83

The following morning, Lieutenant Commander James Peter Marmaduke, RNR, First Lieutenant of HMCS Avalon, paid MacQueen a surprise call at his office. It was rumoured that the Number One required half a bottle of rum every morning just to get going. He was always erect and correct nonetheless, and even if never sober, no one had ever seen him drunk.

“Good morning, MacQueen,” said the Number One, entering his office without knocking.

MacQueen rose. “Good morning, sir. This is an unexpected surprise.”

The lieutenant commander sat heavily in a chair, took off his cap and, withdrawing a handkerchief from his sleeve, patted his brow. He wore several first war ribbons high on his chest, including the Merchant Marine Medal. His face was flushed, but a remarkably fine bone structure held everything in place. He was a good-looking man, with upswept eyebrows that almost looked satanic.

“That is a nice sword,” he commented. It was lying on MacQueen’s desk. “Is it yours?”

“Yes, sir,” answered MacQueen, refraining from giving any details.

“Gieves. They make the best.”

He ran his finger under his stiff collar, accepted a cigarette, coughed, and then crossed his legs. MacQueen waited for him, knowing that this wasn’t a social call.

“I have two problems to talk over, MacQueen. One is rather confidential and concerns Lieutenant Cossit.”

“Jimmy?”

“Jimmy. Yes, quite. You are a friend of his. We all are, of course, but perhaps you have some influence. He is a career officer, young, but with a good enough record with the Royal Navy and so on. You know it all. He has an important job here, but he’s heading slam-bang for trouble. I don’t care what his tastes are. Churchill said that the old Royal Navy was run on rum, buggery, and the lash. But this isn’t the old Royal Navy, and we haven’t got the lash.”

“We have the others?” asked MacQueen with a trace of a smile.

“Too bloody much of both,” growled the Number One, stubbing his cigarette. “You know what I’m talking about, and young Cossit will be in the soup. His career will be ruined—and possibly others with him.”

“Why such a fuss about a moral problem?”

“Morality be damned.” The first lieutenant’s hand was shaking, whether from indignation or the need of a drink. “It is a matter of discipline—and that we must uphold. We are officers—you of anyone around here knows that. The most damning clause in naval regulations is ‘undue familiarity with ratings’. They’ll hang him on that one!”

MacQueen leaned back in his chair and looked at the fuming lieutenant commander through slitted eyes. The man had sailed the China Seas and been ashore in every cesspool of vice from Shanghai to Marseilles. He was neither naïve nor innocent, yet here he was spouting the old Mandalay bullshit about class distinction as though he had inherited a title from his grandfather the duke. The old sinner was way adrift, trying to inflict Kipling’s Empire on Canadians, and MacQueen knew he didn’t care a hoot about morality. The insult was Jimmy’s straight stripes. This came from the snobbery of the “Permanent Force”, and it grated this old bastard to see Jimmy, in theory, let the side down. Well, that was the navy—Canadian or British. They’d break Jimmy on a wheel given the slightest excuse.

“‘Undue familiarity with ratings’,” repeated MacQueen. “That’s a magic phrase if ever I heard one…and black magic at that.”

“It’s regulations,” sputtered the Number One. “In black and white in the King’s Regulations and Admiralty Instructions—and that, my boy, is that. You’d better have a word with him.”

“And the other topic…?”

The Number One stood up. “Don’t you have a drink around here?”

“No, sir. Regulations.” That was a cheap shot, thought MacQueen. He knew he’d pay for it later.

The lieutenant commander looked at him coldly. “The next item, Lieutenant MacQueen, is that Flag Officer Newfoundland will be striking his colours next week. A lunch will be held here in the officer’s wardroom for him. The governor will be in attendance and the top brass from the US and Canadian army and air force bases. You will be responsible for a viceregal guard of honour. Ninety-eight men and two petty officers.”

“Good Lord! What day?”

“Wednesday, I think. It will be confirmed. The commander has ordered me to tell you that this swan song must go off without a hitch, so don’t stab His Excellency with your nice sword!”

He gathered his cap and gloves and opened the door. He turned and smiled humourlessly as MacQueen rose to his feet. “Captain D is leaving also,” he said as he walked out. “Commander Marchand will then be in overall command of personnel in the base.”

MacQueen sat down with a groan. How the hell was he going to get together a guard of that size in less than a week? He buzzed for Hemming and started to dictate a memorandum to himself, listing each point to be covered as it came to mind. They would have to scrape the bottom of the barrel to keep all of the areas covered and yet muster ninety-eight men and two petty officers.

At least it would be a show of strength to the governor and his entourage.

In the meantime, the filing cabinets and other equipment of the shore patrol started to arrive and were stored in the far end of the building. Parking space was found for the two police wagons, and MacQueen signed for the items as they arrived, neatly listed by Leading Seaman Timmons. Young MacDonell, spotless in his new job, assisted where he could, until MacQueen called him.

“Let everyone else pitch in, MacDonell,” he said. “We’re heading for the drill hall. Hemming, I’ll be at the gunnery stores, or somewhere over there.”

The gunner’s mate jumped to attention. “Good morning, sir. Cup of tea?” He poured a strong brew into an enamel mug and offered it, pushing milk and sugar across the counter.

“Thanks, Chief,” said MacQueen. “You’ve heard of the big job Wednesday?”

“You give me the bodies, sir. I’ll have ’em in shape.”

“That’s the difficulty, it would seem. Where’ll we get the bodies?”

The gunner’s mate gestured to MacDonell to pour himself a cup of tea, then took a clipboard from the wall and studied it for a while. “We’ve got about five stokers lying over on Block C,” he started, “and a few odds and bods in Block F. The barracks ain’t what it used to be. Then there are the sweepers and maintenance lads. We could get a couple of petty officers from the pay branch, even though they’ll howl about it, plus the off-duty guard. Oh, we can muster ’em, I guess. It’ll take some work on the parade square, but what the hell. I’ve emergency web belts and gaiters, all in beautiful shape, and rifles too. All they have to do is appear in decent uniforms, if they have ’em.”

“Where’s the gunnery officer?”

“He’s gone on leave to get married to that young Wren. He’ll hate to miss this. Would have postponed the wedding, I’d wager!”

MacQueen laughed but agreed that Guns would certainly have put off anything but his own funeral to have commanded a viceregal guard.

“I’ll have to take it myself then.”

“Afraid so, sir. There isn’t another lieutenant here who could handle it, and any other rank is a no-no.”

“I won’t be required for anything except on Wednesday?”

“No, sir. I’ll coordinate the lists and times with Petty Officer Low and arrange with the master-at-arms for any other bodies, plus Lieutenant Cossit, if I need some of his. It’ll work out, have no fear. How’s your sword drill?”

“I’m okay. on that. We’d better have a dress rehearsal with the band and everything before the event.”

“I’ll let you know, sir. Don’t worry, we’ll upstage the Royal Marines!”

MacQueen left with an enormous sense of relief. Professionalism certainly counted in a life that was so full of bumbling amateurs. Give a pro a job and he did it. With the others one had to follow up every hour on the hour.

Petty Officer Low came striding along the boardwalk, his cutlass swinging at his hip and his chin-stay under his chin to show one and all that he meant business. He stopped with an army stamp, and saluted.

“Good day, sir-r,” he said. “I’m on my way to see the gunner’s mate—he just called for me.”

“Good man, PO,” answered MacQueen, returning the salute. “I was just going to talk to you about it, but he knows the score, so it will save some time.”

He looked at MacDonell. “Your new escort, I see, sir-r.”

“Yes. Well, report to me when you’ve finished.”

“Aye, sir-r.” Saluting again, he proceeded, shouting at a knot of ratings to pull their shoulders back and stop slouching.

Lieutenant Jim Cossit was waiting in MacQueen’s office, looking debonair and examining the sword.

“Jimmy! I’m getting all sorts of visitors today, and the Number One was here earlier.”

“Hi, Pat, I’ve come to take you to the City Club for lunch. A little break from routine.”

“That’s an idea—haven’t been there for ages. What’s the celebration?”

“Just to get away,” said Jimmy with his winsome smile. “You’ll have to provide the transport.”

“Pleasure. Just let me wrap a few things up here and we’re away.”

Lieutenant Cossit wandered into the orderly room, which was in a turmoil of packing cases and filing cabinets. He picked up a local paper and scanned the news of Admiral Doenitz’ surrender at Flensburg—the last act. He looked at MacDonell. “You’re new, aren’t you? Lieutenant MacQueen’s escort? What’s your name?”

MacDonell jumped to attention. “MacDonell, sir.”

Cossit chuckled. “Please sit down. I’m not a guard officer, you know.”

Jimmy Cossit was an engaging young man, betraying no indication of his proclivities and putting everyone instantly at ease with his wide smile and twinkling eyes. He had an ease of manner that made slight mock of his straight stripes, and his inability to be sombre was a mark against him in the dour atmosphere of temporary senior officers trying to be gentlemen. He had long ago endeared himself to MacQueen with the statement, “As the crown prince of Germany once complained: ‘Why does everyone think I enjoy war because I try to be cheerful and love my troops?’ That Hun must have been a good egg, because I feel exactly the same.”

MacQueen had felt an immediate empathy with this carefree young man, not realizing the subterranean depths that were to be his undoing. When the truth finally dawned, it didn’t affect their friendship. Actually, it was a relief to Cossit to have someone in on his secret. But it complicated life for his platonic friend in his efforts to protect him. The prince’s comment about “loving his troops” was a bit too close for comfort—or safety.

MacQueen beckoned to him through the window between the offices. “All ready?” he asked.

“Let’s go, boss,” answered Cossit.

MacQueen could think of no more pleasant sensation than sitting in the back of his staff car with a fellow officer whom he liked beside him, his smart, armed escort in front with his driver, and heading for an agreeable rendezvous that held no promise of turmoil or frustration. Canadians, he mused, lack a sense of style. They were a nation of conformists and egalitarians. They apologized for excellence. Spread out, it was difficult for them to build a stratified society. Newfoundland had succeeded in its odd way. Join Canada and they would just be one of the mob.

Jimmy Cossit had been jesting with MacDonell and Rodney during MacQueen’s musings. He turned to his friend. “You’re quiet. Dozing off?”

“You’ll soon wake up, sir, when I try to get over these potholes,” exclaimed Rodney, as they breasted the dockyard main gate. MacQueen noticed the guard talking to one of the better known local whores. He made a mental note of that.

The car slowed to a crawl along Water Street, the old cobbled business thoroughfare of the aging seaport. Driving was on the left, but the vehicles had the wheel on the “wrong” side, which made things doubly hazardous.

The City Club was on the second floor of one of the high brick buildings on the south side of the street. The hallway was clean and the linoleum runner on the stairs waxed to a high polish. The brass banister gleamed. It smelled appetizing and exclusive. Honorary membership had been extended to service officers for the duration of the war. MacQueen realized it would likely be expiring soon.

MacQueen and Jimmy Cossit mounted the stairs, checked their caps and gloves, and washed their hands in the large gleaming washroom. The bar itself boasted a brass rail and overlooked the harbour. It wasn’t large, but most of the other guests were in the dining room, billiard room, or one of the other rooms for cards and other amusements.

Each officer automatically placed one foot on the brass rail and ordered drinks. Shiny cuspidors were on the floor. There were no tobacco or spittle stains around them, which testified to either a lack of use or good aim.

“I always like it here,” said Jimmy, tasting his drink. “Reminds me something of the West Coast—don’t know why.”

“They have a City Club in Victoria too,” said MacQueen. “We used to go there as subbies from Royal Roads. Not as posh as this place, Lord knows. But they had slot machines. I had a favourite that often paid for my night at the Empress Hotel.”

“The old Empress,” chortled Jimmy. “Here’s to her. Many’s the crinolined behind that’s been pinched midst her potted palms!”

MacQueen laughed. “You put it well, ol’ boy. I remember once reading that all the grand hotels in the world have similar old ladies drinking infinite quantities of tea. They are called the Harpies of the Ritz. The Empress had more than its share of those old gaffers.”

“Take it easy, Pat. I have two great aunts who go there every afternoon. They’re a formidable pair. If you parachuted through the skylight they would only be slightly perturbed, and then they would ask your name and immediately recollect having met your father at Biarritz, or somewhere.”

“Staunch old warriors,” commented MacQueen. He felt someone touch his elbow. It was Duncan-Fisher, holding a billiard cue.

“Good morning, Lieutenant,” he said. His hair was sleekly parted, and he wore a checked tattersall vest. “I saw you through the doorway—haven’t seen you here before.”

MacQueen introduced him to Jimmy and asked if he would like a drink. “I have one inside, but thank you. Could I possibly speak to you for a moment?”

MacQueen excused himself and followed the well-tailored figure through the main hall, into the panelled billiard room. A tall, sandy­haired man with a wide-swept cavalry moustache was standing beside the table, chalking his cue. “I’d like you to meet Major Rowntree. James, this is Lieutenant MacQueen of the Canadian navy.”

MacQueen shook his hand, noting the affectation of disinterest that is an inescapable part of many British officers.

“Major Rowntree has just arrived back in St. John’s from overseas,” explained Duncan-Fisher. “He is in sympathy with the—ah—predicament of his native land. His family of course are not unknown in Newfoundland history.” MacQueen had recognized the name of one of the merchant families of the city.

“Yes,” said Rowntree, with a swallowing drawl, “we’ve got a stake in the country all right. Want to keep it too, don’t y’know. Paul here has been briefing me on the current situation. How bloody awful!”

MacQueen glanced at a couch where a crumpled figure was reclined, breathing heavily, with an empty glass on the floor beside him. “That’s our fearless leader, Major Coshing,” explained Duncan-Fisher. “He’s leading his troops in his dreams.”

MacQueen did not know what to say and felt rather awkward. This was getting to higher and higher levels, yet no one had specified a thing, and he had asked for nothing. Talk was cheap, but what exactly were they all driving at? He had submitted a rough plan for a government at his meeting with the men in the drug store. This fellow Rowntree’s business probably ran on identical lines, yet they wanted to involve him at every level.

“Incidentally, old boy,” said Rowntree, “I hear you want a word with Harry Goodman, HE’s bumboy? Well, I’m seeing him this aft—anything I can do?”

“We’re planning a send-off for the admiral on Wednesday,” replied MacQueen. “The governor is supposed to come as guest of honour. I’ll be in command of the guard—he might get word to me then.”

Duncan-Fisher and Rowntree exchanged quick glances. “Yes, mebbe so. Or mebbe sooner? Would you be free for tea on Sunday?”

MacQueen recalled the army dance on Saturday night. He wouldn’t be at his best, but what the hell. “I should think so.”

“Splendid. We’ll work something out and let you know. Duncan here has your number, I believe.”

“I must rejoin my friend, but it was a pleasure. I’ll hear from you?”

“Certainly.” They shook hands all round, and with another glance at Major Coshing, MacQueen headed for the bar.

“I thought you’d deserted me,” said Jimmy. “What was that all about?”

“Just chatting with the toffs,” said MacQueen. “Let me buy you one.”

“Okay. I’ve ordered lunch. Quite a view from here. What’s that across there?”

“That’s the dry dock by the Naval Armament Depot—worst posting in the guard atop that one in winter! It looks pretty deserted over there. Can you see the numbers on that corvette?”

“Two-two-seven, I think.”

“That’s Freddie Seaton’s. They must have moved him over. Good thing we noticed.”

“Who the hell is Freddie Seaton?”

“An old classmate. Lord, I’ve got to fix him with a date for Saturday night. Manie’s asked us to an army dance.”

“She didn’t ask me,” said Jimmy, pretending to be hurt.

“Come if you wish, it’s open. Who’d you take?”

“That monstrous Wren chief petty officer!” exclaimed Jimmy, breaking into peals of laughter. “God, what tits! Can you imagine? She’d swallow me whole.”

“She could swallow you before breakfast,” said MacQueen, laughing.

This merriment ringing out from the bar startled some of the slumberous members. Each in his own way thanked his God that the war was over, and that soon they could rest in peace from such barbarians.

Jimmy had ordered a creamed selection of fish that was excellent. He also ordered a good wine, and they finished with Remy Martin cognac and coffee. They both felt in high spirits. “The great redeeming feature of Newfoundland is the liquor supply. Canada may be a puritan’s paradise but thank God we devils have ended up here!”

“Rum, buggery, and the lash…” muttered MacQueen, suddenly thoughtful.

“What’s that? I didn’t hear you, my man.”

“Nothing, Jimmy, just something one of those fellows said. Can we afford another one of these?” MacQueen didn’t have the heart to spoil the high spirits with dour warnings from up the hill.

Returning to his office, MacQueen checked the PO’s listings for the guard of honour and sought to reorganize the watches to free some of the guard for shore patrol duties. Hemming reported that the newly opened cellblock now contained its first prisoner, sent by the master-at­arms’ office, and that he was sleeping off a massive intake of the local rum known as Screech.

“He’ll be with us over the weekend at least, sir,” said Hemming, “and he’ll have a job cleaning up the mess in his cell.”

“He’ll have another job,” answered MacQueen. “Polishing our sword. I want it gleaming every day for the guard of honour. I’ll wear it on my official visits to the inspector general of the constabulary and the CID on Monday.”

“That’s an idea, sir-r,” added Petty Officer Low. “He can polish my cutlass also.”

Hemming took the weapons and laid them aside until the culprit sobered up.

“You didn’t take any of my choices for your escort, sir-r?” queried the petty officer.

“Just an accident, PO. I happened to be in the dockyard and young MacDonell caught my eye.”

“He’s young, sir. And new. I hope it isn’t resented.”

“Every move is resented by someone, PO We can’t please everyone. He seems fine to me.” He wanted none of the petty officer’s boys at this crucial time.

They returned to the lists. The shore patrol would be very thin in St. John’s, but there were only two ships in the harbour—and one was due to leave on Saturday, which was tomorrow. Seaton’s corvette had a skeleton crew and the personnel in the base were hardly one half that of three months ago. The Wrens were scheduled to leave early in the week, leaving only minimal staff.

The guard of honour posed another problem, in that they would need to make sure there was coverage for the changeover of watches. The assortment of other ratings available would provide whatever other standby bodies might be required.

It was tight, but it could be done. The extra drill required would not amount to more than a few hours, as the guards drilled regularly, but the others would have to be integrated. As they were in barracks anyway, the gunner’s mate could concentrate on them. The band was always up to scratch, although they would be leaving for Canada within a week, which was sad to contemplate.

At dinner that evening, LaRosa joined MacQueen. They sat in the mess for a while afterwards and talked quietly in a corner.

“I have been invited to a tea on Sunday,” said LaRosa. “The governor and his wife will be spending the weekend at the bottom of Bonavista Bay, as the locals put it, and we’ll be entertained at Government House by Lieutenant Goodman. Apparently, there will be quite a few present.”

“So they are showing themselves at last?”

“None that you haven’t met, I don’t think. It’s a good location, and guarded by the constabulary at each gate, so we won’t be seen all at once. The pressure is rising. We’ll have to decide on some course of action or chuck it all to Winterwood for good.”

“What’s your price in all this?” asked MacQueen suddenly.

LaRosa sat silent for some time, the smoke from his cigar curling towards the ceiling. There were only a few officers present, each involved in his own concerns. The first lieutenant was sitting in a corner at what was called the cad’s table, writing a letter to his American sweetheart, who owned some beauty parlours in California. He planned to marry her, probably as a form of insurance. The fine-looking commander of the Wrens was quietly reading in an opposite corner. Two sub-lieutenants were playing chess. The bar steward sat in bored silence on a stool behind the bar.

“Before I can answer that, let us look at the probable outcome, at least as I see it. Your friend Brunt will be asked to emerge as the prime minister—provisional, of course. Under him there will be six ministries to correspond with the Commission of Government, possibly some of the same men. This structure will proclaim the new government once they have the support, or at least the neutrality of the police, and then they will ask the governor for his blessing. Once that all is accomplished then elections can be planned in the old style, and there will be no question of joining any other country or altering the status quo.”

“My plan made no mention of elections,” commented MacQueen.

“No? Well, whether elections are held or not will of course be up to the provisional government.”

“This is all reverting to 1934?”

“In a way it is, but the world is changing, alas.”

It was MacQueen’s turn to be silent. LaRosa offered him a brandy, and he nodded absently. LaRosa rose and went to the bar, tearing tickets from his booklet, and returned with the drinks.

“Frankly,” said MacQueen, “I had based my submission on the idea of the corporate state, much like what Italy had in the twenties. It’s efficient and costs less. This way you are putting the trappings of an elephant back on the puppy dog.”

“Well, this seems to be what they’ll buy right now. Of course, you can bring up your ideas again at the tea on Sunday, but we must be prepared to be constructive.”

“I don’t see Brunt leading in the referendum that Winterwood keeps talking about. He hasn’t got much pizzazz, if you know what I mean. He’s a good man, but that Joe is pretty hot stuff right now. Anyway, what do they need me for? Any idea of a coup must be diminishing daily. I don’t imagine you can plan even the smallest revolution overnight. Much longer and I’ll have no troops left. Besides, you haven’t answered my question—what’s in it for you?”

“My lad, I lived through just this sort of thing in Ireland when the Irish Free State emerged. If de Valera has his way it will soon be the Republic of Ireland. I even went to Spain and witnessed the birth pains of another type of state, but still within our traditions. The Civil War, as they called it. I call it a crusade, and Franco the last of the crusaders. They were no strangers to war. This was the last bastion of the old way. Naturally, Irish and Catholic, I went to Burgos to pay my homage to the great man. Everything was there in wild profusion. Scarlet-beretted Carlists in their long cloaks, Moorish guards in turbans and carrying lances, the newest Falange blueshirts, rather too eager for my taste, the cavalry and the common soldiers encamped in front of the magnificent cathedral. Generations of kings and saints and mystics gazing calmly at the panoply of war.

“Franco didn’t impress me physically—he came to the leadership by accident. I know nothing of the trenches, or the hospitals, or the cold. Men don’t want to die for those things. On the republican side, everyone was extolling the common man. But in Burgos? Never! Here was the noble man, the excellent man, the uncommon man. That was being extolled and that is where my heart is. It’s glory—la gloire—my friend. I can smell all of the identical components here and now.”

MacQueen considered LaRosa’s points quietly. The noble versus the commonplace. He may be right about Franco being the “last crusader”, and MacQueen did agree that the situation repeated itself here in miniature. But could one contemplate a civil war in Newfoundland? Hardly. Whatever happened, it would be over in a night. Change an office or two; establish and legitimize a new authority; announce it to the world—and that would be that. The world was full of such precedents.

LaRosa continued with clear passion. “You once said that adventurers succeed in times of turmoil. This is a ripe plum that might only require a few decisive acts and it’s ours. Not yours and mine, although we’ll be there, playing our part and reaping the rewards that only a sovereign state can bestow. It could join the United Nations as a counterbalance to the Commonwealth, and the very location will hold America and Canada up to ransom. Can’t you see the possibilities in this poverty-stricken island? They will need men like us!”

MacQueen watched the liquid of his drink shimmer in the low light as he swirled it in his glass. “Do you want to see—or be—a president of Newfoundland?” he asked. “What about the crown?”

“The crown will legitimize it, and then it will be up to the people to decide. But why not the crown? It gives enormous international prestige and will prevent us from becoming an iced-over banana republic. We will need at least a coast guard and security forces, if that’s what interests you most. Citizenship will be no problem and your oath will still stand. To the king of Newfoundland, but the same man and dynasty as before.”

MacQueen drank his brandy in a gulp. “There are still things I don’t know, and maybe I’ll learn them on Sunday, but right now I’m going home and to bed. You have painted quite a picture, my friend, and I find it an attractive one. You’re nearly a prophet of sorts—but it’s pretty rich for my blood. God knows what I’ve got myself into!”

He bade LaRosa good night, got his cap, and decided to walk. The air was warmer, with the scent of the sea giving it the gentle tang that he had come to love. His footsteps crunched over the gravel as he approached the back gate.

“Halt, who goes there?” rang out from the sentry.

“Officer of the guard,” he replied.

“Advance and be recognized!” ordered the sentry, shining a light on his face. He straightened to attention and saluted.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Evening. Trepanier, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me, Trepanier, what do you fellows think about the king?”

Trepanier looked at him in astonishment. He was from Levis and knew from experience that French Canadians weren’t too popular in the navy. Apparently, the officer had been drinking.

“The king, sir? I don’t think about him at all. He’s okay, I guess, but it doesn’t mean much to me.”

“Don’t be upset, it was just a question. Good night.”

“Good night, sir.”

MacQueen walked to the pavement and turned towards his house. Not many people really thought about the king, he mused. What an awesome height he occupied. Above it all, the lucky man.

“You’re home early tonight,” said Espery in surprise. “And walking alone, at that?”

“Just a stroll up from the wardroom—it’s a mild night. Have we got a brandy in your little cache there?”

“I think so. May I join you?”

“By all means, and light the fire. We’ll try for a quiet hour or so before turning in.”

Espery poured two good measures and put a match to the fire. MacQueen took off his jacket and eased himself into a comfortable chair. Espery offered him a cigarette, then sat by the table, waiting expectantly.

MacQueen sighed deeply. “How long have your family been in Newfoundland?” he asked.

“Lord, forever it seems. They came out around 1800. Mostly sea captains and some merchants. I guess I’m related to most of the old families hereabouts, one way or t’other. I was a rebel though—went to sea early and haven’t settled anywhere since.”

“What do you think of this land of yours?”

“It’s my home, and that’s that, I suppose. All of my important memories and traditions are bound up with Newfoundland, and no one can escape those. You know the national anthem, ‘We Love Thee Newfoundland’? That phrase is repeated a lot in it, whether as a sign of our love or an attempt to convince ourselves, I don’t know. We’re a breed apart, really.”

“It seems to me that every breed considers itself the salt of the earth.”

“I don’t know about that. My father was killed in France in the first war. Almost a whole generation of Newfoundlanders perished in a few days. This time we’ve been spread through the Royal Navy and our own units are fighting alongside the British. We look more to the old country than to Canada or America.”

“Yes, I know. But you are a part of North America, after all—especially Labrador. That cuts a big chunk out of Quebec.”

“That may have been a mistake. It involves us too much in that direction. Although I don’t know, nor care much. I’m a Newfoundlander—and that’s good enough for me wherever I go.”

“Would you die for Newfoundland?”

Espery smiled. “What is death? I’ve faced it often, and even have a DCM to show for it. To die for something is no great sacrifice. Yes, I’d die for my country. Lord knows, I’ve offered myself, but there haven’t been any takers. To live for it is the problem.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Too much interference, for one. We’re like Poland, caught between giants and their bloody ambitions. Just look at us! We’re mainstream and occupied by the Americans, the Canadians, and the British. Where the hell are the Newfoundlanders? Off fighting someone else’s wars.”

“What would the nation do on its own?”

“While there’s fish in the sea we can live, and that’s only a start. We’ve got timber and minerals and a people used to hard work. We could easily survive, and even prosper, given a little luck and some know-how.”

“What about Winterwood?”

“Since you’re asking my opinion, I believe him to be nothing short of a bastard. He wants to give everything away! I’d rather be proud in rags than a whore in ermine. He talks about confederation—that’s bullshit. They’ve been after us for years, the Canadian wolf. It might be warm in a wolf’s belly but I’d rather be cold.”

MacQueen stood up and stretched. “I think you are a patriot, Espery,” he said.

“Call it what you will, it’s how I feel—and how everyone I know feels. The big boys might be toying with ideas, but they’re crazy. Winterwood is promising people the moon—but that doesn’t make him any less a traitor!”

“Strong words, old boy. I’m going to bed. Have another, if you wish. It’s been very interesting.”