The Broken Sword

by R. Mingo Sweeney

  “Incidentally, old boy,” said Rowntree, “I hear you want a word with Harry Goodman, HE’s bumboy? Well, I’m seeing him this aft—anything I can do?”

  “We’re planning a send-off for the admiral on Wednesday,” replied MacQueen. “The governor is supposed to come as guest of honour. I’ll be in command of the guard—he might get word to me then.”

  Duncan-Fisher and Rowntree exchanged quick glances. “Yes, mebbe so. Or mebbe sooner? Would you be free for tea on Sunday?”

  MacQueen recalled the army dance on Saturday night. He wouldn’t be at his best, but what the hell. “I should think so.”

  “Splendid. We’ll work something out and let you know. Duncan here has your number, I believe.”

  “I must rejoin my friend, but it was a pleasure. I’ll hear from you?”

  “Certainly.” They shook hands all round, and with another glance at Major Coshing, MacQueen headed for the bar.

  “I thought you’d deserted me,” said Jimmy. “What was that all about?”

  “Just chatting with the toffs,” said MacQueen. “Let me buy you one.”

  “Okay. I’ve ordered lunch. Quite a view from here. What’s that across there?”

  “That’s the dry dock by the Naval Armament Depot—worst posting in the guard atop that one in winter! It looks pretty deserted over there. Can you see the numbers on that corvette?”

  “Two-two-seven, I think.”

  “That’s Freddie Seaton’s. They must have moved him over. Good thing we noticed.”

  “Who the hell is Freddie Seaton?”

  “An old classmate. Lord, I’ve got to fix him with a date for Saturday night. Manie’s asked us to an army dance.”

  “She didn’t ask me,” said Jimmy, pretending to be hurt.

  “Come if you wish, it’s open. Who’d you take?”

  “That monstrous Wren chief petty officer!” exclaimed Jimmy, breaking into peals of laughter. “God, what tits! Can you imagine? She’d swallow me whole.”

  “She could swallow you before breakfast,” said MacQueen, laughing.

  This merriment ringing out from the bar startled some of the slumberous members. Each in his own way thanked his God that the war was over, and that soon they could rest in peace from such barbarians.

  Jimmy had ordered a creamed selection of fish that was excellent. He also ordered a good wine, and they finished with Remy Martin cognac and coffee. They both felt in high spirits. “The great redeeming feature of Newfoundland is the liquor supply. Canada may be a puritan’s paradise but thank God we devils have ended up here!”

  “Rum, buggery, and the lash…” muttered MacQueen, suddenly thoughtful.

  “What’s that? I didn’t hear you, my man.”

  “Nothing, Jimmy, just something one of those fellows said. Can we afford another one of these?” MacQueen didn’t have the heart to spoil the high spirits with dour warnings from up the hill.

  Returning to his office, MacQueen checked the PO’s listings for the guard of honour and sought to reorganize the watches to free some of the guard for shore patrol duties. Hemming reported that the newly opened cellblock now contained its first prisoner, sent by the master-at­arms’ office, and that he was sleeping off a massive intake of the local rum known as Screech.

  “He’ll be with us over the weekend at least, sir,” said Hemming, “and he’ll have a job cleaning up the mess in his cell.”

  “He’ll have another job,” answered MacQueen. “Polishing our sword. I want it gleaming every day for the guard of honour. I’ll wear it on my official visits to the inspector general of the constabulary and the CID on Monday.”

  “That’s an idea, sir-r,” added Petty Officer Low. “He can polish my cutlass also.”

  Hemming took the weapons and laid them aside until the culprit sobered up.

  “You didn’t take any of my choices for your escort, sir-r?” queried the petty officer.

  “Just an accident, PO. I happened to be in the dockyard and young MacDonell caught my eye.”

  “He’s young, sir. And new. I hope it isn’t resented.”

  “Every move is resented by someone, PO We can’t please everyone. He seems fine to me.” He wanted none of the petty officer’s boys at this crucial time.

  They returned to the lists. The shore patrol would be very thin in St. John’s, but there were only two ships in the harbour—and one was due to leave on Saturday, which was tomorrow. Seaton’s corvette had a skeleton crew and the personnel in the base were hardly one half that of three months ago. The Wrens were scheduled to leave early in the week, leaving only minimal staff.

  The guard of honour posed another problem, in that they would need to make sure there was coverage for the changeover of watches. The assortment of other ratings available would provide whatever other standby bodies might be required.

  It was tight, but it could be done. The extra drill required would not amount to more than a few hours, as the guards drilled regularly, but the others would have to be integrated. As they were in barracks anyway, the gunner’s mate could concentrate on them. The band was always up to scratch, although they would be leaving for Canada within a week, which was sad to contemplate.

  At dinner that evening, LaRosa joined MacQueen. They sat in the mess for a while afterwards and talked quietly in a corner.

  “I have been invited to a tea on Sunday,” said LaRosa. “The governor and his wife will be spending the weekend at the bottom of Bonavista Bay, as the locals put it, and we’ll be entertained at Government House by Lieutenant Goodman. Apparently, there will be quite a few present.”

  “So they are showing themselves at last?”

  “None that you haven’t met, I don’t think. It’s a good location, and guarded by the constabulary at each gate, so we won’t be seen all at once. The pressure is rising. We’ll have to decide on some course of action or chuck it all to Winterwood for good.”

  “What’s your price in all this?” asked MacQueen suddenly.

  LaRosa sat silent for some time, the smoke from his cigar curling towards the ceiling. There were only a few officers present, each involved in his own concerns. The first lieutenant was sitting in a corner at what was called the cad’s table, writing a letter to his American sweetheart, who owned some beauty parlours in California. He planned to marry her, probably as a form of insurance. The fine-looking commander of the Wrens was quietly reading in an opposite corner. Two sub-lieutenants were playing chess. The bar steward sat in bored silence on a stool behind the bar.

  “Before I can answer that, let us look at the probable outcome, at least as I see it. Your friend Brunt will be asked to emerge as the prime minister—provisional, of course. Under him there will be six ministries to correspond with the Commission of Government, possibly some of the same men. This structure will proclaim the new government once they have the support, or at least the neutrality of the police, and then they will ask the governor for his blessing. Once that all is accomplished then elections can be planned in the old style, and there will be no question of joining any other country or altering the status quo.”

  “My plan made no mention of elections,” commented MacQueen.

  “No? Well, whether elections are held or not will of course be up to the provisional government.”

  “This is all reverting to 1934?”

  “In a way it is, but the world is changing, alas.”

  It was MacQueen’s turn to be silent. LaRosa offered him a brandy, and he nodded absently. LaRosa rose and went to the bar, tearing tickets from his booklet, and returned with the drinks.

  “Frankly,” said MacQueen, “I had based my submission on the idea of the corporate state, much like what Italy had in the twenties. It’s efficient and costs less. This way you are putting the trappings of an elephant back on the puppy dog.”

  “Well, this seems to be what they’ll buy right now. Of course, you can bring up your ideas again at the tea on Sunday, but we must be prepared to be constructive.”

>   “I don’t see Brunt leading in the referendum that Winterwood keeps talking about. He hasn’t got much pizzazz, if you know what I mean. He’s a good man, but that Joe is pretty hot stuff right now. Anyway, what do they need me for? Any idea of a coup must be diminishing daily. I don’t imagine you can plan even the smallest revolution overnight. Much longer and I’ll have no troops left. Besides, you haven’t answered my question—what’s in it for you?”

  “My lad, I lived through just this sort of thing in Ireland when the Irish Free State emerged. If de Valera has his way it will soon be the Republic of Ireland. I even went to Spain and witnessed the birth pains of another type of state, but still within our traditions. The Civil War, as they called it. I call it a crusade, and Franco the last of the crusaders. They were no strangers to war. This was the last bastion of the old way. Naturally, Irish and Catholic, I went to Burgos to pay my homage to the great man. Everything was there in wild profusion. Scarlet-beretted Carlists in their long cloaks, Moorish guards in turbans and carrying lances, the newest Falange blueshirts, rather too eager for my taste, the cavalry and the common soldiers encamped in front of the magnificent cathedral. Generations of kings and saints and mystics gazing calmly at the panoply of war.

  “Franco didn’t impress me physically—he came to the leadership by accident. I know nothing of the trenches, or the hospitals, or the cold. Men don’t want to die for those things. On the republican side, everyone was extolling the common man. But in Burgos? Never! Here was the noble man, the excellent man, the uncommon man. That was being extolled and that is where my heart is. It’s glory—la gloire—my friend. I can smell all of the identical components here and now.”

  MacQueen considered LaRosa’s points quietly. The noble versus the commonplace. He may be right about Franco being the “last crusader”, and MacQueen did agree that the situation repeated itself here in miniature. But could one contemplate a civil war in Newfoundland? Hardly. Whatever happened, it would be over in a night. Change an office or two; establish and legitimize a new authority; announce it to the world—and that would be that. The world was full of such precedents.

  LaRosa continued with clear passion. “You once said that adventurers succeed in times of turmoil. This is a ripe plum that might only require a few decisive acts and it’s ours. Not yours and mine, although we’ll be there, playing our part and reaping the rewards that only a sovereign state can bestow. It could join the United Nations as a counterbalance to the Commonwealth, and the very location will hold America and Canada up to ransom. Can’t you see the possibilities in this poverty-stricken island? They will need men like us!”

  MacQueen watched the liquid of his drink shimmer in the low light as he swirled it in his glass. “Do you want to see—or be—a president of Newfoundland?” he asked. “What about the crown?”

  “The crown will legitimize it, and then it will be up to the people to decide. But why not the crown? It gives enormous international prestige and will prevent us from becoming an iced-over banana republic. We will need at least a coast guard and security forces, if that’s what interests you most. Citizenship will be no problem and your oath will still stand. To the king of Newfoundland, but the same man and dynasty as before.”

  MacQueen drank his brandy in a gulp. “There are still things I don’t know, and maybe I’ll learn them on Sunday, but right now I’m going home and to bed. You have painted quite a picture, my friend, and I find it an attractive one. You’re nearly a prophet of sorts—but it’s pretty rich for my blood. God knows what I’ve got myself into!”

  He bade LaRosa good night, got his cap, and decided to walk. The air was warmer, with the scent of the sea giving it the gentle tang that he had come to love. His footsteps crunched over the gravel as he approached the back gate.

  “Halt, who goes there?” rang out from the sentry.

  “Officer of the guard,” he replied.

  “Advance and be recognized!” ordered the sentry, shining a light on his face. He straightened to attention and saluted.

  “Good evening, sir.”

  “Evening. Trepanier, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell me, Trepanier, what do you fellows think about the king?”

  Trepanier looked at him in astonishment. He was from Levis and knew from experience that French Canadians weren’t too popular in the navy. Apparently, the officer had been drinking.

  “The king, sir? I don’t think about him at all. He’s okay, I guess, but it doesn’t mean much to me.”

  “Don’t be upset, it was just a question. Good night.”

  “Good night, sir.”

  MacQueen walked to the pavement and turned towards his house. Not many people really thought about the king, he mused. What an awesome height he occupied. Above it all, the lucky man.

  “You’re home early tonight,” said Espery in surprise. “And walking alone, at that?”

  “Just a stroll up from the wardroom—it’s a mild night. Have we got a brandy in your little cache there?”

  “I think so. May I join you?”

  “By all means, and light the fire. We’ll try for a quiet hour or so before turning in.”

  Espery poured two good measures and put a match to the fire. MacQueen took off his jacket and eased himself into a comfortable chair. Espery offered him a cigarette, then sat by the table, waiting expectantly.

  MacQueen sighed deeply. “How long have your family been in Newfoundland?” he asked.

  “Lord, forever it seems. They came out around 1800. Mostly sea captains and some merchants. I guess I’m related to most of the old families hereabouts, one way or t’other. I was a rebel though—went to sea early and haven’t settled anywhere since.”

  “What do you think of this land of yours?”

  “It’s my home, and that’s that, I suppose. All of my important memories and traditions are bound up with Newfoundland, and no one can escape those. You know the national anthem, ‘We Love Thee Newfoundland’? That phrase is repeated a lot in it, whether as a sign of our love or an attempt to convince ourselves, I don’t know. We’re a breed apart, really.”

  “It seems to me that every breed considers itself the salt of the earth.”

  “I don’t know about that. My father was killed in France in the first war. Almost a whole generation of Newfoundlanders perished in a few days. This time we’ve been spread through the Royal Navy and our own units are fighting alongside the British. We look more to the old country than to Canada or America.”

  “Yes, I know. But you are a part of North America, after all—especially Labrador. That cuts a big chunk out of Quebec.”

  “That may have been a mistake. It involves us too much in that direction. Although I don’t know, nor care much. I’m a Newfoundlander—and that’s good enough for me wherever I go.”

  “Would you die for Newfoundland?”

  Espery smiled. “What is death? I’ve faced it often, and even have a DCM to show for it. To die for something is no great sacrifice. Yes, I’d die for my country. Lord knows, I’ve offered myself, but there haven’t been any takers. To live for it is the problem.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Too much interference, for one. We’re like Poland, caught between giants and their bloody ambitions. Just look at us! We’re mainstream and occupied by the Americans, the Canadians, and the British. Where the hell are the Newfoundlanders? Off fighting someone else’s wars.”

  “What would the nation do on its own?”

  “While there’s fish in the sea we can live, and that’s only a start. We’ve got timber and minerals and a people used to hard work. We could easily survive, and even prosper, given a little luck and some know-how.”

  “What about Winterwood?”

  “Since you’re asking my opinion, I believe him to be nothing short of a bastard. He wants to give everything away! I’d rather be proud in rags than a whore in ermine. He talks about confederation—that’s bullshit. They’ve been after us
for years, the Canadian wolf. It might be warm in a wolf’s belly but I’d rather be cold.”

  MacQueen stood up and stretched. “I think you are a patriot, Espery,” he said.

  “Call it what you will, it’s how I feel—and how everyone I know feels. The big boys might be toying with ideas, but they’re crazy. Winterwood is promising people the moon—but that doesn’t make him any less a traitor!”

  “Strong words, old boy. I’m going to bed. Have another, if you wish. It’s been very interesting.”

  84

  On Saturday morning MacQueen arrived late at his office. It was usually a quiet day, and after a leisurely glance at accumulated papers of no urgency, he wrote a letter to his mother and read the local newspaper. In the “Letters to the Editor” column, he noted another appeal for the removal of the troops of occupation from the soil of Newfoundland, a theme that seemed to grow more dominant as their numbers receded.

  He dialed the offices of the inspector general of constabulary and the Civilian Investigation Department to confirm his official visits for Monday. Then he proceeded to the parade square to watch the gunner’s mate and Petty Officer Low drilling the guard of honour.

  A paymaster lieutenant descended the stairs from the administration building and approached him with his hand outstretched. “Lieutenant MacQueen,” he said, “my name is John MacDwine. I’m the Commander’s new secretary.”

  They shook hands, and MacDwine asked him to have a drink in the wardroom before lunch. The new secretary was young, with an Atlantic Star ribbon on his jacket—seagoing “Pay Bobs” weren’t plentiful. They walked to the wardroom, and MacQueen accepted a drink but excused himself for a moment to speak to Manie.

  “Hi luv,” she said, sitting in an armchair and looking sultry despite the uniform. “You’re not backing out of our date tonight?”