away.”

She remembered, too, the autumn, with its well-laden orchards, and the gathering of the golden grain. Would she ever forget the “Harvest Home” rides? Then there was the skating and sliding in the winter. The village life, with its simplicity, all came back to her. The little parish church and the chapel, the village green, the day school, the old schoolmaster, and how, as a mischievous girl, she was one who locked the master out! Yes, she would ever recollect “Locking Out” day, and the punishment meted out on that occasion.

She was then a bright, ruddy, lively girl, and when George Messenger crossed her path, having promised her all sorts of luxuries if she would become his wife, she at last consented.

The two became one, found their way to London, and not finding the fortune which her husband dazzled before her, graduated to the East End. The change from the country, with its pure air and pleasant surroundings, soon proved to her that Cowper was right, and—

ppoem|{fine} “That God made the country But man made the town.”

Temptations abounded. A public-house bar at the corner of the street proved too big an obstacle to

“Bless ya, he’s got three hundred acres and milks fifty cows.”

George, and his frequent visits soon affected the home life, and no one felt it more than Rachael.

George intended to be good to her, but drink drowned his intentions. Just at this juncture our hero was born, and started in life designated “Ralph Bright,” after England’s famous divine and statesman.

By dint of hard work and much self-denial on the part of his mother, Ralph was given a chance to attend a school, which had been provided by specially interested mission friends in the neighbourhood. Between times he sold papers, and thereby earned a few coppers. His schooling over, to the delight of his mother, be secured a position in the firm of John McGregor & Co., ironfounders, as errand boy. His willingness soon won for him the esteem of his employers, and they decided to teach him the trade.

Just as he had made a good start, his mother, who had been failing for some time, was taken seriously ill, and gradually grew weaker. The doctor said her case was hopeless, and in spite of medical skill, she passed away. During a short period of consciousness she had called the lad to her side, and said, “Ralph, be a good boy.” This last message proved to be an inspiration, and through the shadows they were riveted on his memory. He thought of it all now, as he sat in the prison cell.

Who had done it? and the question was answered, “An enemy hath done this.” But why? How glad he was that his mother was laid to rest! Would his father care? He was afraid not.

George Messenger had gone under, and seemingly had ceased to care for his wife, for he had cast aside his marriage vows, and Rachael had died of a broken heart. The pure blossom from the country could not bloom amidst mortar and bricks in an East End alley. Transplanted, she now rests— ppoem|{fine} “Where Everlasting Spring abides And never withering flowers.”

Like a brave lad he put his hand to the plough, and gradually became more and more efficient. John McGregor & Co. were not slow to recognise his good work, and by means of night classes, and direct reading, he rapidly won his way into the firm’s favour.

His time of apprenticeship was soon over, and he was trusted with the keys, and made responsible for the opening and closing of the works.

His ideals were shattered. Was this to be the end of his industry—in a prison cell? What could it all mean?

While he was musing, he was aroused by the stentorian voice of the officer in charge, who informed him that he was to be brought before the magistrate at once, when his case would be investigated.

The Court-house was crowded, and the case awakened considerable interest.

Magistrate Fletcher took his seat.

“The Court is now open for business,” cried the clerk.

“Ralph Messenger! You are charged with wilfully and feloniously setting fire to the premises of your employers, Messrs. John McGregor & Co., and, further, with forging a cheque on the same firm. What do you plead?”

“Not guilty, your Worship.”

The charge came like a thunder-bolt. Witness after witness gave evidence.

Ralph reserved his defence, and was committed for trial at the next Criminal Sessions.

Was it a dream, or a horrible nightmare? Who could be got to defend him ? His employer had spoken favourably as regards character and ability, but the circumstantial evidence seemed conclusive. It was proved that he was the last person seen on the premises, and that he carried the keys. Yes, the circumstantial evidence and the finger-prints were strongly against him.

The Supreme Court Session was to open in a week, so he had not long to wait, and was remanded and sent back to his cell, bail having been refused.

Would the week never pass away? … In due time the session opened, and great interest was centred in Ralph’s case.

The Hon. Morton-King opened the bridge amidst great rejoicing.

The evidence produced in the lower Court was given, if anything, in a fuller degree in the higher.

“Ralph Messenger, what have you to say to the charges?”

“Not guilty, your Worship. I admit the evidence looks black against me, but I believe I am the victim of a preconcerted plot, which I am at present unable to unravel. I admit I returned to the works to attend to a little matter of business, but this was my only reason for returning, and to secure my overcoat, which I had Ieft, and had need of. As regards the attempt to burn down the premises, is it likely that I should do such a thing, especially when my employers have been so generously disposed towards me? There may be incendiarism, as the saturated rags and kerosened material suggests; but I am innocent.

“In reference to the forged cheque. I cannot explain how it was done, or who did it, but God is my witness that I know nothing about it. Experts may be convinced that the signature is mine, but it is inexplicable, as far as I am concerned. I sincerely trust the time will come when my name will be cleared from the stain supposed to be now resting upon it. I am innocent of the charge, your Honour. That is all I have to say.”

The Judge reviewed the evidence and addressed the jury, who retired, and in due course returned with a verdict of “Guilty,” according to the weight of evidence, but strongly recommended the prisoner to be placed on probation for two years.

“Ralph Messenger, you are discharged from custody, but you are bound over, on account of your previous good conduct and character, to report yourself at intervals to the authorities.”

Ralph Messenger stepped out into the world like one dazed.

The trial had been a lengthy one, and extended into the night. Depressed and cast down, Ralph walked along. The world seemed different, and his sensitive nature caused him to believe, and think, that people recognised him as a gaol-bird. What would be the end of it all?

All alone was he. Who cared? Should Father Thames hide his secret? Would he be missed if the dark waters opened to receive him? Just a splash, and it would be all over. ppoem|{fine} “Are you too, heavy laden? Come, sinner, come! Jesus will bear your burden, Come, sinner, come! Jesus will not deceive you, Come, sinner, come! Jesus will now receive you, Come, sinner, come.”

The singing of the above by a band of open-air workers aroused him. ppoem|{fine} “Are you too, heavy laden? Come, sinner, come!

Surely they knew all about him? ppoem|{fine} “Jesus will bear your burden, Come, and receive the blessing”

The singing stopped, and a big burly man commenced to speak. Ralph Messenger drew near to the outskirts of the crowd.

“Who is the speaker?” Ralph asked of a man.

“Oh! That’s a religious bloke named Thompson—Peter Thompson. Draws an enormous crowd, and does an immense amount of good, he does. Runs a Mission amongst the slum people.”

“Grand bloke is Peter. He helps a chap in time of need, he does. Stranger here? Not heard of him?”

“Anniversary Mecting in the Mission Hall to-night. Yer ought to hear him, and the singing. Why, it’s like a bit of Heaven let down amongst us.”

Ralph waited until the crowd began to move, and adually followed until he found himself inside the building. Its warmth, hearty singing, and surroundings visibly impressed him.

Peter Thompson believed in looking after the needs of the body first, and a good hot cup of coffee was soon handed round ere the meeting closed.

“Everybody come on Sunday,” cried the Missioner. “Good-night, men and women.”

Ralph felt cheered in his loneliness. There was something about the Mission that appealed to him. Even the man at the door noticed him.

The Right Hon. the Premier was invited to perform the ceremony.

“Come again, mate. Glad to see ye.”

A cheap lodging-house sheltered him from the outside world that night. Saturday was a long, dreary day to him. How he longed for the Sunday to come, so that he might attend the Mission Hall services again!

The eventful evening arrived, and once more he followed the crowd to the Mission Hall, and listened with growing interest as the Missioner spoke—

“He has a message for you. He was tempted in all points, yet without sin, and He, being tempted, is able to succour those who are tempted. Men,” cried the Missioner, “put your burdens on His back. Do it now. Do it now,” ppoem|{fine} “I will, God helping me, I will be wholly Thine.”

sang the Mission choir.

Ralph Messenger went out of the Mission Hall that night a changed man. The broken piece of earthen-ware had been made whole.

Ralph had put his hand into the hand of the World’s Redeemer, and henceforth he intended to put his feet in the foot-prints of the Man of Galilee, who was a Man of Sorrows and acquainted with grief. He had seen a new life made possible. He had become a new creation. The scales had fallen from his eyes. The Light of the World had turned on His search-light. Ralph Messenger saw its illumination, and fascinated and charmed by the purity and grandeur of such a revelation, stepped into the night a new man. He made up his mind that he would steer a straight course. Two years of probation. He would prove himself a man of mettle. The first thing he must do was to obtain employment. He could not live on the air.

He was out of employment. He could not go back to John McGregor & Co. No! He would not go near them until his character had been vindicated. But what could he do? He knew that while London, the capital of the British Empire, was the largest, wealthiest, and the most populous town, or rather collection of towns, under the sun, yet to rank amongst its unemployed, especially after coming out of gaol, was a most serious matter. Yet he was innocent, but as yet unable to prove it.

One night, as he was passing along to his lodgings, he overheard two men talking.

“He’s a fine chap, he is. Worth hearing. He’s come all the way from New Zealand.”

“Who?”

“A great Temperance bloke. Crowds go to hear him.”

“What’s his name?”

“Caverhill—Rev. Miles Standish Caverhill.”

“Got a great story to tell. One of the founders of the Prohibition Movement in that country. No one like him since the days of J. B. Gough. In addition to lecturing on Temperance Reform he speaks on the ‘Land of the Moa,’ the land of freedom and equality.”

As a result of this conversation Ralph went and heard this visitor from the Antipodes, and decided that as soon as his probation was over he would emigrate. He would go abroad. A long talk with the Rev. Peter Thompson, to whom he had told all his troubles, and who gave friendly advice during his period of probation, convinced him of the wisdom of his intention. By doing odd jobs he was able to eke out an existence.

Thanks to the genial Missioner’s help and cheer, and the work found for him in the Mission, the two years of probation passed by, and he was free again. Free to put the resolve he had made to go abroad into practice.

How was it to be done? The unexpected happened and the way opened. One morning, as he was walking along by the London Docks, he read on a notice-board—

“Wanted at once, a fireman. Apply office of the Shaw, Savill & Albion Co. To sail this day at 2-30 p.m.”

His application was granted, and at the appointed time he was at his post.

The shades of evening were falling by the time Ralph had erected his “Calico House.”

Over the Rolling Sea

There is an art in handling the “navvies pick and shovel.”

CHAPTER II Over the Rolling Sea

ppoem|{fine} “A life on the ocean wave,

And a home on the rolling deep,

Where the scattered waters rave,

And the winds their watches keep.”

>>—Old Song.

All around was life and excitement. The wharves were thronged with workmen pouring cargo into the hold of the great liner. It seemed as if it were impossible to satisfy the great storing capacity of the huge steamer.

“Make ready for His Majesty’s mail.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The steam winch continued its rattle and whirr as it heaved and lowered its numerous packages.

“Let go!”

The visitors’ warning to depart bell rang loud and clear, and in these remaining moments farewells were said, families parted, and friendships severed.

“All visitors ashore! Clear the gangway! Let go the shore-lines!”

This was quickly done.

“A good trip, Captain,” shouted the Company’s representative…

She was soon away from the wharf, carrying amongst her human freight those who were destined to make history on behalf of the British Empire. These were gathered from all parts of the United Kingdom, all bent upon making a fortune in a new land.

Father Thames was in his best mood as the steamer moved along. What memories linger around this majestic river, comparatively small, yet one of the most famous waterways in the world! Deep and wide at its mouth, permitting large ocean-going steamers to sail or travel for sixty miles right up to its docks.

The Britisher cannot help feeling a thrill of pride when he is told no port in ancient or modern times has ever equalled London in the number of ships that visit it.

The sixty miles of smooth water enabled the passengers to get accustomed to their new surroundings, as well as to do something towards straightening their cabins ere rougher water is reached.

Harry Champness remained on deck. He had left a thickly populated manufacturing town in Lancashire. For eight years he worked in one of the cotton mills, and had just managed to eke out an existence, being no better off than at the beginning. His wife had done what she could, but there was no prospect of better things. Week after week passed, and they discussed the situation. The only ray of hope seemed to be in getting away from such conditions. The only way was to emigrate.

Having communicated with and interviewed the High Commissioner for New Zealand, the way was made plain, and the road clear, so, with their little daughter, they sold their few belongings, left their native town, and were now travelling to the unknown.

“Look a bit sad, mate. Cheer up! Thou’l’t soon get ower it. Best thing ever did. Good thing to cut the painter while you’re young.”

Jacob Chambers, who volunteered these words of cheer, had left the struggles on a Lincolnshire farm, and was looking forward to his land of Canaan by going across the sea.

“Twelve shillings a week to keep a wife and family on—not good enough. Wean’t keep body and soul together. Missus and me couldn’t stand it any longer. Lived on ‘dry bread and pull it’ long enough. What are you going to do, mate, when ye get there?”

“Anything that turns up,” Harry Champness replied.

“Grand country. Jack Stubbins came home last year quite a gentleman. Why, he even brought his wife with him—scarcely knew them. Got a farm out there. Done splendid! Why, if he had stayed at home he’d only been able to get six feet in the churchyard when he died. Bless ye! He’s got three hundred acres, and milks fifty cows, and done well, besides raising lots of pigs and several tons of honey per year.”

“Several tons of honey? Impossible.”

“Fact! They had a real good time. Meant hard work, but he now drives in a buggy. Never got such a thing in England. He said, New Zealand’s the place for a working man who is not afraid of hard work for a start, and wants to get on. So I says to my wife one night: ‘Sally, what do you think about it?’ She says: ‘Jacob, I’ll follow thee to the ends of the earth. We can’t be worse off than we are here.’ So I gives the maister notice, and he stands bolt upright. ‘Yes, maister, I’m going to leave you. I’m going to a place called New Zealand.’ ‘You foolish man! Why, you’ll never get there. Stop here and work, like your father, grandfather, and great-grandfather before you.’ ‘Noa, thank ye. Sorry, but my mind is made up. John Jobson, the tailor, has got ma papers for me, and he knows several who are doing well out there. Can’t turn back now.

Harry Champness listened with great eagerness. He was glad to find one who was in the same position as himself.

Wider and wider the river opened, and the English Channel loomed in view.

“We’re going to have dirty weather, Bos’un,” said the Captain, as he went on to the bridge. “See that everything is secured, and arrange for a good lookout to be kept.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The shades of evening were falling fast, and darkness soon hid the land fram view. They had passed the white cliffs of Dover on the right, and the Channel Islands on the left. The ringing of the tea-bell caused Harry and Jacob to go below, where they soon found their work cut out. Happily, their cabins were near each other, and they sat at the same table for their meals.

Having fixed up ready for the night, they went on deck together, and walked to and fro, and watched and talked until late, when they decided to turn in. About an hour after they had retired, they were awakened by a crash like the sound of many cannon. What did it mean?

“Don’t be alarmed,” shouted the steward. “Dress quietly, in case it is necessary. There has been a collision. We’ve been run into by another vessel. Job to tell the extent of damage! Carried away the bulwarks of our vessel on the starboard side. Happily, no lives lost. Shall have to put into Southampton for repairs. Might have been worse, but for the captain’s wife, who was travelling on the colliding vessel, and saw the danger in time to prevent striking with her bows, or both of us would have foundered. One of our men showed splendid judgement—a fireman, who saw through the fog the other vessel suddenly right up against us, and sang out in time for the officer in charge to have her set full speed astern. A brave deed on the part of the fireman.”

Harry and Jacob rushed on deck as quickly as possible, to see if they could render any assistance. Finding nothing further could be done, they retired once more; meanwhile, the Rinthic headed for Southampton to gather up further passengers and to get repaired. On examination it was found very little delay would be experienced on account of repairs.

Once more a start was made. The weather in the Channel was rough and boisterous, and its effect on many of the passengers was apparent. Stanley Chambers was one of the first to perform.

“That’s right,” said Jacob. “Chuck it up, lad. Thou’l’t be all the better for it.”

Men and women lay moaning and groaning in all directions, vowing that they would never have come aboard if they had known, and did not mind what happened. The Chambers and Champness families were no exception.

Sunday dawned raw and desolate. How different! No church bell in the steeple calling them to worship. Nothing but the grey clouds and angry wind whistling through the rigging.

The building was not of an ornate character, but it was God’s house.

“Dirty weather,” said a sailor, as he passed, clad in heavy sou’-wester and oilskins.

Harry and Jacob had arrived on deck soon after breakfast. Both had been local preachers in connection with the Methodist Church, and this morning they thought of the chapels in which they worshipped. In imagination they could hear and see the congregation singing and praying for them in that well-known mariner’s hymn—

ppoem|{fine} “Eternal Father! Strong to save, Whose arm doth bind the restless wave, Who bidd’st the mighty ocean deep Its own appointed limits keep; Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee For those in peril on the sea!”

It was impossible to hold service on board, for the simple reason that too many were unbalanced by mal de mer.

Crossing the Bay of Biscay and coasting the shores of Portugal and Spain, they soon hoped to reach and pass the embattered rock of Gibraltar, the key of the Mediterranean. Brighter days were in store as the Rinthic travelled along the Levant, and places of interest to every patriotic Britisher were pointed out. First and foremost was Gibraltar, practically impregnable, our possession for over two hundred years, the first of the great fortresses which guard the road to India. Halfway along the Mediterranean we reach the second of Britain’s strongholds on the highway to the East—the island of Malta, the headquarters of the Mediterranean fleet. Then, between Malta and the Mediterranean end of the Suez Canal, lies another naval outpost—the large British island of Cyprus.

All these places were of intense interest to Harry and Jacob, especially the passage of the vessel through the Suez Canal, for they realised that they were in Egyptian territory, and that Egypt was practically British. They were told that they could travel from Cairo to Lake Victoria Nyanza, a direct distance of more than two thousand miles, and be under the Union Jack all the way. Sailing through the Red Sea, Britain has two sentinels to watch this gate to the Indian Ocean—the powerful fortress of Aden, situated on a volcanic peninsula of Arabia; and the rocky little island of Perim, which lies in the narrowest part of the strait. All these historic spots were particularly interesting to the travellers, although the weather was exceedingly hot while passing through the tropics.

The coming aboard of Father Neptune while crossing the line proved most entertaining, as did the stopping at the various ports of call on the way. Several thousands of miles had to be travelled in crossing the Indian Ocean. Away from the sight of land, the journey now became somewhat monotonous, but was considerably relieved by games of various kinds provided on deck, when the weather was fine enough.

Jacob was passionately fond of poetry, and the great expanse day after day brought to his mind the words of Byron— ppoem|{fine} “Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty’s form

Glasses itself in tempests; in all time—

Calm or convulsed—in breeze, or gale, or storm,

Icing the pole, or the torrid clime,

Dark-heaving—boundless, endless, and sublime—

The image of Eternity—the throne

Of th’ Invisible; even from out thy slime

The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.”

These words, from his poem on “The Ocean,” flooded Jacob’s mind as he looked out day after day on the vast and boundless watery expanse.

On Sundays, Harry and Jacob took it alternately to conduct service on the deck, assisted by John Stubberfield, a saloon passenger, while Laura, his daughter, sometimes sang a solo. Some of the careless and indifferent jeered, and even threw potatoes at the speakers, until the Captain put a stop to such interruptions. A Sunday School was started, and conducted in the second saloon, for the boys and a girls each Sunday, and John Stubberfield offered

He decided to make “Crowley Camp” his Headquarters.

prizes for Bible essays. Sam Chambers, Jacob’s second son, succeeded in winning the first prize on the boys’ side, which was suitably inscribed, bearing the name of the SS. Rinthic, the locality, as well as the date of presentation, which all added interest and value to such a reward.

Heavy clouds appeared in the distance, and indicted that a storm was brewing. The wind began to rattle fiercely through the rigging. All hands were ordered to make everything fast in readiness. Passengers were ordered below, as huge waves, mountains high, began to roll over the deck.

“Batten down the hatchways! Don’t let any passengers come on deck,” cries the Captain, “Increase your look-out by putting a man on the bow of the ship, another halfway to the bridge, to shout the messages to the officer on duty there.”

A storm at sea is an awful sight. For three days and nights no one was allowed on deck, except those in charge of the ship. On the third day, grave doubts were expressed as to whether the ship would weather the hurricane. Scoffers and card-players and their parties, with the drinking fraternity, now became anxious to join those at prayer— ppoem|{fine} “For with Christ in the vessel They could smile at the storm.”

Gradually the storm began to abate, and it was discovered that they had narrowly escaped. Part of the bulwarks had been smashed to atoms. Pig pens and pigs, cattle pens and cattle, had all been swept into the mighty deep, while Pat O’Reilly, the merry man of the crew, had nearly found a watery grave, being washed into the sea by the force of a tremendous wave which swept the deck, but happily he was brought back by a receding wave.

“It was a near shave! Bejabbers, I thought me time had come, and that the last of me would never be seen again, again. Saints be praised, I came back seat, and faith, it’s a better man Pat O’Reilly meant to be.”

On the fourth day, as Harry was standing near the engine-room deck, getting a little warmth, his attention was drawn to a sailor, who, to obey an order, ran quickly up the rigging to make something fast. It was a dangerous piece of work at any time, but the state of the weather made it doubly so.

The poor fellow slipped, and Harry was horror-stricken to see the man fall from the high altitude into the raging sea.

“Man Overboard! Man Overboard! Stop her engines!”

Life-buoys were thrown from the bridge, then from the stern of the vessel.

“Get out the boat.”

In the space of a few seconds the men were in their places, in charge of the third officer, and lowered over the side. The boat was launched, and eight brave men pulled away to the rescue of their drowning comrade. Hundreds of the passengers watched the boat with intense interest.