MacQueen ran over to Rowntree. The salute was still thundering. He knelt low and felt a pulse. Rowntree managed a grimace as blood bubbled from his mouth. “It was for CARIBOU,” he whispered. His eyes rolled back into his head. The doctor knelt beside MacQueen as the last of Rowntree’s life pumped out through his now crimson jacket.
“He’s gone, I’m sorry,” said the doctor. “MacDonell, get a blanket.”
MacQueen rose, unable to take his stunned eyes off the dead patriot lying at his feet. The corporal of the guard touched his elbow. “Some men at the gate, sir.”
It was Inspector Garvey and the two others MacQueen had noticed before. MacQueen nodded and they entered. “I see you’ve had a car accident,” said Garvey, as the doctor took the blanket and started to wrap Rowntree in it. He then went to look at the driver, who was holding his arm and moaning. “That’s too bad. He was a fine officer and a credit to Newfoundland.”
“Car accident?” asked MacQueen.
“Of course. I saw it all m’self, with my boys here. Lucky we just happened along. We’ll take the body in your wagon, if you don’t mind, and get that driver to a hospital.” He gathered up the scattered papers.
MacQueen suddenly galvanized into life. “Hemming!” he shouted. “The security drill is cancelled. MacDonell, run and tell the gunner’s mate to get the guard down here quickly, they’ll be coming out soon!”
He ran into the doctor’s office where LaRosa had been taken. Doctor Wolff was binding his head. “Is he all right?”
LaRosa smiled his lazy smile, then winced. “Say nothing until we talk,” he warned.
MacQueen then dashed into the orderly room, where Espery was sitting with his head in his hands. “You all right, Espery?”
He looked up with an anguished face. “That bastard tricked me! I’ll kill him! It’s all over, isn’t it?”
MacQueen shook his shoulder. “We’ll talk it over at home, old boy.” The guard was drawing up outside, and he hastily buckled on his sword and ran into Sub-Lieutenant Daly coming in the door.
“Everything okay, sir? What was all the racket?”
MacQueen was suddenly aware of the silence. “Just a salute from the harbour,” he said, and then ran down the steps to take his place at the head of his guard as the first of the long staff cars started to roll towards them.
The black Daimler pulled up directly in front of the rigid MacQueen. He caught a questioning look from Lieutenant Goodman in the front seat, but he had to bend from the waist as the rear window was rolled down.
“Jolly good show, Lieutenant,” said the governor. “Splendid body of men.”
“Indeed, they are,” echoed his lady.
The Canadian admiral said nothing as the car accelerated and sped through the gate between two saluting guards.
MacQueen turned, stood his men at ease, and spoke to them for the last time. He didn’t remember what he said, and they probably didn’t either, but he had a lump in his throat as the gunner’s mate marched them away.
Only now could he sit down and try to sort this all out. First, however, he had to answer the telephone. There was an urgent call from Ottawa.
92
MacQueen sat idly at the empty cad’s table, toying with a drink. The wardroom was virtually deserted except for the bored bar steward and an old Scotty comfortably snoozing on a chesterfield by the fire. The Number One had been transferred back to Canada, en route to his American beautician; the commander and MacDwine were elsewhere, doubtless recounting their projected gains. His sub-lieutenants were either packing their gear or celebrating their last night at the Old Colony Club.
He looked again at the photograph on page one of the Evening Telegram, a picture of Winterwood leading his motorcade down Military Road, with crowds waving pro-confederation placards. That must have cost our taxpayers something, he thought. His eyes wandered to an obituary announcing the sad death by automobile accident of the late Major Rowntree, “a true native son and war hero.”
There was another small item mentioning the illness of a leader of the anti-confederates, James Brunt, Esq., QC, who suffered a heart attack while addressing a rally of his supporters.
There was no mention of the admiral’s send-off, nor of the noisy salutes that suddenly and unexpectedly shook St. John’s in the early afternoon.
“May I join you?”
MacQueen looked up to see LaRosa standing at the end of the table with his head wrapped in bandages. “By all means.”
LaRosa sat opposite MacQueen and offered him a cigarette. Lighting both, he then gestured at the newspaper. “No fame for failures it seems?” he asked.
“Were they failures?”
“In the accepted sense, yes, I’m truly sorry to say.”
“Sorry?”
“Of course. I was on your side.”
“You had a peculiar way of showing it,” said MacQueen. Rowntree’s murder had left him numb, and he felt a strange detachment, even sitting across from the man who had pulled the trigger.
“Oh, but that’s the game, old boy,” answered LaRosa. “Don’t you remember the bit about the king’s shilling?”
“Where does that leave me? Hardly the hero of the piece!” MacQueen had been avoiding this question to himself.
“Such soul-searching,” tutted LaRosa. “You were not rationalizing about all of that business of loyalty to the crown, and so on. You’re the incurable romantic. Anyway, no one actually ordered you not to get mixed up in it, whereas my orders were quite specific. I was told to stop it.”
“You deserve a decoration,” MacQueen commented, not too kindly.
“Such things come up with the rations if one waits long enough,” said LaRosa. “What are your next moves?”
“Captain Purcell wants me to help him with his election.”
“Despite everything, eh? I cannot see you in the active political democratic process.” He ordered two more drinks and looked at the photo of Winterwood. “Those scamps are the winners of this world,” he added.
“The commander also wants me to stay on here. My transfer came in this afternoon, and he claims that only I can hold the base together.” MacQueen smiled wryly and took a drink. LaRosa chuckled.
“Does he suspect anything?” he asked.
“He was certainly curious about my security exercise in the middle of his great luncheon. And also where the corvette came from to fire those salutes.”
“What did you tell him?”
“The security exercise is none of his business, but I told him it was to keep the brass from being interrupted. He said it was a gross error of judgment!” They both laughed.
“And are you staying?”
“No. I leave tomorrow. Espery is packing for me now. He was quite heartbroken about allowing you to escape.”
LaRosa rubbed his head. “He certainly repaid me,” he said.
“Well, he’s off to sea again any day now. He claims to be ‘shore sick’, which is a nice twist. What is your next move?”
“I never know, really. But I’ll be pulling out soon. Tell your boy not to feel too badly. They are all nice lads, but I probably could have sprung myself anytime. But, I had to wait somewhere for it all to ripen. They take people at face value, you know, which is pretty naïve in my game. Your Espery was the toughest to fool. He’s been around. Still, I thought I’d laid him out for an hour—and he was on my neck within minutes. I must be slipping!”
“That might make him feel better. Drink?”
“Why not? As everyone else is inviting you to join them I suppose it’s my turn. Lord knows the field of operations for my type of work will be expanding—India; Asia, maybe; but especially black Africa. There will be nations emerging everywhere from the colonial empires, as distinct from the ‘merging’ nations here.”
“Counter-revolutionary work?” asked MacQueen, signing for the drinks.
“One side or the other, depending on the strategy current at Whitehall.” LaRosa grew pensive. “I’d really like t
o return to Ireland and farm, but there’s hardly a living in that right now.”
“There is in Nova Scotia,” said MacQueen. “But it isn’t an easy life.”
“After the lights of Gay Paree?”
“Or St. John’s?” They laughed.
“What happened to our petty officer messenger?” asked LaRosa.
MacQueen shook his head in disbelief. “Captain Purcell said that the old pirate will have to be pensioned off to keep him quiet. On the prime minister’s explicit instructions, no less. Maybe those two old Scots recognized something in one another, although I can’t imagine two persons more unalike.”
“Queen Victoria had her John Brown,” commented LaRosa.
Footsteps came towards them from the outer room, and Freddie Seaton swooped through the door. “Pat, ol’ buddy!” he shouted. “Never thought I’d see you again! How’d you like our cannonade, eh? Great stuff. Ordered by the prime minister himself, God roast his little soul. Let me buy you and our friend here a drink! I walked up that bloody hill to see you, so you’ve got to drink with me, ol’ buddy.”
MacQueen and LaRosa looked at one another. “Why not?”
Later, in the early hours of the morning, Espery found beds and blankets for the three officers. Then, leaving a note on the mantelpiece, he shouldered his small duffle bag and quietly disappeared into the night.
An official court of inquiry was convened at Naval Service Head-quarters in Ottawa in 1946 to examine irregularities in the disposal of assets, which resulted from the dismantling of the Royal Canadian Naval Base at St. John’s, Newfoundland. No charges were laid, but Commander Marchand was quietly retired from the service.
Questions surfaced in the press regarding the counting of ballots in the referendum that brought Newfoundland into Canada.
The captain did not win his election.
The prime minister did win his.
The Broken Sword Page 51