Sometimes he was too late; Death had entered the tent before him.
He celebrated Mass every Sunday in a tent made of drugget, and
covered with a calico fly. His presbytery, sacristy, confessional,
and school were all of similar materials, and of small dimensions.
There was not room in the church for more than thirty or forty
persons; there were no pews, benches, or chairs. Part of the
congregation consisted of soldiers from the camp, who had come up
from Melbourne to shoot us if occasion required. Six days of the
week we hated them and called "Joey" after them, but on the seventh
day we merely glared at them, and let them pass in silence. They
were sleek and clean, and we were gaunt as wolves, with scarcely a
clean shirt among us. Philip, especially hated them as enemies of
his country, and the more so because they were his countrymen, all
but one, who was a black man.
The people in and around the church were not all Catholics. I saw a
man kneeling near me reading the Book of Common Prayer of the Church
of England; there was also a strict Presbyterian, to whom I spoke
after Mass. He said the priest did not preach with as much energy as
the ministers in Scotland. And yet I thought Father Backhaus' sermon
had that day been "powerful," as the Yankees would say. He preached
from the top of a packing case in front of the tent.
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