“Commander Kyley—Lieutenant MacQueen. The captain will see you now.” A white-striped lieutenant held the door for them as they marched in, caps under the left arm and gloves in the left hand, to stand at attention in front of his desk.
“At ease, gentlemen,” growled Captain D, motioning to two leather chairs arrayed facing his desk. “Please be seated for a moment and forgive me.”
He placed large horn-rimmed glasses on his nose and drew his expression down in a grimace as he scanned the papers in his hand. Ribbons from the first war adorned his chest. He had been called back into service on loan from the Royal Navy. MacQueen glanced out of the window, towards the sea, envying the uncomplicated life of the watch officer on a corvette proceeding through the Narrows, which was blinking its light.
The captain put down his spectacles and looked at the other officers. “Well Kyley, I see you received your brass hat and OBE, eh? Congratulations.”
“Thanks to you, sir,” answered Kyley diplomatically.
“What? Oh, yes! No, no, not at all. You’ve done splendid work here. Well, it’s almost finished for both of us, y’know. War’s all but wrapped up in Europe, eh? They don’t need us much anymore—not here anyway. We’re getting on, y’know.” MacQueen wanted to squirm but continued to sit bolt upright.
“You, I remember,” said the captain to MacQueen. “Ah…Lieutenant…?”
“MacQueen, sir,” contributed Kyley.
“Ah yes. MacQueen. Officer of the guard? Good. Very smart, smart as paint. And I hope you’re still putting those smarts to good use.” He shuffled papers once more. Kyley’s chair squeaked as he changed position slightly.
The old captain looked down his nose then replaced his glasses. “I understand that you are to take over the shore patrol in addition to the guard.” He looked over the top of his glasses.
“Lieutenant MacQueen is a competent officer, sir,” interjected Commander Kyley. “I don’t hesitate to vouch for him personally. Besides, there is no one else, as most of my officers are being demobilized, as I am myself.”
MacQueen felt that the qualification was more important to Commander Kyley than any of the praise. Did he want to retire to a rose-covered cottage in Vancouver? What do cold old cops do when they quit?
“Your establishment has a lot of material,” commented Captain D. “Police wagons, Jeeps, and what not. Will he need all of this?”
“I think Lieutenant MacQueen should answer for himself.”
MacQueen squirmed involuntarily. He was forced to extemporize. “I can take it all over, sir, then sort it out as required. I’ll require some naval drivers temporarily. Civilians are not permitted to drive these vehicles. Some of my present staff will also require a quick course in local law. I am familiar enough with the civilian authorities—the Civilian Investigation Department, local constabulary, and the courts.”
The captain gave the impression of pondering these matters. “I see,” he said. “Very well, work it out between the two of you and let me know the results. Make whatever arrangements you see fit, Kyley, on my authority. I have a lot of other things on my mind right now.” He pressed a buzzer and the pay lieutenant reappeared.
“These gentlemen are leaving,” he said. Kyley and MacQueen rose to attention once more. “Commander Kyley has my carte blanche to effect the transfer of his establishment to the Port Security Guard. They’ll take over the shore patrol. You will remain in the commander’s offices, lieutenant?”
“I have already moved to the barracks, sir,” answered MacQueen.
“Oh? Very good. Work it out.” He placed the papers in his OUT basket and started to rub his eyes. His secretary quietly closed the door. Commander Kyley put his cap on.
“Any questions, MacQueen?”
“Not right now, sir.”
“Good. I’ll have the paperwork drawn up. You can sign for whatever you want. Then I’m off. Shouldn’t take more than a few days.”
“What about the training, sir?”
“Can’t have everything, m’boy. You’ll have to look after that yourself. My boys are anxious to get home. A good officer always looks after his troops, eh? Good day then.”
MacQueen trailed Kyley down the corridor in the backwash of his cologne. Outside, Timmons was standing with the car door open.
“Back to the barracks, Rodney,” he ordered.
They sped along Military Road, past the grounds of Government House and the Grecian Colonial Building with its German mortar, a relic of the Somme. It continually raised its ugly snout into the air. They whirled into the barracks and stopped at the guard offices. MacQueen felt strangely deflated by his interview. His willing back was being loaded by others pursuing their own ends. More deeply, however, he was pleased. More power meant greater prospects for success of the plan—and the more top brass removed from the scene the better. Commander Marchand might end up with it all. What a laugh!
He sat at his desk and gazed blankly at his list of calls. The door on the other side of his office opened, and the lined face of Dr. Wolff peeked in.
“Are you busy, sir?” he asked in a low voice.
“Not at all, doctor. Come in, sir. Glad to see you. Come in and sit down.”
The doctor entered and closed the door behind him. He had been a big man once, but was now gaunt and stooped. He was holding something behind his back and had a smile on his virtually toothless mouth.
“I would like to make a small presentation, sir,” he said and produced a naval sword. He passed it over the desk to MacQueen. “It’s the sword I had in the Royal Navy. I wish you to honour me by accepting it.”
MacQueen was speechless. He withdrew it from its chamois wrap, unhitched the catch, and drew the engraved blade from the scabbard. It had been made by Gieves of London, a beautiful example of the art.
“It’s too much,” protested MacQueen. “I can’t accept such a gift, doctor, really…”
“I have no further use for it, sir,” explained the doctor, grimacing. “Of course you will accept it. You can put it to good use. I have noted that your sub-lieutenants all have to share one, which—if I’m not mistaken—belonged to the now departing captain.”
“That is true,” acknowledged MacQueen, fingering the sword knot. “It can certainly be put to use. How can I thank you?”
“You have done enough for me to merit a hundred swords,” said the doctor earnestly. “I can die an honourable death thanks to you. You restored my self-respect sir, and that has no price.”
“You were a surgeon in the Royal Navy, and that’s a pretty respectable place in society, I’d judge. However, we understand one another, doctor. You are a true gentleman, and there aren’t many. I will accept this marvellous sword—my Excalibur. You couldn’t have given me anything that could have delighted me more.”
“That’s that then. I’m sorry to hear that the captain has gone and Commander Marchand is taking over.”
“Yes, but don’t worry. Our establishment is safe for the time being. Entre nous, we are also absorbing the shore patrol, which might give you more work than just certifying civilians as healthy.”
“Anything I can do, sir. Well, I will let you get back to work.” He opened the door to leave.
“Again,” MacQueen said, “thank you, doctor.”
The doctor smiled his close-lipped smile and quietly closed the door. MacQueen unsheathed the sword once more and swept it exultantly around the room. Then he held it upright with both hands. He looked at the strong, straight, bright steel. Resisting the urge to stare at it for the rest of the day, he re-sheathed the sword then, with his eyes tightly closed, pressed his knotted hands against his forehead.
A sword is not only a weapon of death but historically a symbol of life and power. This particular sword, having come to him in such a manner, would be with him until death. Ancient knights used to sleep with their swords beside them, naming them and referring to them as “mistresses”. MacQueen felt he understood this sentiment, and believed that the sword co
uld uphold the righteous and smite the evil when its master served the good. He felt a transfusion of mystic power, forming him more than ever as a “brother of the sword”. Excalibur was only the most famous of all these companion instruments, wielded by the great King Arthur. He would think of a name….
Exhausted of emotion, MacQueen slumped at his desk for a few minutes. Hemming knocked and entered, his red crewcut shining like a halo with the light behind his head. “Anything further, sir?” he asked. “It’s almost time to pack up.”
MacQueen looked at him blankly for a moment then pulled himself together.
“I want a meeting with all guard officers, the petty officer, and the commissioner of the Civilian Guard here tomorrow after colours, Hemming. Would you see that they are all notified?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Other than that, everything can wait. How do you like my new sword?” He held up the decorated scabbard and inspected the hilt that protruded.
“We saw it, sir. It’s beautiful. Doctor Wolff didn’t know how you’d take his offer, but we encouraged him. I’m glad you took it. He was worried.”
MacQueen smiled. “He needn’t have been—I couldn’t be more pleased. Now get that work done and bugger off. I’m going to the mess for a drink and will be at home this evening for dinner. Ask the duty officer not to disturb me if possible, as I have a guest. Tell that to the PO also—discreetly, of course.”
“I understand, sir. Good night, and have a good dinner.”
“Thank you, Hemming. Good night.”
Timmons then put his head around the door. “Anything else, sir?”
“Tell my car to be at the mess at 1930 hours. Other than that, you’re a free man.”
Timmons grinned. “Thank you, sir. Good night.”
God, how fond of them one became!
He took his cap and gloves, turned out the light of his office, and walked through the guard orderly room. It was deserted except for the duty switchboard operator and Hemming, jotting down his last orders.
Entering the bar of the wardroom, MacQueen noticed that Manie was in a deep chair, reading a magazine, with a drink at her elbow. LaRosa was leaning against the bar, talking to a couple of English officers. He waved and beckoned. MacQueen joined them. “You know Lieutenant Smith and Lieutenant Commander Benson, of course?” LaRosa asked. “What are you drinking?”
“Good evening, gentlemen. How are you? I’ll have a rum and ginger, thanks—that’s very kind. It’s getting milder.”
“Hello ol’ boy,” replied Smith, a young man with a rapidly receding hairline. “We’re trying to recover from last night.”
The lieutenant commander smiled. “Smitty here called Dogs of War, the bloody nit. It’s a wonder there were no casualties.”
“Have to teach the colonials our games,” said Smith with an amused glance at MacQueen.
“Yes? Well there are some you should keep to yourselves or you’ll decimate us,” MacQueen said with a laugh. He accepted the drink and glanced nervously at Manie. She was looking at him and waved.
“Pardon me, I’ll speak to Manie for a mo,” he said, and went over to her.
“Hiya, handsome,” she said. “What happened to you last night?”
“I left early, it was getting rough.”
“Your boyfriend Jimmy sure tied one on.”
“That’s unusual?” MacQueen joked.
Manie smirked. “What’s up tonight? How about some romance under the moon?”
“Underneath the lamp post is the only moon you’ll get tonight.”
She started to hum “Lili Marlene”. “Why not?”
“I’m bespoke for dinner, and business is closing in on me.”
“With one of them?” She nodded towards the bar. “When are you going to give a girl a break around here? There’s an army dance on Saturday—how about it?”
“Army? How do you hear about such things?”
She rolled her eyes at him a bit. “The war’s over. Let’s celebrate.”
“Okay, why not? Barring unforeseen circumstances, you have a date.”
She looked nonplussed. “You mean it?”
“Sure.”
“We’ll have fun!”
“The fun seems to follow you, Manie.”
“Well, breeze along to your dull dinner. Keep Saturday open or I will kill you!”
Others entered the bar, and MacQueen returned to his friends. He sidled over to LaRosa. “My car’s waiting anytime you are ready.”
LaRosa finished his drink and smiled wanly at MacQueen. “I’m ready,” he said, nodding at the English officers. They left together, and MacQueen waved at Manie, who was signing for another drink. They walked into the warm night.
“Spring is wonderful, although sadly tardy,” commented LaRosa.
“Do you want the car to call for you?” asked MacQueen.
“On a night like this? It’s only a step, even though the lighting is foul. I have a torch.” He pulled a flashlight from his pocket. “Rarely without one.”
They arrived. Espery had a fire going in the grate. His Rachmaninoff record was playing again. The kitchen lights were bright compared to the dimness of the sitting room.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he announced, taking their caps and Burberrys. “I have drinks for you in a moment.”
“Nice digs you have here,” commented LaRosa, sitting in an easy chair. “How do you merit all this?”
“It’s the shore patrol,” explained MacQueen. “Naval police officers aren’t supposed to live in barracks. There were no decent digs to be had, so I took the house. Espery is a standby guard but serves as my majordomo as a convenience. Otherwise he might be earning the king’s shilling by doing nothing.”
“Jolly good,” commented LaRosa, accepting a drink and settling back with a sigh. “Jolly good indeed. When did you become shore patrol?”
“Just recently. I didn’t want to but they forced my hand.”
“Why not? The police and the military have much in common. Even the title of constable has a long military history, as you should know. High constable was your hereditary trade.”
“In Ireland?”
“Quite so. The high constable of Scotland is the Countess of Errol.”
“A woman?”
“Quite so.”
“I’ve always been interested in history,” said MacQueen, stirring the fire, “but I seem to know bugger all about the truth of it. It seems that we studied British history. All about the thin red line and little else.”
“A distorted view of history, especially regarding Ireland.”
“Yes? The Thirty Years’ War captivated me, as I recall. Fellows by the names of Mansfeld and Wallenstein. I haven’t thought of them for years.”
“Those names would have to appeal to you. They were two of the great mercenaries of the age. One for the Protestant cause, and the other, who became a duke, for the Catholics. He was eventually murdered by his own Irish officers. Schiller wrote a great play on Wallenstein.”
“You seem familiar with it all,” said MacQueen.
“I am a romantic, as most of them were. The idea of Junker dedication came from the military orders. Wallenstein and his ilk were buccaneers, like the Visconti and Sforza in Italy, and many others. Hawkwood, an Englishman. Alas, there isn’t much room for buccaneering anymore.”
“Adventurers thrive in unsettled times.”
“That is when history is written. Bloody but glorious. The blank pages of history are the peaceful and happy times. Turmoil throws up men larger than life who stride across the stage.”
“With no consciences?”
“What has that to do with it?” asked LaRosa, as he swirled his drink. “It’s not a moral question, it’s the pursuit of power. Idealism doesn’t have a chance of success in that struggle. Power is amoral, sure, but the desire for it must consume one. The rewards must be great or else why all the fuss?”
“Then what of the idealist?” MacQueen asked. He pulled a gold c
igarette case from his pocket and opened it for LaRosa. LaRosa raised an eyebrow and accepted a cigarette and a light.
“Cannon fodder,” LaRosa answered. “Used and flung away. Buccaneers disguise their ambitions behind the idealists, but who wants them around to remind one of the vile means necessary to succeed? If one is going to be a successful villain one must pose as a hero. It’s just that idealists realize this about their heroes too late. It’s the toughest game in the world, the power game.”
“Dinner, gentlemen,” said Espery. Candles were lit on the table and wine glasses were full.
“He knows his business, this lad of yours,” commented LaRosa, seating himself heavily on a chair. “One can forgive anything if it’s done with style.”
“I don’t think you’ll have anything to forgive. He’s a good cook too,” MacQueen said with a laugh, as Espery carried in the soup.
“Voila!” toasted LaRosa. “A find in a million, you lucky hound.” He raised his glass and drank some of the wine. “Ruby nectar, fit for the gods. Who was the cupbearer? Ah yes, Ganymede, son of the King of Troy. Was your father the King of Troy, Espery?”
“Not so’s I’d know,” Espery joked, slipping into Newfoundland dialect. “Would you like some music?”
“The master of the house—what would he like?” asked LaRosa.
MacQueen was delighted that his new friend openly enjoyed himself. “I’m not too far along that road either. Tchaikovsky is a favourite.”
“Good enough for a beginner,” agreed LaRosa. “You’ll probably outgrow him but he wrote many a fine tune. His ballet music is good background. Have you Swan Lake? Low, please. Never let anything interfere with good conversation, eh?”
LaRosa’s talk expanded into his personal life. “I’m not an activist in anything,” he proclaimed. “I observe. I’m a voyeur on all planes. The Divine Comedy of Dante. I am an entire theatre of appreciation for the moments of life. Seeing you on parade with your troops this morning caused a whole pageant of history to display itself before me. Chesterton had the right ideas but he was obsessed with expounding them. I am a private connoisseur, responsible to no one but myself—but how I do appreciate a good performance. By God, I don’t care where or what. The quality of the champion bursts through and excellence is achieved! Written, sung, painted, or acted out. My applause covers it all. Thus, I excel at naught—and wouldn’t want to. Maybe I’m too lazy. Life itself, all of it, is to me the supreme masterpiece.”
The Broken Sword Page 38