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 to 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.