River City (72 page)

Sir Edward was one of the wave of Scotsmen to come to Canada, often driven off their lands and shipped overseas against their will, who had prospered in the new land. They uttered a special prayer: “Lord, we do not ask You for money, we only ask that You show us where it is.” As had many of his countrymen, Beatty had discovered where money could be found.

He was homosexual, a situation his close friends tolerated. His success as a businessman, his genuine philanthropy and his fiscal acumen allowed them to forgive the idiosyncrasy even while their society did not. He struck a fine figure, for his stewardship included being the chancellor of McGill University and the president of the Royal Victoria Hospital. For someone in his position to be able to speak of an occasional risqué escapade to pals he knew from business was a fond luxury. These days, he had only the memories of dangerous follies with which to entertain his companions, as his health was frail and the aging process less than kind to his libido.

In contrast to the depleted homosexual, Beatty, and the arch puritan, Holt, Sir Charles Gordon remained an active womanizer. He would not own up to what he actually did with the women he’d debauch these days, in hotel rooms that Sir Edward discreetly supplied from his company’s chain, but he insisted that he not only had a good time, but so did his partner for the evening. The other two old men merely smiled and shook their heads. In truth, they didn’t want to know more, and Sir Herbert felt that he knew rather too much already.

The three knew themselves to be the very last of their breed.

Prime Minister William Lyon Mackenzie King had seen to it, advising the British that they were no longer to bestow titles upon Canadians. As the nation’s colonial past was being washed away, those vestiges that persisted were being given a particularly stiff scrub. Each of the three tycoons had been inaugurated into his knighthood prior to the edict, but now, as they passed on, others would not be replacing them at the knight’s table—not in this land—and they found no solace in this sad denouement of regal tradition.

Their drinks arrived. They had not been required to fill out a chit—even that wee chore had been done for them—and Sir Charles affixed his signature to the card.

“War,” Sir Herbert ruminated, “approaches.”

“Bloody row, I should think,” Sir Edward acknowledged. “Messy business.” “Opportunity,” Sir Charles suggested, “for men of affairs. Grand opportunity.”

Sir Edward picked up on the theme. “At war’s end, one needs to find oneself well positioned. History has demonstrated exceptionally strong growth.”

“Gentlemen,” Sir Herbert pointed out to them, “need I remind you—I daresay that I do—that if this bloody thing proves to be of long duration, two years or three, as some say, no one at table will be around to do his part. No one at table will be partaking in the obvious opportunities, either during the war or after, and neither I nor either of you has a snowball’s chance in Bermuda of seeing the thing through to any conclusion, be it victory or defeat.”

“Oh, victory, surely,” Sir Edward piped up, aghast.

“Rather,” Sir Charles concurred.

“Victory, then. Even so, you will not live to see it,” Sir Herbert intoned.

Sir Charles sipped his gin. “Rather,” he agreed, albeit reluctantly.

“I say,” Sir Edward said, “jolly good humour today, old chap. Jolly good.”

“Not altogether,” Sir Herbert agreed. “Do you know why the military permits me an escort, the four stout lads outside? I don’t pay for the privilege.”

“It’s been my observation, Sir Herbert,” Sir Charles chuckled, “that you pay for very little in life.”

“Not so. The military, you see, is concerned for my safety, as they desire to keep me alive as long as possible—so that I might requisition things, you see.”

“What
things
?” Sir Edward inquired, interested. He himself had worried about the combat-readiness of the Canadian forces. They were deemed to be in dire shape, in poor position for war.

“I’ve agreed to purchase for the air force a squadron of fighter aircraft. Spitfires. They’re quite anxious that I live long enough to sign off on the allocation.”

Both men were still. No one really had any idea as to the full extent of Sir Herbert’s wealth, yet to be seated with a gentleman, an old friend, wealthy enough to purchase a
squadron
of aircraft, momentarily stunned their senses.

“The least I could do,” added Sir Herbert, to fill the pause in conversation, “given that I won’t be seeing the nasty business through. I presume you
are both making your own plans to offer support, ahead of the game. You’re unlikely to be of much good if you wait too long.”

“That’s jolly good of you,” Sir Edward noted. He was duly impressed, and agreed that Sir Herbert’s tack was the correct one. If death should seize him in his sleep, his heirs were more likely to hoard their benefits than deposit them in the cause of war. “I’d rather like to purchase a tank or two, help the army along.”

“I suppose the navy could use assistance,” Sir Charles consented, although he didn’t want to get into any fundraising competition with these two gentlemen.

“A ship? A frigate—perhaps a destroyer,” Sir Herbert suggested. “Munitions, I was thinking.”

“Think harder, Sir Charles. This is a time of war, and as they say, you can’t take it with you. It’s our legacy at stake. By that, I do not refer to my reputation or to yours, for I’ll be remembered as the dastardly chap who turns off the lights at night and the heat in winter. But our society, the companies we have built, the institutions we have seen take shape—all will be forsaken if the war is lost.”

“Quite right, quite right,” Sir Edward wholeheartedly agreed, and while he did not thump the table, his resolve was not to be denied. “Two tanks it is.”

“I think that I should rather like to buy the tanks,” Sir Charles suggested, “to leave you free to purchase a frigate. After all, you
are
in the steamship business.”

“By Jove, you might have something there. We’ll look into that, Sir Charles.”

Their first round had been finished and the next arrived, followed by the soup, a French onion. Sir Herbert seemed preoccupied during the course, failing to hear questions asked of him and failing to respond when they were repeated. As the soup bowls were being taken away and they awaited their succulent roast pork, Sir Herbert broached another issue that had been occupying his mind.

“I have in my possession,” he began, then corrected himself. “Not altogether in my possession, you understand. I have under the aegis of one of my companies, Sun Life Assurance, a certain relic, a cultural heirloom from a bygone era. I am at a loss as to what to do with the artifact, as I’m told it has
significant historical relevance. I’ve had it appraised, only to discover that it has significant commercial value as well. The item is said to possess near magical powers, for anyone who has held the relic in his or her possession enjoyed prosperity. Some would argue that this did not bode true for that fellow Radisson, who had it, but kept trading it to his in-laws to help him keep his wife. The in-laws did rather well. When he finally took it back, well, his life was over, but at least he got to die in his sleep. An achievement for a man like him. In any case, prosperity came to Sun Life. By extension, it’s also true of me. The artifact was acquired by a Sun Life representative in exchange for an insurance policy, paid in full, for which the representative had to endure a scolding by his supervisor for making a questionable deal, until he managed to bring to his attention the diamond-gold handle. Now the item is worth at least as much as a squadron of Spitfires—” “No!”

“By Jove, the man’s good fortune. You ought to pay for lunch on occasion, Sir Herbert.”

Sir Herbert looked across at him, unsmiling, without comment. “What is the relic?” Sir Edward inquired.

“The Cartier Dagger, it’s called. Initially acquired by Jacques Cartier himself from Indians right here on the island of Montreal. Legend has it, in any case.”

“That would indeed be of rare value.”

“Complete with gold and diamonds in the handle, as I say. Stuffed away in a storage box. The company was clearing room for more office space when it was discovered. Good thing a man didn’t just walk off with it. I never would have been aware of the loss, yet it would have been grievous.”

“Indeed. Good on you, Sir Herbert, to have found such a thing.” Sir Charles made a mental note to send employees scrounging through the archives and storage rooms of his companies, to see what treasures might be lurking there.

Sir Herbert explained how the knife had come to be in the hands of Sun Life Assurance, when once it had been held by the Hudson’s Bay Company. As he rarely had opportunity to tell such a tale of high adventure, he relished every turn and nuance. He felt at one moment that the Cartier Dagger must
indeed possess magic powers, for suddenly he was seen as the storyteller in the group. His friends were all ears, and delighted in the daring ascribed to Sarah Hanson.

“The dagger remained within her household for a few generations, until a dolt of a great-grandson traded it to Sun Life in exchange for an insurance policy. So it’s languished with us to this day.”

His companions shook their heads, unable to comprehend the extent of this man’s luck.

“But what to do? You see my dilemma. It’s not the sort of thing you leave to family. A recalcitrant grandson-in-law of mine will be pawning it before I’m fully comfortable in my grave. Shall I donate? But to whom? That’s the issue.”

Sir Edward, who valued his title, for it secured his station in society at a time when, if it were more known, his homosexuality would mark him as an outcast, suggested that Sir Herbert consider giving the artifact to the British monarchy. “King George plans a visit, raising spirits for the war effort. It would be a gesture.”

Sir Herbert rejected the idea out of hand as he bit into his pork. “I am loyal to the Crown. But I am an Irishman by birth and a Canadian by way of my good fortune. I cannot bestow a relic that remains of monumental importance to my adopted land to the Old Country, which is already stuffed with ancient treasure. Besides, the knife has been in the possession of the British monarchy in the past, apparently. Obviously, they gave it up, the silly, inbred dolts.”

“Give the knife to Canada, then,” Sir Charles advised.

“With that oaf, Mackenzie King, as our prime minister? I’d rather give it to the man who delivers my coal. King would receive the dagger and make himself the centre of the ceremony—use the event to win more votes. No! He’s taken away the possibility of knighthood from our younger peers, and the three of us, we’d be lords by now if not for him. For that reason alone, he cannot receive the relic. Canada’s loss, but nothing’s to be done.”

“King,” Sir Edward scoffed, “has declared ten times that we will not go to war in defence of any nation. Did you hear his speech? No foreign wars, he says. We all know he’s lying. All to win votes in Quebec, the scoundrel.”

“Meanwhile,” Sir Charles took note, “the air force is collecting promises for fighter aircraft from our friend over here.”

“The government is building the military for the defence of Canadian soil,” Sir Herbert pronounced. “The military has been given free rein to prepare for our national defence through private resources. It must be done, but it’s all such nonsense, half-measures, and it’s all that blackguard King’s fault. He tells Hitler he’ll fight on the side of Britain, that’s fine, but tells the people of Quebec he will not fight at all. Hitler takes solace, I tell you. No one else does.”

“I have just the ticket,” Sir Edward sparkled. “Oh, this is splendid. Place the dagger in trust, to be given at war’s end to a great Canadian hero. Why not? If the military wants to raise private funds, they cannot say no to an honour bestowed by private financiers.”

Their discussion, then, became quite animated as they debated the merits and demerits of the notion. Sir Charles was concerned that the knife would be won by a foot soldier who’d then return to his life as a fisherman or a woodsman, only to have his wife use the blade to skin fish or hack apart a moose. That wouldn’t do. “Bit of a pickle that,” Sir Edward agreed. Sir Herbert could not tolerate the thought that a recipient might sell the relic for its exceptional value, something his heirs would surely do, causing the knife to soon appear in the hands of a Swiss banker or “a miner from Bolivia.” That wouldn’t do, either. He noted that many genuine heroes in battle would have neither the resources to secure the relic from theft, should it be given to one of them, nor be able to manage the insurance premiums.

Yet the idea evolved, and by the time they had finished their succulent pork they had decided that the Cartier Dagger should be held in perpetual trust by Sun Life, or by trustees the company might appoint should the business fail. The relic could then be presented to a suitable Canadian war hero who had become, after the war—this was Sir Edward’s contribution—the president or chief executive officer or chief operating officer of a major corporation. The corporation would then hold the knife in trust until the demise of either the hero or the company, whichever came first, when it would be returned to Sun Life, who would then seek another national hero who was also a business executive to receive the knife on loan. “In this way, the so-called
magical powers of the ancient dagger will be put to good use, to the benefit of an enterprise. Nobody will use it for whittling.”

“Do you know,” Sir Herbert enthused, “receiving the knife could become as significant as receiving a knighthood. Or a lordship. The closest thing to it in our land. Nothing Mackenzie King can do about it either, the oaf.”

The idea took hold. Sir Herbert Holt and his companions left the Mount Royal Club that day happier than when they had arrived, believing that they had devised a secret legacy for themselves that, apart from tanks and Spitfires and frigates, would allow them to celebrate the victory of their nation in war. Although they’d likely not be alive to join the festivities, they could now gaze out upon the gathering cloud of battle, and upon the larger parade of eternity, with brighter, more expectant, eyes.