“My mother isn’t a rebel sympathizer,” said MacQueen. “Her mother came from Tipperary—she’s an O’Neill. She is still alive and talks often of the old days.”
“They are only yesterday in Ireland.” LaRosa pressed a buzzer for a steward and lit a cigarette. He offered one to MacQueen, who accepted.
“I suppose there are parallels between that situation and the present one here?” asked MacQueen.
The steward arrived, and LaRosa signed for two drinks, the smoke from his cigarette curling into his face and making him squint. “That’s an interesting point. Are there rebels here?”
MacQueen hesitated. Surely, he thought, an Irishman with obvious experience in such matters could be trusted to be objective. “I’ve spoken to a few Newfoundlanders who aren’t too happy about the way things seem to be drifting,” he replied. “Actually, they were interested in some of my political theories, which I found flattering.”
The steward returned with the drinks, and LaRosa waited until he had closed the door. “Isn’t that rather dangerous? Getting mixed up in other people’s politics, I mean?”
“My father’s mother came from Newfoundland. Anyway, maritimers have always felt an affinity with the people here.”
“That hardly makes you a Newfoundlander.”
“You said we were hereditary soldiers of fortune,” MacQueen said and smiled.
“Touché,” LaRosa said with a laugh, raising his drink. “If that is the answer, then good hunting. But be careful. You are still a Canadian officer.”
“Of course.” MacQueen rose and stood beside a window, looking past his reflection into the dark night. “My mother always talked of ‘organic’ things—she has great faith in natural growth. She abhors revolutions as disrupting to the natural order. My grandmother calls her a counter-revolutionary and accuses her of betraying her Irishness.”
“And you—?”
MacQueen shrugged and returned to his chair. “I side with Mother in such things, I guess. I’m an officer of the king, not a Canadian officer. I’m also against revolutions.”
“What of your political plan?”
MacQueen felt that he was talking too much, but it was a relief to discourse on these subjects to someone intelligent and interested, and apparently not involved.
“It is also counter-revolutionary, really. The real revolution is in that little upstart, Winterwood. I’ve been here for well over two years and know something of the situation. Why can’t these people be left alone to work out their own destiny?”
“According to your plan?” LaRosa pressed the buzzer again.
MacQueen held up his hand. “No more for me, old boy, really. I’m babbling on as it is…you’ll learn all of my secrets.”
LaRosa waved the steward away and lit another cigarette. The room was hot and hazy with smoke. MacQueen’s head was gently spinning; he felt euphorically sleepy.
“Father was a stolid Scot,” MacQueen remarked aimlessly. “He was somewhat of a warrior, which seems odd for a doctor, come to think of it. Anyway, he rarely spoke of aught except Robert Service, and wasn’t very happy in Bermuda’s colonial set up. Mother loved it, and so maybe I got my taste for Ruritanian parade ground stuff there.”
“You’d like to see that here?”
MacQueen slumped farther into his chair and ran a hand through his brown hair. “It is here,” he replied slowly. “That’s the point. It’s subdued, but it exists. It would be a shame to lose it.”
“Then you really feel at home here?”
MacQueen grunted and lifted his head. He peered at LaRosa through the smoke, sitting on the edge of the chesterfield and looking oddly pixyish with the lamp behind his head. “You are a leprechaun, and the answer is yes. Newfoundland is a step back in time, and that’s where I belong.”
LaRosa threw his head back and laughed loudly. “Good lad!” he choked, wiping his eyes and chuckling. “That’s the best reason I’ve heard for a long time, and you have my entire sympathy.”
MacQueen looked up, faintly bewildered at what had caused this outburst. He smiled ruefully and then rose rather unsteadily to his feet, looking at his watch.
“I’ve really got to go,” MacQueen said. “Look, I have a small house near the barracks—my digs. Why not come for dinner tomorrow night? I could meet you here at six.”
LaRosa rose also and clapped a hand to MacQueen’s shoulder. “I’d be delighted,” he replied.
“See you then.” MacQueen opened the door and left him wreathed in the swirl of tobacco smoke, his face still marked by that bewildering smile.
What an attractive young man, LaRosa thought, watching MacQueen’s tall back disappear down the hallway towards the noisy mess. Sensitive and dedicated, rather oddly informed and certainly naïve—or was it idealistic? He had obviously fallen in with some local “vested interests” who wanted to maintain the status quo, probably for economic reasons. After all, the privileged group here had done quite well. Could they find it within themselves to start a revolution? Surely their interest in the young guard officer wasn’t solely based on his political theories.
That boy certainly has a lot of his ancestors’ steel in him, he continued to ruminate. But he also has some of Hamlet’s trait to allow things to become “sicklied o’er with pale casts of thought”. LaRosa finished his glass, took up his book, and turned out the light. A Bohemian in uniform? Maybe, which could be dangerous. He retrieved his cap and gloves from the cloakroom and quietly headed towards his cabin in the adjoining building.
MacQueen went to call for his car when Jimmy Cossit grabbed his arm. “Where y’going, ol’ boy?” he asked. His wet smile and reddened eyes were proof of his night’s dedication to navy rum.
“I’m off home, Jimmy,” said MacQueen with a smile. “It’s a bit noisy around here.”
“Let’s go and get screwed,” burbled Jimmy. “C’mon, don’t be a poop.”
“If you’re talking about getting screwed by one of my guards, the deal’s off, and take care, m’lad. Personally, I don’t give a damn, but you’re heading for trouble.”
“Oh shit, now I get a lecture. What the hell? ‘Try anything once’, I always say!” He gulped his drink.
MacQueen took him by the shoulders and shook him gently. “Jimmy, old bean, you’ve got a career to think of. Ease up, and for Chrissakes be more discreet. Once may be okay, but I think you’re ahead of that score, and the odds are mounting.”
“Oh well! Anyway, I’ve got a sore ass…” he said with a grin.
“Lord, who was it this time? One of my boys?”
MacQueen was only mildly angry. The war was over—and, even if it wasn’t, he couldn’t see much harm in everyone screwing everyone else, if that’s what they wanted—except for regulations. The base was full of Bluenosed bastards who loved to enforce these to the letter, on everyone but themselves, of course. Jimmy was an amusing messmate, but he was also a permanent force officer trained in the Royal Navy, where he claimed to have learned his bad habits. With his DSC ribbon conspicuous on his chest, a trace of a British accent, and a carefree attitude, he was a sitting duck for prigs who lacked his breeding.
“Jimmy, you’re drunk. Promise me you’ll head for your cabin and crash—alone! I’ll see you tomorrow and we can do the rounds of the base or something. Then you can respectably see all your pals.”
“Yeah. Just saluting you…”
“I’ve got to go, old boy. Have a nightcap then to the hammock. Promise?”
“Oh, okay. At least you care whether I live or die.”
“You are worth the whole roomful in there, Jimmy. Now let me phone and get out of here. Be off with ya, as they say in Ireland.”
“I thought you were Scot.”
“There seems to be some confusion. Good night, Jimmy.”
With a sigh MacQueen called for his car, shrugged on his greatcoat, and waited by the front door. The chief steward walked past him. “Great party, Chief,” said MacQueen.
“Thank you, sir.
Is Lieutenant Cossit okay?”
“He’s flying pretty high, Chief. You understand. Try and get him off to his cabin.”
The chief smiled wryly. “I’ll do what I can, sir.”
“Good man,” answered MacQueen. He stepped outside, into the wet fog through which the wardroom windows shone like luminous orange squares. Someone shouted, “Dogs of War!” and he breathed another note of thanks that he had left in time. He watched two discs of light approach through the fog. The snow was decaying underfoot, and he could feel the dampness leaching through his Half Wellington boots. He turned up his collar. The car pulled up to the wooden walk, and the civilian driver got out and tipped his peaked cap. “Good evening, sir. Was it a good party?”
MacQueen glanced at him standing under the tall lamp post. Rodney was his favourite driver, always well mannered and thoughtful. “Thanks, Rodney. Not too bad, but too much booze.”
“The petty officer is waiting to speak to you, sir. I just drove him to the house.”
He’s got a nerve, ordering my car in the middle of the night, thought MacQueen. What the hell does he want now?
They drove slowly out the back gate, the sentry shining a light into the car then jumping to salute. MacQueen returned the salute and fell into a brief doze until Rodney turned to him.
“Your quarters, sir.”
“What? Oh, yes. You’d better come in and we’ll see what’s cooking. The PO will probably want a drive back.”
“Aye, sir,” said Rodney, opening the back door and offering his hand. The house was barely visible through the fog, but strains of Rachmaninoff drifted into the damp night air. The PO was being entertained.
79
Petty Officer Bernard Low was a large man who affected a Scots burr at times and wore a cutlass at every opportunity. His thirst was monumental, but it rarely seemed to affect him. He had served in the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders in the first war, and was certainly an ornament on any parade ground. MacQueen was not surprised to see him in full regalia in his house at 2300 hours.
MacQueen’s steward and majordomo, Espery, had a fire in the grate, the recording machine playing, and cigarettes out for the petty officer. Notably, there was not a glass in sight, which probably accounted for the huge frown on the PO’s battered face.
“Good evening, sir-r,” Low said, rising as MacQueen entered the room. Espery took his coat with a muttered greeting.
“Hello, PO,” answered MacQueen. “What brings you out at this hour? Would you like a drink? Espery, fix something for us both, and give Rodney a beer, if you can find one out there.”
“Much obliged, sir-r,” said the PO, adjusting his cutlass and resuming the hard chair.
“It’s more comfortable there by the fire, PO,” said MacQueen. “But please remove that hardware.”
Petty Officer Low unbuckled his belt and placed the cutlass against the wall. He then relaxed into an easy chair and accepted a drink of rum from Espery without a nod. He closed his eyes and drank half the glass.
“Well?” asked MacQueen, lighting a cigarette and sitting beside a small table.
“It’s this changeover, sir-r,” Low exclaimed, expanding his girth and crossing his legs. “I’ve been talking it over with Dr. Wolff and he doesn’t like it either. Commander Marchand is no friend of the guard, and we think that he has it in for you.”
MacQueen stretched his lips tightly. More politics. Does one ever escape that evil science? “Really? And what does the good doctor have to say about that?”
Low drained his glass and accepted a cigarette. Espery and Rodney were quietly talking in the kitchen, and the music was softly playing. He lifted a poker and stirred the fire as MacQueen patiently waited. The PO was a good man in the right place but hard to control.
As though in confirmation of this thought, he continued, “You must appreciate, sir-r, that my loyalty is to you, and no one else matters. My ancestors followed the Stuarts to ruin and never regretted a moment. I am a Scot, and it’s the man that counts. Whatever you want me to do will be done.”
MacQueen was mildly disturbed by this declaration. Had he got wind of the conspiracy? He reached over, took the PO’s glass, and called Espery for a refill.
“You recall the commander’s dismay when he discovered that Dr. Wolff was working for us?” asked the PO.
MacQueen recalled the incident only too well. Commander Marchand had been doing a round of inspection in the barracks and had inadvertently discovered Dr. Wolff’s clinic, which had been set up as much to rehabilitate the doctor as to serve the purposes of the guard. Dr. Wolff’s weakness for navy rum led him to some less-than-desirable choices. The loyalty was there; the willpower had not been. MacQueen sympathized and gave him a job looking after his guards, while side-stepping a few minor regulations. The commander had been anxious to blow everything apart, but Captain Purcell had taken a liking to the doctor and looked the other way.
“Well, the commander hasn’t forgotten his humiliation. He is small-town, sir-r. He has never been to sea nor seen action. He is out to cut your throat! Besides, that frustrated young Wren has been crying all over his wife because you won’t screw her.”
“Take it easy, Petty Officer,” warned MacQueen. “That Wren happens to be an officer and you are talking about the commander’s wife.”
“Goddamnit sir-r, I know who and what I’m talking about. Already troubles have appeared and the guard is not getting the cooperation necessary for its efficiency. Once the captain goes it will only get worse and they’ll find your Achilles heel for certain.”
This old boy is getting too bloody difficult, thought MacQueen, watching him down another glass without stopping. Such depth of feeling is bound to show. Whatever happens the ship must be kept on an even keel for the next few weeks, then the play will be finished and winner will take all.
“Rodney will drive you back to barracks, Petty Officer. I’m tired. Thanks for your concern and for letting me in on some details of our troubles. You have good intelligence set up. Marchand has a new brass hat, but I think the job is too big for him. However, everyone else wants to head home and get back to civvy street. Frankly, he won’t be able to run this place without us, and he’ll soon know it. We’ll give him all the ass-licking he wants, but I want no disturbances from you—do you understand?”
Low rose and wiped a tear from his eye. A hard, sentimental, boozy old Scot, thought MacQueen. He took up his cutlass without buckling it on, put on his cap, saluted, and went out the door without another word. Rodney quickly followed him.
“What do you think, Espery?” asked MacQueen.
Espery stood by the fire with his permanent smile and looked at MacQueen. “He has a dangerous excess of virtue, I think.”
MacQueen pondered this observation. Where did this small man get his expressions? To run the guard without the petty officer would be difficult. The sub-lieutenants were interested in only the perks.
“By the way, a Mr. Brunt called. He would like you to call him tomorrow.”
“Do you know who Mr. Brunt is, Espery?”
“Of course. I know everything about this town.”
MacQueen studied him for an instant but could glean nothing from that enigmatic face.
“Close up shop, will you? I’m for bed.”
“Yes, sir, of course—and pleasant dreams.”
Attorney-at-law, Mr. James Brunt, QC, was in line to be one of the leaders of the revolution.
MacQueen awoke with a start. Had he cried out? The dirty grey light of a foggy morning crept through the blinds, and the dull mirror barely reflected its mimicry of life. The air was damp and chilly. He had been dreaming his usual frustrating dream of chaos on the parade ground. This time the guards and band had been intermingled strangely with medieval horsemen prancing every which way. No one had paid any attention to his shouted commands.
This recurring dream always left him exhausted, and he groaned quietly as he pulled the covers to his chin and rolled to his side. Pullin
g his knees up into a fetal position, he felt once more like a small boy sent away too soon to a harsh boarding school. He felt a pang of obscure longing for someone to hold onto, to laugh with, and bury his head into a warm neck. Sex would be nice, but it was more than that. He wanted to disappear into Mother Earth somehow, and grow into a great blooming flower stretching itself towards the sun.
His talk with LaRosa must have introduced the chess pieces into his dream. At least they provided some variety. He thought of his newly introduced ancestors and smiled in satisfaction. None of them would have wanted to be a flower, he conjectured.
“Did you call me?” Espery asked. He stood in the doorway in a dressing gown.
“I was dreaming. It must be early. God, I don’t feel very chipper today.” MacQueen ran his tongue around his dry mouth.
“Stay there and I’ll fix you something,” instructed Espery. He turned and went down the stairs to the kitchen and shortly reappeared with a large eggnog. “Drink that. It will put vitamins in you.”
MacQueen, still in bed, drank deeply. It warmed his stomach and the smell of brandy and nutmeg was soothing. “You put more than egg in that, you scoundrel,” he said, smiling.
“Vitamins and the hair of the dog—nothing like it,” answered Espery. “I’ll get the furnace going. Then you can get up. It’s only four bells.”
Damn these sea dogs, thought MacQueen, translating that to 0600 hours. “I’ll get up now and breakfast at the barracks. I’ll shower there too, I think. Thanks just the same.”
He threw his legs out of the bed and stood, stretching his arms towards the ceiling, almost touching it. He held this pose, straining each muscle of his stomach, and then he relaxed. Espery watched this performance with amusement. A twenty-three-year-old man’s hard muscles aren’t confined to his stomach first thing in the morning. The sight was rather daunting. He went to fix the fire.
After a hot shower, MacQueen entered the mess. The staff had cleaned up the turmoil of the party, although the air was still heavy with stale tobacco. One window had cardboard in it to keep out the fog. The lights were on, and the few officers assembled at a table were not very animated.
The Broken Sword Page 36