“You sound as though you spend a lot of time in contemplation, my friend. Maybe you should have been a monk.”
“The sea is a monastery of sorts, and there I’m happiest.”
When his car arrived at 0830, MacQueen was spruce in his uniform, with glistening white collar and gold braid. MacDonell held his sword in its chamois covering, his face glowing with the expectancy of an exciting day. Espery wished them luck and Rodney started off with a spurt of speed.
When Petty Officer Low regained consciousness, he reached up and winced at the touch of his hand on his swollen right eye. He sat bolt upright, cracking his head against the bunk above. He opened his good eye and stared at the bars as his memory gradually returned.
He got to his feet groaning loudly and holding his back. Christ, he ached all over. He rattled the barred door and shouted.
“Shut up, for Christ’s sake,” came a moan from the top bunk. “It’s bad enough you smellin’ like a garbage dump, but cut the fuckin’ noise and let a man sleep.”
“Guard!” roared the petty officer, beginning to feel panic. “Where the hell am I?”
“You’re in fuckin’ jail in fuckin’ Hull. Now shut up, for Christ’s sake,” shouted his cell mate.
A police corporal came down the corridor. “What do you want, matelot?” he asked in a French accent.
“I’ve got to get out of here, Corporal,” said Low, holding the bars desperately in both hands. “I have an important message to deliver. They’ll kill me if I don’t get out.” Suddenly Low searched in his jumper and felt the crumpled envelope with relief. He then searched further, only to find buttons off his pants and his money belt gone.
“You’re allowed one phone call. It’s pretty early to be disturbing people.”
Low needed a drink more than any time in his life. He started to tremble and a terrible cold nausea spread out from his stomach. He remembered lying amid overturned garbage cans somewhere outside a nightclub, being kicked and beaten steadily by a gang of young punks who knew their business.
“Oh God,” he groaned aloud. “Take me to the phone.”
He pointed to the number on the envelope, and the corporal dialed. Low couldn’t have managed that if his life had been at stake. Let it be a home number, he pleaded. God, I need a drink.
“Just a moment, sir,” said the corporal, and handed Low the telephone.
“Hello,” croaked the petty officer.
“Who the hell is this?” asked a voice at the other end.
“Petty Officer Low, sir—from Newfoundland.”
“Who? Do you realize it’s five o’clock in the morning! What in Christ’s name do you want at this hour?”
“I have a message for you, sir, but I’m in jail.” This was a new low in the life of the petty officer, and he felt a surge of humiliation and remorse; but more urgently, he needed a drink in the worst way possible.
“In jail! Look man, the war’s over! I’m a civilian and you call me at this Godforsaken hour to bail you out of jail for some damn message? Are you crazy?”
“It’s very important, sir, from British Intelligence.”
“What? I must be goddamn dreaming! I remember you now. The fat one with the guard. Is this a joke of MacQueen’s? I’ll kill him if it is!”
“No, sir, he doesn’t know about it. Nobody does. It’s secret!”
“Where the hell are you?”
“Hull, sir. There’s a corporal here.”
“Put him on, Low. What shape are you in?”
“Terrible. I got beat up and I’m dying for a drink.”
“I know the feeling. Well, hang in there and give me that corporal.”
The following half hour was the worst period of agony the petty officer had ever endured. He smoked cigarettes and held his head; every extremity shook. His ribs were bruised, his legs a mass of black and blue, and his eye so swollen that he couldn’t open it. Purcell arrived needing a shave, in an open topcoat and a hastily assembled suit without a tie. “God, you stink!” he exclaimed as the corporal unlocked the door. “Have you any stuff to pick up?”
The corporal shook his head—no watch, money, or valuables. The petty officer felt even more disconsolate than he looked as he followed Purcell to his car. The sun was casting long early-morning shadows across the nearly vacant streets.
“Take a belt of this,” said Purcell, reaching into the glove compartment and handing a flask of whisky to the petty officer. He could hardly unscrew the top, but he poured the burning liquid down his throat. Relief rapidly hit his nervous system and spanned out through his body. He threw his head back against the seat with a monumental gasp of relief. “Oh God,” he muttered, “I thought I was a goner.”
Familiar enough with these problems, Purcell didn’t interrupt the cure as he drove rapidly back to Ottawa. “Let me see the message,” he asked, holding out his hand.
“It was given to me by Lieutenant LaRosa, sir-r,” Low said, passing the envelope and taking another swig of whisky. “I was sent back with Lieutenant Cossit’s corpse but the flight got rerouted.”
“Lots of funny business up there,” commented Purcell, opening the envelope while waiting for a light to turn. He glanced at it. “I think you’d better come home with me.”
They made an odd-looking couple crossing the elegant foyer of the Ottawa apartment building: Purcell striding purposefully forward with his coattails flaring behind him, followed by the dishevelled petty officer, limping, and reeking of garbage and whisky.
There was a general air of excitement in the barracks as the sun rose towards midday. The guards were assembled in the drill hall, drawing their special web kits and making jokes. The chief steward was presiding over the tables in the wardroom for the greatest luncheon of his career. The band was already countermarching on the parade square, giving all hands a lift with their martial music. The commander was nervously puffing on a cigarette and sneaking quick nips of gin from a flask in his desk drawer. Lieutenant MacQueen was in his office, lacing his shiny black gaiters and buckling on his gleaming sword, which hung by two straps under his tunic. He would carry it in his left hand, unless unsheathed on parade. Lastly, he drew on his brown leather gloves.
“You look great, sir,” exclaimed MacDonell.
“Everything clear, Sub-Lieutenant Daly?” asked MacQueen. “We draw up in front of the officers’ quarters with the band. The staff cars come there, and each brass hat gets a salute. When the admiral and governor arrive, it’s the royal salute and present arms. Then they go in for lunch and we break for ours, to reassemble here by the main gate to salute ’em all ashore. In the meantime, the security operation goes into effect. No one enters or leaves any area, and no phone calls unless one comes for me coded CARIBOU. That will be important, but for me alone.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is the doctor on board?” he asked Hemming.
“Yes, sir.”
“Fine. The noon gun is zero hour—or 1200 if the damn thing misfires.” They all laughed.
Accompanied by MacDonell, the guard officer then grasped his scabbard, and they headed for the drill hall to take over the viceregal guard of honour.
DM Purcell pointed Petty Officer Low to the bathroom for a wash as he lifted the telephone and dialed a number.
“Is the PM in?” he asked. “This is Dave Purcell. He’s left for his office? Early Cabinet…right, I’ll call there.”
He hung up then dialed again. “Jim? This is Dave Purcell. Is the PM there? You’d better interrupt him, it’s important.…Minister of Justice? Hell, Jim, I said it was important. Look, I’ll take the can, it just can’t wait.”
He cupped the phone and shouted to Low to use the towels behind the door. “Hello—Dave Purcell, sir. Sorry to interrupt but I have a strange message here from British Intelligence. It’s about Newfoundland, sir. I think we’d better get together right away. It seems urgent. No, I don’t think it’s a hoax. I’ll be there in half an hour at the latest. Right!”
He th
en placed a call to Lieutenant LaRosa at HMCS Avalon in Newfoundland. His office didn’t answer and the operator didn’t know where he was. She tried the wardroom, but LaRosa hadn’t been seen for a few days.
“What’s going on there, Chief?” asked Purcell.
“A luncheon for the governor, sir, that’s all. It’s to celebrate the admiral’s departure. We’re pretty busy.”
“Thanks, Chief, good luck.” He hung up and tried to put the pieces together. No coherent picture emerged in his mind. “Damn-damn-damn,” he muttered as the still battered-looking petty officer emerged from the bathroom.
“How do you feel?” asked Purcell.
“Shaky and sore,” commented the petty officer.
“We’ll have to straighten you out a bit more. You’re going to meet the prime minister!”
“God! I’ll need another drink for that, sir-r.”
“So will I,” added Purcell, opening a bureau and extracting a fresh bottle of whisky. He unscrewed the top.
The prime minister of Canada sat imperturbably behind his desk, which sat in front of two high Gothic windows. The windows looked out across the lawns of Parliament to the city of Ottawa. The room was furnished with overstuffed leather chairs and an antique table, with some mediocre prints heavily framed on the panelled walls.
“Have you been drinking, Dave?” he asked as the door shut behind Purcell and Petty Officer Low.
“I’ve had a hard night, PM,” answered Purcell, his cheeks highly coloured and still unshaven. “This petty officer woke me with this message.” He passed the sheet of paper to the prime minister, who took it fastidiously and wrinkled his nose. He placed a pince-nez on the bridge of his nose and read it slowly.
“I tried to call him,” said Purcell, “but he’s nowhere to be found.”
“Sit down, gentlemen,” said the prime minister without raising his eyes. “Who is this Lieutenant MacQueen?”
“The guard officer, sir. I know him and cannot figure his involvement. I even planned to bring him here with me if the election works out.”
The prime minister turned his emotionless eyes on Purcell. “Do you realize the implications of all this?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
The prime minister picked up the telephone and asked for the naval minister. “I want a Lieutenant MacQueen immediately relieved of duty and transferred by air to Halifax. MacQueen?”
“Patrick MacQueen, sir. He’s officially shore patrol,” said Purcell, taken aback by the suddenness of the prime minister’s move.
“Patrick MacQueen, apparently,” he said into the receiver. “He’s a shore patrol officer in Newfoundland. This is top priority and to be executed immediately, understand?” He hung up.
“That’s just insurance,” he said slowly. “One officer more or less doesn’t matter.” He pressed a button on his intercom. “Get me Winterwood on the telephone,” he said calmly.
He then looked at Purcell, glanced distastefully at the petty officer for a second, then lowered his eyes. “If this is true, Dave, we are in a fine pickle. Winston and Franklin wanted Newfoundland joined with us, and Winterwood is supposed to deliver it. This news is dreadful.”
A light flickered on the telephone, and the prime minister picked it up.
“Yes? Right, put him on. Mr. Winterwood?” He held the receiver away from his ear with a grimace. “Yes, sir. The weather is fine here also. Now listen to me for a moment. Where are you? Corner Brook is west coast? Well, I want you to call your people in St. John’s and get over there right away. Have a gala reception, if you have to hire every taxi in the town. There’s trouble of some kind brewing there so you’d better make it in a hurry. Check with the Commission of Government and let me know any suspicions immediately. Yes, get a plane at any cost and go there!”
Once again, he replaced the telephone. The petty officer and Purcell were both starting to feel ragged and in need of drinks. They couldn’t even light a cigarette in the prime minister’s presence.
“Is that all we can do?” he asked. “Have you any idea of the timing of this event?”
“All of the Canadian and US brass will be in the barracks today, sir. The governor will be there too,” said the petty officer.
The prime minister didn’t even glance at him. “And MacQueen is the guard officer? That sounds ominous.”
“God, PM! If that letter is right, he could have them all locked in the barracks if he wanted to. That’ll be the time for mischief, to be sure,” exclaimed Purcell.
“What time is it there now?” asked the prime minister.
The petty officer glanced at his wrist and realized again that his watch was missing. Purcell looked at his and calculated for a moment. “Close to noon, sir.”
The prime minister buzzed again and asked for the commanding officer of HMCS Avalon in Newfoundland. They waited until the light flicked. The prime minister listened for a moment, then recradled the telephone. “They refuse to answer or deliver a message,” he said. “It’s a security exercise over the entire base.”
“MacQueen’s got two hundred armed men there, sir,” exclaimed Purcell. “I can’t understand it, but it seems that he holds the governor and all the rest prisoner!”
“So it would seem,” answered the prime minister of Canada, twirling a gold pencil.
He suddenly looked up. “Are there any ships in the harbour?”
Purcell looked at Petty Officer Low, who shook his head painfully. “The last one sailed a day or so ago, sir-r,” he said. “I think it went to Bay Bulls. A corvette.”
“Where’s Bay Bulls?” asked the prime minister.
“About an hour down the coast, sir,” answered Purcell. “We have a small dockyard there.”
The prime minister’s eyes came alight under the shrouding lids. “There’s an empty office down the hall, Dave,” he said slowly. “Get that ship and tell it to head for St. John’s without a moment’s delay.”
“Yes, sir. But why, if I might ask? We can’t bombard the town!”
“She can’t have much ammunition anyway, sir-r,” chimed the petty officer. “She was at the Armament Depot unloading for a few days.”
“Winterwood should be arriving about the same time the ship does,” said the prime minister, “and the governor is having a party. Tell them to enter the harbour firing salutes to the governor. That just might scare these revolutionaries. Surely we can salute our own admiral and a governor of the crown without being accused of suppressing Newfoundland’s freedom!”
All was serene at Bay Bulls. There wasn’t even a security exercise in force, as no one had thought of it. Lieutenant Freddie Seaton was sunbathing on the deck near the funnel, keeping to the lee of a cool breeze that rippled the waves of the harbour. The small waves slapped against the hull of the captured German U-190 that was anchored on the surface a short distance away.
“Telephone for Lieutenant Seaton,” called a voice from the jetty. “It’s urgent.”
“Shit!” commented Freddie, rising and drying the sweat off his torso with a towel. “What the hell do they want now?” He pulled on a shirt and jacket, knotted a scarf around his neck, and jammed on his old cap. Striding down the gangway, he ducked the ball being tossed back and forth by two of his ship’s company, and followed the messenger to the jetty office.
He picked up the telephone. “Seaton here!” he barked.
“Lieutenant Seaton is it? Commanding Officer of HMCS Nasturtium?”
“This is he.”
“I am calling you from the prime minister’s office in Ottawa.” The line was terrible, but Seaton felt certain that he had heard correctly.
“What kind of a joke is this?” he asked.
“It’s no joke, Lieutenant, and I want you to listen carefully. I have the full authority of the prime minister to ask these questions. Are you ready to sail?”
“Who the hell are you? Of course I can sail—but I haven’t got a crew, if it’s any of your business.”
“My name is Capt
ain Purcell, Seaton, and I don’t want any lip from you. I want you to cast off and to make for St. John’s immediately with whatever crew you’ve got. I want you to enter the harbour with all flags flying and to fire a twenty-one gun salute as soon as you’re through the Narrows. Understand?”
Freddie was taken aback by the commanding tone of voice coming over the crackling wire, but he couldn’t obey a verbal order without authorization.
“I’m sorry, sir. You’ll have to send a signal for any move from here through FONF in St. John’s,” he answered.
“Now listen carefully,” replied Purcell. “The lines to FONF are non-operational. I’m sending you a signal direct from Naval Service Headquarters here and you’d better obey it. There is an official reception ashore in St. John’s and the prime minister wants you to fire off a salute. Is that clear? Get that ship of yours to sea no matter what, and get there as soon as possible. This is of the utmost urgency and we don’t want any fuck-up. I don’t care if you have to row there! Then tie up at a south-side jetty and wait further orders.”
“I can sail as soon as the signal arrives, sir,” replied Seaton, cursing headquarters under his breath. “I may have twenty-one blanks, I don’t know. It would be all I have, except some star-shell.”
“Fire them if necessary, they won’t hurt anyone. Aim directly at the city and stay in midstream until it’s completed. Clear? Now get ready to sail and the signal will be there shortly.”
Freddie hung up. If the prime minister wanted him to shoot off fireworks for some bloody party or another there wasn’t much choice! This could be a joke, but the voice he had heard certainly sounded like business. He assumed he’d better get ready in case that signal arrived.
He returned to the ship, shouting to his crew, and ordered the bosun’s mate to spill the drowsy ones out of their hammocks with the action stations alarm.
He was ready for sea when the signal was delivered, and the lone messenger cast off the lines as they swung out from the jetty and headed for St. John’s.
The Broken Sword Page 49