AURORA TAPESTRY is the third book in a series. It chronicles the lives and times of a group of men and teenage boys living in an age and an environment where being gay was to be despised, maligned and scorned. It is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, is purely coincidental.
My writing reflects the customs, mores, traditions, prejudices and attitudes of the times. The year is 1976 and it was a different world. Some of the attitudes will no doubt offend those who are so determinedly politically correct that they are unable to conceive that others might have a different opinion or outlook. Please, do not write me hooting and hollering about your cause, prejudices, preferences or whatever. I am not into causes. I AM a grumpy old sailor and I do not suffer fools gladly. Be warned.
In 1976 the AIDS pandemic was only just infecting North America. Condoms were used primarily to prevent pregnancy and gay men never gave a thought to having sex with a condom. Do not, I beg you, let what was common in 1976 influence your conduct today. Always practice safe sex.
As my writings detail scenarios of gay sex - tastefully, I hope - in sometimes graphic detail, I must warn that in some states, provinces, cities and towns reading, possessing, downloading, etc., is illegal, or if you are not of legal age to read, possess, download, etc., works of erotica, please move on.
My thanks, as always, to Peter, who is an honourary grumpy old sailor (he was in another branch, poor man). His strength, editing skills, cajoling and general grouchiness cause me to think and I owe him a great deal.
To any of you who wish, please write me at paradegi@rogers.com. I respond to all e-mails, except flames, unless I am in a particularly grumpy mood, and then I flame back. Be warned!
Aurora Tapestry - Chapter 16
"Death. By hanging." Michael Chan nodded and a long, low breath left his lips. "In light of the present justice system, I think I must agree with you."
Michael had actually planned somewhat more draconian punishments for the men who had brought dishonour to the Order. However, Sir Stephen was the Chancellor, and Champion, and his words must be considered. Sensing Michael's hesitation, The Gunner continued. "It is the only fitting punishment. We can ruin them, true, but they will not be punished for what they did. Hunter, Willoughby, Simpson, all of them, will not spend a day in jail. Their lawyers will argue every step of the way."
The Gunner could not see Michael nodding his head slowly. He could hear the silence that dominated the long-distance telephone wire. Presently, Michael said, "There is also the unhappy fact that the government will become involved. All three men have friends in very high places!"
"If not friends, at least men who are up to their necks in this thing." The Gunner consulted the neatly typed list of names that Lester had transcribed from Troubridge's copies. "I am very much afraid that whatever evidence we present will be ripped to shreds. While we can inform the authorities, and the newspapers, and ruin the lesser creatures, if only in the court of public opinion, deals will be made, names not mentioned." He sighed unhappily. "We can save the boys, but the legal authorities will demand that they testify and I doubt that any of them will be capable of doing so."
"I agree." Michael turned in his chair and stared through the wide windows overlooking the lawns of his estate. He saw Laurence, and the new lad, Logan Hartsfield, jogging down the driveway and smiled. He did not envy Logan in the least. "It is happening here," he said quietly.
"Now?"
"A report has been made, through Louis Arundel, that the Director of the Burnaby Rehabilitation facility has been abusing the young men in his charge. He was immediately removed from his position, but he has not been arrested. Officially the matter is still under investigation."
"Which means the fix is in," growled The Gunner.
"The provincial government not only funds the facility, the Ministries of Health and Social Services are required to monitor the employees. This was not done and now they are scampering around making sure that the newspapers do not hear of it."
"They will, of course," interjected The Gunner.
"No. We have no proof, really, other than the word of a young man who is considered mentally deficient. He was not the subject of the Director's . . . attentions. One of the young men who was allegedly molested is incapable of speaking and the other's parents refuse to allow him to make a statement. They feel that he would be held up to public ridicule, which sadly he would be, given that most lawyers have few, if any scruples."
In a rare burst of temper Michael growled in exasperation as he continued, "And having no scruples the lawyers have asked for, and been granted, an injunction against any public disclosure of the so-called investigation, which is of a 'sensitive nature' and of course the innocent parties must be protected." Michael's disgust was palpable. "By the time the media learn of this investigation they will be unable to report any of it!"
"Then nothing is to be done?" asked The Gunner, his disbelief filling the telephone wire. "How in the name of God can the authorities ignore such a thing?"
"Because it is in their interests to ignore them," replied Michael calmly. "I am as upset as you, Sir Stephen, and as disgusted as Louis Arundel and his young protege, Gabriel Izard."
The Gunner fought down the urge to curse roundly. "Then all that will happen is that the province will 'investigate' for next ten years and this . . . Director will . . ."
"Tsapopoulas," supplied Michael. "His name is Tsapopoulas and he has been removed from his position and advised to leave the province."
"In the public interest, no doubt!"
"Other heads will roll," said Michael pragmatically. "Those who have been named will be asked to resign. Beyond that, officially, nothing will happen."
"Out of sight, out of mind. Out of province, no longer their problem," returned The Gunner angrily.
"Precisely." A cold, hard smile formed on Michael's face. "However, I assure you that justice will be served."
The Tsangs. The Gunner smiled grimly, approvingly. "Let justice be done," he said quietly.
"As it will be," replied Michael. "Now then, you have begun?"
The Gunner looked around the living room. Tacked to the walls were large, city maps, studded with yellow Post-it notes. Lester had been busy.
Leaving his chair, The Gunner looked at the Rand McNally city maps - they were available in any corner shop and stationers - and nodded. Lester had pinpointed with red-coloured pins the locations of the homes of the men on Troubridge's list. The biggest cluster of pins was on the Toronto map. There were neatly printed notes festooning each map, listing telephone numbers, house numbers and the like. There were also two cryptic notes, "Topographical" with many exclamation points, and "Cameras", with more exclamation points.
"We have begun," said The Gunner presently. "I have found my foot soldiers. When the information they bring me is collated, I will know what to do."
"You are determined to rescue the boys?"
"Yes."
"And punish those who abused them?"
"Yes, Michael." The Gunner's tone was firm.
"Then it is decided," replied Michael. "Death. By hanging."
"You should get some sleep," Ace said as he entered the living room. He had just finished showering and was wearing a huge bath towel tied around his waist. "It's almost five and you still have the funeral to get through."
"I know," replied The Gunner with a sigh. He gestured toward the maps. "Lester has been busy. I also saw a note about cameras. I should have thought about them."
"You can't think of everything," replied Ace as he sat beside his lover. He settled into his lover's arms and kissed The Gunner gently.
"What was that for?" asked The Gunner with a smile.
"Well, I could say it's because I love you. However, it's your reward for what you're doing for Lester."
The Gunner chuckled softly. "Lester needs someone to make him realize that he's come to believe the label that's been foisted on him most of his life."
"Lester needs a direction," replied Ace. "Just as Sophie does, and I do." He snuggled close to The Gunner. "You've found something for both of them. Have you found something for me?"
"Not yet," replied The Gunner honestly. "I'm still working on it!" He laughed and brushed his hand across Ace's naked chest. "You're more than just a pretty boy with a killer caboose."
"So you keep telling me," returned Ace. He pulled away from The Gunner, stood up and dropped his towel. "I frightened, Steve. I'm afraid of what we're getting ourselves into, and I'm afraid of what we're going to do. I don't know what is going to happen. All I know is that I want you to hold me, to make love to me. I need you, Steve."
The Gunner reached out, pulled Ace to him and buried his nose in Ace's pubic bush. Ace smelled wonderful and The Gunner drank deeply of Ace's scent. He looked up and smiled. "And I need you, Ace."
Chef arrived in the galley at his normal hour of the morning. He had slept well during the night and for once had no complaints, which surprised Ray who, with Sandro, was busy setting up breakfast for the few cadets still in Aurora. He nodded approvingly at the preparations and then went into his office.
"Something is bothering him, I think," observed Sandro, a serious look on his face. "He is too quiet, and he is not drinking so much." Scratching his chin, Ray nodded his agreement. "He's not drinking at all. And he never even asked where Randy and Joey are."
"Maybe we should talk to him?" asked Sandro. "He is your Papa, after all."
Spontaneously, Ray reached out and stroked Sandro's smooth, beardless face. "And yours, Sandro. And Randy, and Joey. He won't admit it, but he is also your Papa."
Just as spontaneously, Sandro hugged Ray and gently kissed him on the cheeks. "You are my brother. I know I disappoint you, with Nathan, and Chad . . ."
"No, never!" exclaimed Ray. "We're brothers and brothers never disappoint brothers."
"But . . ."
Shaking his head, Ray grasped Sandro's arms. "Sandro, listen to me! As your brother I am telling you that you have never disappointed anyone, least of all me! You have always been my brother and you always will be."
"I ask you favour, then?"
"Sure."
"When doctor is . . . you know . . . you be there?"
"Well, uh, yeah. I'll be in the waiting room and . . ."
"No. You be in room with me!"
Ray's face fell. "But Sandro, I mean, they'll be cutting on your dick and the doctor might not want . . ."
"Do not care!" stated Sandro. "I wish friend, brother to hold my hand. I am not afraid, but I wish friend to be with me."
Seeing the stubborn look on Sandro's face, Ray nodded. "Well, since I've already seen your little man with a hood on, maybe it would be all right," he replied, wondering how he would manage to connive a trip back west and hoping that Sandro's operation did not take place on a school night!
Beaming, Sandro threw his arm around Ray's shoulder. "Good. You show doctor before he do me, dah? Make me look just like my brother!"
Laughing, Chef silently pushed the door to his office closed. Trust Sandro to bring a new slant on brotherhood! Still smiling, Chef settled himself behind his desk and opened the centre drawer. He removed his notes and read them again. Sighing, he shook his head. Stevie darlin' had a fine task ahead of him and Chef did not envy his friend in the least. "But then," Chef thought, "if any man could do it, it would be Stephen Winslow."
From the open window came the laughing voices of the cadets of the Duty Watch as they whiled away the final hour of their watch outside the guardhouse. Their night was almost over and they were no doubt anxious for their breakfasts and cots. Not that the lads would be in their wee beds over long. Today was the beginning of the week, a workday, and there was still much to done. Which led Chef to reach for another pile of papers. Even with feeding and watering the five YAG crews he had to expend, cook, use up or otherwise dispense with every can, bottle and container of food in Dry Stores.
As he drew upon his vast knowledge of creative cooking with inferior goods, Chef heard the low growl of a motorcar. He turned and saw The Gunner's Land Rover - he supposed that the thing was now The Phantom's - as it rolled slowly past the guardhouse. He noticed that The Phantom was dressed in uniform and smiled. "Ah then, it would seem the lad is being either very fastidious with his dress, or the deed is done!"
Chef had heard that Phantom had been in town yesterday, with a young officer, a handsome young officer who was, according to Ray and Sandro, a stud. Randy and Joey, although enthusiastic about the young officer, had spent some time giggling that Colin would never be a candidate for the honour of succeeding Harry's claim to the Pride of the Fleet, which had caused Chef to snicker, for sure Stevie darlin' had never been in the running for the title, so he hadn't, and sure it was that The Phantom wouldn't care one way or another. Chef did puzzle over several comments about Colin "passing" Cory's inspection - whatever that was - and wisely decided to leave well enough alone.
As the sound of the Land Rover faded, Chef frowned. Just outside his window was Mark's motor, the huge black beast of an Imperial and Chef had no doubt that curled up in the back seat he would find Nathan and Fred, with the whole of it smelling like a Hamburg cat house! Chef had no objection to Nathan and Fred keeping company. They were, after all, healthy young males, with healthy young appetites. What he did object to was their using his back garden as a bridal bower! Sure and it was only a matter of time before one of the lads on the Duty Watch, attracted by the rocking and rolling of the motorcar, peeked in and saw a sight that a young lad on a Duty Watch should not be seeing!
Determined to put an end to Nathan and Fred's nightly trysts, at least in his garden, Chef waddled from his office and through the galley. He noticed that Randy and Joey, looking fresh and happy, fresher and happier than Chef thought they should be, had come in to work. As he stood on the steps of the Mess Hall, Chef wondered if young Phil Thornton was as fresh.
Chef cast his gaze across the parade square and saw two figures sitting on the stoop of the Staff Barracks. Cory and The Phantom. No doubt comparing notes, and . . . Chef's eyes narrowed as he saw first Greg, and then Jimmy Collyer, sneak away from the Head Shed. As Jimmy skulked away, heading for the Dockyard, Chef watched Greg stagger toward the Staff Barracks. He saw The Phantom and Cory rise and what appeared to be a confrontation of sorts. "Trouble," Chef thought, "and no danger!" But he would keep his counsel unless and until The Phantom mentioned the whole sorry affair.
As he was about to descend the steps, Chef saw Nathan and Fred come around the corner of the building. Both young men stopped and stared at Chef, who grinned malevolently. "And how was the watch in the night" he asked.
Fred had the courtesy to blush. Nathan, for the first time in his young life, set his testicles to clanging. Fred was more than a midnight fuck and Nathan was beginning to realize it. He slipped his hand in Fred's and looked defiantly at Chef.
Chef realized from Nathan's look that something had happened between the young American and the young Canadian. What had begun as nothing more than a sexual encounter had become something deeper and warmer. Could it be that Nathan, shallow, selfish Nathan had found something and was prepared to defend it? Wondering if Fred felt the same way, Chef nodded wordlessly and motioned for the two boys to carry on.
Returning to the galley, Chef puttered around and then returned to his office. He returned to his rations count and was just finishing when the telephone rang. He listened and then smiled broadly. "Stevie darlin'!"
"How are you, Chef?" The Gunner asked, smiling at the sound of his old friend's voice.
"Ah, sure and I am fine. The lads are well, too."
There was a long silence, and then The Gunner asked, "How is he, Chef?" Chef thought carefully before answering. "Disappointed, but resigned to his fate. He's a good lad, Steve, and he took it well. A few tears, and some anger, but he is coping."
The sound of The Gunner exhaling carried down the wires. "I should have called, done something, Chef," he admitted sadly.
"Aye, but then where and how? The lad is staying here until the end of training. Would you have telephoned him and had him fall to pieces in front of the others?" asked Chef kindly. "I spoke with him, he understands that what was is no longer."
"Damn it, Chef, I should have . . . he needs to be with someone! You know what he's like, how emotional he can be!"
Once again Chef hesitated. "He is with someone," he said presently.
The Gunner replied in a relieved voice. "Well, he was always very fond of the Twins."
"It is not the Twins, or Ray, or any of the lads," said Chef quietly. "A Guardian has been found."
Once again the wires remained silent, and then The Gunner exploded loudly, "You sure didn't waste any time, did you!"
"The lad was alone," returned Chef coldly. "He needed, in your own words, to be with someone!" Chef squared his shoulders and glared at the telephone handset. "The focus of his life, his reason for being, or so he thought, had been snatched from him. While he understood part of the why, he could not understand all of it! He understands that you are called to higher deeds, just as he understands that you will not be a part of his life for many years to come!"
"And you, out of the goodness of your heart, found him a stud!"
The Gunner had not quite managed to keep the bitterness out of his voice. Chef's ears were old, but as sharp as an ASDIC set. "I found him a young man, Stephen, who will hold him of the night, and keep him warm and safe. I found him a Guardian. What the lad does with him is up to the pair of them!"
Again the silence was overpowering. Then, came The Gunner's quiet voice. "I apologize. You're quite right. You always are. In a way I betrayed Phantom and yes, it is time that he got on with his life."
"It is time," replied Chef ponderously.
"This 'Guardian', he's young?" asked The Gunner.
"He has two and twenty years," replied Chef. "He is old enough to know what life is about, and young enough to learn."
"Phantom . . . Phantom has been with him?"
"And how would I be knowin' that?" grumbled Chef. "I am not in the habit of following the lad around!" He snickered. "They only met on Saturday. We all went for a sail, so we did, in the gate vessel, and Phantom, the darlin' lad, acquitted himself well. Did ye know he could drive? Ah, it was a wonderful sight, so it was, as he brought the great behemoth alongside and then to anchor. Father was that impressed that he's writing a glowing epistle to put in Phantom's dossier. All in all it was a fine day, and aside for a wee bit o' charring about the nether regions there was no harm done and . . ."
"Charring? What charring? What the hell are you on about?" snarled The Gunner.
"Oh, did I not say," asked Chef with disarming calm. "Well, when the tree fell on the lads. It was only a little bush, and old, so it went up like a taper at the funeral of a bishop, so it did. Phantom, ah, Stevie darlin' it would have done your heart proud to see him leap upon the helpless youngsters, covering them with his own self, the whole of them, so that . . ."
A strangled roar filled the earpiece of the telephone. "Chef! What the hell happened, and none of your nonsense!"
Affecting an injured air, Chef related the events of the fire and Phantom's part in it. " . . . And so you know, Father, bless 'im has written to the Royal Lifesaving Society, so he has. Phantom is a hero, and no danger."
"You're sure that Phantom is all right? He wasn't injured?"
"Of course I am sure, for did I not treat him meself, Raymond and I, in the sick bay? Did I not examine every inch of him, and young Matt, and Randy, and Joey? Did I not see for meself what fine, proud young men they are, without a scratch to mar their wee pink bottoms?"
Breathing a sigh of relief The Gunner asked, "Then none of the cadets was injured?"
"None save Phil Thornton. Now there is a bull of a lad! Lifted the tree from the boys with his own bare hands, so he did. But he's not so burned as all that, and Randy and Joey are keeping him company and making sure that he is comfortable."
The Gunner did not dare ask Chef what he meant by that little sally. "Phil is burned?" "Aye, his hands. Doc says they are only of the first degree, and he will heal in time. I shall be speaking with him, of course."
"And the others?"
"Now then, Stevie darlin', all in good time," said Chef. "I know what Michael wants to do, but I am not convinced in me own mind, and that's a fact."
"Good," replied The Gunner firmly. "And don't you tell anyone, and by that I mean Phantom, what I am doing!"
"Now why would I do that?" asked Chef, squirming guiltily in his chair. "Mind, I did have to tell Phantom something, so I told him about the wee lads you're trying to rescue."
"God damn it, Chef!"
"Now, now, Stevie darlin', calm your own self and listen. You're that hot and bothered the day," cooed Chef. "The lad listened, as he always does, and he breathed fire and growled, as he always does, and then he gave the pitiful coins from his pocket to found a hospital. He's said nothing since."
"Thank God! You know how boys can get romantic ideas in their heads about going to war, especially Phantom. I do not need him, and his band of thieves and cutthroats marching down Bay Street waving the flag and whistling 'Scotland the Brave' or some such."
"You have no worry, Stevie," soothed Chef. "As I said, he's said nothing since and I shall not mention it again."
"I'd appreciate it." Then The Gunner asked, "Now tell me about this paladin."
"Paladin? I don't catch your meaning," Chef lied.
"Oh, but you do, you old fraud!" returned The Gunner. "Now, I want to know who he is, where he came from and most importantly, will he treat Phantom right!"
"Well, as to the who, you've no need to know at the moment. They've only just met, so they have. For all I know they might be at each other's throats, like the cobra and the mongoosey!"
"The what?"
"Sure and you know, the little beast that looks like a rat and hates cobras. They are very common in India. Did I ever tell you about the time when I was in the old Worcestershire, now there was a pig of a ship, so she was, and we stopped for a bit of the this and the that in Bombay and . . ."
The Gunner's exasperated growling and sputtering filled Chef's ear and he quickly changed tack. "Well, back to our young man. He is an officer in the Andrew, the Wavy Navy to be accurate, but he's a fine lad and . . ."
"Young, good looking, and hung like a Percheron no doubt!" sniped The Gunner.
The Gunner's petulant tone irked Chef, so he decided to give full range to his gift of the Blarney. "Ah, Stevie darling, now about the horse, I wouldn't know, not being in a position to compare. But, you should see the lad! Tall and strong he is, with the hair as fine as the gold that is spun by the Leprechauns of Morne, and the colour of the ripest wheat that was ever harvested from the fields of the Curragh! He is broad of the chest and strong in the thighs, so he is, with the waters of the Atlantic that sparklin' in his eyes! His cheeks, ah Stevie darlin', they are as pink as the Chanticleer peach. He has the firmness of the Lord of Ballybank in his step, the heart of the Champion Knight of Kinsale, and the lip on him of a Belfast tinker! But no matter, he's just the lad for our Phantom, so he is. He has his faults, I'll be bound, but time will take care of them, I'm thinking. All I will say is that he is as strapping an Anglican lad that ever trod the Brecon Beacons!"
The Gunner started to laugh. He could not help himself, really. Chef had outdone himself and in his usual delusional manner had roved across the map of Ireland, with a side trip to the Midlands of England. The Gunner was tempted to advise Chef that any young man, Anglican or otherwise who, if he trod the Beacons, would more than likely end up as a fine strapping hole in the ground, seeing as how the Royal Army used the area as a live-fire training ground, the Royal Artillery used it as a firing range to test new artillery pieces, and the RAF had used it as a bomb run! Not to mention the SAS, the Royal Marine Commandoes, the WRNS, the Boys' Brigade or whatever organization in the British military that had the urge to go out and fire a weapon or play war games!
When he recovered, The Gunner asked, "When will I meet this paragon?"
"When the time is right," returned Chef emphatically. "Which it is not now! He is the Guardian, so he is, and that is all you need to know, Chancellor!"
Sighing, The Gunner silently agreed with Chef. As Ace had said, if he met this "Guardian" there would be trouble. "Then please, Chef, keep the boys safe. And do not let Michael's influence sway you."
Chef nodded. He knew the concern that The Gunner felt for the boys, just as he knew Michael's wishes. He was not sure who was right, or who was wrong and would act only when he was sure in his own mind what to do. "They will not hear anything from me," Chef promised, "though they stake me to an ant hill and prod me with brands of fire!" Rolling his eyes, The Gunner accepted Chef's hyperbole. He really had no choice, and the old fool was a man of honour. "There is one more thing, Chef," The Gunner said seriously. "When this is settled, there will be justice. You may not agree, but it has been decided. At the end of the day, those involved will be brought before the Bar of Justice. There will be no appeal, and there will be only one sentence."
Starting, Chef slammed forward in his chair. The Bar of Justice was a court of Knights. It had not been invoked or assembled in at least 600 years, perhaps more, and only those accused of the most high crimes and misdemeanours appeared before the Bar. Now Chef understood why The Gunner was so adamant about keeping the lads at a distance. He knew what the only sentence was. "Death. By hanging," he murmured.
"It has been decided," confirmed The Gunner. "Now, to more prosaic matters." The Gunner then proceeded to dispose of his worldly goods. "Please arrange for Phantom to take into his possession the contents of my office drawer. There are also two swords in my locker. One is for Phantom and I would like you to keep the other safe. The rest of the artefacts, the badges, the uniforms, please keep for Phantom's distribution as he sees fit. As for the Land Rover, I will send the ownership papers to him." He laughed caustically. "A dowry fit for a King of Clonmel, or a Prince of the Order."
Chef ignored the sarcasm. "And the contents of your wee bower?" he asked. "The rent is paid until the end of the month and the place came furnished. There are only a few uniform items, some clothes, bits and pieces, and nothing important to worry about. If you could pop in and arrange to have them forwarded to me, I would appreciate it." "It shall be done."
"Thank you. Now Chef, remember your promise. Phantom is to know nothing about this affair."
"Did I not say it?" asked Chef.
"Yes, you did," agreed The Gunner, trusting the old cook. "Now I must go. Ace is calling for me to get a move on. My aunt's funeral is in less than an hour."
"Would that be Acton Grimes, then?" asked Chef slyly. "Would you be after staying at his wee flat?"
"I am Acton's guest," replied The Gunner stiffly. "Now I must ring off. Remember, Chef, if Phantom, or the Twins, or any of them hoist the Battle Ensign, you are to bring it down!"
As he hung up the telephone, Chef uncrossed his fingers and smiled thinly. "I'll not encourage, nor will I dissuade. It is for the lads to decide, and not you, my dear friend," he thought grimly. Then he could not help but add, "Who has also found a paladin!"
Tyler stood at the end of Greg's bunk and looked down at the Writer who was sprawled across his bunk on his stomach. Greg had managed to take off his gunshirt and push down his bell-bottoms before collapsing on his bed. He was not wearing underpants and the crusted remains of his night of passion with Jimmy Collyer were spotted across his buttocks and lower back.
With a look of distaste, Tyler reached out and took the counterpane from Nathan's bed and began to draw it across Greg's half-naked body. Around him the other cadets, who had been awakened by Greg's noisy arrival, looked on silently.
While the soft cotton of the counterpane was being drawn over him, Greg snorted and rolled onto his back. He opened his eyes and then propped himself on both elbows, looking around. He saw Tyler, Cory and The Phantom towering over the bottom end of his bunk. On one side of him Nicholas stared at him while on the other Harry lay, his eyes filled with sadness. Todd was sitting on his bunk, shaking his head while on the other side of the Gunroom Fred, Thumper, Jon, Chris and Two Strokes lay or sat in their bunks, looks of disapproval on their faces.
"Wha . . ." Greg coughed violently and spat out a wad of something - phlegm the others hoped - onto his chest. "What are you looking at?" he demanded harshly. His eyes were red and blood-shot, and his voice shook as the alcohol continued its hold on his body. "Whatsamatter, never seen a dick before?" He deliberately reached down to wave his penis about.
Tyler looked thunderous, but kept his temper. "Greg, you've been drinking," he accused, although he kept his disappointment from his voice.
"So?" spat Greg. "Had a few drinks last night, is all." Then he added venomously. "With a friend!" He reached down and snatched the counterpane up to cover his lower body. "Had a few drinks and a little fun!" He looked angrily at Tyler. "You drink! Big fuckin' man around here drinks, and so do the rest of you."
"Yes," agreed Tyler. "But we do it quietly, and we don't stagger around the ship at the crack of dawn waving our parts at our messmates."
"Whatsamatter, Phantom didn't like L'il Greg sayin' hello? Well fuck him!" Greg snarled in return. He turned to see Harry staring at him. "And what are you lookin' at, you fuckin' lyin' piece of shit? Fucked me and then he really fucked me, the fuckin' Bohunk bastard! Well I fooled him, found somebody better! Found somebody who knows how to make a fella really happy!" He glared his hatred at Harry. "I hope your dick rots, you son of a bitch!" His eyes scanned the Gunroom, seeing the looks of disapproval. "Fuck you all!" he snarled.
As Greg glared his anger and revulsion of his mates, Tyler nodded slowly. "If that is the way you want it, Greg."
"It is! Fuck you, Tyler! And fuck you Phantom! Fuck all of you! Just fuck off and leave me alone!"
With that Greg pulled the counterpane over his head and lay down.
Tyler placed his hand on The Phantom's shoulder and slowly led him toward the Chiefs Mess. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.
"You tried," replied The Phantom sadly.
"So what do we do?" asked Cory, who had followed The Phantom and Tyler. "Greg said some things that can never be forgotten."
"Or forgiven," replied The Phantom. He shrugged. "We can only give Greg what he wants."
"Even if it is his own destruction?" asked Tyler. He sat on Val's bunk and absently placed his hand on Val's sleeping body. "Greg will destroy himself, one day."
"We cannot protect someone who refuses our protection, Tyler," returned The Phantom. His voice was calm and warm. "No matter what Greg says, or does, he will always be one of us, our brother. We can't forget that." He turned to look at Cory. "Just as we cannot force him to be our brother. When he sobers up, maybe I can talk some sense into him, but to be honest, I doubt he'll listen. He's made his decision, Cory, and that is that we are no longer a part of his life."
"So we just forget him?"
"No, Cory. We help if we can, and every so often we say a prayer for him." The Phantom reached out and took Cory's hands in his. "Be he ne're so vile, Greg remains our brother."
Father Joseph Deschamps did not hurry. There was no reason to hurry down the wide, tiled corridor in the basement of the Hotel Dieu. It led only to a chamber of death. Those inside, behind the double doors that bore warnings in both official languages against unauthorized persons entering, would wait patiently for his arrival. They always did.
Inside the basement morgue Hercule, the attendant, was waiting. As always he had everything ready. The body was on a gurney, covered with a white sheet. Beside the gurney, on a small table covered with a white cloth, the accoutrements required for the rite sat ready: a small dish containing six swabs of cotton, another dish containing morsels of bread, a large bowl and a carafe of water for the priest to wash afterwards, a crucifix and a wax candle in a silver holder.
While Hercule waited patiently, Father Deschamps went to the locker that was kept there for him and brought out a freshly laundered and starched surplice, which he pulled over his cassock. Then he reached into the locker and brought out his stole, purple silk on one side, white on the other, each side embroidered with a cross. After kissing the cross the priest draped the stole, purple side out, around his neck. He hesitated a moment and then brought forth the Small Ritual. Father Deschamps had performed this rite many times; so many times that usually he recited the prayers from memory. But he was very old, and his memory was failing.
Looking around the cold, spare room, the priest shuddered. The implements of death surrounded him and he knew that all too soon he would, like the young man lying on the gurney, begin his final journey from this Earth in a room such as this.
Hercule, who had been the morgue attendant almost as long as Father Deschamps had been the Chaplain, bobbed his head and then regarded the shrouded corpse. "He is ready, Pere Deschamps."
Father Deschamps understood. Hercule had washed the boy, laving away the detritus of death, consigning to the anonymous drains that ran under the floor the blood, the feces, the urine, and the filth that death brought with it. Hercule had also closed the boy's eyes, which Father Deschamps saw as the attendant drew back the sheet. The body would be anointed and Hercule knew as well as the priest the order of anointing. They would start, as they always did, with the eyes.
"Let us begin, then," murmured Father Deschamps. He lit the candle and then reached under his surplice. From the pocket of his cassock Pere Deschamps brought forth a small, square leather case containing the holy oils. This he opened and placed on the table. Carefully he removed the covers from the two small containers of holy oils and set them aside. He then opened the Ritual to pages containing the prayers he would recite: Sacramentum Extremae Unctionis.
Father Deschamps was an old man. He had been a priest well over forty years and was set in his ways. While he was aware of the new orders from Rome he still clung to the old rituals, which he felt added a special dignity to the unpleasantness that death brought. Upstairs, with the family present, he would use the new rituals, praying in the vernacular. Down here, where there were only the dead, Hercule, and God, he would pray for the dead in God's language.
"Pax huic domui," Father Deschamps began.
"Et omnibus habitantibus in ea," returned Hercule, who had performed this duty as Father Deschamps's acolyte many times.
"He is such a young man," thought Father Deschamps as he reached for the case of holy oils and a cube of bread. "So young, and so very handsome."
"Per istam sanctam Unctio+nem, et suam piissimam misericordiam, indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid per visum deliqisti. Amen," murmured the priest, as his thumb gently inscribed the Sign of the Cross on Sylvain's closed eyelids.
After gently wiping the thin sheen of oil from Sylvain's eyes with a cotton ball, Father Deschamps again dipped his right thumb in the holy oil and proceeded to the next anointing, Sylvain's ears . . . ad aures, forgiving sins he may have committed through his sense of hearing; then his nostrils, ad nares, forgiving sins he may have committed through his sense of smell; then his mouth, which was propped closed, as decreed in the Ritual, compressis lablis, with the lips closed, by a rolled-up hospital towel placed under Sylvain's chin. "Per istam sanctam Unctio+nem, et suam piissimam misericordiam, indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid per gustum et locutionem deliquisti, Amen."
At each small cruciform indicated in the Rituale, Father Deschamps's thumb slowly and reverently formed a cross.
Father Deschamps took his time, his age adding great dignity as he asked that the Lord forgive Sylvain whatever sins he may have committed . . . "ad manus . . . through your sense of touch;" then, as Hercule drew back the sheet to reveal Sylvain's feet, the priest recited the last blessings as he anointed Sylvain's insteps, asking forgiveness for any sins that he may have committed through his ability to walk: "Per istam sanctam Unctio+nem, et suam piissimam misericordiam, indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid per gressum deliquisti. Amen."
With the anointing over, Father Deschamps recited the Lord's Prayer and then reached for the small wooden crucifix. This he touched gently against Sylvain's lips as he recited, "Iesu, Iesu, Iesu, in manus tuas, Domine, commendo spiritum meum," commending Sylvain into the hands of his God.
Then came the final prayer, the Apostolic Blessing granting Sylvain a plenary indulgence and full remission of his sins: "Ego, facultate mihi ab Apolstolica Seda tributa, indulgentiam plenariam et remissionem peccatorum tibi concedo. In nomine Pa+tris, et Fi+lii, et Spiritus + Sanctus."
With the final blessing Father Deschamps placed the small crucifix on Sylvain's sheet-covered chest. Ordinarily the small cross would be placed in the hands of the deceased but, as the boy had died in a motor accident, violently, an autopsy would be performed, as was required by law. Hercule would, when the doctors had finished their grisly work, place the little crucifix properly. He always did.
"Such a shame," observed Father Deschamps as he removed his surplice, "that they must cut up the boy."
"It is the law," replied Hercule phlegmatically. "Even if he is Le General's nephew."
"Really", asked the old priest, his eyebrows raised, "Le General's nephew?" Everybody in Quebec knew who Le General was.
"Oui. He is very angry, but he cannot stop the autopsy." Hercule grimaced. He did not care for the General, and never had. "Better he should ask why, if the boy lived in Chicoutimi, he was driving into the Quebec City airport."
"Perhaps he was meeting someone," offered Father Deschamps as he packed up his oils. "A girl, perhaps. He was a handsome young man after all."
"Oui, and now he is a handsome young corpse," returned Hercule darkly.
As the sun rose higher in the sky a loud, mournful bellow echoed across Comox Harbour and HMCS Porte de le Roi slowly backed away from her berth at the Government Jetty.
On the Aurora jetty Nicholas paid little attention to the sound of the ship's horn. He was anxious to finish the muster of the flag locker that stood at the end of the wooden structure and for noon to approach. He and Matt Greene were going to meet in the canteen for a game of pool and perhaps a game of something else later. Nicholas thought that having a fuck buddy was great. Matt made no demands, well, practically none, and the demands he did make Nicholas was happy to satisfy. Matt was also into experimental positions and Nicholas was wandering what strange new way of fucking Matt would come up with when Calvin Hobbes' whiney voice broke his reverie.
Calvin was pouting. His brother Joseph had promised to take him into Vancouver on Saturday. Then he had telephoned to say that he could not make it, as something very important was happening "at work". Instead of going to Vancouver, Calvin had gone sailing, and helped rescue his friends, which he felt very proud of doing. Yesterday, Sunday, driven from the house by boredom and anxious to avoid his brother Mikey, who was scratching at the bedroom door, despite Calvin's protests and Joseph's warnings, Calvin had come over to Aurora and then gone into town where he had spent a wonderful afternoon. Which would have been more wonderful had Simon been with him, but Randy and Joey had been there, and they were always good for a quick grope now and then. And then they had all laughed at Cory for checking out Phantom's new officer friend. It had been a gas, really, and great fun.
Today, however, Calvin was not having fun. He had come on board to see if Randy and Joey could come out and play, only to be dragooned by the Chief Yeoman into helping with mustering the contents of the flag locker, checking each and every signal flag in the damned thing, huge 3x3-foot multi-coloured pieces of bunting, each of which had to be unfolded, checked for holes and fraying, then refolded and placed in precisely labelled slots.
As the gate vessel sounded three short blasts on its horn Calvin looked up and saw that on the port bridge wing the signal lamp was flashing. "Flash traffic, Chief Yeoman," Calvin said to Nicholas.
Growling, Nicholas looked up. The dots and dashes of light were being transmitted very slowly, which told him that either a very junior signalman was manning the lamp, or an officer. "Well take it down, Calvin," Nicholas ordered. "You're supposed to be a signalman!"
"I don't have a book," whined Calvin. "Or a pencil."
Nicholas pointed to a battered old signals log poking out from under a pile of bunting at the bottom of the locker. "What's that?"
"Oh."
Calvin extricated the book and the pencil stuck in the middle of it, opened it to a blank page and began to print the message being flashed to him. "Chief Yeoman, it's an 'Eyes Only' message," he advised Nicholas after a few laborious minutes.
Looking up, Nicholas shaded his eyes. "Yeah? For who?" He watched as the signal lamp on the gate vessel flashed. "Hell, it's only for Phantom." He looked seriously at Calvin. "Just remember, no matter what the message says, you keep your big mouth shut!"
"I know, Chief Yeoman," returned Calvin. He'd sat through the security lecture and knew enough to keep secrets.
Nicholas paid no attention to what Calvin was doing, and ignored the muted cursing and muttering that seemed to punctuate Calvin's scratching. Finally, Calvin breathed a sigh. "Chief Yeoman, I don't understand this!" he said.
"Did you acknowledge receipt?" asked Nicholas. He pointed at the Aldis Lamp that sat in a special container beside the flag locker.
"Uh, no, I didn't," replied Calvin. He snatched up the small hand held signal lamp and pointed it at the now departing gate vessel.
As his eyes scanned the neatly printed words Nicholas heard the painfully slow clicking of the lamp's trigger as Calvin acknowledged that the signal had been received. When the clicking stopped he returned the signal log to Calvin. "What don't you understand?" he asked.
"Well, I understand the Eyes Only, and the addressee, which is Phantom."
"Okay."
"Well, then the sender says, 'Package received.' Then he sent 'Ezekiel 7: 8'. What's an 'Ezekiel'?"
"It's a book of the Bible, you nit!" snapped Nicholas. "Sheesh, don't you go to church?"
"No," admitted Calvin honestly. "Then he sent 'Betcha Ass!' He can't say that, can he Chief Yeoman?"
"He already has, fool!" retorted Nicholas. "Here, let me see that." He reread the signal and continued on from where Calvin had left off. "Will write, promise," Nicholas quoted. "Song of Sol, 8:1-3."
"And it's signed 'Colin'. Isn't that the officer Phantom was with yesterday?" Calvin looked over Nicholas' shoulder at the signal pad. "It sure sounds strange to me."
Nicholas began stowing the extra signal flags into the locker. "Secure here, Calvin, and come on."
"Where are we going?"
"To find a Bible," replied Nicholas. "This is hot!"
With Dirty Dave the Deacon no longer in residence, it was a simple matter to draw the key to his office from Jon, who was manning the Ship's Office. Greg was down with 'the flu', according to Tyler. Jon went along with the deception.
In the Padre's office, Nicholas held up the Bible. "Okay, what's the first quote?"
"Ezekiel 7:8," replied Calvin.
Nicholas leafed through the onionskin pages and then pointed. "Here we are. 'Now will I shortly pour out my fury upon thee, and accomplish mine anger upon thee: and I will judge thee according to thy ways, and will recompense thee for all thine abominations'."
"Sounds like he's pissed off," observed Calvin diffidently. "What's the next one?"
"The Song of Solomon," replied Nicholas. "What were the verses?"
"8: 1-3."
"Okay, here we go, Verse One: 'O that thou wert my brother, that sucked the breast of my mother! . . ."
"Yech, that's gross!" groaned Calvin.
"Shut up, Calvin," said Nicholas. He returned to reading. " . . . When I should find thee without, I would kiss thee; yea, I should not be despised."
"Colin wants to kiss Phantom?" Calvin's eyes grew wide. "Wow!"
"Looks like it," replied Nicholas. "He wrote it!"
"What's the second verse?"
Nicholas snickered. "Verse Two: 'I would lead thee, and bring thee into my mother's house, who would instruct me: I would cause thee to drink of spiced wine of the juice of my pomegranate."
Calvin giggled. "That sounds dirty!"
"That's because nobody's ever asked you to drink from the juice of his pomegranate!" returned Nicholas.
"A lot you know!" sniffed Calvin. "What's the last verse?"
"His left hand should be under my head, and his right hand should embrace me." Nicholas grinned evilly. "You know what, I think the guy's in love with Phantom!"
"You think?"
Nicholas snickered. "Betcha ass!"
Calvin blushed and then giggled. "Well, it sure sounds that way." He slowly took the signal log from Nicholas and closed it. "Did anyone ever send you something like this?" he asked.
"No. You?"
Shaking his head, Calvin said, "No. I'll take this to Phantom."
"Okay, and Calvin, maybe one day Simon will send something like that to you."
Calvin looked embarrassed, and then smiled. "Maybe, one day."
Nicholas winked at the young signalman. "Betcha ass!"
The Phantom was over the moon. He read and reread Colin's signal and demanded that Nicholas turn over the Bible. Nicholas, who planned on researching the Song of Solomon, because it sounded downright sexy, and wanted to inspire Matt to new heights, told Phantom to go and pee up his back.
After calling Nicholas a series of dirty names, The Phantom went over to the Ship's Office, remembering that when he had been sworn in as a Sea Cadet, Dave Eddy had held a Bible. Jon was in a funk and handed over the book with ill grace. He wanted to be relieved. They were all on Sunday Routine and he and Chris wanted to go swimming.
The Phantom sympathised, promised to speak to Tyler, and then hurried off to the Mess Hall. It was close to lunchtime and the YAG crews would be up, looking to be fed.
After lunch, The Phantom tried to sneak away. He wanted to send a signal to Colin, but every time he left the galley Chef, or Ray, or Sandro would come after him. This needed doing, or that absolutely needed his attention: now! Somehow he managed to zip into town, visit the bank, and redeem his debt to Mr. Schoenmann.
It was not until well after supper that The Phantom finally managed to get a few moments alone. He was sitting on the loading dock, looking through the Bible, when Randy came out. "Chef says to come to his office, please, Phantom," he said.
"What's up?"
"Something bad. Chef got a telephone call from Base and called everybody into his office. When he saw that you weren't there he said I was to get you."
Muttering a curse, The Phantom followed Randy back through the dining room, through the galley, and into Chef's office. Much to his surprise he found Kevin and Joey kneeling in front of the sofa. Each boy had a rosary in his hand. Behind them, knelt Chef, tears rolling down his cheeks. Beside Chef, Ray knelt, patting the old man's back, bringing what comfort he could to his Papa Chef. Against the far wall was Sandro, his face buried in his hands, his yarmulke on his head, murmuring softly as he rocked too and fro.
"Chef, what's happened?" asked The Phantom, frightened. "What is it? Has something happened to . . .?"
Chef held up his hand. "'Tis Sylvain, you remember him? A fine lad he was, and one of our own!"
"Sylvain? What's happened to Sylvain?"
"He's gone, Phantom darlin'," replied Chef. "Now where's me beads? I can never find me beads!"
"What do you mean, 'he's gone'?" asked The Phantom, kneeling beside the old cook. He put his arm around Chef's shoulder. "Is he dead?"
"Aye. Killed this very mornin' as we made merry! Killed in a motor accident, so he was." He turned his tear-stained face to The Phantom. "He was not a bad lad, and we must pray for the repose of his soul." He turned to Kevin. "Kevin lad, the First Sorrowful Mystery, I think."
"Yes, Chef," replied Kevin in a low voice. "Uh, Chef, Sandro and Ray, and Randy and Phantom, they're not Catholic."
"That's okay," said Randy. "I'd like to stay."
"And me," said The Phantom.
Sandro, his eyes filled with tears, nodded. "Dah! I will stay also."
When Randy and The Phantom had settled themselves, Chef asked, "Do you have the Latin, Kevin?"
"I do."
"Then begin," replied Chef. He made the sign of the Cross, praying sincerely, "In nomine Pa+tris, et Fi+lii, et Spritus + Sancti, Amen."
"Amen," whispered The Phantom. "And forgive me, Lord, for yes, Sylvain was a good lad, and he was one of us."
To Be Continued In Chapter 17