“Would it, by God! Then we’re cousins of sorts.”
“Well, congratulations to you both,” MacQueen said, laughing. “Espery here can be trusted completely and might even add a fillip or two. How about a drink?”
“Good idea. Have you Scotch and water? No ice.”
“Certainly, sir,” said Espery. “Why not make yourselves comfortable?”
They went into the front room and Espery put a match to the fire.
“You fellas do pretty well for yourselves,” commented Rowntree.
“Actually, I’m shore patrol. When they transferred me I had to move out of barracks. This was the only place I could find.”
“Jolly nice,” said Rowntree, accepting a drink. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” answered MacQueen, raising his glass, “and success.”
“Yes. Shall we get down to it?”
The plan that emerged was simplicity itself. Once all of the “brass hats” were assembled in the wardroom building, the guard of honour would be strategically positioned to make sure no one left the buildings or communicated with the inmates. They would be busy with drinking, eating, and speeches for at least two hours or more. In the meantime, the entire base would be alerted in a “security exercise”, cutting off all telephone communication, and all gates would refuse entry or exit without a special pass.
The noon gun from Signal Hill, which fired once a day, would also signal the commencement of activity in the city. Mr. Brunt and his Cabinet would assemble at the Colonial Building, having notified the police at the last minute that they planned a political rally. Once there, they would proclaim the new government, and Major Rowntree’s picked squads of demobilized veterans from his Newfoundland Regiment would occupy the scattered government buildings. Then the new ministers would take over. The old commissioners would be quietly held at their homes or offices until the fracas was over.
Once this had been accomplished, the major and Mr. Brunt would proceed to the barracks, where Lieutenant Goodman would have persuaded the governor to meet with them in a private room in the wardroom building, hopefully while the festivities were continuing. Then all that would be required was the signature of the governor, and it would be over. Lieutenant Goodman felt certain that he could influence Lady Owens to then influence HE Vice Admiral Sir Geoffrey Horatio Owens, KCMG to sign on the dotted line, whether he knew what it was all about or not.
The governor could then return to the luncheon and announce that Newfoundland had just undergone a change of government, as though it was routine and pure formality. The security exercise would be lifted, and the guard of honour would salute everyone as they left.
“We’ll call it the Silent Revolution,” said Rowntree with a laugh.
During this time, they had eaten some sandwiches prepared by Espery, had some coffee, and were now nursing glasses of cognac. Their mutual enthusiasm for the project was contagious, and all three were in high spirits.
“It can’t miss!” exulted Espery, his eyes glistening. “What a marvellous plan.”
“It has the great merit of simplicity,” agreed Rowntree.
Suddenly the telephone rang. They looked at one another quickly. “My God,” breathed MacQueen. It rang again. “I’ll bet it’s LaRosa.”
Espery went to the telephone.
“Lock him up,” growled Rowntree. “We can’t have him snooping around. He knows too much anyway.”
“It’s Lieutenant LaRosa, sir. What’ll I tell him?”
MacQueen went to the wall phone. “Hello, old boy. Yes, we had a meeting. Well, I can’t talk here, really…how about my office? Half hour is okay. Yes, I know you wish us well. See you there.”
“Can you manage it?” asked Rowntree. MacQueen stood with his hand on the telephone. The time for action had arrived and he mustn’t shirk it—but how does one dispose of a British naval officer in a Canadian naval base for a few days and get away with it?
“I’ll shut him up one way or the other.”
“Remember what Brunt said about violence.”
“Hell, a country is at stake. Remember what Goebbels said: You can’t have an omelette without cracking some eggs.”
“True,” added Rowntree. “May have to crack a few m’self but strictly on the QT. Brunt is adamant on the subject, and we don’t want him flying the coop.”
“Some revolution!” commented MacQueen.
“Remember ’34,” chimed in Espery. “It’s a Newfoundland tradition, these bloodless revolutions.”
“Let’s hope so,” muttered MacQueen, thinking suddenly of Jimmy Cossit. “Call my car, Espery. I guess this meeting is wrapped up.”
“Here is my private number,” said Rowntree, scribbling on a visiting card. “I’ll see that it’s manned around the clock from now on. Let me know of anything that goes on or disturbs you. We can’t be too careful. Certainly call me when you have disposed of LaRosa.”
He shook hands with MacQueen then turned to Espery. “Well, cousin,” he said. “You’re in this up to your ears whether you like it or not, eh?”
“This, I like,” replied Espery.
“Good. We’ll keep in touch. Thanks for a fine evening—and try not to put anything in writing!”
“Right. Goodnight for now!”
“Cheerio.”
Rowntree was backing out of the driveway as Rodney and MacDonell pulled up to the curb. With a roar and another wave, he was off into the growing dusk. MacQueen gave Espery a thumbs-up signal and stepped into his car.
There was no one in the guard building except the duty operator who received calls from each area hourly. MacQueen beckoned MacDonell into his office and motioned to his pistol. “Do you know how to use that thing?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” answered the surprised boy.
There was a small glass window between MacQueen’s office and the orderly room. He pointed to this. “When I signal through that window, I want you to quietly come through the door and point your pistol at the head of the man who’ll be sitting over there. Will you do that?”
“Yes, sir,” the young guard replied.
“Now don’t waver or say a thing. Have it cocked and pointed. He’ll know if you intend to use it; he’s used to this sort of thing. Keep clear of him when he rises and follow him three feet in the rear. Make sure he doesn’t slam a door or grab me as a shield. I’ll walk into the cellblock and he will follow, with you behind, understand?”
The boy gulped. “Yes, sir.”
“We’ll place him in the soundproof padded cell for the night, taking his jacket and tie and cap. Any questions?”
“We’d better open the cell first, sir. There’s that fellow in the other cell too.”
“Let’s hope he’s asleep. Cover the aperture with a handkerchief or something. Now go and open the cell door and stand by until I signal. Here he comes.”
MacDonell quickly left the office, standing aside to let LaRosa enter. He was smiling and cheerily sat in the chair MacQueen indicated.
“Well,” he said, “big things today?”
MacQueen sat opposite him. “I still can’t figure you out. After you’ve finished blighting this little enterprise where are you off to next?”
LaRosa laughed. “Northern Ireland, possibly. There’s always trouble up there, y’know.”
“You do come from the south?”
“Oh yes, that’s quite true. Our house was burned in ’22. I don’t really like revolutions much.”
“You have a way of convincing people otherwise.”
He smiled more broadly. “Tricks of the trade, y’know. Now let’s stop all of this nonsense. You’re in way over your head. You’re a Canadian officer dabbling in things you can’t possibly understand. Tell me the lot—I’ll get you an OBE or something and we’ll nip it in the bud.”
“Why?”
“Newfoundland is going to join Canada and that is that.”
“Why? What about the Atlantic Charter?”
LaRosa looked at him in surprise. His eyes twinkle
d. “What’s that got to do with it?”
“The power game?” MacQueen asked quietly.
“Precisely. So don’t be an idealistic fool.”
MacQueen raised his hand at the window. The door opened, and young MacDonell entered, holding his .45 pistol steadily and aiming it at LaRosa’s head. LaRosa’s mouth dropped open.
“What the hell’s this?” he sputtered.
“This lad has been ordered to kill you if you make one false move,” said MacQueen evenly. “Now stand up, my friend, turn around, and put your hands on the wall. MacDonell, stand over there while I search him.”
“This is madness,” muttered LaRosa, doing as he was told.
MacQueen took a wallet and some papers from LaRosa’s inner pocket, and a small Italian automatic from under his arm.
He flung the papers and wallet on his desk, checked the automatic, and flicked a round of ammunition into the chamber. He then opened the door and ordered the drowsy duty operator to go to the canteen and buy some Cokes. When the rating had gone, he turned back to the room. “Now follow me, LaRosa—and no tricks. The boy is a good shot, and he has a very big gun.”
LaRosa turned and followed MacQueen through the orderly room to the cellblock, his eyes darting about to familiarize himself with the lay of the land. He entered the padded cell. “It’s comfortable, but soundproof, so there’s no point in yelling,” said MacQueen. “I’ll have blankets and a bucket for you soon. You’ll be served your meals here, but don’t try to talk to any of the guards. There is a doctor available if you get sick, and I’ll have my man come and shave you each day, and bring you books. I’m sorry but that’s the way it is.”
“You’ll have a tough time explaining my absence, MacQueen.”
“You’re the only Royal Navy officer left in the base, you know. Now give me your jacket and have pleasant dreams about Ireland.”
LaRosa smiled and handed his jacket out the door. “By God, you’ve got spirit! Who knows, you might win.”
“We intend to. Good night.”
He closed and locked the large door. MacDonell was still standing against the wall with his pistol raised. MacQueen pushed his arm down. Sweat glistened on the boy’s face.
“What have we done, sir?” he asked.
“Tell absolutely no one, MacDonell, do you understand? Nobody at all.”
They walked back to the office. Six Cokes were on the desk, and the unaware duty operator was back at his switchboard. “Any calls in my absence?” asked MacQueen.
“Just one, sir. They’ll call back.”
He closed the door and turned to MacDonell.
“That man in there is in special charge for a few days,” he said, folding LaRosa’s jacket and putting it in the bottom of his filing cabinet, along with his cap and gloves. “Get him some blankets from one of the shore patrol bunks, and give him a pillow and a Coke. Push everything through the hatch at the bottom of the door and don’t talk to him. Oh yes, and take the handkerchief off the other door. Then come back here.”
MacQueen put LaRosa’s pistol in the top drawer of his desk then examined the wallet and papers. He held up a carbon copy of a letter, which he read with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
To: Capt. D. M. Purcell, RCNVR
From: Lieut. R. LaRosa, (SB) RNR
Sir,
I am entrusting this letter to Petty Officer Low, who has agreed to perform this service in return for any consideration you can render on his demobilization.
I am sure that your Prime Minister will be interested to know that a movement for Newfoundland independence has surfaced, and a coup is planned.
We might be able to contain this locally but in the event of my removal from the scene, as I am already suspect, I would recommend the immediate removal of Lieut. MacQueen, the Guard Officer. He is deeply involved and has troops under his command.
If this succeeds there will be no Confederation except by force.
This letter is insurance, for your eyes and those of the PM only. I act on instructions from Whitehall and I am sure of the concurrence of the US.
Not knowing where you are, you might try to call me. No other personnel here are aware of this threat.
Signed: R. LaRosa, Lieut. RNR
Royal Naval Intelligence
PS Don’t act through Naval channels against civilians.
MacQueen grimly lifted the telephone and dialed Major Rowntree’s number. “I’ve emasculated LaRosa,” said MacQueen quietly. “But listen to what was in his pocket.” MacQueen read the message.
“Good Lord,” answered Rowntree. “Where the hell’s that messenger?”
“He left by air for Canada this evening.”
“No way of intercepting him?”
“I think not. He’ll be in Ottawa shortly.”
“How’s he supposed to find that Captain Purcell—and who is he anyway?”
“He used to be commanding officer here. He’s an old buddy of the prime minister and is slated for naval minister if they win the next election.”
“Christ, it couldn’t be worse, could it? We can’t just call things off, it’s our last chance. What the hell could he do, anyway?”
“The PM would of course call Washington. They’d then call London—something would happen.”
“What?”
“The United States has troops here,” said MacQueen.
“They really wouldn’t dare! Not this soon after the great democratic crusade. What else?”
“The Canadian army and air force?”
“The zombies we could probably handle,” said Rowntree. “They’ve no stomach for a fight, obviously. The air force? They wouldn’t bomb St. John’s. That would be the end of confederation for sure. And of Winterwood. Hm! Not a bad idea!”
“Remember what Brunt said about violence,” cautioned MacQueen.
“If anyone bombed this city I would take over,” answered Rowntree, “recognition or no recognition. Obviously, LaRosa hasn’t twigged to Wednesday. The trick is to keep you here. Any ideas on that?”
MacQueen remained silent for a few moments. “You there?” asked Rowntree.
“Yes, I was offered a deal. They want to pillage the base but they can’t if I don’t cooperate. If they get rid of me there’s no one else to protect it until they get their hands full. It would really disappear into the hinterland. It’s all valuable, and my guards are the only protection. Think of the stink in Ottawa. Marchand would be ruined. So, they need me for a while longer. I’ll bargain with them.”
“Think it’ll stick?”
“Hell, we only need a few days and we can’t stop now.”
“Good man. We’ll be in touch tomorrow.”
“Incidentally,” continued MacQueen, “what if the governor refuses to sign?”
“A sticky point,” acknowledged Rowntree. “Then we’ll have to hold ’em all hostage in the barracks and open negotiations with their governments.”
“That could take weeks!”
“Indeed. Let’s hope that your point is academic!”
“Amen to that,” breathed MacQueen as he hung up the phone.
88
The following morning, MacQueen had to make secret arrangements for the sustenance and comfort of Lieutenant LaRosa. Espery agreed to visit him once a day for a shave and wash, and to look after his laundry. The chief steward bemusedly agreed to deliver three meals a day in containers to a guard messenger, with no questions asked. MacQueen allowed him to keep his belief that they must be keeping a woman there for their own delectation. Doctor Wolff was informed that there was a special prisoner, kept under great secrecy, and he declared himself willing to be of help if necessary. MacQueen selected some books for him, then dismissed the episode from his mind with a short prayer.
Following this, he visited the commander’s secretary and, feigning an air of bonhomie, greeted him warmly.
“Well, old boy, nice day for a change. Have you got a few minutes?”
Lieutenant MacDwine l
ooked up and smiled. “Sure thing, Pat. Want to talk here?”
“A little more privacy maybe?” MacQueen glanced around the large office full of filing cabinets and naval writers typing forms at their desks. The global war was over, but the never-ending Paper War of the military raged on.
“There’s an empty office past the quarterdeck. Just a minute. I’ll get the key.”
He rose and took a key from a key board on the wall, then led the way down a corridor, past the master-at-arm’s office, and opened a door. It was a sparsely furnished office with two chairs and a desk. He opened a window and found an old tin ashtray in a drawer. They sat facing one another across the desk. “Fire away,” urged MacDwine.
“Just brass tacks,” commenced MacQueen. “About our talk in the mess. I found it interesting.”
MacDwine smiled and passed a cigarette to MacQueen. “I thought you would,” he said, flicking a gold lighter and holding it across the desk. “As I see it, the coast is clear. Lots of stuff will be going back to Canada, and the stuff we have ticketed isn’t really navy anyway—it’s all mess stuff bought with officers’ money.”
…And the mess funds?” asked MacQueen.
“Four to five years’ accumulation,” said MacDwine. “They have to be disbursed or returned to Ottawa. What the hell, why not disburse them to ourselves? They’re deposited in local banks with no connection to Canada, and total a considerable sum.”
“If I were to leave prior to the end, the base would be in one hell of a mess. I’m sure you realize that.”
MacDwine inhaled deeply, flicking his cigarette on the tin ashtray and thought quietly for a moment.
“You can’t leave. No one could take your place. I know you control that guard with a rod of iron, especially the civilian guards. After Wednesday, the Naval Guard will be reduced substantially and we’ll need even more civilians. We’ve gone into this pretty thoroughly, the commander and I. How many areas are you guarding?”
“About twenty-two, of all sorts.”
“Right. With demobilization here and very few jobs and a lot of poverty, those areas would disappear overnight without tight security. Even the guards would join the pillage. The police are no help, and of course the RCMP is non-existent here, so we need you. If the worst ever happened the stink would be monumental and we’d all be cashiered.”
The Broken Sword Page 46