But because I am what I am, I cannot ... directly or indirectly ... do this thing.
And yet... there was the inarticulate major premise.
It was a phrase he remembered from law school long ago. It was still taught, though - in the presence of judges - seldom mentioned.
The inarticulate major premise was the doctrine that no judge, whatever his intention, could ever be impartial. A judge was human; therefore he could never hold the scales exactly even. Consciously or unconsciously his every thought and action were influenced by the events and background of his life.
Mr Justice Stanley Willis accepted the postularion. He also knew that he himself possessed a major premise. It could be summarized in one word.
Belsen.
It had been 1945.
The law career of Stanley Willis, like that of many others of his generation, had been interrupted by the years of World War II. As an artillery officer he had served with the Canadians in Europe from 1940 until the war's end. And, near its end. Major Stanley Willis, MC, liaison officer with the British Second Army, had accompanied the 63rd Anti-Tank Regiment in its liberation of the Nazi concentration camp of Bergen-Belsen.
He had remained at Belsen a month, and what he had seen had been the single most haunting experience of his life. For years afterwards, and sometimes even now, the horror of those thirty days could return to him in feverish, vivid dreams. And Stanley Willis - a scholarly, sensitive man beneath an austere facade - had departed from Belsen with an avowed intention: that, in the years left to him, whatever he could personally do to relieve the wretchedness of mistreated and afflicted human beings, that much he would do.
As a judge, it had not been easy. There had been occasions when despite inner misgivings he had been obliged to pass sentence on the guilty where instinct told him that society, and not individuals, was the principal 'offender. But, sometimes, some hapless miserable felon, dismissed by most as beyond salvation had received a light or mitigated sentence because a shadow of the past ... the inarticulate major premise ... had touched the mind of Mr Justice Willis.
As now.
The plight of Henri Duval, as it had before the nisi hearing, continued to stir him deeply.
A man was incarcerated. A man could be justly freed.
Between the one and the other stood the judge's honourable pride.
With humbled pride the lesson just, he thought. And he crossed to the telephone.
He must not call Alan Maitland directly; that much, discretion demanded. But there was another way. He could speak to his own former law partner, a respected senior counsel who was astute and would understand the implications of a conversation. The information conveyed would be relayed promptly, without revelation of the source. But his former law partner was also a man who held strong views on judges' meddling...
Mr Justice Willis sighed. In conspiracy, he thought, there was no perfect pattern.
The connexion was made. He announced, "This is Stanley Willis.' /
A deep voice on the telephone said affably, 'It's a pleasant surprise. Your Lordship.'
The judge interjected quickly, 'An informal call, Ben.'
A chuckle down the line. 'How are you Stan? It's been a long time.' There was a note of genuine affection.
'I know. We must get together sometime.' But he doubted if they would. A judge, by reason of his office, was forced to tread a lonely path.
'Well, Stan, what can I do for you? Is there somebody you'd like to sue?'
'No,' Mr Justice Willis said. He was never very good at small talk. 'I thought I'd have a word with you about this Duval case.'
'Oh yes; the stowaway affair. I read your ruling. A pity, but I don't see what else you could have done.'
'No,' the judge acknowledged, 'there was nothing else. All the same, young Maitland's a bright young lawyer.'
'I agree,' the voice said. 'I think he'll do the profession a lot of credit.'
'I hear there's been quite a search for precedents.'
'The way it was told to me,' the deep voice said with a chuckle, 'Maitland and his partner have turned the law library inside out. But they haven't had any luck.'
'I've been wondering,' Mr Justice Willis said slowly, 'why they haven't gone to Rex vs Ahmed Singh, BC Reports, Volume 34, 1921, page 191. I should think, on that, they could get habeas corpus without question.'
There was a silence at the other end of the line. The judge could imagine eyebrows raised, a sense of disapproval. Then, more coolly than before, the voice said, 'You'd better give me that reference again. I didn't get all of it.'
When he had repeated the reference and shortly afterwards hung up, Mr Justice Willis thought: there is a price we pay for all we do. But the information, he knew, would be passed on.
He glanced at his watch before returning to an accumulation of written judgements upon his desk.
Four and a half hours later, as darkness was descending on the city, the frail elderly Registry clerk, standing at the, door, announced, 'My lord, Mr Maitland has an application for habeas corpus.'
Chapter 4
Under bright, rigged floodlights the Vastervik was loading lumber.
Confidently, exultantly, Alan Maitland raced up the rusty iron gangway to the cluttered, dilapidated main deck.
The fertilizer smell had gone. Any traces of it remaining were being dispelled by a freshening breeze blowing from the sea. The clean-scented aroma of fir and cedar were wafting through the ship.
The night was cold, but overhead stars twinkled in a clear sky.
The third officer, whom Alan had seen on Christmas morning, approached him from the ship's forecastle.
'I'm here to see Captain Jaabeck,' Alan shouted along the deck, 'and if he's in his cabin I can find my way.'
The thin, wiry ship's officer came closer. 'Then you will find your way,' he said. 'And even if you did not know, you have the mood to find your way tonight.'
'Yes,' Alan agreed, 'I guess I have.' Instinctively he touched the pocket of his suit to ensure that the precious paper was still there.
Turning into the ship's interior, he called over his shoulder, 'How's your cold?'
'It will be better,' the third officer answered, 'as soon as we have sailed.' He added, 'Forty-eight hours more, that's all.'
Forty-eight hours. It had been close, Alan thought, but it looked as if they had made it in time. This afternoon he had been at his Gilford Street apartment when the message, relayed through Tom Lewis, had reached him: Look at Rex vs Ahmed Singh.
Deciding he must leave no chance untaken, but without much hope, he had gone to the law library. There, when he read the 1921 ruling, his heart had leaped. Afterwards it had been a feverish rush of drafting, typing, checking, and assembling the multiple affidavits and writs which the law required. Emergency or not, the monster's maw must be appeased with paper...
Then the race to the courthouse - to reach the Supreme Court Registry before closing. And he had made it, though barely, and a few minutes later had appeared before Mr Justice Willis, once again, today, the chambers judge.
The judge, austere and remote as always, had listened carefully then, after a few short questions, authorized an order for habeas corpus - the order absolute and not the minor nisi writ. It was a rare and quietly dramatic moment. The original writ, and a copy, were in Alan's pocket now: Elizabeth, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom, Canada and her other realms and territories. Defender of the Faith... command you immediately after the receipt of this our writ... to deliver the body of Henri Duval...
Of course, there must be a court hearing, and it was set for the day after tomorrow. But the outcome was a virtual certainty: The Vastervik would sail, but Henri Duval would not be aboard.
Sometime tomorrow, Alan reminded himself, he must telephone the lawyer who had tipped them off to the case of Ahmed Singh. Tom Lewis had his name. It had been a deliverance ...
He came to the captain's door and knocked. A voice inside commanded, 'Come!'
Captain Jaabeck, in shirt sleeves, wreathed in thick tobacco smoke, was making entries in a ledger under a shaded desk lamp. Putting down the pen, he stood up, courteous as ever, motioning his visitor to one of the green leather armchairs.
Coughing slightly as the smoke reached his lungs, Alan began, 'I'm interrupting...'
'It is nothing. There is enough writing for one time.' The captain reached over and closed the ledger. He added tiredly, 'Future archaeologists digging up our world will never understand it. We have left too many words for them to read.'
'Talking of words,' Alan said, 'I've brought some with me.' Smiling, he produced the habeas corpus writ and handed it to Captain Jaabeck.
The captain read slowly, his lips moving, pausing over the legal jargon. Eventually, looking up, he asked incredulously,
'You have succeeded - after all?'
'Yes,' Alan said happily. 'What the writ means is that Henri is freed from the ship. He will not be sailing with you.'
'And now - at this moment...' 'At this moment, Captain,' Alan replied decisively, 'I'd like him to pack his belongings and come with me. The writ releases him to my custody.' He added, 'If you've any doubt, we can call the Mounties...'
'No, no! It will not be needed.' Captain Jaabeck put down the writ, his face creasing in a warm engaging smile. 'I do not understand how you have done this, Mr Maitland, but you are to be congratulated. It is so sudden, that is all.' 'I know,' Alan said. 'I'm a little breathless myself.' Ten minutes later, eyes sparkling and with a wide happy grin, Henri Duval appeared in the captain's cabin. He was wearing a seaman's duffel coat several sizes too large for him and carrying a battered cardboard suitcase tied with string. One of the first things to be done tomorrow, Alan decided, must be to use some of the accumulated money to buy new clothes for the appearance in court.
'Mr Maitland is taking you away, Henri,' the captain announced.
The young stowaway nodded, his face lighting with excitement and anticipation. 'I ready now.'
'You will not be returning to the ship,' the captain said quietly. 'Now I will say goodbye.'
For a moment, excitement left the youthful face. It was as if the captain's words had revealed a reality which Henri Duval had not foreseen. He said uncertainly, 'This good ship.'
'Many things are as we make them for ourselves.' The captain held out his hand. 'It is my wish that you will be happy, Henri, and that God will bless you. Work hard, say your prayers, and do as Mr Maitland tells you.'
The stowaway nodded with dumb unhappiness. It was a strange scene, Alan thought; almost as if father and son were taking leave. He sensed a reluctance of the other two to end it.
'We'd better go.' Alan retrieved the original writ, leaving a copy for the captain's use. Shaking hands, he said, 'It's been a pleasure. Captain Jaabeck. I hope we shall meet again.'
'If I have more stowaways, Mr Maitland' - the captain smiled - 'I shall seek you as their friend.'
Word had gone swiftly around the ship. As Alan and Henri Duval appeared, the crew had quit their loading and were assembled along the rail. There was a jabber of excited voices. Stubby Gates shambled forward. 'So long matey,' he said, 'and lotsa luck. Here's something from me an' the boys.' Alan saw a small roll of bills change hands. As they went down the gangway the crew gave a ragged cheer.
'Stay where you are!' It was a commanding voice from the darkness of the dock. As Alan paused, a barrage of flashbulbs went off.
'Hey!' he called. 'What's this?'
'Press coverage,' Dan Orliffe said. 'What else?' Orliffe and other reporters crowded around.
'You got sneaky, Maitland,' someone said cheerfully, 'but we tracked you down.'
Another voice called, 'Nice work!'
'Look,' Alan protested, 'there's nothing I can say tonight. Maybe we'll have a statement in the morning.'
'How about a word from Henri?'
'Will you let Duval talk?'
'No,' Alan said firmly. 'Not now, anyway.'
Dan Orliffe asked quietly, 'How did you get down here?'
'I had a taxi,' Alan said.
'My car's right here on the dock. I'll take you wherever you want.'
'All right,' Alan agreed. 'Let's go.'
Amid cries of protest from the other reporters they climbed into Dan Orliffe's station wagon. Flashbulbs continued to go off. Henri Duval was grinning broadly.
When they were clear of the dockyard, Dan asked, 'Where are you taking him?'
There had been so much else; so many things to think of... 'Now you mention it,' Alan said, 'I hadn't thought about that.' His own apartment, he reasoned, was too small. But Tom and Lillian Lewis might be able to fix a temporary bed...
'That's what I figured,' Dan said. 'So the paper's taken a suite at the Hotel Vancouver. We'll pick up the tab.'
Alan said doubtfully, 'I guess it's all right. Though I imagined something a little simpler...'
'What the hell!' Dan accelerated to beat an amber light. 'Let Henri live a little.'
A few minutes later he added, 'About that hotel suite. I forgot to tell you - the Prime Minister's suite is just down the halt' He gave a deep chuckle. 'Won't Howden love that!'
Part 17
Margaret Howden
Chapter 1
'My goodness!' Margaret Howden exclaimed. 'I've never seen such a great big headline.'
The issue of the Vancouver Post was spread out on a table in the Howdens' living-room. The page one banner line read:
HENRI STEPS ASHORE!
The remainder of the page was devoted entirely to large pictures of Henri Duval and Alan Maitland, and a bold-face news story concerning them.
'They call it "Second-Coming-of-Christ type",' the party director informed Margaret. 'It's used only on special occasions.' He added dourly, 'Like, for instance, the fall of a government.'
Pacing the room, James Howden snapped, 'We'll postpone the humour if you don't mind.'
'We need something to brighten the outlook,' Richardson said.
It was late afternoon, snowing outside and growing dark. During the night, following his Vancouver speech, the Prime Minister had returned to eastern Canada by air. At midday he had spoken in Quebec City; in less than an hour he would be leaving Ottawa for an evening rally in Montreal. Tomorrow at 4 PM in the House of Commons he would announce the Act of Union. The strain of the past few days was beginning to show.
The Vancouver newspaper, only a few hours old, had been brought by air through a special arrangement Richardson had made. He had collected it personally at Ottawa airport and driven directly to the Prime Minister's house at 24 Sussex Drive. The news story treatment, he already knew, was typical of others throughout the country.
James Howden interrupted his pacing to ask sarcastically, 'I. suppose they did mention my speech somewhere.' It had been his finest of the entire tour; in other circumstances it would have been the focus of attention in today's news.
'Here it is,' Margaret announced, turning pages. 'It's on page three.' She appeared to stifle some amusement. 'Oh dear, it is rather small.'
'I'm glad you find something funny,' her husband observed icily. 'Personally, I don't.'
'I'm sorry, Jamie,' Margaret said. She tried to make her voice contrite, though hardly succeeding. 'But really, I can't help thinking: all of you, the whole Government so determined; and then this one little man...'
Brian Richardson remarked quietly, 'I agree with you, Mrs Howden. We've had the pants licked off us by a smart young lawyer.'
'Once and for all,' James Howden declared angrily, 'I am not interested in who has beaten whom.'
'Please don't shout, Jamie,' Margaret admonished.
'I'm interested,' Richardson said. 'It makes a difference on the day they count votes.'
'Is it too much to ask,' the Prime Minister insisted, 'that we should confine ourselves to facts?'
'All right,' Richardson said bluntly, 'let's try this on for size.' He produced a folded paper from an inside pocket. 'A new Gallup
poll this morning shows the Government's popularity down seven per cent in the past two weeks. And to a question: "Do you favour a change of Government?" sixty-two per cent replied yes, thirty-one per cent no, and seven per cent were undecided.'
'Do sit down, Jamie,' Margaret urged. 'You too, Brian. I'll send for tea and we can have it here quietly.'
Howden dropped into a chair by the fireplace. 'Light that, will you?' He pointed to the fire which was already laid.
Striking a match from a folder, Richardson cupped it in his hands and bent down. After a moment flames began to grow.
Margaret was speaking into a house telephone across the room.
Howden said quietly, 'I didn't realize it was quite that bad.'
'It's worse than bad; it's grim. The mail's pouring in; so are telegrams, and all against us.' Matching the Prime Minister's tone of a moment earlier, Richardson asked, 'How would you feel about postponing tomorrow's announcement?'
'It's out of the question.'
'I warn you: we're not ready for an election.'
'We have to be,' Howden declared. 'We have to take out chances.'
'And lose?'
'The Act of Union is essential to Canadian survival. When it's explained to them, people will see that.'
'Will they?' Richardson asked softly. 'Or will they see Henri Duval?'
On the point of an impulsive answer, Howden stopped. The question, after all, was reasonable, he thought. And the presumption which went with it could prove true.
A loss of prestige through the incident of Duval could cause the Government's defeat on the issue of the Act of Union. He saw that now - in unmistakable terms which had not been dear to him before.
And yet, he reasoned, if it happened, how strange and ironic that something so insignificant as a ship's stowaway could affect the destiny of nations.
Or was it strange? Or new? Or even ironic? Perhaps, through all the centuries, it had been individual human issues which had swayed the world, creating history, moving mankind forward to an enlightenment dimly perceived, yet always out of reach...
Perhaps it's a way of humbling us, he thought; the way we learn; the upward struggle..,
In High Places Page 38
