The 53rd Parallel

by Carl Nordgren

  The truck driver exited through the main gate. To his left, he saw two soldiers pushing the Vauxhall back into its parking place, the sergeant inside steering the car.

  The driver of the army lorry was still sitting at the wheel.

  Maureen stood on the sidewalk, thanking them for their help.

  The Derry driver pulled out onto the road, turning right, and accelerated hard. His passenger pulled the pin from a Mills grenade, leaned out the window, and threw it at the army lorry so it bounced then rolled under its cab.

  There was no part of the plan that called for this, but as soon as Maureen saw the Derry man toss the grenade, she was moving fast.

  One British soldier saw the man tossing something at their lorry and he called out his warning as he dropped to the street behind the Vauxhall.

  “Grenade! Cover!”

  The sergeant dove to the floor of the motorcar, the other soldier jumped over the hood and landed on top of his fellow soldier.

  The army lorry driver froze in fear.

  Maureen saw a short brick wall in front of the house behind her and dashed behind it.

  In the back of the truck Kevin was so close to the engine's revving he wasn't sure if he'd heard a warning shout from the street, but when the Derry men and Charlie crouched and covered he was guessing a grenade had been thrown at their truck, and he covered as best he could.

  In two seconds the grenade exploded, the front of the army lorry reared up into the air, then slammed into a motor car parked in front of the Vauxhall as shattering glass and metal fragments riddled the cars. Then a second whoosh of a blast from the truck's fuel tank quickly enveloped the entire chassis in flames.

  Kevin realized they weren't the target but rather someone from their truck had tossed the grenade and found Charlie grinning confidently.

  “Who did that?”

  “We figured if we were successful, walking in and taking so many guns, that they'd be so embarrassed they'd do all they could to keep it quiet. Now they can't.”

  “But Maureen's out there.”

  “If she's the great soldier you say she is, she'll be waitin' for us in the alley.”

  “She might be killed back there or captured. This was my operation, mine and hers.”

  Charlie pulled back an edge of canvas and revealed the stacks of rifles and machine guns and ammunition.

  “An' you managed your end of it well. We just put our stamp on it.”

  “What else is altered?”

  “Nothin' else. If your girl is safe, she's free. Her camp is free. Your boy can leave safely for the States.”

  Maureen was confused. This wasn't the getaway planned. She peeked around the wall to see the soldiers running into the barracks and others running out. She quickly walked down the sidewalk and when she got to the corner, she ran.

  And as she ran, she began to cry.

  Tommy sat at a table in the lodge cabin. Brian placed a plate of fish and beans in front of his son, then sat down at his own place.

  “I've wanted a lot from life.”

  “You've got a good bit from it, best I can see.”

  “What I want most of all, now, is for my son to bless our meal.”

  “Heavenly Father. Give us grateful hearts. For this food. For this place. For all your tender mercies. Amen.”

  “Watch over Maureen in her travels, an' bring her safely home. Amen.”

  The truck pulled half-way down an alley, next to a row of trash bins, where the men tossed their uniforms. The truck's signs were removed and replaced with new signs that read “Manus and Canning, Drayage”. The old canvas signs were used to re-cover the pile of guns.

  At the end of the alley a car was parked. Kevin and the hurling lad would wait there for Maureen.

  The hurling lad had been studying Kevin closely. “You trust 'em?”

  “I can't deny there was something to their play there at the end. Everyone will know about this now. Everyone will know we've got our legs set strong again.”

  “You think she made it out of there?”

  “You never bet against her.”

  “I'd stay if they'd let me.”

  “You can do so much more for us in Chicago. As soon as you get set up, find the lads that are interested in our fight.”

  Kevin pulled the armory key ring from his pocket, removed one of the keys, and handed it to the hurling lad.

  “Tell them about today. Show them this key. Tell them you're giving the Ebrington Amory key to the one who can raise us the most money.”

  “After I send you the money, we'll wait a little while, then you can send me a second key, and I'll tell them you just found it, and that it's the key that opened the second lock on the Amory door.”

  “I've always known how to spot talent.”

  Charlie drove the truck down the alley towards Kevin's car. When they drew next to it, the truck stopped. Charlie leaned out the window.

  “Half the load we deliver to Kenny, half goes to the Farm. The truck is left on the streets in Belfast with the soldier and your note.”

  “I'll be back in my shop Wednesday. Take care.”

  When the truck passed and drove away, Kevin could see the length of the alley again.

  Maureen was coming.

  Everyone in camp was at the dock, or on the beach, as Maureen climbed down from the Norseman. Brian reached for her hand as she stepped from the ladder to the pontoon, then pulled her into his arms when she stepped onto the dock.

  He held her close as Simon called out in Ojibway.

  “If Big Brian is a wise man, he will not ever let this Raven Hair Woman go.”

  When they heard a natural love in the laughter, Brian and Maureen held each other a moment longer.

  “We've got something to show you, Lady Girl. Follow me.”

  The whole crowd followed.

  When they got to the chapel Tommy entered first, then Maureen and Brian, then one by one all of the Ojibway entered the chapel, filling the space.

  “So I hope you haven't made any plans for a weddin' in Derry that can't be changed.”

  “Let's get married right here.”

  “Next summer. We'll pick a week when we won't book any guests. We'll fly everyone over.”

  “Me ma would love to visit.”

  “If she likes it once she's here an' decides she'd like to stay, she's welcome.”

  “It wouldn't surprise me if she did exactly that.”

  That evening after supper when it was very near dark in the forest and red-gold over the water, Brian was called to the Ojibway village camp by Joe Loon, his father.

  When Maureen walked from her cabin to Brian's, she saw Tommy standing at the chapel, and she headed his way. “Tommy,” she called as she drew close, and when he turned, she could see his eyes smiled.

  She walked past him to the chapel door.

  “I need you to hear my confession.”

  “I'm sorry, Maureen. I can't hear it. Not 'til I'm ordained.”

  She stopped.

  “Oh.”

  “I wouldn't be but an intermediary, anyway. Those folks over there, they got it right. They talk directly to our Creator every day.”

  Maureen entered the chapel. Tommy stayed outside. In the middle of the empty room she fell to her knees.

  “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned…” She prayed silently for a long time before she said, “And God bless the Innocents,” then crossed herself and found Tommy and Brian waiting for her outside.

  Outside in the near dark, out in the open River, This Man rode the moose. The great animal approached the far shore, and as it found its footing in the shallows This Man slipped from his back and splashed into the water while the moose kicked and bucked. The moose stopped as it reached land, shook once, and then disappeared into the dark forest.

  Author's Note

  This novel is crafted with respect for the large historical events that advance our stories. So while I have fictionalized these events, I have not distorted them. />
  That respect extends to my use of labels and names for the First Nations Ojibway and in my presentation of their customs.

  My guide on this matter is my good friend Steve Fobister. Steve and I worked together at Delaney Lake Lodge and Ball Lake Lodge in Northwestern Ontario back in the mid to late 60's. He went on to be an elected chief of the Grassy Narrows First Nation, serving his people at a crucial time.

  Steve is an Ojibway. Others spell the tribal name Ojibwa (which is how I always have pronounced the name because it is how Steve pronounces it) or Ojibwe, and both seem to be increasingly popular. Back in the 60's I don't think I saw it spelled any way other than Ojibway, and the last gift Steve gave me was a T-shirt with “Ojibway Nation” on the front.

  In this novel the Irish of the 30's call First Nations aboriginals “red men.” I believe the novel benefits from that historical reference, and Steve agrees.

  The label “Indian” is used most frequently, as it would have been at the time. Steve and many men I worked with never indicated that they considered Indian to be offensive, only inaccurate.

  When a disposed people re-claim the authority to determine how they will be known, we all support that, we even celebrate it on our way to further victories for expressions of aboriginal justice. The First Nations people of Canada, the Native Americans in the US, those self-determined names will be used when the story catches up to them.

  The representation of Ojibway customs and habits are accurate and only occasionally embellished for the story's purpose. Steve and I became good friends the four summers we worked together. He led me to Ojibway burial sites. He took me on my first expedition to a Hudson Bay Post. He invited me to sweat lodge ceremonies. He was born in a wigwam and didn't move to the reserve until he was nine, and it is my good fortune that he loves to tell stories as much as I do. He approves of the stories I tell of his people.

  You might find this an interesting note about Steve Fobister's name. There are many Fobister's living at Grassy Narrows Reserve. It seems that when the government officials approached the Ojibway living in that area and told them they needed to adopt an English name for the official census records, the man leading that effort was named Fobister. Many of the Ojibway thought they were being told that was the last name they should choose.

  About the Author

  Carl Nordgren was born in Greenville, Mississippi where his great grandmother’s house was across the street from the boyhood home of author Walker Percy. Carl has worked as a fishing guide on the English River in Northwestern Ontario and on the White River in the Arkansas Ozarks, as a bartender, a foundry man, and an entrepreneur. He lived with his family in Ireland for a year where he researched the IRA, and he currently teaches courses in Creativity to undergraduate students at Duke University. His first book, Welcome to the Creative Populist Revolution, was written to help us all grow our creative capacity and develop our entrepreneurial instincts. He graduated from Knox College and lives in Durham, North Carolina with his wife Marie where they have raised three daughters.