In High Places

'Quebec,' Cawston said. 'We'd never carry Quebec'

The moment had come.

James Howden said quietly, 'I will admit that the thought had already occurred to me.'

Slowly the eyes of the others swung round to Lucien Perrault – Perrault, the chosen; the idol and spokesman of French Canada. As others had before him – Laurier, Lapointe, St Laurent – he alone in two elections past had swung the strength of Quebec behind the Howden government. And behind Perrault were three hundred years of history: New France, Champlain, the Royal Government of Louis XIV, the British conquest – and French Canadians' hatred of their conquerors. Hatred had gone in time, but mistrust – two-sided -had never vanished. Twice, in twentieth-century wars involving Canada, their disputations had divided the country. Compromise and moderation had salvaged uneasy unity. But now…

'There would appear no need to speak,' Perrault said dourly. 'It seems that you, my colleagues, have a pipeline to my mind.'

'It's hard to ignore facts,' Cawston said. 'Or history either.' 'History,' Perrault said softly, then slammed down his hand. The table shook. His voice boomed angrily. 'Has no one told you that history moves; that minds progress and change; that divisions do not last for ever? Or have you slept – slept while better minds matured?'

The change in the room was electric. The startling words had come like a thunderclap., 'How do you consider us – we of Quebec?' Perrault raged. 'For ever as peasants, fools, illiterates? Are we unknowing; blind and oblivious to a changing world? No, my friends, we are saner than you, and less bemused by what is past. If this must be done, it will be done with anguish. But anguish is not new to French Canada; or realism either.'

'Well,' Stuart Cawston said quietly, 'you can never tell which way the cat will jump.'

It was all that was needed. Tension, as if by magic, dissolved in a howl of laughter. Chairs scraped back. Perrault, tears of mirth streaming, cuffed Cawston vigorously across the shoulders. We are a strange people, Howden thought: an unpredictable admixture of mediocrity and genius, with now and then a flash of greatness.

'Perhaps it will be the end of me.' Lucien Perrault shrugged, a Gallic gesture of indifference. 'But I will support the Prime Minister, and perhaps I can persuade others.' It was a masterpiece of understatement and Howden felt a surging gratitude.

Adrian Nesbitson alone had remained silent in the last exchange. Now/his voice surprisingly strong, the Defence Minister said, 'If that's the way you feel, why stop at half" measures? Why not sell out to the United States completely?' Simultaneously five heads had turned towards him.

The old man flushed but continued doggedly, 'I say we should maintain our independence – at whatever cost.'

'To the point, no doubt, of repelling a nuclear invasion,' James Howden said icily. Coming after Perrault, Nesbitson's words had seemed like a dismal, chilling shower. Now, with controlled anger, Howden added, 'Or perhaps the Defence

Minister has some means of doing so that we have not yet heard about.'

Bitterly, in his mind, Howden reminded himself that this was a sample of the unseeing, obtuse stupidity he would have to face in the weeks immediately ahead. For an instant he pictured the other Nesbitsons still to come: the cardboard warriors with aged, faded pennants, a Blimplike cavalcade marching blindly to oblivion. It was ironic, he reflected, that he must expend his own intellect in convincing fools like Nesbitson of the need to save themselves.

There was an uneasy silence. It was no secret in Cabinet that lately the Prime Minister had been dissatisfied with his Minister of Defence.

Now Howden continued, his hawklike face bleak, pointedly addressing his words to Adrian Nesbitson. 'In the past this Government has been amply concerned with maintenance of our national independence. And my own feeling in that area has been demonstrated time and time again.' There was a murmur of assent. 'The personal decision I have now reached has not been easy and I think I may say it has required a modicum of courage. The easy way is the reckless way, which some might think of as courage but, in the end, would be the greater cowardice.' At the word 'cowardice' General Nesbitson flushed crimson, but the Prime Minister had not finished. "There is one more thing. Whatever our discussions in the weeks ahead, I shall not expect to encounter, among members of this Government, political gutter phrases like "selling out to the United States".'

Howden had always ridden his Cabinet hard, tongue-lashing ministers at times, and not always in private. But never before had his anger been quite so pointed.

Uncomfortably the others watched Adrian Nesbitson.

At first it seemed as if the old warrior might strike back. He had moved forward in his chair, his face suffused angrily. He started to speak. Then, suddenly, like a worn mainspring run down, he visibly subsided, becoming once again the old man, insecure and floundering among problems far removed from his own experience. Muttering something about, 'Perhaps misunderstood… unfortunate phrase,' he receded into his seat, plainly wishing the focus of attention to move on from himself.

As if in sympathy, Stuart Cawston said hastily, 'Customs union would have a large attraction from our point of view since we would have most to gain.' As the others turned to him, the Finance Minister paused, his astute mind plainly assessing possibilities. Now he continued, 'But any agreement should go considerably further than that. After all, it's their own defence as well as ours that the Americans are buying. There must be guarantees for manufacturing here, enlargement of our industries…'

'Our demands will not be light and I intend to make that clear in Washington,' Howden said. 'In whatever time is left we must strengthen our economy so that after a war we can emerge stronger than either of the principal contenders.'

Cawston said softly, 'It could work that way. In the end it really could.'

'There is something else,' Howden said. 'Another demand -the biggest of all – that I intend to make.'

There was a silence which Lucien Perrault broke. 'We are listening attentively. Prime Minister. You spoke of another demand.'

Arthur Lexington was toying with a pencil, his expression thoughtful.

He dare not tell them, Howden decided. At least, not yet. The concept was too big, too bold, and in a way preposterous. He remembered Lexington's reaction yesterday during their private talk, when the Prime Minister had revealed his thoughts. The External Affairs Minister had demurred: 'The Americans would never agree. Never.' And James Howden had answered slowly, 'If they were desperate enough, I think they might.'

Now, determinedly, he faced the others. 'I cannot tell you,' he said decisively, 'except that if the demand is met it will be the greatest achievement for Canada in this century. Beyond that, until after the White House meeting, you must trust me.' Raising his voice he said commandingly, 'You have trusted me before. I demand your trust again.'

Slowly, around the table, there was a succession of nods.

Watching, Howden felt the beginning of a new exultation. They were with him, he knew. By persuasion, logic, and force of leadership he had carried the argument here and gained support. It had been the first test, and what he had done once could be done elsewhere.

Only Adrian Nesbitson remained unmoving and silent, eyes downcast, his lined face sombre. Glancing down the table Howden felt a resurgence of anger. Even though Nesbitson might be a fool, as Minister of Defence his token support was necessary. Then the anger subsided. The old man could be disposed of quickly, and once dismissed would be bothersome no more.