My mother and Casey had walked to the rear of the truck on the other side. I couldn’t figure out what they were up to until, arm in arm, they walked back around the truck to us. “You boys have had enough fun for one day. Time to go home for lunch,” Dorothy said to Dad and me.
Atlanta tipped his Braves cap at Mom and Bud settled back into his seat as we sauntered back to the island. We were on solid land when I heard the truck engine rev and saw the truck lurch forward a couple of feet before stalling on the bridge. It seemed to be having a hard time moving. I looked at Casey who held out a little metal spring device up into the sunlight. She pulled a bobby pin out of her hair to illustrate to me how she had removed the valve core from the tire tube. I looked at Mom and she just shrugged.
Atlanta was still not wise to his problem as he revved the engine and lurched forward again, this time just as the cracked support beam let out a loud status report. One whole side of the bridge gave out. The truck tilted and then slipped sideways off the bridge and down into the channel. The water wasn’t deep, just cold, I guess, because I heard cursing as the two men fought to climb out the passenger door and splash their way toward the mainland.
“I’d check into the safety of that bridge just as soon as you can, officer Elgin,” my father said to the Mountie as we walked past him. “Somebody could get hurt on a thing like that.”
Elgin just shook his head and got on the radio asking for another cruiser to come pick him up at the bridge to Whale-bone Island.
49
Bud Tillish did prove that he had some muscle in the government because he had a highway crew there by late afternoon towing the pick-up out of the stream and beginning to correct what gravity had done to the old bridge. It was obvious that they were using thicker beams and preparing to make the crossing safe for heavier traffic. We all saw this as an insult to the island. The bridge had been had been out of repair for years. My father had always felt it would have been a sign of favouritism if he had called on the highway crew to repair it. Hants and I had replaced some of the boards on the surface ourselves just to keep it serviceable. But now that we had a burgeoning uranium pit, the highway department was summoned immediately for repairs and we were all certain that everyone would neglect the real cause of the damage.
Bud Tillish and Atlanta had made the mistake of going over to Burnet Sr.’s house to dry off as they waited for the RCMP back-up cruiser to arrive. Burnet’s dogs, when they saw a corporate American and a politician coming up the walkway, went completely crazy and pulled their chains loose from the posts in the back yard. Bud and Atlanta were on the front steps of Burnet’s house asking for a towel and use of the phone when the dogs tore into them, providing Burnet Sr. with the most fun he’d seen in weeks.
My father, upon settling on the chesterfield back home, stared out the window, waiting for inspiration. “I could have stopped them if I was premier. I should have done something when I was in office. I just didn’t want to throw my weight around. I was trying to be fair.”
“You were very fair, Daddy,” my sister said. “But now it’s time to play dirty.”
My father looked startled. “What’s gotten into you, girl?”
My little sister took a long red handkerchief out of her pocket, twirled it and tied it around her forehead. “I’m volunteering for the Liberation Army of the Republic of Nothing,” she said.
“Me too,” I added, thrusting my fist up into the air the way I’d seen the America radicals do it.
“Let’s not get carried away,” my mother said. “Trouble has an easy enough time finding us as it is. We don’t have to go looking for it.”
My father scratched his stubbled jaw of red and grey hairs. He had become a sporadic, haphazard shaver as in the old days. “Your mother’s right. Before we start a revolution, I think you need to give me a chance to go over the head of Bud Tillish.”
“That’s right,” I answered. “Like you said, ‘higher authority.’ Why don’t you get on the phone to Pierre Trudeau? He’s letting draft dodgers into the country. He’s not so bad. And if you can get through to him, Tillish would have to listen. They’re both in the same party.”
My father let out a sigh. “You’re probably right, son. Trudeau is a pretty straight shooter. And he’s not a big fan of the American nuclear build-up. Only problem is, I met Trudeau. We had lunch when he was in town. I could have liked the guy a lot but I found him awful snotty. A real arrogant man right down to his socks.”
“Still, he might listen. I’m sure he would take a phone call from you at least. You, were, after all, premier.”
“Yeah. But I made one fatal mistake in establishing a cordial relationship with our prime minister.”
“What was that dear?” my mother asked.
“I called him an asshole.”
My mother seemed shocked. “In front of others?”
“In front of everybody,” my old man asserted. “It was right after lunch and his advisors were there and my advisors were there and all through the meal I got the feeling that Trudeau couldn’t wait to get out of Halifax, that he had more important things to do. Just before he left, he said that he found our meeting “fruitful” and me “charming.” He said that he was “very fond of men with limited educations who were elected into office by a rural population.”
“And that’s when you called the prime minister an ass-hole?” I asked.
“I think it was a tactical, diplomatic error on my part, looking back on it.” My father yawned and I knew we should leave him alone for a while. Never a napper before in his life, he had found it necessary to sleep for an hour in the afternoon ever since recovering from the assassination attempt.
I went to tell Gwen about the impending uranium battle and found her with three new arrivals who had made it across the border late last night. They’d arrived only an hour or so before the bridge went down. She and Ben were cooking up a huge feast for them, and I was introduced as Gwen’s boyfriend and self-appointed protector of the island. At least fifty draft dodgers had come to the island so far. Most had stayed for a bit to get acquainted with other dodgers before heading off to Halifax, Cape Breton or points west. Ten had stayed on, including Burnet who had seemingly adjusted to a role as guide-counsellor to any of the hard-core military types recovering from a stint in the jungles of Southeast Asia. Burnet was very proud of his form of treatment which he called “Therapy by Fishing and Clamming.” His success rate with truly damaged young men was surprisingly good. Mostly the dodgers kept to themselves, but a couple of the guys had taken to working with Lambert and Eager and three others had made good friends with Hants Buckler, accepting him as a sort of guru who could teach them about the intricacies of inner peace through watching the tides, waiting for free gifts from the sea, chewing tobacco and spitting. Hants Buckler’s spitting ability had been finely honed in recent years to the point that even novice spitters like the young American draft dodgers recognized a great talent.
I had been a little jealous at first, what with Gwen hanging around all those American guys, many of them heartsick from leaving behind families and friends and aching for companion-ship, but Gwen had learned to handle them with the greatest of ease, befriending each but keeping loyal to me. All through the events that year our love had solidified into something new. Dare I say, the great silent adoration I had held so long for her wore off ever so slightly. She had now developed more respect for me. We were equals. It was a great, complex, crazy and un-stable world, but we would grow together and create a stable core.
“They’re back,” I told her. “Mannheim/Atlanta.”
“We can’t let them dig,” she said.
“No, we can’t,” I answered. “We’ll do something. My father’s working on a plan.” He was at home taking a nap, but that didn’t matter.
“There’s more of us now. I’m sure the Americans will help.”
“I think it might be too dangerous for them. If they were arrested they might be sent back to the States. But don�
��t worry. I’ll let you know when it’s time to act.”
“I’m worrying,” Gwen told me. “My father painted the entire picture for me. If they start to strip mine, the island will be ruined.”
“They don’t stand a chance,” I said. “Mannheim/Atlanta and Bud Tillish are up against higher authorities.” I kissed Gwen then and had a hard time stopping myself from doing more. I wanted to forget about Mannheim/Atlanta and steal off to the beach at Back Bay with her, swim out to where we could barely touch the sandy bottom with our toes and then make love as we were carried along on the current of the channel. “I have to get home,” I said. “I want to be there when my old man wakes up.”
As I walked in the front door of my house, my father thrust a letter at me, an old letter postmarked New York City, June of 1951. “Open it. Read what it says.”
The letterhead read, “United Nations, Office of the Secretary General” and beneath:
Dear Sir,
Thank you for submitting a copy of your declaration of independence. While we cannot immediately recognize your republic as a new country, I can inform you that we are willing to consider your case. While it is often a long and complicated process to legitimize “nationhood status” and admission to the United Nations, we do have a committee that is authorized to hear cases submitted by those who claim autonomy on geographical units currently within the boundary of established nations.
To that end, you might consider submitting a brief, outlining your position and we will get back to you as soon as we can.
Sincerely,
Dag Hammerskjold
Undersecretary
I looked at my mother and at Casey. They had already read the letter. We were all thinking the same thing. Maybe I was the first to say it. “It’ll never work. They’ll just tell you you’re crazy. Everyone will think we’re all lunatics out here.” I handed my father back the letter.
“I don’t care if the rest of the world thinks we’re crazy.” My father picked up another piece of paper and waved it in my face. I could recognize it by the smell — old paper, old ideals. It was a copy of the declaration itself that he was waving in my face, the one that I had lost by the machinery, the one that had found its way full circle back to my father through the back rooms of the Grits and the Tories. “A copy of this has been on file at the UN since 1951. We’re a little slow at accepting their invitation to present our case, but we’re going to give it a try. If we can even simply get a toe in the door and get something rolling, however crazy it may sound, I think I can at least stop Mannheim/Atlanta from doing any further digging. We’ve got to try to establish a legitimate claim over that land, over the whole island. We’ve got to reach over the heads of provincial authority, even Canadian authority, and this is the way to do it. We could, at the very least, create enough public interest and legal confusion that Mannheim/Atlanta won’t dare take a rock off this island for years. Then they’ll realize it’s too much trouble.”
I wanted to say that it was wild and foolish, that it would never work. I wanted to suggest we revert to violence and vandalism, but I said nothing. I saw the gleam in my father’s eyes, the wonderful, maniacal gleam that had once possessed him as a younger man.
“Don’t worry,” he assured my mother, “I have a good grip on diplomacy.”
I’m sure she was thinking what I was thinking:Right. Diplomacy. Just like Pierre Elliot Trudeau.
My father looked at the letter from the U.N. and I saw a momentary flicker of doubt. “Dag Hammarskjold,” he said. “Soon after he wrote back to me, he became Secretary-General.”
Well, that was different. Maybe a letter from old Dag would mean something, Maybe it wasn’t just my old man’s fantasy. But something was wrong about the way he said it.
“Only problem is that Hammerskjold got killed in a plane crash over Africa. Sixty-one, I think.”
I knew it was up to me to rekindle the flame before my old man’s spirits were nothing but a wisp of smoke. “No problem,” I said. “I’m sure they still have the declaration and their letter on file. The UN must have world class file clerks. Who’s Secretary-General now?”
“U Thant,” he said. “He’s from Burma. My guess is he’s got his hands full with Cyprus, Israel, India and Pakistan. Not to mention Vietnam. I’m not sure he will have been briefed about Whalebone Island and the Republic of Nothing.”
“Then we’ll brief him,” I said, the light of destiny emanating from every pore of the son of the man who had once been premier of the province of Nova Scotia. “When do we leave?” I asked.
My father looked out the window. We all listened to the roar of the machinery shattering the peace of our island home. “Tomorrow, Ian. You and me. We’re flying to New York.”
My father wakened me at 4 o ‘clock in the morning. It was pitch black and when he switched on my light I could see that he was dressed in the suit he had worn while in office as premier. My mother had set out my one and only suit as well. I began to dress. As my old man vanished from the room to finish getting ready he said, “Let’s go, kid. Got to move before the tide slips,” and I flashed back to my childhood when he would wake me up just like this in the dark early morning and we’d go to sea.
Today it was a different tide. My old man, with me at his side, was going to barge into the office of the Secretary-General of the United Nations and remind the world that he had declared the island an independent nation back there on March 21, 1951. And today, September 30, 1970, we were about to reassert our sovereign dominion over the land and drive the demon land rippers from our borders. And despite the fact that I was no longer a boy whose feet did not reach the floor when he sat on the side of the bed, and despite the fact that neither my old man nor I were dressed in oilskins and rubber boots, I had the distinct feeling that we were in fact going fishing. Almost unconsciously I reached under my bed, as I had done so many times before on fishing trips with my father — I reached for the cigar box from underneath the bed. I flipped the lid and found the finger of the dead Viking that I would carry for good luck.
As we walked in the darkness to the car with the giant sack of food my mother had cooked up for us to eat on the long dark drive to the airport, I couldn’t help but get caught up in the feeling of euphoria that overtook us. My mother had packed us a pair of scrambled egg sandwiches to eat on the road and supplemented it with a monumental lunch to offset the minimalist Air Canada meal. With so much sustenance, I was prepared to follow my father on his mission to anywhere he pleased. Ready to go to whatever higher authority was needed.
Before we had settled in the car, he stopped dead in his tracks. “Smell, Ian.”
I took a deep, powerful whiff of salt air. It was warm, rich, luxurious and mixed with the scent of juniper and bayberry from the interior of the island. I let it sift into my brain like a robust, life-enhancing drug. “Tide’s just about to change,” he said to me, handing me the keys to drive. “We’re going to catch it just right.”
My father found a pay phone at LaGuardia, asked for the number and then dialled the office of U Thant. “It’s the premier of Nova Scotia,” he lied to the woman on the other end of the line. “I need to speak to Mr. U Thant on a matter of grave international consequence.”
“No, madam. It’s in Canada,” he continued to explain.
“Well, can I make an appointment for this afternoon?” Disappointment. I toyed with the Viking finger in my pocket.
“Perhaps there is someone still with you who was close to Dag Hammarskjold. My business concerns a petition for United Nations membership that was delivered to Mr. Hammarskjold in 1951. He was a great man and a very close friend. Is there anyone still there who was an associate of Mr. Hammarskjold’s?’r
My father held his hand over the receiver. “All we need is a foot in the door,” he assured me. As he waited for the woman to come back on the line, I looked at the frenzied crowd of people moving to and fro in the crowded airport. I wondered what it was about this city that had drawn me back he
re for a second time in my life.
“Yes,” my father said. “My name is Everett McQuade. 2:30? Fine. Thank you.” He placed the phone back in its cradle. “Per Lindquist will see us at 2:30,” he said. “U Thant is apparently busy today.”
At precisely 2:30 in the afternoon the heavy mahogany door to Per Lindquist’s office opened and an aging, silverhaired gentlemen extended his hand. My father greeted him like a long lost friend.
“Please come in,” he said. And we followed him into his office. “Sit down.”
“I am Everett McQuade, and this is my associate, Ian McQuade. I understand you worked closely with Dag Hammarskjold,” my father began.
“I came over with him from Sweden when he first worked here at the U.N. He is gone, as you know, but I have stayed on.” His voice was cold and clinical. My father’s charm had not sliced through the formalities yet.
“A great man,” my dad said. “A tragedy he was lost.”
An uneasy silence fell over the room. I looked around. The room was full of old artifacts — a stone axe head, small soapstone statues of unidentifiable figures — warriors perhaps, a tattered piece of clothing was encased in glass on the wall. I nervously toyed with the Viking finger in my pocket.
“Mr. McQuade, I have only the vaguest notion as to why you are here, but I must say I do not appreciate the false pretence. A: I suggest that you were not a friend of Dag Hammarskjold and B: I gather that you are no longer premier of Nova Scotia.”
My father, rather than looking defeated, seemed duly impressed. “Then you do know why I’m here,” he ventured.
“Yes. We do keep files. No matter how silly, we keep all such declarations as yours on file. My secretary found it with little trouble after your phone call. You’d be surprised how many individuals like you there are out there, how many minority groups wanting their own countries, how many megalomaniacs hoping to establish their own kingdoms. At least you had the respect for us to tell us your truthful name. At least I hope that is the case. You are Everett McQuade from Whalebone Island?”
The Republic of Nothing Page 35