91
His troops spread out in three ranks behind him, Lieutenant MacQueen stood slim and erect, with his sword unsheathed and the sun warm on the back of his neck. As each official car pulled up he brought the guard to attention and saluted. The dignitaries included the commanding officers of the US and Canadian services based in or near St. John’s, with their aides and one or two of their wives. They were greeted by Commander Marchand, flanked by Lieutenant MacDwine, then they waited self-consciously for the arrival of the governor and the guest of honour, the admiral.
At the wave of an arm from a rating posted down the road, the guard were brought to attention and their rifles sloped to their shoulders. The viceregal limousine, bearing a large silver crown on the grill, rounded the corner and slowly drew up. Lieutenant Goodman sprang out of the front seat and opened the rear door. The governor emerged and turned to help his wife, and then the admiral.
“Guard of Honour…royal salute; present arms!” roared MacQueen, lifting the hilt of his sword to his mouth, waiting an instant, then arcing his arm downward. The guard responded to his command in unison, and the band broke forth in an anthem of the prescribed length. Everyone present saluted until the anthem was finished, and then MacQueen shouted, “Guard of Honour…slope arms!…order arms!” They then executed a right turn and marched up to the governor and his party.
He saluted again and said in a loud voice, “Royal Guard of Honour ready for inspection, sir.” The governor touched his cap with his gold-tipped cane and thanked the guard officer, who stepped aside and fell in, flanking the admiral and the governor. Behind them were the two aides-de-camp and the commander, whom MacQueen noted was carrying a telescope under his arm.
Both the governor and the admiral stopped twice to speak to guardsmen, then turned at the end of the third rank and saluted MacQueen with mumbled expressions of admiration for his troops. He returned to the front and the rest of the party started walking towards the wardroom, chatting and introducing one another. The band continued serenading them, which drowned out the sound of the noon gun.
MacQueen then turned the guard over to the gunner’s mate and was joined by MacDonell for a brisk walk to his office.
“How was it, MacDonell?” asked MacQueen.
“Beautiful, sir! I’ve never seen so many brass hats,” he exclaimed.
MacQueen entered the orderly room, and Sub-Lieutenant Daly and Hemming jumped to their feet. “Everything okay?” asked MacQueen.
“Yes, sir,” answered Hemming. “What beautiful cars! What was the governor driving in, sir?”
“A Daimler. A real beauty, eh?”
“A message arrived for you just a minute ago, sir, marked CARIBOU. It’s on your desk. I took it personally,” said Sub-Lieutenant Daly.
MacQueen went to his office and unbuckled his sword. He tore the envelope. A handwritten message was stapled to a naval signal.
Dear Pat, (Please destroy)
This arrived just before your security blackout. I apprehended it and will “lose” it until tomorrow. I apologize for acting like a fishwife. I hope to leave for England soon.
Mary
The signal was from Naval Service Headquarters, relieving Lieutenant MacQueen of all duties forthwith and transferring him to Halifax for duty or demobilization. It was “Immediate repeat Immediate”, and marked UTMOST URGENCY.
So, the petty officer had got through to them, thought MacQueen. Well, the die is cast, as they say, and it’s not in my hands any longer. He burned both of the messages and the envelope in his ashtray and opened a window to clear the air. The time on the signal was 1025 Ottawa time, or almost noon in St. John’s. In actual fact, he was no longer the officer of the guard, although only Mary knew.
“How’s our prisoner, Hemming?” he asked.
“Fine, sir. Waiting for Espery to shave him.”
“Lord, I forgot. Keep an eye on the gate and see that he is admitted when he arrives.”
The new government must be just about proclaimed, thought MacQueen, glancing at his watch. It was 1300 hours and one hour into the rebellion.
At the Colonial Building a fair crowd was assembled, drawn by the band and the waving placards reading CONFEDERATION—NO and WE WANT LIBERTY! as well as other nationalistic appeals. On the top of the wide steps, with the classic background of Greek Doric pillars, a group of men were setting up a microphone. A small cavalcade of cars arrived, led by Major Rowntree standing beside his driver in a Jeep. He waved at the crowd as they drew up in front of the steps. He then opened the door for Mr. James Brunt, QC, who was dressed in a black jacket and striped trousers. They were joined by others, and their way was cleared by some of Rowntree’s men wearing arm bands.
The band struck up “We Love Thee Newfoundland”, and everyone stood bare-headed until the anthem was finished. Rowntree noted that Mr. Brunt was very pale, and his hands were shaking as they held a portfolio of papers. They mounted the steps to the microphone, which someone was testing without noticeable success. The crowd moved closer, and some of Rowntree’s huskies shouted and tried to rouse a cheer. One ran up the stairs and planted himself behind them while holding aloft the flag of Newfoundland with its Union Jack in the corner.
Rowntree, dressed in a battle dress jacket with no insignia, spread his arms and commenced to speak, ignoring the microphone.
“Fellow Newfoundlanders,” he shouted in a voice that had been heard over many parade squares. “We are here to bring you great news. Our friend here, Mr. James Brunt—as loyal a Newfoundlander as ever walked—has consented to lead us into a new future of liberty and freedom beholden to no others and loyal to the crown. We want no truck with confederation or any other plan devised by others! I want you to listen to him—if this damn mic ever gets going—and he will tell you what he and his eminent colleagues have in store for us.”
There were some ragged cheers, the band played a few notes of a fanfare, and Rowntree joined the technicians trying to fix the microphone. He glanced at Brunt and was alarmed at the man’s pallor once more. Pray God, keep him on his feet for a few more hours, Rowntree breathed silently to himself. The microphone shrieked and squawked, then one of the men intoned, “One-two-three-four-testing” and stepped back with a gesture of his hand.
James Brunt stepped forward, the slight breeze rustling his white hair. He adjusted his spectacles on his nose, then adjusted the microphone and raised his notes with trembling hands. Rowntree mentally tried to project confidence to him as the others shuffled and looked uncomfortable.
“Hooray for Newfoundland!” came a shout. Others followed as James Brunt looked up startled, then he smiled and commenced to speak.
In the office in Ottawa, David Purcell poured more whisky into two paper cups and added a drop of water to each.
“The corvette is on its way now. I can’t think of anything else to do, really. Search your mind, petty officer. Have we left any stone unturned?”
The petty officer was feeling greatly cheered by the additional whisky that Purcell had provided, and he was beginning to enjoy his new role despite the dull aches and his swollen eye.
“You might check with the PM, sir-r, and see if Mr. Winterwood got through to the government,” he suggested, accepting the paper cup with a newly found gentility he felt was appropriate to the surroundings.
“Good idea.”
The prime minister’s secretary answered Purcell’s call and conveyed the message that none of the commissioners could be located, but that Winterwood was in the air, heading for St. John’s.
“We’re closing in on ’em,” commented Purcell, taking a deep drink and crumpling the cup. “What next?”
“You might call the Civilian Investigation Department, sir-r—if they’d tell you anything.”
“Good. I can’t stand being idle.” He lifted the phone, took a cigarette from his pocket, and accepted a light from the petty officer. The call took a few minutes to get through, which he spent blowing smoke out of his nostrils and humming a m
onotone. The petty officer looked out of the high window to the Rideau Canal and felt on top of the world.
“Hello, Civilian Investigation? This is Ottawa calling. Yes, that’s in Canada. Have your joke, but I want to speak to the boss, what’s his name? Inspector Garvey? That’s the fellow. …Hello? My name is Captain Purcell, Inspector. I used to be at Buckmaster’s Field…right. They are having a party there now. Yes, of course you know. We are a bit worried as the navy telephone lines seem down, or something. Is anything unusual happening there? No, I mean in St. John’s. An anti-confederate rally? That’s not so unusual? Of course, you have an eye on it all. I understand. Thank you, Inspector. Good day.”
Petty Officer Low turned slowly as the room heaved like a ship in a gentle swell.
“Hear that, PO? An anti-confederate rally. That hardly sounds like a revolution, but we’ll soon know. What the hell is MacQueen doing mixed up in all of this? And why aren’t you with him?”
The petty officer sat down and related the story of Jimmy Cossit’s suicide. Tears started to roll down his rugged face as he spoke of his great sacrifice and the ingratitude of Lieutenant MacQueen. “I thought he might be queer, sir-r,” moaned the petty officer. “Anyway, he was too friendly with Lieutenant Cossit, and when all that happened a court martial might have ruined him.”
“So, you and the crowd up there took justice into your own hands! What’s in it for them?”
“I don’t know, sir. Lieutenant Cossit had control of the mess funds and he mentioned something about someone wanting to get them, or to get him out of the way. That was before he shot himself and he was drunk, so I didn’t pay any attention!”
“What were you to get out of it?” Purcell had suddenly sobered and watched Low gradually disintegrate.
“I just wanted to protect the lieutenant, sir-r. He was the Bonnie Prince to me! I knew if you made good he would follow you, and possibly take me. But he was into something that I didn’t know about—and it turns out to be treason. Oh, my God!” The Petty Officer dropped his face into his hands and sobbed with heaving shoulders.
“Shut up, man!” ordered Purcell. “Pull yourself together. You’re not in the Highlands here. Did they offer you anything at all?”
The petty officer looked up, his tear-stained face quivering with drunken emotion. “They asked me to become president of the chiefs’ and POs’ mess, sir-r. They said that if I agreed they would keep me there with the guard until the end and it would be worth my while. Then they let me be sent away! Escorting that damn coffin too. They all betrayed me…so they can go to hell. You’re the only one I trust, sir. May I have another drink?”
“Listen to me, Low. I’m going to lock you in here with no phone calls or visitors. The whisky is there, and you can sleep on that couch if you want. I’ll send in some lunch, but you won’t move out of here. Do you understand?”
“What have I done, sir-r?” he pleaded.
“Quite enough,” muttered ex-Captain David Purcell as he left and locked the door behind him. He told the commissionaire to have a lunch delivered and another bottle of whisky, if necessary. He then told the switchboard operator to ignore any calls from that office and returned to the prime minister’s office.
Entering St. John’s through the Narrows always pleased Freddie Seaton. He stood on the bridge of his ship feeling the slight surge of a following sea and the tremble of the engines through the soles of his feet. He was wearing an old duffle coat with his cap pushed back on his head. They were so short of crew that he had dispensed with watchmen. What the hell, the war was over. His one sub-lieutenant stood beside him, holding binoculars.
“Break out the flags,” ordered Freddie, and the ship was suddenly festooned with colourful bunting. “Stand by, gun’s crew!” shouted the sub-lieutenant. “With cordite blank charge, load!”
The crew of the four-inch gun, mounted on the fo’c’sle, jumped to obey. The breech was opened, a blank charge inserted, and the breech slammed shut. The gun layer and trainer sat on either side of the barrel, behind the shield, and watched the city swim into view in their range finders.
“Half speed,” rang Freddie to the engine room. “Port ten,” he called down the voice pipe to the helmsman. “About half elevation, I think, and aim somewhere toward the cathedral. One minute intervals for twenty-one rounds, the second being star-shell.”
The ship slowly passed the fishing shacks on the cliffs on either side. The hotel came into view, then the grounds of Government House high above the ragged waterfront. Finally, the Catholic cathedral’s twin spires appeared. Freddie lifted his binoculars to look at the activity at the Colonial Building, which seemed to have a fair amount of something going on. Surely the governor wasn’t partying there? He swept over to Buckmaster’s Field and noted the admiral’s pennant flying from the flagstaff. Shrugging his shoulders, he yelled an order to his sub-lieutenant. “Fire when ready.”
The sub-lieutenant shouted the elevation then added “Fire!” The gun recoiled as the ship bucked and the crash of the explosion echoed then reverberated from the surrounding cliffs.
“Load with star-shell!” shouted the sub-lieutenant. Freddie was nearly deafened and put his hands to his ears for the next shot. The sub-lieutenant checked his stopwatch then shouted “Fire!” The star-shell arced its way into the air gracefully and exploded above the cathedral, releasing a parachute flare that descended slowly to earth.
James Brunt had just passed the preliminaries of his speech when the first explosion ripped through the early afternoon air. He turned with a puzzled look to Rowntree, who betrayed his own perplexity. Everyone turned to the harbour, although they couldn’t see beyond the row of houses facing them outside the grounds. “What was that?” asked Brunt hoarsely.
Suddenly another explosion wrought the air and echoed back upon itself. With a collective gasp the crowd watched the explosion above them as the flare burst forth brilliantly.
“They’re bombarding the town!” shouted Brunt into the microphone. “I was promised no violence! Flee for your lives!”
Angrily Rowntree leapt forward and wrestled the microphone from Brunt and screamed into it. “Wait! This is a fraud! They can’t shoot us in our own country! Come back—it’s a trick!” Another explosion burst out, and the wavering crowd began to run. Brunt put his hand to his heart and sat on the top step, his face chalk white and the hand holding his papers resting on the stone floor. His future Cabinet looked at him in horror. “My heart,” he whispered. “Get me to a hospital quickly.”
Several of his Cabinet carried him down the stairs to a waiting car while Rowntree gathered up the papers in a fury. The band was departing in disarray as the explosions continued at a stately pace. Suddenly his head came up—it was a salute, not a bombardment. What bloody fools! A revolution put down by blank cartridges!
Most of his men were standing by in confusion, awkwardly holding the banners. His driver was sitting behind the wheel of his Jeep, waiting for orders. Rowntree ran down the steps and jumped in beside him. “To Buckmaster’s Field,” he roared. “I’ll get that signature and run this damn show m’self!”
MacQueen was standing outside his office on the catwalk, urgently checking his watch and wondering what was going on. There had been no word or message, and two hours had passed since the noon gun. He saw Espery at the gate and signalled an okay for him to enter, noting a couple of loitering men in civilian clothes watching the barracks with interest.
“Can I shave the prisoner?” asked Espery.
“Certainly. It might be your last trip.”
“How are we doing?” he said, smiling.
MacQueen tried to grin back. “I wish I knew.”
“Luck,” Espery replied, and went into the orderly room.
Suddenly an explosion echoed from the harbour. Immediately MacQueen thought of the oil tank farm, but a quick glance across to the south-side hills showed nothing amiss.
“There’s a ship entering the harbour, sir,” shouted MacDonell. “Sh
e’s firing her gun!”
MacQueen grabbed his binoculars from Hemming and raced down the road for a view of the harbour. As he focused them another shot rang out and a star-shell curved into the air. “My God!” swore MacQueen. “It’s Freddie! What in the hell is he doing? Freddie, in the name of God, go home!”
He swung around to MacDonell. “Send someone for a signalman with an Aldis lamp—and hurry!” he commanded, glancing down the road to note a flash of gold aiguillette on the balcony of the wardroom looking toward the harbour. There wasn’t much time left if they were going to get that signature. The explosions continued until MacQueen realized that they were evenly spaced. That idiot was firing a salute and scaring everyone to death.
He ran back towards the office building when a Jeep carrying two men halted in a shower of pebbles. He recognized Rowntree and jogged towards him. “What’s happened?” he asked, as the din of the explosions and their echoes continued.
“I have to get the signature myself,” shouted Rowntree, waving the papers. “Let me through!”
MacQueen nodded to the corporal of the guard when he heard someone cry, “Look out!”
LaRosa was on the catwalk in his shirt sleeves, with Hemming toppling backward into a dazed-looking Espery, who in turn was trying to get out of the door. LaRosa raised a Webley .45 with both hands.
The driver –saw the gun out of the corner of his eye, and the Jeep leapt forward then swerved. As the gun exploded in LaRosa’s hands, Rowntree seemed to rise into the air. The .45 slug had hit Rowntree in the chest, catapulting him into a grotesque tangle of arms and legs as the Jeep turned onto its side and the driver was hurled to the ground.
MacQueen watched Rowntree’s face in horror. Everyone stood rigid in disbelief as the Jeep cracked a telephone pole. MacQueen then swung back to watch Espery bring the heavy shaving basin down on LaRosa’s head just after he had thrown the gun down the embankment. LaRosa slumped over the railing as Dr. Wolff came out of his office.
The Broken Sword Page 50