28

MacQueen was sitting alone in the music room of CNS Lady Hawkins. This large room was located at the top of the stairs leading from the purser’s square; it sat behind a large oil painting of Admiral Hawkins on the wall where the stairs divided. It had plate glass ornamental doors and large windows looking out onto the promenade deck and forward to the mast, fo’c’sle, and prow. Across the stairwell was the smoking room, or bar. The Ferry Command pilots, in civilian clothes, were seated there, drinking planter’s punch.

The music room boasted a grand piano, a few odd tables and comfortable wicker chairs, and two glassed-in, locked bookshelves containing works by such authors as Somerset Maugham, Hervey Allen, and someone named Thorne Smith. MacQueen procured some postcards from the purser and borrowed a fountain pen. He wrote one each to Barbara, his father, his grandparents, Sergeant Cyples, and to Tony c/o the Regiment. He was wearing a Prince of Wales checked sports jacket that his aunt had given him from Bloomingdales in ’39. The pageboy had knotted his maroon necktie, and it was a bit tight.

They were entering Boston Harbour, and the fog was assuming a yellowish tinge in the half-light. A sleek American destroyer, with large white numerals on its side, had rushed past them like a greyhound, whoop-whoop-whooping as it cut a curved slice through the murky and oily water. A light on its bridge had flashed signals in Morse code, and a number of signal flags were flying from a halyard. The warning whistles of anchored ships blew at regular intervals and in all scales of the octave. Small boats chugged past, and the pilot had climbed a rope ladder to see them safely to their berth.

The blackout curtains had been pulled from the windows and MacQueen could see the great stone and concrete terminal of the Boston Port Authority looming in the yellow fog. The flag of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts hung from a flag staff to remind foreigners that this state styled itself as “sovereign”. Its most prominent son was the rather anti-British Joe Kennedy, US Ambassador to the Court of St. James, and father to a youth named Jack, who was training to be a naval officer.

One of the doors opened, and an officer put his head into the room, then smiled and entered. He had four golden rings on each sleeve and a gold-braided cap under his left arm.

“You are young MacQueen?” he asked in clipped, British tones. “I am Captain Griffith. I remember you as a boy, and knew your parents, of course.” MacQueen rose, and they shook hands. “I heard that you were aboard—how is your father?”

“He is well, sir, thank you,” answered MacQueen. He recalled the captain as always wearing a winged collar with his uniform. “We didn’t know which ship it was, or he would have sent you his regards.”

“Yes, the war has got us all bolluxed up,” said Captain Griffith. “I hope you are being looked after—we are short staffed. You had an accident?”

“Yes,” answered MacQueen. “I’ll rest up in Somerset for a while; my mother is still there.”

“Indeed, she is,” said the captain. “She organizes parties and dances for the troops, which are very popular. She is a charming lady, and has sailed on the Hawkins before—in 1931, I believe. You were just a boy, and I think you had a baby sister?”

“My sister died in ’38,” said MacQueen.

“Ah, how sad,” said the captain. “My, my—at such a young age. The tragedies of this world! I don’t get to table much, as I am required on the bridge during emergency times. Why don’t you lunch with me there tomorrow? We will be free of Boston and you’ll awake in the Gulf Stream.”

MacQueen readily agreed to arrive at the captain’s quarters under the bridge at one o’clock. Bells commenced ringing, and a winch on the forward well deck rattled into life. The whistle on the funnel blew three blasts.

“Goodness, I must run,” said the captain. He jammed his cap onto his head and, after a brief handclasp, hurried out of the door.

All sea captains are both monarchs and fathers, which are complementary roles. The appointment of this master mariner was a shade different from the others. He was less casual and more introspective. He was also a bachelor, and knew no love but the sea. His attitudes had been set on British ships, and, contrary to most merchant seamen, he admired the Royal Navy. He held the prevalent view that soldiers were to be admired—and travelling salesmen were not. He had overseen the selection of the crew of the four-inch gun on the stern and took a personal interest in their training. He was also a philosopher of sorts, enjoyed good concerts when possible, and read Herman Melville and Houston Stewart Chamberlain. Inwardly, he felt that the war was taking a bad turn and that the Yanks would be the only victors. He could understand Napoleon’s disdain when he called England a “nation of shopkeepers”; he felt that the British Empire was doomed by horse traders, and that Winnie was too bewitched to see it.

Captain Henry Horton Griffith joined the pilot on the port wing of the bridge. The first officer was on the fo’c’sle, and the lead lines attached to the hawsers were just being cast ashore. There, a small crew of dockworkers would pull the hawsers to the jetty and secure them to the wharf while the winches tightened or slackened them as necessary.

“There y’are, sir. Not a bump nor a scratch,” said the pilot.

Of course, Captain Griffith could have done equally well, but a union of harbour pilots exists worldwide, and in some places they are necessary. At worst, they were a part of the cost of doing business.

“We have some cargo to load—just a bit to take off—and some passengers,” said the captain. “We should be finished by early evening. Would you like a drink?”

“Yes, now that might be a good idea,” said the pilot. “A little of the Irish, if you have it, would suit me fine.”

The small niceties of every job lend dignity, and that must always be respected. The captain’s quarters were the sanctum sanctorum of this miniature sovereign state that sailed the seas, and the stern but affable captain was the king. The pilot felt this gesture to be his right as temporary stand-in, but he would never dream of assuming that right, nor attempting any familiarity. The captain gently enforced his own formality on everyone, and no one was the worse for it.

MacQueen sat in one of the stuffed leather sofas of the purser’s square and watched the new passengers come aboard. They were a mixed lot as they assembled with their luggage, reading material, documents, passports, glasses, hats, and anything that could be mislaid. There were only three women, and no children. The steward had mentioned that there were three sick children with their mother in second class. The thought of the condition of that cabin was too grim to bear.

MacQueen rose and offered his seat to an elderly lady dressed in a tweed suit with a purple scarf and low-heeled golfing oxfords. She carried three large bundles and had a copy of Dostoevsky, in which was stuck her documents. Her spectacles were around her neck on a chain. She accepted the seat with relief and thanked him in a heavy Scot accent.

Realizing that he was occupying valuable space, MacQueen turned to leave, but as he did he noticed an odd group standing beside the door leading to the deluxe cabin suite. They all wore belted trench coats and slouch hats, with wide cuffs on their trousers. There were six men, just being joined by a woman wearing a black beret. In trying to be inconspicuous, they stood out in the noisy throng. He heard them muttering in French. Just as he put his foot on the lower step to go up top, they were joined by a vigorous looking bareheaded man, also wearing a trench coat. His hair was crew cut, his face sunburned, and his eyes an icy blue. His gestures were short and sharp, and his French was atrocious. Nonetheless, he was rounding them up and steering them towards the corridor that contained MacQueen’s cabin. They retrieved shopping bags, books, and some bits of battered luggage. The woman waited beside another small pile of belongings heaped on the deck.

Those are desperate people, thought MacQueen as he mounted the stairs. If they were refugees someone was looking after them; very few refugees travelled first class. The rest of the arrivals were more or less identifiable: bureaucrats, architects, management personnel for the bases, translators for the censorship board, and a scattering of naval and military officers in civilian clothes. Military personnel from both Canada and the United States usually provided their own troopships or aircraft, and it was becoming the happy season for generals on the move. The bar was closed while in port, which he should have known, so he returned to his cabin to drink his last bottle of beer.

MacQueen found the crew cut man sitting on the opposite bunk. He had his shirtsleeves rolled at the wrist, one of which sported a large gold watch bracelet. A pair of black loafers were on the deck, and he had his legs crossed in some sort of lotus position. He was doing isometric exercises, with his arms clasped in front and his biceps bulging and relaxing. A pair of smoky, gold-rimmed glasses were on the bureau, and beside them sat an empty shoulder holster.