The Broken Sword

by R. Mingo Sweeney

  “What?” shouted the captain. “I am the captain of this ship, sir, and I am responsible for everyone on it, including you.”

  “Captain,” said O’Dwyer, with icy calm. “These particular passengers are going to be arrested in Bermuda. We consider them neutrals. You either let them off here or we will sail all the way to Martinique.”

  “Who’s that on the horizon?” asked the captain.

  “That is the Admiral Scheer, Captain. If you don’t do exactly what I say we will all be blown out of the water.”

  “Great God!” said the captain. “Man the gun! We are in neutral waters….”

  MacQueen suddenly felt a quick thrill of pure excitement run up his spine. It exploded in his brain like a narcotic, and everything became doubly intense. The blue sea was bluer and the .45 was bigger and his heart pounded with anticipation of the next moment.

  “Forget your popgun,” said O’Dwyer. “Get that lifeboat ready. I have to go too, but I’ll be back. I’ll take your boyfriend here as insurance.”

  MacQueen’s heart stopped for an instant.

  “Bosun’s mate, ready a boat for this gentleman,” said the captain. “Muster a crew of volunteers.” The bosun’s mate flicked a salute and pushed past the trench-coated Frenchman onto the deck. “How do I know they won’t blow us up anyway?” he asked.

  “I am your insurance,” answered O’Dwyer. “Nobody is going to blow up Uncle Sam.”

  The signals officer rushed in and handed a sheet of a signal pad to the Captain. It read:

  SENDING A PINNACE TO SUBMARINE STOP

  REFRAIN FROM FIRE STOP YOU ARE IN

  NEUTRAL WATERS STOP WE ARE NOT FINIS

  ACKNOWLEDGE

  SIGNED KRANKE

  ADMIRAL SCHEER

  “Acknowledge the signal, Sparks,” said the captain. He turned to O’Dwyer. “There is a British naval liaison officer on board that submarine—did you know that?”

  “If they haven’t thrown him overboard,” replied O’Dwyer grimly. “None of this is my choice, Captain. I just do what I’m told.” He jerked his head at MacQueen. “Go down and get a coat on,” he said. “And bring up my lifejacket.”

  “Boat ready on the lee side, sir,” reported the bosun’s mate. “I’ll take ’em over, if it’s okay with you?”

  MacQueen raced down the companionway, noting the submarine’s conning tower tossing about on the waves: a twin gun turret was pointed at him. The Admiral Scheer was barely discernible on the distant horizon—a mere smudge that could destroy a city.

  “What’s going on up there?” asked the harried purser, who was wearing a lifejacket over his uniform.

  “Unscheduled stopover,” shouted MacQueen as he hurried down the heaving hallway to the cabin. He wrenched two lifejackets from under the bunks and took his blue overcoat off the hanger. He opened a drawer and stuffed some packages of Lucky Strikes into the pocket of the overcoat, then sped back again to the bridge.

  The Frenchmen were assembling around a lifeboat that had been swung out on its davits. Six seamen were sitting in the boat, with the bosun’s mate at the stern. Yvonne was standing beside one of the men. She wore a lifejacket and had her hands clasped in front. Her eyes were averted downwards, and the man had his arm possessively around her shoulders. MacQueen felt a twinge of jealousy and frustrated anger. O’Dwyer backed out of the wheelhouse and beckoned for them to get into the boat. They clambered in and settled themselves between the ranks of the seamen. MacQueen climbed to the back and sat beside the bosun’s mate. O’Dwyer climbed into the bow and struggled into his lifejacket.

  “Lower away,” shouted the bosun’s mate.

  The crew on the Lady Hawkins played out the lines, and the lifeboat was lowered, stern first, onto the surface of the Gulf Stream. The bosun’s mate held the tiller hard over, so their bow would veer from the side of the ship. The seamen raised their oars as they hit the water. The lines were cast off, and the oars were lowered into the oarlocks.

  “Steady men,” said the bosun’s mate. “I’ll give you the stroke.” They were pulling against the current and it was hard going.

  “Try to talk to the Englishman, MacQueen,” shouted the captain through cupped hands. “Try to bring him back!”

  An aircraft suddenly droned overhead. It had pontoons, and straight black crosses were painted on the upper and lower wings. They waved at the struggling lifeboat and waggled their way into the distance. The boat rose onto the crest of a wave and the whole world seemed to come into sight; then they descended into the trough and were surrounded by walls of remorseless water. The submarine edged towards them. The tricolour of France flew from a small staff just aft of the control room under the bridge. The Cross of Lorraine was absent from the white centre panel of the flag.

  “Ho, ho,” shouted the capitaine over a loud hailer. “Welcome, mes braves!” French sailors with red bonbons on their hats and wearing striped jerseys scrambled onto the superstructure and grasped the line tossed to them by O’Dwyer. They grappled the boat alongside the Surcouf and helped their drenched countrymen to embark. Yvonne kept her eyes downcast and was practically lifted aboard. “You too, MacQueen,” ordered O’Dwyer. “Get out. I don’t want them casting off without me!”

  The seamen transferred some suitcases and parcels, and MacQueen leaned on their shoulders as he stepped over the thwarts and grasped a French sailor’s hand. The submarine felt much steadier in the water. O’Dwyer motioned for him to go ahead, and he climbed onto the bridge of the conning tower. A sub-lieutenant saw the difficulty with his arm and reached to help him. Yvonne and the others had disappeared below.

  “Welcome to Surcouf,” said the capitaine. “Mister O’Dwyer, is it? This is quite a dramatic rendez-vous, n’est ce pas?”

  MacQueen saw the Lady Hawkins rising and falling, and he could discern the worried captain standing on the bridge. He saw a small motor-launch vessel approaching, with a large German naval ensign flying from the stern.

  “Hello, Captain,” said O’Dwyer. They shook hands without emotion. “This young man is travelling with me and will return. He is Canadian. Would you give me a receipt for the seven bodies delivered, please? We are all sitting around here, and this is no picnic.”

  “But of course, Mister O’Dwyer,” answered the capitaine. “Just wait until the Boche deliver their little package, eh? It is some Calvados from my native land….”

  “Where is the Englishman?” asked MacQueen abruptly.

  The capitaine raised his ponderous eyebrows under his gold-braided, salt-encrusted cap.

  “Stay out of this, MacQueen!” snarled O’Dwyer.

  “No, no—it is perfectly correct,” replied the capitaine. “Naturally, the young man wants to know about his brother-in-arms, eh? He is well, but cannot come to the bridge. He is, ah, indisposed?”

  While the capitaine was preparing the receipt, MacQueen turned in disgust and went down the superstructure, to the deck. The German pinnace was approaching from the side opposite the lifeboat. A German naval rating stood in the bow with a weighted canvas bag on the end of a long boat hook. In a flash, MacQueen surmised it contained codes. As the rating lowered the package, MacQueen pushed a French sailor aside and grabbed the boat hook. The package was heavy and almost toppled him into the ocean. He hitched the boat hook under his good arm and backed to the end of the superstructure, where he suspended the package out over the bottomless depths. A young German officer in the pinnace withdrew a Luger from his holster.

  “MacQueen!” shouted O’Dwyer, also pointing his automatic. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” The German officer looked icily from MacQueen to the conning tower, then back. The French sailors backed away down the superstructure. MacQueen stood like Horatio on the Roman bridge in his long blue coat and shouted defiantly, “If you want this package, Capitaine, show me the Englishman!”

  MacQueen saw the capitaine quickly confer with O’Dwyer. The ocean washed over the superstructure and around his feet. The German pinn
ace bobbed up and down on one side, and the seamen huddled in the lifeboat on the other. A quarter mile away, the Lady Hawkins rose and fell in the blue ocean; on the horizon a bright light blinked from the silhouette of the Admiral Scheer. MacQueen’s arm was tiring fast, but despite the pain he propped his injured arm under the other to help bear the weight of the package.

  A pale young man in a British uniform appeared on the conning tower, descended, and approached MacQueen along the superstructure.

  “You’ll get yourself killed,” he said. “My name is Barney. They had me locked up. What’s going on?”

  “Are you okay?” asked MacQueen. “Get into that lifeboat and come back with us.”

  “My men are down below,” said Barney. “Anyway, I’ve been ordered to stay on this wreck, and we all obey orders. I guess they’ve taken some spies on board?”

  “I don’t know who they are,” replied MacQueen. “I can’t hold this much longer. Should I drop it?”

  “They’d just kill you,” said Barney. “Swing it inboard, it doesn’t matter. This sub is doomed anyway.”

  MacQueen swung the package onto the deck and a French sailor hurried to retrieve it. The German pinnace swung around and headed for the Admiral Scheer. MacQueen reached into his pocket and handed Lieutenant Barney ten packages of Lucky Strikes.

  “When you get to Bermuda,” said Barney, “see that my wife gets the message that I love her, if you will.”

  “You goddamn crazy son of a bitch!” shouted O’Dwyer. “Get into that goddamn life boat. You almost fucked everything and got us all killed in the bargain.”

  MacQueen swallowed hard and extended his hand. “Certainly,” he said. “I will pass on your message. I’ll also tell them to get you off of this crazy ship.”

  Lieutenant Barney smiled faintly. His face was strained and bloodless as he turned towards the conning tower. He walked past the frantic O’Dwyer, who was waving his automatic in the air. MacQueen wearily climbed into the lifeboat. “Good show, sir,” said the bosun’s mate.

  “Let’s get outta here,” said O’Dwyer, casting off the line. “Christ, what a life!”

  As they were struggling back to the Lady Hawkins, the Surcouf slowly slipped beneath the waves. The Admiral Scheer disappeared from the horizon, heading for Kiel and shore leave for everyone. The crew secured the lines from the ship, and the captain ordered “Full steam ahead!” before they were fully hoisted onto the boat deck.

  To O’Dwyer’s fury, the captain arrested him and put him in irons for the rest of the journey. “Whatever the hell he is in Washington,” explained the captain, “he is just a bloody mutineer to me.”

  35

  Bermuda rose over the horizon, just as MacQueen had always remembered it. He stood on the front balcony of the promenade deck and watched the pilot boat coming towards them across the clear water, through the channel between the reefs. A hundred Spanish galleons rested beneath them, encrusted in coral, and thousands of unsuspecting tropical fish swam indifferently among the reefs and treasure.

  Two important delegates from the American consulate followed the pilot up the rope ladder and were astonished to learn that O’Dwyer was locked up. They indignantly demanded his release, but the captain made them sign receipts for everything that he turned over, including the Colt .45.

  They sailed through Grassy Bay and the Great Sound, with its scattered islands and little white rooftops, and MacQueen could see the miniature yellow railway cars stopping-and-going along their twenty-mile journey. They slowly passed through the Narrows, past the Yacht Club, and circled into Hamilton Harbour. The main street, with its fragrant smell of rum and horses, sat facing the harbour, and the wharf had a large shed with an open deck, for those waiting to welcome travellers home.

  O’Dwyer stepped onto the deck and joined MacQueen at the rail. “No one’s supposed to know when we arrive,” he said. “There seems to be a crowd waiting down there.”

  “Are you staying long?” asked MacQueen.

  “Flying out on the next clipper,” replied O’Dwyer. “That captain of yours can be a rough bastard under all that charm.”

  MacQueen smiled. “He is a gentleman, but that doesn’t mean that you can shit all over him,” he said. “May I borrow your binoculars?”

  MacQueen raised the glasses to his eyes with one hand and scanned the people on the wharf. He immediately picked out his mother. She was wearing a light yellow dress, with her favourite cartwheel hat and white gloves. She was talking to a blonde woman in Bermuda shorts, loafers, and large sunglasses. She was puffing on a cigarette and had a small dog on a leash. Standing with them was an officer with a brown leather Sam Browne belt over one shoulder. He was wearing a sun helmet that had an insignia on it. He must be one of mother’s Sherwood Foresters, thought MacQueen absently.

  Suddenly he looked again. The man was somehow familiar. He was gesticulating and laughing, and then he raised his sun helmet. MacQueen felt a wild surge of hope—but it couldn’t be? He peered more intently, and he realized that it was, of course, the Winnipeg Grenadiers! Bill had gotten his commission and was standing down there with his mother! He looked like the last pukka sahib of the empire as he casually waved his swagger stick and entertained the ladies. He looked as though he had just stepped out of the pages of Rudyard Kipling.

  MacQueen closed his eyes and lowered his forehead into his hand. “You okay?” asked O’Dwyer. “Anything wrong?”

  MacQueen returned the binoculars quietly. “Nothing is really wrong in this crazy world,” he said. “It is going to unfold whatever in the hell we do. We are dumb to think otherwise.”

  “If that’s true I’ve wasted a lot of energy in my life,” said O’Dwyer. “I’ve got to go. See you around, kid. One of us is sure crazy, but I don’t know which one.”

  “We’re still alive, so we must be doing something right?”

  “No thanks to you.” O’Dwyer painfully crushed MacQueen’s good hand and left to join his still-outraged countrymen. The captain waved from the bridge.

  “Love to your mother, MacQueen,” he called. “She has a brave son.”

  MacQueen went below to supervise his luggage and settle accounts with the steward and the page. The gangway was lowered into place and customs officials boarded the ship. MacQueen sat down and lit a Lucky Strike. At the other end of that gangway waited another world.

  It was a long way from Wellington Barracks.

  BOOK II

  THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE

  Soldier, Solidus

  Latin — a gold coin.

  Nature, Natura

  Latin — to be born.

  36

  Bermuda is shaped roughly like a fishhook and is composed of numerous islands, with the Royal Naval Dockyard at the sharp end. From there, one follows a limestone road, crossing Boaz Island and Ireland Island over the Waterford Bridge to the village of Somerset. On the other side of the village the road forks, leading right around Mangrove Bay to the Somerset Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club. Next to the Club stood the MacQueen house, a sprawling, high-ceilinged, one-storey structure named “Moville”. It was centred in a two-acre lot, with a former slave cottage that sat under a spreading Pride of India tree.

  James Edward MacQueen, MD, had bought this property in the early 1930s, following his appointment as medical officer with the Bermuda colonial government. There he had lived with his wife, two sons, and a daughter, while attending to government business at the dockyard and running a small private practice on the side. He had maintained an office in the local courthouse building not far away, through a grove of banana trees. His locomotion had been by horse and carriage or bicycle, as automobiles or motorbikes were forbidden. Public transportation was by ferryboat or the Bermuda Railway, which spanned the islands for twenty miles from Somerset to St. George.

  Mrs. MacQueen now resided in one portion of the Moville house, a small apartment attached to the side, the rest having been rented out. She was a social being and widely respected for her diplomacy an
d charm. The ambiance of the colony and her assured place in its social structure suited her fine. Her introverted husband had found it burdensome, and the death of their only daughter had finalized their growing estrangement. The two boys had already been attending school in Canada when they received news of their parents’ separation and their father’s departure from Bermuda, which had still been some months before the outbreak of World War II in September 1939.

  Mrs. Eva Irene MacQueen (née O’Neill) had been more upset by the exodus of her exotic friends at the start of the war than by the frantic departure of her sons to go and fight in it. Moville had been leased to a local guesthouse for overflow, so her boys had spent that last summer of 1939 together on a small island. The island was dominated by a Spanish-style mansion that had been built by the Crane bathroom people. The MacQueen boys were guests of a lady named Vivienne von Bernstog, although their hostess never once appeared, as she was in Europe attending to the funeral of her latest husband (who was then demoted to the title of “Husband Number Two”. Nothing is known of Number One.). Patrick never met her, although he had enjoyed her motor launch, sailboat, and even her wine cellar. It was there that he had eagerly lost his virginity.

  That island was now a part of the new American naval base, and the Spanish-style mansion had since been demolished. Bermuda had filled with exotic refugees from Europe. As it was on the perimeter of the sterling area, the grouping of countries that utilized the British pound as currency, they couldn’t take their money any farther.

  Eva Irene MacQueen hesitated for a dramatic moment at the top of the gangway leading from the wharf into the purser’s square of CNS Lady Hawkins. She held her wide-brimmed hat in place with one gloved hand. With the other hand she graciously accepted the offer of the bosun’s mate to alight onto the waxed deck. She blinked from the contrast of bright sunlight and the artificial lighting within the ship. No one else came up the gangway following the customs officials, but no one ever thought of stopping Mrs. MacQueen.