The Broken Sword

by R. Mingo Sweeney

  The evening dwindled to a close. LaRosa accepted MacQueen’s offer of a lift and patiently waited while he said good night to Mary at her home. MacQueen gave her a bloodless kiss that did not convey any feeling—he didn’t want to rouse her again. Huddled in the back seat, the two officers were silent for a while.

  “What do you think of all that?” asked LaRosa.

  “The ramifications grow and grow,” answered MacQueen.

  “You, Duncan-Fisher, and myself have no real axe to grind,” added LaRosa, “except that I find Catherine attractive.”

  “You are right, of course, but it is an intriguing situation—a real challenge.”

  “Call it that if you wish. But measure the odds carefully and decide what you want out of it, m’lad. Don’t just play games. You might end up being the key to it all—and for that you should demand a high price. Don’t try and claim it after it’s all over, get it on the barrelhead.”

  “What kind of price?”

  “Again, what do you want?”

  The barracks were dark and quiet. The glass guardhouse sat alone in a circle of light. The sentry shone his light in the car, then leapt to attention and saluted. LaRosa got out at the officers’ quarters and turned back, leaning into the car.

  “Give it some deep thought,” he advised. “Thanks for the lift, ol’ man. Good night and God bless.”

  MacQueen felt somehow uneasy about the implications of Duncan-Fisher’s conversation. Was it just a local situation involving a few hundred thousand Newfoundlanders? What other powers were playing with the destiny of this rugged land? A palace coup was one thing, quixotic and comic-opera as it might seem, but what secret lay hidden that might make Newfoundland an international prize? Why would Washington or Ottawa, or even London, for that matter, care what government it had as long as it was loyal and stable—care, that is, any more than they cared for Kuwait or Southern Rhodesia? Could it be another classic big power rape? These nations had just finished fighting a global war for the ideals of freedom and self-determination! Hypocrites, all of them, thought MacQueen. What the hell was the war all about except to stop that sort of thing?

  Espery was in bed. He called from the top of the stairs, “Can I help you at all?”

  “No thanks, Espery,” answered MacQueen, pouring himself a stiff nightcap to make up for Mrs. O’Brien’s predations. “I’m turning in right away.”

  83

  The following morning, Lieutenant Commander James Peter Marmaduke, RNR, First Lieutenant of HMCS Avalon, paid MacQueen a surprise call at his office. It was rumoured that the Number One required half a bottle of rum every morning just to get going. He was always erect and correct nonetheless, and even if never sober, no one had ever seen him drunk.

  “Good morning, MacQueen,” said the Number One, entering his office without knocking.

  MacQueen rose. “Good morning, sir. This is an unexpected surprise.”

  The lieutenant commander sat heavily in a chair, took off his cap and, withdrawing a handkerchief from his sleeve, patted his brow. He wore several first war ribbons high on his chest, including the Merchant Marine Medal. His face was flushed, but a remarkably fine bone structure held everything in place. He was a good-looking man, with upswept eyebrows that almost looked satanic.

  “That is a nice sword,” he commented. It was lying on MacQueen’s desk. “Is it yours?”

  “Yes, sir,” answered MacQueen, refraining from giving any details.

  “Gieves. They make the best.”

  He ran his finger under his stiff collar, accepted a cigarette, coughed, and then crossed his legs. MacQueen waited for him, knowing that this wasn’t a social call.

  “I have two problems to talk over, MacQueen. One is rather confidential and concerns Lieutenant Cossit.”

  “Jimmy?”

  “Jimmy. Yes, quite. You are a friend of his. We all are, of course, but perhaps you have some influence. He is a career officer, young, but with a good enough record with the Royal Navy and so on. You know it all. He has an important job here, but he’s heading slam-bang for trouble. I don’t care what his tastes are. Churchill said that the old Royal Navy was run on rum, buggery, and the lash. But this isn’t the old Royal Navy, and we haven’t got the lash.”

  “We have the others?” asked MacQueen with a trace of a smile.

  “Too bloody much of both,” growled the Number One, stubbing his cigarette. “You know what I’m talking about, and young Cossit will be in the soup. His career will be ruined—and possibly others with him.”

  “Why such a fuss about a moral problem?”

  “Morality be damned.” The first lieutenant’s hand was shaking, whether from indignation or the need of a drink. “It is a matter of discipline—and that we must uphold. We are officers—you of anyone around here knows that. The most damning clause in naval regulations is ‘undue familiarity with ratings’. They’ll hang him on that one!”

  MacQueen leaned back in his chair and looked at the fuming lieutenant commander through slitted eyes. The man had sailed the China Seas and been ashore in every cesspool of vice from Shanghai to Marseilles. He was neither naïve nor innocent, yet here he was spouting the old Mandalay bullshit about class distinction as though he had inherited a title from his grandfather the duke. The old sinner was way adrift, trying to inflict Kipling’s Empire on Canadians, and MacQueen knew he didn’t care a hoot about morality. The insult was Jimmy’s straight stripes. This came from the snobbery of the “Permanent Force”, and it grated this old bastard to see Jimmy, in theory, let the side down. Well, that was the navy—Canadian or British. They’d break Jimmy on a wheel given the slightest excuse.

  “‘Undue familiarity with ratings’,” repeated MacQueen. “That’s a magic phrase if ever I heard one…and black magic at that.”

  “It’s regulations,” sputtered the Number One. “In black and white in the King’s Regulations and Admiralty Instructions—and that, my boy, is that. You’d better have a word with him.”

  “And the other topic…?”

  The Number One stood up. “Don’t you have a drink around here?”

  “No, sir. Regulations.” That was a cheap shot, thought MacQueen. He knew he’d pay for it later.

  The lieutenant commander looked at him coldly. “The next item, Lieutenant MacQueen, is that Flag Officer Newfoundland will be striking his colours next week. A lunch will be held here in the officer’s wardroom for him. The governor will be in attendance and the top brass from the US and Canadian army and air force bases. You will be responsible for a viceregal guard of honour. Ninety-eight men and two petty officers.”

  “Good Lord! What day?”

  “Wednesday, I think. It will be confirmed. The commander has ordered me to tell you that this swan song must go off without a hitch, so don’t stab His Excellency with your nice sword!”

  He gathered his cap and gloves and opened the door. He turned and smiled humourlessly as MacQueen rose to his feet. “Captain D is leaving also,” he said as he walked out. “Commander Marchand will then be in overall command of personnel in the base.”

  MacQueen sat down with a groan. How the hell was he going to get together a guard of that size in less than a week? He buzzed for Hemming and started to dictate a memorandum to himself, listing each point to be covered as it came to mind. They would have to scrape the bottom of the barrel to keep all of the areas covered and yet muster ninety-eight men and two petty officers.

  At least it would be a show of strength to the governor and his entourage.

  In the meantime, the filing cabinets and other equipment of the shore patrol started to arrive and were stored in the far end of the building. Parking space was found for the two police wagons, and MacQueen signed for the items as they arrived, neatly listed by Leading Seaman Timmons. Young MacDonell, spotless in his new job, assisted where he could, until MacQueen called him.

  “Let everyone else pitch in, MacDonell,” he said. “We’re heading for the drill hall. Hemming, I’ll be a
t the gunnery stores, or somewhere over there.”

  The gunner’s mate jumped to attention. “Good morning, sir. Cup of tea?” He poured a strong brew into an enamel mug and offered it, pushing milk and sugar across the counter.

  “Thanks, Chief,” said MacQueen. “You’ve heard of the big job Wednesday?”

  “You give me the bodies, sir. I’ll have ’em in shape.”

  “That’s the difficulty, it would seem. Where’ll we get the bodies?”

  The gunner’s mate gestured to MacDonell to pour himself a cup of tea, then took a clipboard from the wall and studied it for a while. “We’ve got about five stokers lying over on Block C,” he started, “and a few odds and bods in Block F. The barracks ain’t what it used to be. Then there are the sweepers and maintenance lads. We could get a couple of petty officers from the pay branch, even though they’ll howl about it, plus the off-duty guard. Oh, we can muster ’em, I guess. It’ll take some work on the parade square, but what the hell. I’ve emergency web belts and gaiters, all in beautiful shape, and rifles too. All they have to do is appear in decent uniforms, if they have ’em.”

  “Where’s the gunnery officer?”

  “He’s gone on leave to get married to that young Wren. He’ll hate to miss this. Would have postponed the wedding, I’d wager!”

  MacQueen laughed but agreed that Guns would certainly have put off anything but his own funeral to have commanded a viceregal guard.

  “I’ll have to take it myself then.”

  “Afraid so, sir. There isn’t another lieutenant here who could handle it, and any other rank is a no-no.”

  “I won’t be required for anything except on Wednesday?”

  “No, sir. I’ll coordinate the lists and times with Petty Officer Low and arrange with the master-at-arms for any other bodies, plus Lieutenant Cossit, if I need some of his. It’ll work out, have no fear. How’s your sword drill?”

  “I’m okay. on that. We’d better have a dress rehearsal with the band and everything before the event.”

  “I’ll let you know, sir. Don’t worry, we’ll upstage the Royal Marines!”

  MacQueen left with an enormous sense of relief. Professionalism certainly counted in a life that was so full of bumbling amateurs. Give a pro a job and he did it. With the others one had to follow up every hour on the hour.

  Petty Officer Low came striding along the boardwalk, his cutlass swinging at his hip and his chin-stay under his chin to show one and all that he meant business. He stopped with an army stamp, and saluted.

  “Good day, sir-r,” he said. “I’m on my way to see the gunner’s mate—he just called for me.”

  “Good man, PO,” answered MacQueen, returning the salute. “I was just going to talk to you about it, but he knows the score, so it will save some time.”

  He looked at MacDonell. “Your new escort, I see, sir-r.”

  “Yes. Well, report to me when you’ve finished.”

  “Aye, sir-r.” Saluting again, he proceeded, shouting at a knot of ratings to pull their shoulders back and stop slouching.

  Lieutenant Jim Cossit was waiting in MacQueen’s office, looking debonair and examining the sword.

  “Jimmy! I’m getting all sorts of visitors today, and the Number One was here earlier.”

  “Hi, Pat, I’ve come to take you to the City Club for lunch. A little break from routine.”

  “That’s an idea—haven’t been there for ages. What’s the celebration?”

  “Just to get away,” said Jimmy with his winsome smile. “You’ll have to provide the transport.”

  “Pleasure. Just let me wrap a few things up here and we’re away.”

  Lieutenant Cossit wandered into the orderly room, which was in a turmoil of packing cases and filing cabinets. He picked up a local paper and scanned the news of Admiral Doenitz’ surrender at Flensburg—the last act. He looked at MacDonell. “You’re new, aren’t you? Lieutenant MacQueen’s escort? What’s your name?”

  MacDonell jumped to attention. “MacDonell, sir.”

  Cossit chuckled. “Please sit down. I’m not a guard officer, you know.”

  Jimmy Cossit was an engaging young man, betraying no indication of his proclivities and putting everyone instantly at ease with his wide smile and twinkling eyes. He had an ease of manner that made slight mock of his straight stripes, and his inability to be sombre was a mark against him in the dour atmosphere of temporary senior officers trying to be gentlemen. He had long ago endeared himself to MacQueen with the statement, “As the crown prince of Germany once complained: ‘Why does everyone think I enjoy war because I try to be cheerful and love my troops?’ That Hun must have been a good egg, because I feel exactly the same.”

  MacQueen had felt an immediate empathy with this carefree young man, not realizing the subterranean depths that were to be his undoing. When the truth finally dawned, it didn’t affect their friendship. Actually, it was a relief to Cossit to have someone in on his secret. But it complicated life for his platonic friend in his efforts to protect him. The prince’s comment about “loving his troops” was a bit too close for comfort—or safety.

  MacQueen beckoned to him through the window between the offices. “All ready?” he asked.

  “Let’s go, boss,” answered Cossit.

  MacQueen could think of no more pleasant sensation than sitting in the back of his staff car with a fellow officer whom he liked beside him, his smart, armed escort in front with his driver, and heading for an agreeable rendezvous that held no promise of turmoil or frustration. Canadians, he mused, lack a sense of style. They were a nation of conformists and egalitarians. They apologized for excellence. Spread out, it was difficult for them to build a stratified society. Newfoundland had succeeded in its odd way. Join Canada and they would just be one of the mob.

  Jimmy Cossit had been jesting with MacDonell and Rodney during MacQueen’s musings. He turned to his friend. “You’re quiet. Dozing off?”

  “You’ll soon wake up, sir, when I try to get over these potholes,” exclaimed Rodney, as they breasted the dockyard main gate. MacQueen noticed the guard talking to one of the better known local whores. He made a mental note of that.

  The car slowed to a crawl along Water Street, the old cobbled business thoroughfare of the aging seaport. Driving was on the left, but the vehicles had the wheel on the “wrong” side, which made things doubly hazardous.

  The City Club was on the second floor of one of the high brick buildings on the south side of the street. The hallway was clean and the linoleum runner on the stairs waxed to a high polish. The brass banister gleamed. It smelled appetizing and exclusive. Honorary membership had been extended to service officers for the duration of the war. MacQueen realized it would likely be expiring soon.

  MacQueen and Jimmy Cossit mounted the stairs, checked their caps and gloves, and washed their hands in the large gleaming washroom. The bar itself boasted a brass rail and overlooked the harbour. It wasn’t large, but most of the other guests were in the dining room, billiard room, or one of the other rooms for cards and other amusements.

  Each officer automatically placed one foot on the brass rail and ordered drinks. Shiny cuspidors were on the floor. There were no tobacco or spittle stains around them, which testified to either a lack of use or good aim.

  “I always like it here,” said Jimmy, tasting his drink. “Reminds me something of the West Coast—don’t know why.”

  “They have a City Club in Victoria too,” said MacQueen. “We used to go there as subbies from Royal Roads. Not as posh as this place, Lord knows. But they had slot machines. I had a favourite that often paid for my night at the Empress Hotel.”

  “The old Empress,” chortled Jimmy. “Here’s to her. Many’s the crinolined behind that’s been pinched midst her potted palms!”

  MacQueen laughed. “You put it well, ol’ boy. I remember once reading that all the grand hotels in the world have similar old ladies drinking infinite quantities of tea. They are called the Harpies of
the Ritz. The Empress had more than its share of those old gaffers.”

  “Take it easy, Pat. I have two great aunts who go there every afternoon. They’re a formidable pair. If you parachuted through the skylight they would only be slightly perturbed, and then they would ask your name and immediately recollect having met your father at Biarritz, or somewhere.”

  “Staunch old warriors,” commented MacQueen. He felt someone touch his elbow. It was Duncan-Fisher, holding a billiard cue.

  “Good morning, Lieutenant,” he said. His hair was sleekly parted, and he wore a checked tattersall vest. “I saw you through the doorway—haven’t seen you here before.”

  MacQueen introduced him to Jimmy and asked if he would like a drink. “I have one inside, but thank you. Could I possibly speak to you for a moment?”

  MacQueen excused himself and followed the well-tailored figure through the main hall, into the panelled billiard room. A tall, sandy­haired man with a wide-swept cavalry moustache was standing beside the table, chalking his cue. “I’d like you to meet Major Rowntree. James, this is Lieutenant MacQueen of the Canadian navy.”

  MacQueen shook his hand, noting the affectation of disinterest that is an inescapable part of many British officers.

  “Major Rowntree has just arrived back in St. John’s from overseas,” explained Duncan-Fisher. “He is in sympathy with the—ah—predicament of his native land. His family of course are not unknown in Newfoundland history.” MacQueen had recognized the name of one of the merchant families of the city.

  “Yes,” said Rowntree, with a swallowing drawl, “we’ve got a stake in the country all right. Want to keep it too, don’t y’know. Paul here has been briefing me on the current situation. How bloody awful!”

  MacQueen glanced at a couch where a crumpled figure was reclined, breathing heavily, with an empty glass on the floor beside him. “That’s our fearless leader, Major Coshing,” explained Duncan-Fisher. “He’s leading his troops in his dreams.”

  MacQueen did not know what to say and felt rather awkward. This was getting to higher and higher levels, yet no one had specified a thing, and he had asked for nothing. Talk was cheap, but what exactly were they all driving at? He had submitted a rough plan for a government at his meeting with the men in the drug store. This fellow Rowntree’s business probably ran on identical lines, yet they wanted to involve him at every level.