It has occured to me that I probably should do a better job of explaining the base of this story. For those of you who are wondering, I am not going to be using The Blythes Are Quoted for reference. I am going to try to leave as much of Rilla of Ingleside unaltered as possible, since I'm going for a plausible way for Walter to have survived. If I change parts of RoI, I'll let you know that I did, although I don't expect to have to do too much of that. And as ever, the deadline for finishing is 11:11 AM on Novermber 11th, 2018.
If I missed anything, or if you still have questions, let me know via PM or review.
All right, then - on with the show!
No Gallant son of Freedom
19 March, 1915
The streets of Kingsport were filled with soldiers of all kinds. Short, tall, old, young, a plethora of accents and backgrounds - but they all had one thing in common: they had been brave enough to step up and serve King and Country.
Walter hadn't.
He fingered the white feather that had come in the post that morning. It had been in an envelope addressed to Walter Blythe, but there had not been a note accompanying it. Only the feather, white as snow, had slipped out of the envelope when he'd opened it.
The white feather - the mark of a coward. He knew that was what people thought of him, and of any able-bodied man who wasn't in uniform, but the insult stung nonetheless. Some days, he would march himself down to the recruitment office, only to turn back at the last second. He wasn't yet completely over the effects of typhoid, he told himself. He could join up later, in the summer maybe, when he was finally well. Meanwhile, all he could do was watch the boys march by, two by two, as though off to a Sunday-school picnic.
They all thought it was one grand adventure, didn't they? That glory could be found on the other side of the Atlantic, and that this war would be over soon - but not so soon that it ended before they got a chance to fight in it.
Couldn't they see that they would most likely end up lying alone torn and mangled, burning with thirst on a cold, wet field, surrounded by dead and dying men?* War wasn't a game - it was deadly - and gruesome - and awful. Walter could barely stand the idea of it...how could he survive its reality?
He was a coward, after all. He ought to just pin on that white feather and proclaim it to the world. Reaching into his pocket to retrieve the feather he'd stowed there, his fingers brushed against another envelope - that's right, Una's letter had come in the post that morning as well, but he had been too shaken up about the white feather to pay it any mind. He escaped the crowded streets now, slipping into the park and sitting down on a nearby bench, before opening the letter, pulling out the papers covered in Una's narrow hand.
He liked getting letters from Una Meredith, thought Walter. She looked so wistful and girlish, but underneath was a wonderful firmness* which appeared in these letters she sent him every so often. They weren't funny, nor flighty, the way Rilla's could sometimes be, but he always came out of them feeling better, both about himself and life in general - a feeling that was in rather short supply these days, it seemed.
Walter finally began reading his letter, starting with the date
Presbyterian Manse
Glen St. Mary, PEI
12 March 1915
Dear Walter,
I received your latest just over a week ago - forgive me that I'm replying now, but the Manse has been decidedly busy lately. It is currently undergoing a very thorough - and slightly early - spring cleaning. And as happens when houses are cleaned, things are never where one has left them. Prior to writing you, I spent fifteen minutes hunting for my pen.
I hope that Redmond is still as good to you as you claim it has been. I seem to remember that March is that month where it feels as though the school year will never end. I see some of your former students whenever I go to Lowbridge, and they ask me how Mr. Blythe is doing. I give them your regards, by the way, assuming that you would do so yourself if you could.
It is strange, however, to hear you referred to as "Mr. Blythe". It seems only yesterday that we were all happily playing in Rainbow Valley, and here we are, grown up. How the world has changed…
Well, Mr. Blythe, what can I add to this letter to hopefully brighten a Nova Scotia March? That Carl brought in his first creatures of the season? He has taken up his freemasonry with the beetles again, although the larger ones are still asleep, thank heavens. I shudder to think what he'll bring in once the weather warms, however. A mouse? Or worse - mice ? Please, no snakes. You know how I am with snakes.
I know you detest any talk of war, but you mentioned in your last that several more boys from your year had joined up. I took this to mean that you did in fact want to talk about it, although if I am mistaken, please skip ahead. You say that you don't want to be a coward - well, you're in luck there, because you aren't. Bravery, my father says, manifests itself in many different ways. You don't have to be King David facing Goliath to be brave. For instance, I've never left the Island - and you have. To me, that's already a brave step. And remember that the Order of the White Feather is only there to prey on the insecurities of those who have stayed behind. These men already think that they are somehow cowards, and the Order tries to make them feel worse about themselves. Don't give in to them, Walter. We don't think any less of you for staying back. I don't think any less of you, if that makes a difference.
Yours,
Una
Reading Una's letters made him feel as though there were still some good left in this world. He pocketed the letter, the Piper's insistent tune quieted at least temporarily, and set off for his boardinghouse. He had an essay to write for his Philosophy class on Friday.
An ever-dwindling class, might he add. It was entirely possible that, should things continue the way they did, he would be the only student left by the end of the school year.
Drummond Street
Kingsport, NS
24 March, 1915
Dear Una,
I find myself wishing that my boardinghouse would undergo a spring cleaning of its own. My landlady, Mrs. Hartness, recently sprained her ankle, and while we (dwindling) boys do our best, the house is slowly descending into a form of chaos. I think we at Ingleside never quite realized how large a mess more than two boys could make - we always had mother and Susan to lessen the effects. Now that we're on our own, so to speak, I think we've developed a newfound respect for our mothers and housekeepers. The number of times I've swept mud and dirt out of the entrance is truly phenomenal.
Redmond is...well, like you said, it's March in Nova Scotia. I'm slowly beginning to see signs of spring in places - the snowdrops around the front stoop, for one - but I have a feeling it'll be a while yet before it truly warms up.
It feels as though the entire campus is tensed, waiting for something to happen. So many have joined up, and those who haven't are positively drowning in white feathers. I think I should be able to stuff a pillow with mine by now. Or make Mrs. Hartness a feather duster.
I've told myself that I won't join up before the end of the school year, although I don't know what the point of a year of university is if I'm going to Flanders.
In more cheerful news, I think the possibility of my passing Statistics is increasing. It's been a thorn in my side all semester, and if I can pass it with at least an 80, I shall be satisfied. All other classes are not in jeopardy of a grade that would be an embarrassment to the son of the winner of the Cooper prize. And did you know that there are still some professors here who remember my parents? Dr. Emerson in Philosophy, and Professor Gardner in English (although it's not entirely clear how he knows my mother - he's rather too young to have been a professor in the '80s...classmate, perhaps?)
~Pause as a platoon of Highlanders marches past.~
Una, after watching them march up, down, and around Kingsport, I have to wonder what on earth is going to happen. Humans, contrary to the high command's impressions, are not an inexhaustible resource. At some point, there won't be any men left. And when (not if) that happens, what will we do? Use children?
It's thoughts like this that make me wonder about enlisting. I know that it's more a case of when instead of if for me, but every time I look at a boy between the ages of ten and fourteen, I have to wonder if his turn to go to the front will someday come. You remember the Piper of our youth, don't you? There are days when I think I can hear him again, piping away over the hills, leading the boys away.
I'm sorry to be burdening you with this - God knows you don't deserve it.
Yours,
Walter
P.S. Bravery, you can tell your father, is looking your fear straight in the eye. I have yet to get past the boots.
Well, I'm off, to present Mrs. Hartness with her new duster.
W.C.B
It was the end of April when the next blow came, in the form of one of Una's letters.
Did you know, it began, that Kenneth Ford has enlisted? Apparently that ankle he broke playing football last year has healed sufficiently, and now he'll be off to Europe with the other boys. I cannot help but notice how many of the old crowd have gone already. They are all safe (word used relatively) at present, praise God. But I have a feeling that this war won't be over by Christmas, as everyone keeps telling us, Walter. Many, many more boys will have to go "across the foam" before this ends. Ken Ford is only one of the first.
I've been told he joined up with the 3rd Toronto Battalion, and is off to training in a week or so. He may get some leave, and come visit Glen St. Mary after seeing his family in Toronto. You might be able to see him then, or possibly in Kingsport before he ships out. I know a lot of convoys stay in Kingsport or Halifax before going to England.
I think it was the news of the fighting at Ypres that pushed him over the top, as it were. The Daily Enterprise is filled with accounts of shelling and gas, and I'm sure the papers in Kingsport and Toronto must be, as well.
Walter pocketed the letter, feeling ill. He had seen the headlines - "Germans Gain Ground Near Ypres By Using Asphyxiating Gas", and the very thought of such things happening, of men slowly dying on the battlefield as their lungs ceased to function, made him wonder if there was still any good left in this world. It seemed cowardly, to use chemicals to kill scores of men just like that - but efficient, he had to hand it to them.
He knew that Shirley, Ingleside's resident animal-lover, would be positively heartsick at the thought of the horses and mules that were being slaughtered along with the men, and made a note to ask him about it in his next letter.
And apropos of letters, and those who wrote them…
So Ken had joined up as well, had he? He was never a prolific letter-writer, but somehow his last letter hadn't said anything about enlisting. Of course, Walter knew that Ken had been chomping at the bit to enlist, cursing his weak ankle all the way.
Ken had his ankle, Walter his typhoid. The difference, of course, was that Ken had actually enlisted, and would be off to "clean the Kaiser's clock", as the boys on campus put it.
Oh, the Piper's call was stronger now, the flute-like strains of his melody wrapping themselves around him, pulling him closer still. Someday, they would give one more tug, and that would be it. He, like so many others before him, would have to follow the Piper.
But he didn't want to. The very idea of warfare repulsed him - the systematic killing of man and beast- and he didn't think he could endure the thought of looking a man in the eyes and taking his life. He might be someone's husband, brother, sweetheart...what right did he have to take his life? To cause someone else unimaginable pain?
Was it really worth the price?
The Piper's song rose up into the sky, seeming to escape towards the stars, leading the boys ever onward.
*Rilla of Ingleside
This chapter's title is taken from the song, "Keep the Home Fires Burning" (Lyrics by Lena Guilbert Ford, music by Ivor Novello, 1914)
