The Beleaguered. Lynne Golding

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      It was soon revealed that Uncle William’s knowledge of the purchase and transport of wheat and flour exceeded his knowledge of military matters. The new military training grounds were being made ready in record time. Within ten days of the hostilities commencing, the local volunteer militias were preparing to be mustered.

      Working an overnight shift at the telephone switch, Ina returned home the morning of Friday, August 14th, while my parents, Aunt Charlotte, Uncle William, and I were eating breakfast. She told us about one of the last calls she placed late the night before. It was from Captain Baldock, the regimental commander of the Peel 36th Regiment, to our Member of Parliament, Richard Blain.

      “Ina, you know you’re not supposed to listen to the calls you connect,” Mother reprimanded. Ordinarily, it was Father who took Ina to task for this. I took pleasure in the scolding. There was a time when anything that brought Ina discomfort brought me an equal amount of pleasure. But that was less the case now. No, my pleasure on this occasion was derived from the knowledge that I was not the only member of our family who eavesdropped on other people’s conversations. Further, I took delight in my higher moral ground. Unlike Ina, I generally did not disclose to others what I surreptitiously overheard.

      “And if you accidentally overhear a conversation you are not to repeat it to others. How many times—”

      “That’s enough, Mother,” Father interjected. Mother stopped to let Father assume his ordinary role as the dispenser of discipline.

      “Will it affect the Brampton boys?” Father asked.

      “Yes,” she said. “They’re all being called up.”

      All being called up. I was horrified. All of the Brampton boys. This was it. This was what I feared. I thought of Jim and his best friend, Eddie, and all the boys they worked with. I thought of Clarence Charters and Dutch Davis and all of the members of the Excelsior lacrosse team that went west earlier that very summer. I thought of the members of the Young Men’s Debating Society, of which Jim was a member and all of the boys in his Sunday school. I thought of Ina’s friend Michael and all the boys that had been at her high school graduation dance. Did the Brampton boys include those who were visiting Brampton at the time, like Bill and Roy? Not that either of them would mind if it did.

      Father continued to question Ina, but I heard none of it. I was desolate at the thought of all these boys going to war. It had only been a month since I had concluded the future was so bright.

      Eventually my tears turned into sobs and my sobs into wails. “Jessie, what is the matter?” Father demanded. “Why the deuce are you crying?”

      Why was I crying? Why were the others not crying? “Jim,” I said through what were now heaving sobs. “Jim.”

      “What about Jim?” Father asked.

      “I don’t want Jim going to war,” I managed.

      “No one wants Jim to go to war,” Father snapped, “least of all Jim. Jim isn’t going to war.”

      “But Ina said—” I stammered.

      “Yes?”

      “Ina said that the Brampton boys are being called up.”

      “Yes, the Brampton boys who are members of the militia. There are eighteen of them. They are all going. Not every Brampton boy. No one is being compelled to go.” Mother and Aunt Charlotte looked at me with sympathy. Father and Ina shook their heads and continued their conversation.

      “And where will the Brampton boys be taken to? Will they go directly to the new training grounds at this La Cartier, or whatever it’s called?”

      Ina did not hesitate to disclose the details, which were by that time all very public. “No, they are going to Ravina Rink in Toronto until La Cartier, or whatever it’s called, is ready to receive them. But they do not think that will be very long.”

      “Ravina Rink is in the west end of Toronto,” Uncle William offered. “I heard about it yesterday. There is no ice in it now, and it’s a good-size piece of property. I heard Blain say that Jesse Smith, the owner, was going to donate its use to the 36th and a number of other regiments. It can serve as a temporary barracks and training ground until they go to Bal Cartier, or whatever it’s called.”

      “There should be a group at the station when the boys leave. There should be speeches, hymns, and anthems,” Father said. He was not particularly supportive of the war, but he wanted the Brampton boys to depart with at least the amount of ceremony accorded to the Excelsiors two months earlier when they left by train for Vancouver. “What train are they catching? Do you know?”

      “The 9:30 a.m. from the CPR station,” Ina replied. “But don’t worry about ceremony. The bands have already been called. Mr. Blain is alerting the businesses. He’s trying to encourage as many people as possible to accompany the boys to the station and to be there when they leave.” It was already eight o’clock. Jim had left for work at the Dale Estate half an hour earlier.

      We put down our napkins and stood to leave. We proposed to stop at Aunt Rose’s house to retrieve the other members of the family. They were already on the verandah when we arrived, having been informed of the departure moments earlier by our neighbour, Mr. Hudson.

      The eighteen Brampton boys did not leave Brampton quietly. They did not leave it without ceremony. Having gathered together at eight thirty that morning, dressed in their militia uniforms, they were paraded north along Main Street, the Citizens Band leading them and hundreds of citizens following them. At Queen Street, they were met by a similar throng of citizens walking south, in this case led by the workers of the Dale Estate under the furls of a massive Union Jack. Jim was near the front of the pack. Together the two groups proceeded west to the CPR station, where they were met by hundreds of others. All of the factories in the area had released their workers to provide the boys with a proper send-off. In the end, fifteen hundred people attended, including some who had fought in the 1885 Northwest Rebellion, the Fenian Raids that ended in 1871, and the Boer War that ended in 1902—some in their old, moth-damaged, now barely fitting uniforms.

      After a number of solemn speeches and two heartfelt hymns, the Citizens Band led the assembled in the “Maple Leaf,” “O Canada,” and “Rule Britannia,” all sung with the greatest solemnity. As we sang, I took stock of those there. Most of the eighteen boys were Jim’s age, although none of them were his particular friends. The eighteen did not include any of his Excelsior teammates. They did not include any of his Sunday school classmates. Ten of the boys attended Christ Anglican Church. At least four were older than Jim—three quite a bit older. Two of them had fought in the Boer War, which had ended twelve years earlier. One of the older men was the only married man among the eighteen.

      The boys returned to their families to say their final farewells. There was no cheering, no levity, no boasting, just a dignified adieu to those brave boys—those brave men—who volunteered to protect a nation—an empire—well before anyone knew such service would be required. With not a dry eye on the platform, the eighteen boys, the first from Brampton to flock to the colours, entrained for service to king and country.

      After the train departed, I walked with Jim down Queen Street on its north side amid those jostling, ten or more abreast, as they returned to their homes and places of work. The pace was slow. At one point, Mr. Thauburn squeezed in between Jim and me.

      “That was a wonderful send-off, wasn’t it?” he asked. “I didn’t think there could ever be a send-off better than the one they had for us when we went west in June.” After Jim agreed, Mr. Thauburn asked him about his upcoming school year. Jim answered as we continued moving slowly along the street. We crossed George Street when Roy, pushing through the throng, joined us. He had been walking with a crowd on the other side of the road.

      “Hello, Mr. Thauburn,” Roy said enthusiastically. Mr. Thauburn returned the greeting with much less enthusiasm. “That was a wonderful send-off, don’t you think?” Roy asked. But before Mr. Thauburn could reply, Michael Lynch, one of Mr. Thauburn’s telegram delivery boys, tapped him on the