“That is our destination, Commander,” said the capitaine, pointing to the chart. “Alter course nine degrees to starboard then hold steady. When we reach this spot, we will submerge to periscope depth and wait. The Englishmen will be confined to their quarters, and no conversation. Comprenez-vous, mon ami?”
“Mais oui, mon Capitaine,” replied the commander, with a quick smile. “Everyone will be glad that something is happening.”
An identical navigational fix had been received by the kapitan of the heavy cruiser, Admiral Scheer, in code from the headquarters of the German High Seas Fleet at Kiel. It was on the edge of the Neutrality Zone, exactly where the Lady Hawkins would pass if her course remained unaltered.
The four-inch gun of the Lady Boat would be of as much use as a peashooter. The Admiral Scheer had sunk seventeen ships on this one trip, and she wasn’t home yet.
On board the Lady Hawkins, MacQueen had won some money at the poker game, which pleased him rather inordinately. He suppressed a suspicion that his American roommate had shuffled the odds in his own favour. The ferry pilots took their losses in bibulous good humour, and the planter’s punch had flowed liberally. The Garden Lounge was mock-palladium, and their table was just beneath a three-panelled mural of a Tuscan landscape with ruins to the taste of the prime minister himself.
During the night, MacQueen’s repose was fitfully disturbed by silent persons arriving and departing. His roommate, O’Dwyer, was scribbling and consulting a book by the shaded light of his reading lamp. MacQueen was groggy from the punch, and he vainly tried to recapture sleep, with the ship shuddering into waves that were now head-on. He vaguely saw one of the trench-coated Frenchmen standing in the dim doorway, whispering hoarsely to O’Dwyer. Through drooping eyes, he noticed them shaking hands, and then the Frenchman left and O’Dwyer clicked off his light. The message O’Dwyer had been decoding was from Washington, and even the captain did not know what it meant.
Intercepting coded messages was an art, and cryptographers with the Bermuda Censor Board, the American and German Intelligence Services, and the famous British code breakers were frantically trying to decipher what they all meant. They were dealing with thousands of messages, sent in every conceivable manner, and disguised as anything from racing scores to musical arrangements to weather forecasts. To be able to quickly crack an enemy’s code would provide an enormous advantage, so the patterns were changed at irregular intervals.
Radio silence at sea did not include incoming messages, of course. Outgoing ones were hazardous in the extreme, as the German battleship Bismarck was to fatally learn on 27 May 1941. One radio message was her undoing, and after a brave battle, she was sent to the bottom. Ships communicated at sea by signal flags hoisted to the halyards, or, more frequently, by various versions of the Aldis lamp, aimed from the bridge, flashing Morse code dots and dashes.
While O’Dwyer lay contemplating the ramifications of the message he’d just received from Washington, he twiddled his toes and exercised his calf muscles under the sheets. Oddly, the message was a rather enlarged version of those sent out from St. Pierre and from the German “Oberkommando der Marine”, or Naval High Command. The neutral President of the United States was trying to keep in favour with Vichy France, while also supplying Britain to defeat Germany. This created strange situations in which an actual belligerent was liable to be the only victim. O’Dwyer was also officially neutral, of course, but the ship that he was in was not. It was in a state of war with Germany, as was Bermuda.
O’Dwyer prayed that the captain of the Lady Hawkins was not a suicidal patriot. If he was, they would all be blown to kingdom come—and no one would be any the better for it.
He forced his thoughts into concentric circles until he reached dead zero, relaxed, and then slept. The circles reversed and he seemed to burst into a bucolic landscape that scared him because there were no security precautions anywhere. A naked youth sat on an old stone wall playing a flute. There were no lewd old men spying on the dancing maidens wearing crowns of flowers, and none of the animals were chained, tethered, or branded. O’Dwyer felt emasculated….
33
The following morning, Patrick MacQueen sensed a change in the atmosphere as soon as he opened his eyes. It was a familiar sensation; he rose to his knees on the bunk and unscrewed the heavy brass latches of the painted porthole. It swung inwards in a flash of glorious light and a rush of cool sea air. Outside, the ocean was cobalt blue beneath an azure sky. Tiny white caps graced each wave to the far horizon, seagulls soared in joy, and flying fish skipped from crest to crest with busy intensity.
The youth filled his lungs, and with a sense of delirium he shouted in childlike excitement, “It’s the Gulf Stream! We’re in the Gulf Stream!”
O’Dwyer leapt to his feet in alarm with his .45 automatic in his hand. “Where? What’s the trouble?” he asked in bewilderment. He was stark naked.
MacQueen looked at him and laughed. “Christ!” he exclaimed. “Put that fuckin’ thing away. Both of them, rather. Look at the ocean—it’s blue!”
O’Dwyer threw the gun onto the bed and wrapped a cotton dressing gown around himself. “Don’t wake me up like that, kid,” he said. “You’ll get your head blown off. That thing’s got a hair trigger.” He went into the toilet.
MacQueen’s spirits soared with the vision of sunlight dancing across the incredible sea. It had always been the high point of their trips south; one night out of the dirty Boston Harbour and nature seemed to dye her ocean, clear the sky, and turn up the sun. He heard the musical notes of the first gong for breakfast. O’Dwyer returned to the cabin, muttering to himself, and climbed back into his bunk. “I had a tough night,” he said. “Tell them to send me some breakfast will you? And coffee, not that goddamned tea all the time.”
MacQueen took a quick shower, shaved, and selected a white linen shirt and grey slacks. He dug out a silk scarf and wrapped it around his neck and secured it with his ring, like a Boy Scout. O’Dwyer reached into a drawer under his bunk and passed him a pair of sunglasses. “They are only cheap spares,” he said. “You’ll need them today!” MacQueen appreciated the gesture and placed them on his nose. He draped the checked jacket over his sling and shoulders and looked into the mirror.
“Pretty sharp,” said O’Dwyer. He rolled over.
“Who are those Frenchmen you seem to be herding around?” asked MacQueen, recalling his half-formed visions of their nighttime visitor.
O’Dwyer rolled to face him, but his steely eyes were bloodshot and did not look quite so formidable in the sunlight from the porthole. “Don’t stick your nose into other people’s business, friend,” said his companion. “My government is trying to help France to sort herself out, that’s all. What time is it?”
MacQueen looked at the watch that his father had given him. He wore it on the inside of his wrist, like Sergeant Cyples, and it was held by an alligator strap. “It’s eight thirty-five,” he replied. “I am having luncheon with the captain in his quarters if you don’t see me around later.”
O’Dwyer sat up. “Is he a friend of yours?” he asked.
MacQueen was anxious to get to the dining room for breakfast, then to enjoy the sun. “Of the family,” he answered. “He once got a job for my father’s cousin as medical officer on this ship. I think he drank too much rum.”
“Where are his quarters?” O’Dwyer feigned nonchalance, which MacQueen immediately noticed. Surely this American isn’t going to invite himself to lunch, he wondered.
“Just below the bridge, on the boat deck,” said MacQueen.
“Tell them I want scrambled eggs, whole wheat toast with jam—not that marmalade stuff—and strong coffee. And a large orange juice.”
The corridor creaked and swayed gently as MacQueen walked down it towards the purser’s square. From there he went down another flight of stairs, into the mock-Elizabethan dining room. It was flooded in sunlight, and smelled of fresh coffee and bacon. The room reminded him of a story from his
boyhood, in which a flying fish had blown through a porthole and landed in a Boston matron’s plate of soup. MacQueen chuckled and unfolded the linen witch’s-cap napkin. Ice tinkled in a sparkling glass goblet, and even his injured arm felt better. He didn’t even think of the rain-sodden West Nova Scotia Regiment in the mud of English Aldershot.
The pageboy approached with a grin and flicked some imaginary crumbs from the tablecloth.
MacQueen gave him the order for O’Dwyer’s breakfast and some juice for himself. “He’s a real tough nut,” said the pageboy. “I’ll bring your fruit juice—you’re the last customer.”
Following breakfast MacQueen stepped out into the stiff breeze, buttoned his jacket, and donned his new sunglasses. He leaned forward and slowly walked to the front of the promenade deck, where he watched the prow rising and falling into the blue Atlantic. Some sailors were working on the hatches of the forward well deck, and one was painting some rust spots with red lead. A gentle spray occasionally wafted over the prow, the sea was empty, and the sky was cloudless. Below him, on the second class promenade, a wan-looking woman was sitting in a deck chair with a baby on her lap. Two other children were laughing and trying to play hopscotch on the undulating deck. In the music room, the French lady was seated at the grand piano and singing in a low voice, like Lotte Lehman—sad songs of broken hearts that she accompanied with chords on the piano.
The seagulls tirelessly followed the progress of the grey ship, occasionally lighting on the rigging for a breather, eyes always alert for food. Canada’s Red Ensign stood out gallantly against the clear blue sky. Symbols powerfully stir man’s emotions; the British Empire was still all of one piece. MacQueen felt a part of it, and of a brotherhood in arms that extended around the world. He would have scoffed, but in his heart he was at one with Lord Baden-Powell. MacQueen was a grown-up Boy Scout, probably the most difficult role in creation. From one side he would appear an idealistic idiot, and from the other side he would seem the perfect prey. In reality he was neither. He was, as are most of his age, basically decent, confused, and eager for life. But unlike many, he knew that a price had to be paid. Every day a chip of marble fell to the floor…and who knew what was to be finally revealed? Each chip was a piece of time, and that was not limitless in supply.
MacQueen shook his head from the reverie and thought that the widened horizons and bright sunlight were expanding his perceptions. The ship was a tiny speck on a wide ocean, steaming southward under a vast azure canopy that hid untold universes. The key that unlocked all of these mysteries remained hidden, and he suddenly thought of the tabernacle in St. Mary’s Cathedral, when he and Bill Cyples had knelt before the cross.
“Do you speak French, m’sieur?”
MacQueen turned to look into the face of the Frenchwoman. Her brown hair was blowing about her face, which had a sallow youthfulness, with no makeup. Her eyes, which squinted in the sun, were dark brown, and he could have encompassed her waist within his two hands. She smiled nervously, then glanced up from the deck. She laid a hand on the rail to steady herself against the roll of the ship. Her fingernails were rounded carefully.
“Un petit peu,” said MacQueen, with a short laugh. “I think, madame, we should stick to English?”
“If you wish,” she answered with a little frown. “You have been to Bermuda before?” She gathered her hair behind her head and produced the beret from a trench coat pocket. She tucked the hair into this around the brim, then tugged it into a saucy angle.
“My name is Patrick MacQueen,” he said thrusting out his hand awkwardly. She hesitated, then enfolded it in a warm clasp. “I lived there. Still do, I guess, although I’m really a Canadian.”
“You call me Yvonne,” said the slim lady, looking like someone from a Hollywood spy movie. “It must be so peaceful there. I have been reading about it.”
MacQueen adjusted the unfamiliar sunglasses. “We should be there in a day or so,” he said. “I hope we can meet sometime?” This suggestion took an almost desperate act of courage, but he was afraid that one of her companions would appear and whisk her away. He was surprised when she put her elbows on the rail and lowered her face into her hands with a sob.
“Mon Dieu,” she said. “Will this terrible war never end?”
The end of the war had never occurred to MacQueen. The war was now a way of life; everything was geared to it. What would everybody do if there wasn’t a war? They were designing weapons for production ten years hence, and then new ones would be on the drawing board. If soldiers are survivalists, they will never let the war end. They would be betraying their brothers in arms to let the merchants and politicians back into the saddle. Ending the war was an incomprehensible scenario. He was beginning to think like the sergeant.
However, there she stood, crying for the war to end. He could smell her fragrance and see her finely boned hands. They were standing together on the great ocean, yet they were as far apart as the poles. What was she crying about, he wondered? Maybe her parents had been killed by the Germans, or her boyfriend blown up at Oran with the French fleet? He did not like to ask, but she had inspired a great curiosity about the nature of things in his heart.
He touched her tenderly on the shoulder. She looked up with the startled look of a gazelle. Suddenly her entire face lit up with the most astonishing smile that he had ever seen. He felt as though he could catapult right into it and disappear, tumbling into its promises.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I know that you are a wounded soldier and I am giving you my troubles. I would love to see Bermuda with you, but I am afraid it is not possible. You will understand soon. Maybe you can show me your home après la guerre.” She squeezed his arm and turned to walk towards the entrance into the ship.
“Wait!” called MacQueen. He ran after her. “You can’t just walk away. Please…where will you be staying? Yvonne, please tell me.”
She looked directly into his eyes, gently shaking her head. The door opened, and one of her companions beckoned. She stepped over the threshold, glanced back for a moment—and then the door shut behind her. MacQueen yanked it open and stepped into the entrance hall. She was being hastened down the stairs to the purser’s square. Her companion had his arm about her shoulders and was muttering volubly in French while waving a cigarette and gesticulating. Yvonne looked stonily ahead then disappeared into the hallway towards the cabins.
“There are no shipboard romances on this trip, kid,” said O’Dwyer from the bar. “Haven’t you got a date with the captain?”
MacQueen shot him a look of pure hatred then glanced at the clock. He was already a few minutes late—and four-ring captains don’t like that. One dazzling smile and an empire could fall.
He made it to the captain’s table, where his cocktail had already been poured. It was still cold.
34
Alarm bells blared. Everything seemed to happen at once; the sequence of events was never clear in MacQueen’s memory. The captain seemed to somersault over the table, into his lap, as the ship veered violently to starboard, and a great wave crashed into her midships. As the funnel let out a blast, the door of the captain’s cabin was flung open—and O’Dwyer stood there, holding onto the doorframe, as well as his enormous Colt .45.
“Stop this ship!” shouted O’Dwyer. MacQueen saw one of the Frenchmen behind him, holding grimly onto a compass and waving another gun.
“Submarine surfacing on the port bow!” shouted a lookout. The captain tried to disentangle himself from MacQueen, and the first officer shouted down the voice pipe for port helm. The Lady Hawkins careened back into the ocean swell and then righted herself, only to roll in the other direction.
“What on earth is the meaning of this?” spluttered the captain in outrage. “Is this piracy? Have you gone off your head, man?”
“Stop this fuckin’ tub or I’ll blow your head off,” answered O’Dwyer. “There is no time to talk….”
“What’ll I do, sir,” cried the first officer’s hollow voice from t
he bridge. “The sub is breaking out the French flag and her guns are training on us!”
“Stop the ship, Mr. O’Riley,” called the captain. He turned to O’Dwyer. “You’ll have a lot of explaining to do, my good man.”
The engine room bells rang, and the ship started to wallow in the troughs of the waves. MacQueen’s jacket was covered with spilled coffee, and the captain searched for his cap.
“Signal coming from the starboard quarter, Captain,” shouted the excited lookout. “I can’t tell what it is—looks like a warship.”
“What in the hell is going on?” asked the captain angrily. He jammed his cap onto his head and brushed past O’Dwyer into the wheelhouse. The entire ship was a shambles of broken crockery and bruised occupants.
“I’ll need some power to head her into the current,” said the first officer. “This is crazy!”
“Quarter speed,” answered the captain without glancing at O’Dwyer. “Send Sparks here to catch that signal, whoever they are. Get an Aldis lamp and signal that submarine. It must be the Surcouf, the stupid bastards.” He turned to face O’Dwyer’s still-aimed weapon. “Now what in the hell are you up to? I’ve got a ship to protect—and I’ll have you hanging from a gibbet if you haven’t got an explanation for all this.”
O’Dwyer didn’t flinch, nor did he lower his gun. “Sit down over there, kid,” he said to MacQueen, nodding at a bench beside the chart table. “Keep outta this.”
MacQueen eased his sore arm and sat where indicated. The helmsman was struggling to keep headed into the waves as the propellers slowly turned to quarter speed, which would merely keep them where they were. The ship plunged and rocked, and the terrified passengers were wearing lifejackets and struggling towards their lifeboat stations.
“Send them back to their cabins—no one’s going to get hurt,” said O’Dwyer. “I want you to swing one of those lifeboats out on its davits and collect a crew. Some of your passengers want to get off.”
The Broken Sword Page 15