27

During the night, the CNS Lady Hawkins slipped out of fog-shrouded Halifax, through the anti-submarine net, and into the dark north Atlantic. Fort Sandwich stood invisible and vigilant to starboard, and the Sambro lightship gave bearings to port. A southeasterly gale was blowing, and the ship’s prow plowed into the waves as she altered course to round the Bay of Fundy and head for Boston. Not a light was visible, and radio silence was maintained; she sailed alone and without escort. Canada’s few destroyers and corvettes were needed on other routes, and the Lady Boat’s “full steam ahead” was faster than any submarine. If a U-boat was athwart her path, lifeboats were ready for emergencies.

The sounds of the bells in the engine room and the powerful surge of the motors reached MacQueen’s subconscious and stayed there. The association was obvious, and he dreamed of Jim Hawkins setting sail for Hispaniola and the Spanish Main. In his dream, the pulleys creaked and the canvass sails filled with wind off the coast of Dover. Long John Silver looked like Sergeant Cyples with a patch on one eye, and the good doctor was, of course, his father. As the Lady plunged and shuddered in the heavy ocean and the bunk tilted forwards and backwards, MacQueen’s centre of gravity kept shifting in his sleep, and Bill Cyples’ macaw fluttered its wings and crowed, “Pieces of eight…pieces of eight…” He had a cutlass belted around his waist and a large flintlock pistol stuck into a cummerbund. He was holding onto a rope stay and grinning. His face zoomed into MacQueen’s consciousness—and Patrick sat up with a start. He didn’t know where he was, and his arm hurt. He was almost tossed out of the bunk.

The cabin was heaving around him, his shaving kit was scattered on the deck, and he had to go to the toilet. “Damn that beer,” he thought, and jammed himself into the little head. The door slammed behind him; he peed on his bare feet. He clutched the wooden bar to finish then returned to the cabin. A leather chair was chained to the deck, and he washed his feet from the sink. It all tilted suddenly, and shuddered. MacQueen groaned and dragged himself back to the bunk. He was soon asleep again, but his dreams became more apocalyptic.

Before the war, each of the Lady Boats had provided every first-class passenger with a little booklet engraved with the house flag of a blue pennant and a white-and-red cross and a maple leaf. The booklet had contained the names and destinations of all of one’s fellow passengers. For security reasons this was now discontinued, and one only knew of one’s companions what they cared to divulge. Bermuda had become the centre of a vast British Empire censorship establishment, and it drew its multilingual staff from every part of the globe. The tourist industry was zero in 1941, so they had taken over the entire Princess Hotel in Hamilton.

The largest employer on the islands was the US government. In theory they were working with the Bermudian colonial government, but actually doing as they pleased. The Americans were building military bases, naval bases, and air bases. Though still officially neutral, someone in Washington was wise enough to see that Britain could not go it alone. If Adolf Hitler’s plan to conquer Britain, “Operation Sea Lion”, was successful, then Fortress America would need all the outlying bases possible. There was a very tenuous air link from Lisbon to the Azores to Bermuda, and then to New York. This was highly undependable, and Lisbon was a cesspool of intrigue. By process of elimination that left the ocean to consider. The British West Indies Squadron was required elsewhere, so the neutral Americans had assumed the job with bulldozers, Jeeps, and all the rest of the paraphernalia of Uncle Sam. The native Bermudians liked the Yankee dollar but didn’t much care for the bearers of this largess. Naturally, the base workers were vastly overpaid, and went about corrupting everything and everybody in sight. It was a painful time for His Majesty’s colonial pillars of empire. Complaints to Whitehall received the cryptic reply, “There’s a war on.” The fortunes of the merchant families did not suffer, and somehow they managed to import luxury items throughout the war.

The Winnipeg Grenadiers had assumed the garrisoning of the islands as a sop to empire pride, and they trudged dutifully on guard and ceremonial duties. The Bermuda Volunteer Rifle Corps was also activated, to guard water tanks and the new wireless station. The governor’s staff was entirely British, and he appointed the colonial secretary to run the show. Three-quarters of the population was black, from St. Kitts and other islands to the south. They had no say in things whatsoever. There were also some Portuguese farmers from the Azores.

MacQueen felt like a dice in a dice box until the Lady Hawkins entered the more sheltered waters off Cape Cod and began its run into foggy Boston Harbour. He had tried to be sick, but nothing came up, except a burning brine in his throat. The steward had brought a tray of toast and tea, with a glass of metallic-tasting orange juice.

“Never seen anything like this!” he exclaimed, balancing the tray expertly, and placing it on MacQueen’s lap. The slices of toast were halved and buttered, each in a slot of its own in a silver rack, with a folded napkin to keep them warm. The tray was carved in notches to secure the utensils, and the silver teapot sported the engraved house flag of the Canadian National Steamships.

MacQueen dubiously nibbled a piece of toast. “That’s what you fellows always say,” he answered. “Don’t you ever get sick?”

The steward had been born in Plymouth and had been at sea for practically his entire life. He laughed. “I get sicker ashore from that lousy rum they serve,” he said with a laugh. “D’you want a bit of fresh air? We can open the scuttle, but you might get wet.”

“No, I’m all right,” said MacQueen, tasting the tea. It was from Ceylon, strong and invigorating. “Many passengers this trip?”

“Crikey,” answered the steward. “Only you and six ferry pilots. They fly bombers up, from somewhere to somewhere, and deliver them to the Brits. There will be more at Boston—all those Yanks building the bases keep moving around. Probably a few others. Who knows what they do these days?”

Despite his mal de mer MacQueen liked the tone of that. The steward tidied the cabin and took the tray. “Better get your sea legs,” he said. “You won’t get service like this after Boston.”

“I’ll be okay,” said MacQueen.

“You’re sitting at the captain’s table,” said the steward as he left. “He doesn’t turn up much. It used to be an honour, but it’s the only one open right now. No one turned up for breakfast.” He lifted the tray above his head and fumbled for the door latch.

“You’re an expert,” said MacQueen in admiration. He recalled his amateur efforts in the sergeants’ mess.

“I ought to be by now,” replied the steward with a smile. “Ta-ta. I’ll bring you a sandwich for lunch if you don’t appear. Is chicken okay?”

“You’re the doctor,” said MacQueen.