“I’m sorry, old boy. And with the war just over. Jesus, that’s tough! Anyway, I wanted to tell you we’ve got sailing orders to head down the coast to some joint called Bay Bulls. Know where that is?”
“Yes, a small dockyard—only a couple of hours at most. Why are you going there?”
“We’ve unloaded most of our ammunition here. There’s just a few blanks and star shell left. I’ve only got a skeleton crew and we have to lay up somewhere, I guess. Anyway, I’m the skipper now, for what that’s worth.”
“Congratulations. I might take a run down there and see you, who knows.”
“Anytime, old buddy. We’ll only be there for a few days, till I can scrape a crew together to head for Quebec. Then the scrapyard for the old girl.”
“Kind of sad.”
“Yes. Well, I’ve got to go. Thanks for everything.”
“Good luck, Freddie.”
MacQueen hung up. What a nice simple life, he thought, with a touch of bitterness. He shrugged and finished his drink, then returned to the bar for another.
LaRosa walked in and greeted him, and they took their glasses to the empty cad’s table. “Going to the tea party?” he asked.
“Of course, aren’t you?”
“Well, I don’t know. First, let me say how sorry I am to hear of Lieutenant Cossit. It was a tragic business.”
“Between you and me it was goddamn murder,” muttered MacQueen quietly.
“Really? Then it wasn’t an accident?”
“No.”
“Ah…what are they doing with the body? Are they having an inquest or anything?”
“It’s all been had. He’s being shipped out to Canada tonight. My petty officer is going with him and is permanently drafted. It was his pistol.” MacQueen swirled the ice in his empty glass and began to surrender himself to the gentle effects of the rum. The tension was slowly draining from him and the pangs of his conscience were dulling. He pulled himself upright.
“Another?” asked LaRosa.
“Why not?” MacQueen looked out of the window. The day was still dull, although patches of lawn were becoming green. The sombre overcast sky didn’t raise his spirits. He lit a cigarette.
“About this afternoon,” continued LaRosa, placing the drinks on the table. “I was asked not to come. You’d have found out next week anyway, when you take over the Canadian Intelligence files. You see, I’m British Naval Intelligence.”
MacQueen raised an eyebrow only as this information filtered through. Royal Naval Intelligence—so that was LaRosa’s job around here. Why the hell would they want him here after the war was finished? During the war, there had been spies and saboteurs in Newfoundland, but that hardly applied now.
“Really? That’s interesting. What are your duties here now?”
“I’m an observer. Whitehall and the British Admiralty are interested in the political situation here.”
“…And you’ve been spying for them?
“Just doing my job.” LaRosa took a drink, and MacQueen wondered idly if it contained anything but Coke.
“You’re certainly an eloquent spy!”
“I’d rather not use that word, old boy. I’m just an officer doing my duty.”
“I imagine you want me to tell you what goes on at Government House this afternoon?” MacQueen looked directly into his eyes. LaRosa faltered and looked away.
“Well, you are a naval officer too.”
“Canadian navy, Lieutenant LaRosa.”
“Quite, but as we discussed, the same crown—the same oath.”
“Why is Whitehall suddenly so interested? What has poor old Newfoundland to offer them?”
“The Americans, British, and Canadians are interested in a stable Newfoundland for strategic reasons. Can an independent Newfoundland be stable? That is what I have to determine.”
“And if you think not?”
“I don’t know. Britain can’t keep her commitments all over the world forever. She’s bankrupt. So, it will fall to either the Canadians or Americans to decide.”
“What about the Newfoundlanders?”
“That is the question.”
“Have they really a choice?”
“It’s narrowing daily.” LaRosa stared at him expectantly.
“I can’t guarantee a thing,” said MacQueen. “I think you may have misled me from the beginning, pleasant as it all was. Now it seems as though this country is being thrown to the dogs. I’ll know more clearly tonight—why not call me at home? Say about seven-thirty.”
“I don’t need to remind you of your honour as an officer, I’m sure.” LaRosa in turn looked MacQueen straight in the eye. He didn’t flinch.
“A lot of people have been reminding me of honour this day,” replied MacQueen.
LaRosa nodded his head, rose, and left the building without another word. MacQueen went into the mess to try and force some lunch into himself. The chief steward bent over him with a menu.
“So, they got him,” he whispered.
“It seems that way, Chief,” replied MacQueen, as the boisterous trio of the commander, his Number One, and the secretary entered to dine.
MacQueen and his companions drove through the lofty gateposts of Government House at 1530. A tall member of the constabulary checked his name against a list that he held on a clipboard, then waved them through.
“Lousy security,” commented MacDonell.
They stopped at the awning in front of the main entrance, where MacQueen was greeted by ex-Major James Rowntree.
“Glad you could make it, old boy,” he said, extending his hand. “You travel in some style!”
“Regulations,” commented MacQueen, smiling, and took his hand. “Nice to see you again.”
“There’s a rumour that you had an accident up there. Some fella got shot?” They walked under the awning past the closed visitors’ book and into the main hall. There were crossed regimental flags on the walls, and elegant stairs ran up both sides of the stone hallway.
“Yes. An officer was cleaning his gun.”
“Really!” exclaimed Rowntree, not at all convincingly. “Well, come along, we’re all in here.” He opened two high double doors and entered a large room with trench windows, which faced a small garden and trees. In front of the marble fireplace stood a small, quizzical-looking man with a tea cup and saucer. He came over with his hand outstretched. “Ah yes, I recall you now,” he said, not waiting for an introduction. “It’s been quite some time.”
“Lieutenant Goodman,” answered MacQueen.
“You know Mr. Brunt, of course,” injected Rowntree. “And Mr. Duncan-Fisher, with his charming wife. I think you’ve met some of these gentlemen with Mr. Brunt. You see we keep tabs on you.”
MacQueen laughed, shook hands, and noted that this gathering had been proceeding for some time without him.
“I’m afraid Lieutenant LaRosa won’t be with us this afternoon,” said Duncan-Fisher.
“So I understand,” answered MacQueen.
“Then you know! Mary told us. She’s in Officer’s Records, as you know.”
“Not Royal Navy, surely?”
“Well, anyway, she found out. Would you like a cup of tea or a drink of something?”
Goodman suddenly seemed to come to life. “Goodness,” he said, “I’m forgetting my manners—what’ll it be?”
“I’ll have a rum and ginger if you have some.”
“Of course, dear boy. This place has one of the most potent wine cellars in the hemisphere. We’d hate to lose our reputation from any lack of naval rum!”
Everyone laughed, and MacQueen seated himself. He was rather startled to look up and find the entire assemblage reflected back at him from the ornate mirror over the mantel. Through the looking glass, he thought, or the Mad Hatter’s tea party. MacQueen approved the decor—this was plotting in style. They were a baker’s dozen, he noted ironically.
“As host to this little assemblage—and as Lieutenant MacQueen has just arrived—I mig
ht call us to order,” said Goodman in a quiet tone. “Their Excellencies, as you know, are absent on a visit and know nothing of our purposes here.” He placed his cup on the mantel.
“I’m fairly aware of your thinking and, as a Newfoundlander, I sympathize with your aims. However, there is one point that must be clear: You are on your own.”
“Can you explain that, sir?” came a voice from behind MacQueen.
“I’ll try,” answered Goodman. “When His Excellency visited Roosevelt and Churchill during their historic meeting in our waters in 1943, great concern was expressed that Newfoundland might become a jumping off place for an invasion of North America. It was certainly part of the plan of the German General Staff, if the war had gone other than it did.”
“The Monroe Doctrine,” commented Rowntree.
“Possibly,” answered Goodman, “but the general decision was that Newfoundland should become attached to either Canada or the United States as an integral part of one of those countries.”
“Good heavens,” exclaimed Mr. Brunt. “What about Iceland?”
“I don’t know,” said Goodman. “Anyway, after issuing their Atlantic Charter guaranteeing every people the right of self-determination and to choose their own government, this arrangement could not be just a trade-off, so it would have to be cloaked in legitimacy.”
“Winterwood’s referendum!” cried Blunt, becoming visibly agitated.
“Possibly,” answered Goodman. “Would you like to carry on, Mr. Duncan-Fisher?”
Duncan-Fisher, who was sitting to MacQueen’s right, beside the grand piano, said, “I can’t add much more, except to say that the Commission of Government has been instructed to see that Winterwood wins his referendum come hell or high water.” He looked at his hands and frowned.
There was an angry outcry in the room at this announcement. “This is infamous!” called another of Mr. Brunt’s colleagues.
“So that, gentlemen—and lady—is where we stand,” added Goodman. “As HE’s aide-de-camp, I can do little but offer to do what I can. What I have told you is in the highest confidence, and that applies to Mr. Duncan-Fisher’s remarks also, I’m sure.”
Major Rowntree rose slowly. He was dressed in a tweed hunting jacket and his moustache was carefully brushed outward, giving him a swaggering air. He brushed it with his hand and looked about at the assemblage. “So that’s the ticket!” he exclaimed, showing his widely spaced teeth in a grimace. “Whether Winterwood has support or not, he wins! Despite the Atlantic Charter and all of their fine words, to say nothing of our contribution to their wars, we are sold down the river. Well, we have no alternative except to impose a government of our own, comprised of Newfoundlanders, and then we’ll see who is boss in this house of ours!”
“Hear, hear,” chorused some voices.
“How?” asked MacQueen, strangely startled by the sound of his own voice.
“We simply take over the Colonial Building, issue a manifesto declaring the old government deposed and ourselves legitimate, and carry on from there. We’ll have to neutralize the foreign forces in Newfoundland. There’s no native force that would oppose us!”
“The police?” pressed MacQueen.
“I think not,” answered Rowntree. “They’ll keep law and order, that’s all. No violence.”
“And where is your new government?” asked MacQueen relentlessly.
“Here!” exclaimed Rowntree triumphantly. “You yourself drew up some ideas that we can utilize. I thought they smacked of Sir Oswald or General Franco, but we have no alternative now, for time is too short. We can talk of elections and political parties later, if we have to.”
Mr. Brunt rose to his feet and walked over to the mantel. Rowntree quietly sat down as Brunt pursed his lips and then raised his head and slowly looked around. Hardly the charismatic leader I had in mind, mused MacQueen, but he does look imposing.
“My friends,” he began slowly. “Since we have started this thing we must now see it through. Any risk is worthwhile to head off the well-financed operations of Winterwood. I have been asked by you to become provisional prime minister of Newfoundland, which I accept.”
“Hooray!” cried one of his comrades, in a muted cheer.
“There are strings attached, however,” continued Brunt. “As I have said, there must be no violence. This world has seen too much bloodshed of late. Secondly, I must be in complete control. Some of you as my Cabinet might disagree with me, but that will have to be secondary to the establishment of a strong government. My third question is directed to my future minister of defence, Major Rowntree: When do we act?”
MacQueen felt a rising excitement that verged on panic. My God, he thought, they’re going through with it! He felt an elation and an almost uncontrollable urge to laugh out loud. He glanced at these serious people in the mirror—the new governors! What the hell was he doing in their midst?
Rowntree slowly unwound his tall, slim figure and looked directly at MacQueen. “On Wednesday of this week every prominent figure of the occupation troops, plus His Excellency, will be in the barracks of HMCS Avalon for a formal lunch. If they can be held incommunicado for at least three hours, that would be our opportunity.”
So, that’s it! MacQueen silently slouched in his big chair, his hands clasped in front of his face and looking nowhere in particular. His stomach was suddenly leaden and tense as the meaning of these words swept over him. Most of the ramifications slipped past his perception, and he realized only that he was being asked to kidnap the governor, the admiral, an American and a Canadian general, an air commodore, and God knew who else. The silence in the room was overwhelming, broken only by the steady ticking of a large clock in a corner. Everyone waited tensely. The daring of the scheme had lowered their breathing.
“I’d be court-martialled,” commented MacQueen softly.
Major Rowntree looked at Brunt quickly. Brunt nodded, and the major walked over to MacQueen’s chair. “To us you would be a hero, sir,” he stated. “We would be a sovereign government and you would have our protection—and certainly citizenship, if you so desired. Make your future with us and you will be raised to glory.”
MacQueen thought of his compatriots in the barracks, waiting for his collaboration to collect their loot. He thought also of their shabby talk of honour after conspiring to murder his friend. He thought of the drunken captain flying to the arms of his prime minister, and his promise of glory in Ottawa if elected. He also thought briefly of his naval career, which was now drawing to a close, and his vain attempts to give it some true meaning. Lastly, he thought of the farm in Nova Scotia to be left to three women, one of whom was his mother. Why not take the chance? He would never be able to face himself again if he didn’t.
“Let’s work out the details,” he finally said.
“Good man!” exclaimed Rowntree, wringing his hand and looking exultantly about. “We’ve got the troops now. We can’t lose!”
The rest of the assemblage broke into subdued cheers, and Mrs. DuncanFisher took his hand and said, “You are a very brave man—your mother will be proud!” MacQueen rose and bowed to them solemnly, feeling more distressed than ever. Glory is a cold business, he thought. Goodman passed him another drink, which he accepted gratefully.
“I think that Mr. Brunt will want to get together with his Cabinet to work out the details and draw up the manifesto,” said Rowntree above the voices. “We don’t want to impose on our host, so we’ll all leave shortly. I’m sure that Mr. Duncan-Fisher will want to sink back into anonymity until the new government calls him forth into the diplomatic service. May I express our thanks to Lieutenant Goodman for his hospitality on this historic occasion—which we all know is top, top secret. Lieutenant MacQueen and myself will look after the details of neutralizing any threat of force against us. Gentlemen and lady, we must have a toast to our country, and her next prime minister under the crown.”
They crowded around a table where glasses and a decanter of sherry caught the refle
cted light from the chandelier. Goodman rapidly filled the glasses and everyone stood waiting for the toast. They looked at Mr. Brunt, who cleared his throat.
“This may be the most solemn moment in our history,” he stated, “and I won’t spoil it with a long dissertation. Suffice to say that the patriotism within these walls moves me greatly, and also the gallantry of our young half-Newfoundlander here.” He bowed gently at MacQueen and raised his glass a fraction. “So, I propose a toast to His Majesty the king, and to the new and independent Newfoundland that will be created by all our efforts.”
“The king…to Newfoundland,” they quietly chorused, and drank.
87
Major Rowntree followed MacQueen to his house for further talk on the military aspect of the coup they had agreed upon. He strode to a battered old MG sports car and waved before getting in the car.
As they approached Rawlins Cross and stopped at the light, MacQueen saw the naval patrol wagon heading in the other direction. Beside the driver was a disgruntled-looking Petty Officer Low, who looked at MacQueen’s car with blazing eyes. They passed one another, MacQueen breathing a silent prayer for the soul of his friend whose crated body lay in the back. The driver tooted the horn in recognition and Rodney answered the salute. That was the only send-off there would be for the misguided young warrior who had been murdered.
MacQueen ordered Rodney and MacDonell to stand by at his office and to have their meal brought over from the galley. Neither complained about the extra Sunday hours, as they intuitively felt that excitement was afoot.
Major Rowntree parked his car in the small driveway and they entered the house. Espery had cleaned the mess of the night before; a smell of carbolic permeated the place.
“This is my majordomo, confessor, and chief factotum,” introduced MacQueen. “Espery, this is Major Rowntree.”
“Espery? My grandmother, or at least one of ’em, was an Espery, as I recall.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Espery. “That would be my great aunt Ellen.”
The Broken Sword Page 45