Scattered Bones (12 page)

When he asked for Lucretia’s hand in marriage, Ernst expected he’d be dressed down and ordered off the property. But the old man said hardly a word, merely shrugged his shoulders and shuffled into his study. In reality, Lawrence Hollingshead was hugely relieved that the responsibility for his flibbertigibbet daughter was being handed over to someone else.

~•~

“Hey, Pop, why are you puffing like that?
You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Izzy calls out.

“I have. I’ll tell you about it later,” he replies. And, indeed, he will burden his daughter with the macabre spectacle he’s witnessed, for she is his valued confidant. If there is one thing in his life that has turned out beyond expectations, it’s Izzy. She is everything that he isn’t – capable, courageous, intelligent. When he looks at her with that magnificent halo of auburn hair, those green eyes, her slender, shapely body, he thinks of only one thing –
Anartia Amather
, a nymphalid known as the Scarlett Peacock.

He’s asked her to act as translator this afternoon, so together they head towards the Nateweyes house. As they climb up a short steep hill, they can hear Bob Taylor and Doc Happy Mac arguing on the other side.

“It is not your job to issue such rash orders,” the Indian agent says in a loud, annoyed voice.

The doctor is equally angry. “If I had known that all I was supposed to do was inoculate babies, pull teeth, stitch up cuts, I wouldn’t have taken this job. Supposedly I was hired because of my medical training and I tell you this woman needs to be hospitalized.”

“You’ve made similar calls several times during this trip. And I will repeat what I have already said. The expense involved in sending these people to the city is enormous. The Department won’t hear of it. If there is the slightest chance of recovery, they must remain where they are.”

“And, as I’ve told you, the woman may well
succumb to...” At that point the two men spot the clergyman and his daughter coming towards them and immediately shut up.

“We meet again, Reverend Wentworth. Good afternoon, Izzie,” Taylor calls out. “The doctor and I have just been discussing Rose Nateweyes’ condition, and unhappily, there’s little we can do for her. Would you be so kind as to explain this to her husband?”

The four of them have to bend their heads as they pass through the door of the small log cabin. It’s Spartan. A half-dozen beds, all covered neatly with frayed blankets, have been placed against three walls – a child of three sits on one of them, his huge round eyes taking in the crowd. A table with two chairs, one of them without a back, is set against the fourth. A wood stove sits in the middle of the room. The place is clean, the dirt floor having been brushed to a dull shine.

After shaking hands with William Nateweyes, the man of the house, the Indian agent and the doctor take up positions near the door as if to secure their escape. Ernst and Izzy peer into the gloom and spot Rose Nateweyes sitting in the corner on a blanket. Izzy immediately goes over, kisses the woman on the cheek, holds her hands. Ernst says, “
Tansi ekwa
, how are you? but then is at a loss for words. The situation is so dreadful.

Rose is thirty-four, and, before tuberculosis lodged in her hip, she was a handsome, lively woman, a regular church-goer and member of the women’s guild that keeps the church clean and appropriately decorated. Now she is gaunt – Ernst reckons she’s lost at least thirty pounds – and the ferocious pain has etched unhappy lines in her face. She can no longer stand or walk, but crawls about lopsided, on one knee, her arms propelling her forwards or backwards. “And still she manages to cook for me and the children and she keeps the place tidy,” says her husband. “But she hurts so much. No medicine man is allowed here anymore, so please, you white men must help her.”

After Izzy has translated, Bob Taylor instructs, “Explain to the woman and her husband, that we’re very sorry, but nothing can be done for her. We’ll give Reverend Wentworth several bottles of Scott’s Emulsion to pass onto her, and some extra flour for the family...”

“You will tell them no such thing,” Doc Happy Mac cuts in. Izzy and Ernst look at him in surprise – he’s usually such a mild-mannered man. “You are condemning this woman to a lifetime as an invalid. Her hip can be replaced – these operations are done all the time –and she would surely walk again. She must be transported to an appropriate facility. If you ignore my advice, Mr. Taylor, I’ll report you to the authorities, and I’m sure the Reverend Wentworth will back me up.”

Ernst hesitates. He knows how much influence the Indian agent has and how he can make his life difficult, but when he sees Izzy glaring at him, he pipes up. “Of course I will, Doctor.”

Bob Taylor doesn’t want any more fuss, not in public at any rate, so he mumbles, “I’ll take the matter under consideration,” although he has no intention of doing so. He then shoulders his way out the door and tramps quickly down the path. Doc Happy Mac marches off in the other direction.

“Wasn’t that an amazing scene?” exclaims Izzy.

“I just hope I haven’t placed myself in a compromising situation,” Ernst replies. He spots the disdain in Izzy’s eyes. Oh why am I always such a gutless coward? he reproaches himself. Have been since my service to God began.

Chapter Sixteen

He was lucky to find
a position immediately
after his ordination, as curate at St. George’s On-the-Hill Anglican Church. The Reverend Charles Goldsmith had been vicar there for thirty years. A big, bald-headed man, gone to fat around the middle, he had the longest arms Ernst had ever seen. These were always outstretched as if to embrace not only his flock, but the entire universe. Unfortunately, Ernst was not included. Reverend Goldsmith took an instant dislike to him. “My goodness! Just out of the egg, aren’t we?” were his first words to his young assistant.

Ernst did everything he could to win his superior’s approval. He took the early Morning Prayer services so the old cleric could lie abed. He volunteered to visit the most querulous of the elderly parishioners. He took over the boys club, arranging butterfly collecting excursions for the few who were keen. He presided over the tedious organizing meetings for the jumble sales, teas, whist drives and the Christmas pageant. And he worked hard on the homilies he gave when the vicar was indisposed. Nothing helped. Reverend Goldsmith was never harsh with him, never reprimanded him. And never bothered to give him a word of advice. Not once did he display the warmth that he showed everyone else.

Once Izzy was born, Lucretia complained bitterly that her husband was abdicating his duty to his family by leaving the baby and her alone so much. She became so distraught that she packed up her and Izzy’s belongings and ran off to her father. “Told you he was a numbskull,” Professor Hollingshead had grumbled, although he had done no such thing. Within a week, Lucretia had concluded that her
father’s misanthropy was even harder to bear than her husband’s neg
lect. She moved back home, but Ernst realized that if his marriage was to survive, his duties would have to ease up a little. When he finally got enough nerve to bring up his complaint, Reverend Goldsmith showed some sympathy – “Not uncommon for young wives to complain, you know” – but Ernst soon realized it had not been sincere. The elderly clergyman hardly acknowledged his existence after that.

One Sunday morning in the spring of 1911, Reverend Goldsmith made an unexpected announcement. He was gravely ill. His retirement would commence at once. Although he wasn’t surprised, Ernst was still devastated when he learned that he had not been appointed the old cleric’s replacement. It took a while but he finally got up enough nerve to confront the vicar.

“For four years I dedicated my life to this parish. I am being passed over – for what reason?”

“It wasn’t my decision to make,” the vicar had responded.

Ernst had almost smiled at this prevaricating. He would have liked to say, “The committee listened to every word you said, you old reprobate. You could have recommended Lucifer and they would have done your bidding.” But of course he didn’t.

The priest mumbled something about church funds that had been imprudently invested. “It was among your duties to see that the financial people were on the right track.” Since Ernst had chaired the finance committee only twice while the vicar was on vacation, he decided that the allegation was so ridiculous he brushed it aside.

Ernst was told he could stay on as curate, assistant to the new vicar, and, having no idea what else he could do, he agreed. But it was a hard road to hoe. Thomas Backhouse, the man whose job he should have had, had been a classmate at Trinity, and was regarded then as a light-weight scholar, a man of little substance. “But unlike you,” Lucretia had unhelpfully pointed out, “he always went out of his way to be charming to his superiors.”

Ernst can’t recall how the idea of mission work first came to him. It may have been Reverend Arthur C. Ainger’s inspiring hymn, “God is Working His Purpose Out.” Even now the words send tingles up his spine. He begins to sing in his sweet tenor voice:

From utmost East to utmost West

Where’er man’s foot hath trod

By the mouth of many messengers

Goes forth the voice of God.

Give ear to Me, ye continents

Ye isles, give ear to Me

That the earth may be filled

With the glory of God

As the waters cover the sea.

More likely, the idea jelled during a talk delivered by a distinguished scholar from Christ Church, Oxford. “Of course, the essential work of the missionary,” the visiting bishop had said, “is to carry the Gospel to those heathens doomed to damnation without it. But it is far more than that. The missionary is a holy ambassador. To the darkest corner of the world, he spreads, like golden honey, the civilizing influence of the British Empire, and the Anglo-Saxon race.”

Now this was something a young clergyman could sink his teeth into.

“Who will go?” the speaker had thundered.

Ernst’s heart had leapt. “Here am I, Lord. Choose me! Choose me!”

Once the idea had settled in his brain, he became obsessed with turning it into reality. The first big hurdle was Lucretia. They argued for days. How could she abandon the women’s auxiliary she had worked so hard to build up? How could she be expected to compromise her already delicate health? How could a child be raised properly among heathens? What if they were boiled in a pot and eaten as stew? She was astonished at how ferociously Ernst fought back and, realizing he might very well go without her, she reluctantly agreed. “But it must be only for a year or two,” she insisted.

Lucretia’s father presented the second difficulty. Professor Hollingshead had long ago concluded that missionary work did more harm than good. “Did you ever think the barbarians you are so intent on civilizing might be more civilized than you are? “ he asked. “And what about my granddaughter? What are you trying to do, kill her?” Ernst attempted to lay out his ideas on how missionary work was tied to the Enlightenment and British civilization, but his father-in-law let go with a loud guffaw and roared, “Preposterous!” In the end the old man hunkered down in his study, wouldn’t even come out to say goodbye.

The third hurdle, and the most serious, was the Missionary Society of the Church of England in Canada. These were the people who would decide whether Ernst Wentworth was made of the right stuff for such gruelling work. He had been warned they were very severe in their judgement so, when he appeared before the selection committee, his mouth was dry and his hands were shaking like a leaf. A woman of an amazingly wide girth began the interrogation.

“I see that both your wife and you have had your physicals and are healthy enough individuals. And we have your references from Reverend Backhouse and a lawyer, Mr. Dilly, who both seem eager to see you in the field. Now what we want to hear from you is why we should send you abroad?”

For fifteen minutes Ernst rhapsodized about missionary work until finally, reaching a crescendo, he promised to devote his life to
“setting the heathens free from captivity of darkness through the glo
rious Gospel of Truth.”

The Venerable Reverend Stuart Gilchrist, who looked not a day under ninety, was the next inquisitor. “Well Mr. Wentworth, you’re certainly enthusiastic. But it’s also essential that you have a solid, and orthodox, understanding of Catholic theology from the Anglican perspective. May I enquire – can you distinguish between Justification and Sanctification? As precisely as possible, please.”

Ernst had been warned that a theological question would be asked and had been anxious about it. Relief! At university he had written a paper on this very topic.

“Justification is the work of Christ, Sanctification, the work of the Holy Spirit. Justification is the work of the moment, Sanctification is the work of all time.”

The elderly clergyman beamed, “Excellent,” and hobbled over to shake Ernst’s hand. But the woman of wide girth was not so satisfied. She continued, “Life is hard among the heathens. It’s not theological hair-splitting that breeds success so much as whether you can chop wood and shoot lions. We’re looking for manly men – strong, gritty, enterprising individuals. Are you in possession of these qualities, Reverend Wentworth?”

Ernst answered with as much manliness as he could muster, but he knew he was on shaky ground. It was therefore a great relief when his letter of acceptance arrived. Later he learned that certain members of the committee had had doubts about his ability to survive in the bush or the jungle or the paddy field, but other factors had weighed in his favour. He obviously had no unorthodox notions, indeed not a single idea he could call his own; he would be “obedient and cheerful” in adhering to the Society’s authority. Most important, he had a decent private income, an inheritance from his parents, so his stipend could be set at the lowest level.