Knights of Aurora

Disclaimer:

This story deals with mature subject matter and involves intimate gay sex. If it is illegal for you to read such material, due to your age or location, then please don't. If you are offended by acts of sexuality between consenting and non-consenting adults, then Do Not Read this story.

The Knights of Aurora

Chapter 7

When Michael returned to the terrace he found his young guests relaxing from the strain of their soccer game. Those who had worked up an appetite were laying siege to the buffet tent and barbecue - Michael could not believe how much young men ate! Footmen - decently clad now in their day livery - were moving about offering cooling drinks of iced lemonade and water.

The Phantom was sitting at one of the tables on the terrace with Colin. Further along Caroline Leveson-Arundel smiled enigmatically as Mary Randolph castigated her nephew Blake, ordering him to sit up straight and for heaven's sake keep his knees close together and his kilt down. Mabell Airlie found the contents of her teacup very interesting. Blake, his broad chest rimed with sweat, his coal-black hair awry, idly dabbed his face with a napkin and wondered if Michael Chan was a good enough host to provide a bar!

At the bottom of the broad steps of the terrace, Joey, Randy, Calvin and Simon sprawled, panting from their exertions and not at all bothered by the fact that their spread legs afforded a clear view of their white underpants to all sitting on the terrace. Colin, in an indulgent mood, remarked that given the boys' nonchalant exhibitionism, he supposed that he should consider himself lucky that they were not wearing kilts. The Phantom, watching four thin, hairless, bare chests rising and falling as the boys regained their normal breathing, replied that Colin should consider himself lucky that they were wearing undies!

Further out on the lawn Harry, the Twins, Sean and Matt lounged together. Cory was nattering away at Sean about his ability as a soccer stud, which Sean was not. Matt, also bare-chested, tried not to let his love for Todd, whom he adored, affect his determination to go, as he put it, his own way. Matt had given Todd every chance to return the love. Todd had declined, gently, kindly, but always his answer had been no. Sighing, Matt rubbed the sweat from his chest and wondered if he should just give up and find someone else to lavish his affections on.

Matt had been having an intense, but mutually agreed non-committal affair with Nicholas, the Yeoman of Signals. Neither had any regrets, and both used the other as a sexual outlet. Nicholas was in love with André, who was back home in Montreal. He had made it plain to Matt that while he did not object to a dalliance his heart was with André. They had made a commitment, and Nicholas would be firm to the heartfelt vow he had made to the young French-Canadian.

Wondering if asking Nicholas to go into the house was stretching the rules of hospitality, Matt saw Harry lumbering back from the buffet pavilion, carrying a plate laden with food. Smiling at the small group, Harry plopped himself down between Todd and Cory, and began to eat with gusto.

"Yah know," Harry said between mouthfuls, "this is some joint." He pointed with his fork at the plate of food. "This is great, and it's all I can eat! I like that!"

"You would," sniped Cory. "To feed you would bankrupt a small nation. Do you never stop?"

"Only when I'm sleeping," returned Harry equably. "Or when I'm engaged in other things." He waggled his eyebrows lewdly.

Recalling the time that Todd, Harry and he had spent together in the Unwinding Room in the School of Wind, where Harry had lost his virginity, in more ways than one, Cory quickly changed the subject. There were some things in his past that Cory did not regret, but at the same time he was not all that eager to have those things made public. "What are we doing this afternoon?" he asked, feigning indifference while at the same time giving Harry a "Shut Up!" look.

Nonplussed, Harry shrugged as he attacked a huge mound of lobster salad. "Not a clue," he said. "Probably take a shower - I sure do stink! - And then a nap. You?"

Cory had no plans. "Play it by ear, I suppose." He yawned. "A nap sounds good, but you know, what I could really go for is a swim!"

Randy and Joey's ears perked up. "Yeah, a swim would be nice," observed Joey. He looked around. "But we can't. There ain't no pool!"

"There is no pool," corrected Todd out of habit. He looked sternly at the Makee Learns. "And don't complain! Mr. Michael has put a lot of thought and effort in making your stay here enjoyable. Remember that you're a guest!"

"I was only saying," returned Joey. "How can I complain? This is better than home! You should see our room," he enthused. "We have our own washplace, and everything was unpacked and put away! I could get used to this!"

"Me too," agreed the redheaded Randy with a wide smile. He looked around quickly and then asked in a whisper, "Todd, how come our undies are gone?"

Todd started and his eyes grew wide. "What?"

"Well, all our dirty undies," Joey quickly interjected. "We had them in our bag, and now they're gone!"

Todd laughed. "You dopes! It's all part of the service. Your undies will come home in the morning, all nice and clean." He gave Randy the eye. "Which is more than I can say for you!"

Randy sniffed. "I was playing soccer," he said. Then he grinned. "And you ain't exactly smellin' like a rose."

"Attracting flies, if you ask me," interrupted Harry as he eyed a particularly delectable prawn. "You could use a good hosing down."

"Nobody asked for your opinion," rejoined Todd haughtily. He could not say more because, truth be told, he did pong! They all did.

On the terrace The Phantom, who was sitting downwind, and who had been listening to the exchange, sniggered. Colin shushed him. "Phantom! Be nice. They've been playing soccer, for cripes sake!"

"I know they have," countered The Phantom, "but they do smell!"

"The smell of healthy young men," came Michael Chan's voice. He had returned to the terrace after his meetings with the Pete and the Major. He had heard almost all of the conversations. He indicated a chair. "May I join you?"

The Phantom and Colin made to rise. Michael stopped them. "Please, don't! I am not used to it and it is not necessary."

Ignoring Michael, The Phantom stood. "You are the Grand Master," he said sincerely. His words needed no further explanation and he and Colin waited until Michael was seated.

Secretly pleased at the politeness of his princes, Michael waved away a footman who had suddenly appeared, offering a tray laden with glasses of lemonade. "So, then, you are pleased with your accommodation?" he asked, a polite host subtly enquiring of his guest if something was amiss.

"Very nice," said Colin. He leaned slightly and said quietly, "And thank you for arranging for Phantom and me to share a room."

Michael smiled knowingly. "I am aware of the special bond that exists between you and my soon to be Prince," he said blandly. "And of course, as the Custos Principum, you must be near him always."

"One way of putting it," thought Colin. "Still, it was kind of you," he said.

Michael made a dismissive gesture. "I do have my moments," he said with a small smile. He nodded toward the group sprawled on the steps. "The young knights are pleased?" he asked.

The Phantom laughed. "Well, they're still a little awed with all the service." He waved his arm about. "All this is . . . well, wonderful."

Michael assumed a pained look, nodded with his chin at The Phantom and then winked. "Alas, though, all my efforts are for naught. It would seem that my humble house lacks a vital component that figures large in the happiness of young knights."

Colin looked first at The Phantom, and then at Michael. "I can't agree," he protested. "You gone overboard! Heck, back home I'd have to be sick as a dog to get this kind of service!"

Laughing, Michael shook his head. "You misunderstand, my dear young Colin!" He eyed Joey a moment. "I am a most unsatisfactory host for I forgot that there is nothing quite so refreshing as a cool swim after a hot and gruelling soccer match!"

"Don't pay him any mind," said The Phantom. He gave Joey a look that said "Belt up!" He looked over the smooth, verdant lawns. "Your grounds are beautiful," he said. Then he sniggered. "A little beat up at the moment, but beautiful. Why spoil everything?"

"Phantom's right," added Colin. "The grounds are something out of this world." Then he looked at Michael, smiling impishly. "And even the Grand Master can't conjure up a swimming pool!"

Michael returned Colin's smile, and smiled even more impishly. "Actually, I can," he said with a small chuckle.

Colin stared at Michael a moment. "You can?" he gasped.

Nodding at the brick wall that separated his estate from the one to the south, Michael nodded. "Over that wall is a large pool," he said.

"There is?" The Phantom looked at the wall, behind which, barely visible above the trees, was a line of chimney pots and what looked to be a white balustrade.

Rising, Michael nodded. "There is." He waved his hand at the assembled cadets. "Now, all of you fetch your swimming suits. If you wish do go swimming, you shall go swimming."

As Michael hurried off to make what he called "the arrangements", The Phantom leaned over and whispered to Colin, "I hope the neighbours don't mind."

Eying the minor stampede as the cadets went into the house to find their trunks, Colin frowned. "They might not mind now, but when that crew is finished . . ." He laughed quietly. "I hope their insurance is paid up!"

Laughing at Colin's remark, The Phantom noticed Blake Putnam walking up the steps, a mournful look on his face. Blake saw The Phantom looking at him and smiled shyly. "Hi," he said as he sat down and gazed toward the wall. He sighed and fidgeted a bit.

"Not going swimming?" asked The Phantom.

"No," replied Blake with a small shake of his head. "No suit."

The Phantom regarded Blake's kilt-draped figure. Blake was a handsome young man, if a little hairy, but he could understand why the Twins would want to find out what he had under his kilt. The Phantom thought a moment, and then rejected his idea. "I'd loan you mine, but your waist is bigger," he said.

"It's okay," replied Blake. "I'll just see if I can take a shower."

Seeing the sad look on Blake's face, Colin took pity on him. "You can borrow one of mine." He gave The Phantom a sly look. "It's a Speedo," he said as a twinkle came into his eye.

"You have a Speedo?" asked The Phantom with a small snort.

"Of course," returned Colin. "And I look decidedly studly in it!"

The Phantom could not argue the point. Colin looked studly in tighty-whiteys! Colin looked studly in nothing at all! "Um, well, lend him a jock or . . ."

Watching The Phantom's face slowly turning crimson, Colin laughed inwardly. He could never get over how prim and proper his lover could be at times. "I will," he said with a grin. He stood up and gestured for Blake to follow. "As a matter of fact, I think I'll stroll over and enjoy the waters," he said, deliberately poking The Phantom with a stick.

Glowering, knowing he should not be jealous of Colin in whatever and Blake in a Speedo, The Phantom tried to put on an indifferent front. "I think I'll stay and wait for Alex. He might need a shoulder to cry on after his session with Chef." Then he added, not all in jest, "Wear a jock!"

As the boys dispersed to find their swim suits, Caroline Arundel saw The Phantom sitting alone and decided that there was no time like the present for her to find out what her sons, and the others, were up to. She excused herself from her companions and joined The Phantom. The first thing she noted was his bandaged hand. "You hurt yourself," she exclaimed as her motherly instinct came to the fore. She held out her hand to touch The Phantom's bandaged hand and then quickly withdrew it. "Are you all right?" she asked, her voice filled with concern.

"Just an accident," replied The Phantom, grateful for Mrs. Arundel's concern.

"An accident? Whatever happened?" she asked as she settled into a chair.

"I broke a glass," replied The Phantom with a slight shrug. "Nothing for you to worry about." He smiled his thanks. "Honest."

Mrs. Arundel returned The Phantom's smile. "You are a charming liar, Phantom," she said. She then looked around. "Where are the boys off to?"

"Swimming," replied The Phantom. He indicated with his head the house on the other side of the wall. "Apparently Michael has it in with his neighbours over there. He's gone to ask permission for the guys to have a swim."

Caroline gave The Phantom an enigmatic smile. She knew, as the young man obviously did not, that the people next door were hardly neighbours. Michael Chan's family occupied the house, and wide grounds to the south, and knowing Michael, he did not have to ask "permission" from anyone to use the house, the grounds, or the facilities. He owned it all.

"Over there" was a large, sprawling, Regency-style manor house taken directly from the workbook of John Nash. Built of brick and limestone, it exemplified the symmetry and form beloved by the great master. Everything, from the house, to the stables and mews, to the Orangerie, was a study in form. The gardens to the front were designed and planted to complement the great house. Inside the rooms, of which there were many, were Nash at his flamboyant best, gilt entablatures, huge columns, acres of marble and silk-lined walls, a fitting house for a diamond magnate, or the family of Henry Chan.

The house had been three years in the building, the dream of a man who never lived in it. It had for years been a well-maintained white elephant. Uncle Henry, when he had decided to move from the crowded and squalid downtown Chinatown building he lived in, had snatched it up for a fraction of its value, and spent untold dollars to make it acceptable to his horde of relations, all of whom would be accommodated within the red brick walls. He pointedly ignored the rumours of ill-luck that floated about the house. He had known the man whose money had built the place, and he had been one of the luckiest men in the world for he had found diamonds where the experts had insisted no diamonds could be found.

On the 3rd of October 1899, Joseph Chamberlain, Imperial Secretary of State for Colonial Affairs, issued a call for the Dominions to provide assistance in the developing conflict with the South African Boers. The Prime Minister of Canada, Sir Wilfred Laurier, GCMG, as canny a politician as Chamberlain, or the Prime Minister, Lord Salisbury, recognized what the British were up to. They hardly needed the troops, not with a large, well-equipped, professional army at hand. What they needed was the appearance of colonial solidarity and to provide some legitimacy to the European powers in Britain's war against the Boers.

Laurier, while a Canadian Nationalist, was also a loyal and enthusiastic British subject. He considered the Colonial Office's request and, as Parliament was not in session, issued an Order in Council, calling for volunteers. The less charitable of his political foes maintained that he had issued the order more with an eye to exchanging his knighthood for a peerage. Laurier had no such plans or ambitions. He was a Dominion prime minister and the Mother Country had called for the help of her children. It was a simple as that.

By the 14th of October 1899, the militia units in the country opened for volunteers. Much to the surprise of the doubting politicians in Ottawa, the young men of Canada flocked to the Colours, many of them members of the already established Militia regiments. Such was the enthusiasm that by the 30th of the month the assembly depot in Quebec City was filled with eager, freshly outfitted volunteers.

On the 31st of October 1899, SS Sardinian, a lumbering old liner chartered to act as a troopship, sailed, carrying on board 1,110 volunteers, members of the officially designated 2nd Battalion, Royal Canadian Regiment of Infantry. Among the young men (and four women - nurses) was a short, powerfully built, Nova Scotian, Lachlan Rob Roy MacGregor.

Lachlan had no dreams of empirical glory. He was frankly bored with farming, and was more interested in the $0.85 per day, plus uniform and found, that privates were paid, which was a hell of a lot more than what he was making on the farm. He was also at an age when martial airs and beating drums stirred the blood of a young man, so he left the farm and went off to serve Queen and Country with a willing, jaunty air.

As the Sardinian lumbered across the ocean, soldiers, as they always do, reverted to the ancient pastime of gambling. Very few of the young men had any, but that did not prevent those who did from bringing out the cards. Lachlan had on his person the grand sum of $5.00, a substantial sum, or so it seemed. While not a gambler, Lachlan needed something to pass the time. He anted up and for the next 30 days, when he wasn't eating, sleeping, drilling on deck, or generally killing time in a military fashion, he was in the fetid hold lined with triple deal bunks, shuffling pasteboard, or throwing dice. It was on the voyage out to Cape Town that Lachlan's lifelong streak of luck began. He lost a little, at the beginning, but his "stake" increased and he arrived in Cape Town with a full purse, a relatively affluent young soldier.

The Sardinian dropped the hook in Cape Town harbour, under the lee of Table Mountain, on the 30th of November 1899. For the next two months the troops drilled and marched and trained, the better to bring them to the standards of their brothers-in-arms in the British Regiments. Once again fortune smiled on Lachlan. As was the custom of the times, one of the officers needed a "batman", a personal servant. This officer happened to be the man charged with organizing the mountains of stores and ammunition that came into the port, and for arranging their forwarding to the "front". He never left Cape Town, except for rare inspection tours, and Lachlan, as his batman, stayed with him.

For his entire enlistment in South Africa (originally for six months with a liability of one year extension) Lachlan never fired a shot in anger, and was never shot at. When he was not attending to his officer's needs, he was about the town. Cape Town was wide open, with British and Empire troops coming and going. As with any war ladies of easy virtue flocked to rich hunting grounds. There were grog shops and casinos aplenty. Lachlan made a strenuous effort to visit them all. He drank (but not to excess), whored (but only with the better class of strumpet) and gambled. He was having the time of his life and saw no reason to return home, to the extent that he re-upped twice.

On the 31st of May 1902, as the peace between the English and the Boers was being signed in Pretoria, Lachlan was given the choice of being repatriated to Canada, or mustering out in South Africa. Lachlan still saw no reason to return home, so he took his gratuity (in lieu of a new suit of clothes), his gong, his small carefully hidden horde of sovereigns and pounds, and headed north, to the diamond fields of Kimberly.

Kimberly, despite the recent 124-day siege by the Boers, and damage from the sporadic gunfire of Krupp's guns, was wide open. The mines in and around the city were producing diamonds in record quantities; speculators, eager to cash in on impending wealth promised with the rebuilding of the war torn country, English purchasing agents and European adventurers filled the hotels. Lachlan, who affected the air of a country boy, found a small hotel to live in and a large hotel to gamble in, notably baccarat and vingt-et-un. His luck held and he gained a reputation as a daring, no-holds-barred man of mystery, willing to risk guineas when others risked pounds.

He enjoyed life, garnered some wealth and, one night during the winter of 1904 he was sitting in the lounge of the Kimberley Club when he was invited to sit in on a "friendly" game of vingt-et-un. His luck ran hot, then cold, then hot again. He was not winning any great sums, but as the company was as rapscallion as he was, and he had nothing better to do, he stayed. One of the players, a land speculator of ill-repute, a man who before the war and the present unsettled conditions would never have been allowed in the club, lost heavily. In the end he offered the deeds to a plot of land. Lachlan, who didn't need the land, but disliked the man, called the bet.

When he left the club, Lachlan had in the breast pocket of his jacket the deeds to a plot of 20 acres on the Vaal River, north of the city. Somewhat amused, Lachlan hired a rig and travelled out to his new "estate". Much to his surprise he found that not only did he own the land, he also owned a ramshackle, sprawling house, three mud and wattle compounds (which housed three Xhosa tribesmen, their nine wives, and 27 children) and a herd of goats.

As the farm was much too far away from the town, Lachlan spent very little time there. The land was fit only to grow native corn - mealie - and the house was all but derelict. He was much more comfortable in his new digs, paid for by a fantastic string of luck during a game of poker at the Club one night. Lachlan was happy, comfortable and not at all eager to move. What he had not considered was that with ownership of land came responsibility. There were taxes to be paid and, much to his chagrin, his "workers" expected a monthly wage, plus rations. The wages were miniscule, 20 shillings per man. The cost of feeding his natives, and their families, was prohibitive. The South African economy had be devastated by the war, the Boer farms ravaged, and every pound or ounce of food commanded prices six or seven times more that they had before the war.

Lachlan, tired of the expense, and with no income in sight, decided to sell up. There were no buyers. For six months the drain on his finances chaffed, but there was nothing he could do. In the end. He decided to hell with it, and drove out in his new motorcar to tell his workers that they could have the land, and the house, and their damned goats!

When he arrived, Lachlan found, as usual, that nothing was going on. The goats were all over the place, the gardens weed chocked, a part of the roof of the house had caved in, and the native workers were drunk on beer. In the front of the house a horde of naked, black children, played and laughed, chasing each other and bedevilling the goats. Lachlan paid them no mind. He liked children, and found their childish laughter and innocence comforting. As he walked toward the compounds, Lachlan noticed two of the children playing with looked what like lumps of dirty glass.

Lachlan had been around the city of diamonds long enough to recognize what the children were playing with. He quickly bribed the infants with a new silver shilling. He stood in his decrepit yard, slowly rolling the two stones in his hands. His mind raced. It was impossible! There could not be diamonds here. The experts had long since dismissed this area as nothing more than great expanses of worthless, or near to it, dirt! Yet . . .

Driving at breakneck speed, and destroying the undercarriage of his motorcar in the process, Lachlan returned to town, and the offices of the De Beers Consolidated Mines. Here his lumps of glass were examined and pronounced as diamonds of the first water, all but flawless, one of 5.6 carats, the other of 4.3 carats. Lachlan promptly sold them and put the proceeds into his land.

The news that diamonds had been discovered at "The Canadian's Farm" spread quickly. All along the Vaal speculators moved in. Lachlan was offered a magnificent sum for his land - which he refused. He hired more workers and sent them to digging.

No one could understand it. The mineralogists, the experts, who studied the area, tried to convince themselves that finding diamonds in an area where the earth said there were no diamonds was impossible. The older hands, men who had been around when Kimberly was known as Colesberg Koppie, and the "Big Hole" a mere dent in the earth, shook their heads, but headed for the Vaal River. Lachlan viewed with jaundiced eye the invasion of miners and natives, and hired a guard of Askaris to keep the riffraff out and his diamonds safe. He added more workers and within months his mine, an ever-deepening hole in the earth, was producing specimens that rivalled the stones dug from the "Big Hole" in Kimberly. He also took great satisfaction in the knowledge that except for his farm, no one found so much as a bit of quartz on any of the other claims.

Not unexpectedly representatives of De Beers, the conglomerate that controlled the diamond market, and the mines in Kimberley, visited Lachlan. No fool, and a cagey negotiator, Lachlan knew the value and quality of his diamonds. He also knew that De Beers could not allow competition of any kind. They controlled the market and he could not sell his stones to anyone except De Beers.

Although he knew that he was butting his head against a brick wall, Lachlan was a stubborn Scot. He knew the quality of the stones his mine was yielding, and he knew how much Barney Barnato, a former London barrow boy, had been paid for his claim back in 1889.

Lachlan's luck held, and the value of his holdings reached unknown heights when a blue diamond, weighing 26.7 carats was discovered. The news of this latest treasure brought the expected response. De Beers would negotiate and Lachlan, smiling, eventually signed over the deeds in exchange for a cheque drawn on Barclay's Bank in the amount of 5,338,650 pounds, sterling.

Being adventurous, and with more money than even he could possibly spend, Lachlan MacGregor decided to enjoy life. He left South Africa and became a fixture on the Riviera, rivalling Russian Grand Dukes and English Milords at the amount of money he wagered in the casinos of Nice and Cannes and Monte Carlo. He dallied a while in Paris, which was filled with rapacious Frenchmen. He went to England where men with money were accepted with open arms by the "Marlborough House Set". He met the King, and diplomatically lost every time he and the aging Monarch had occasion to share a baccarat table. He spent his money freely, and became popular for his open purse and easygoing manners. He thought of buying a country house, but the weather and insularity of the English (he was, after all was said and done, a "colonial") gave him pause.

On the 4th of May 1910, Edward VII breathed his last and Lachlan decided to move on. The new King was conservative, had always disapproved of his father's "dissolute" court, and let it be known that there would be changes. Lachlan, who knew that it was only his money that had given him whatever status he had had, returned home to Nova Scotia.

He visited his family, paid the mortgages on the farms his brothers had, endured a "Down Home" winter, and decamped to Quebec, which was too foreign for his liking. He decided to tour, hired a private railway car, and set off west. He had no destination in mind. He only knew that he would not be settling in the eastern part of his country.

Eventually, Lachlan came to rest in Vancouver. The country was magnificently beautiful, the people friendly, and the climate delightful. He decided to settle in the small city on the Pacific.

Having lived a life a privilege as only the English can live it, Lachlan looked around for a suitable home. Vancouver boasted mansions, and small estates in the hinterland. None appealed. The houses were too small, the acreage miniscule, with little room to swing so much as a cat and in the end Lachlan decided that he wanted a proper country estate, not too far from the attractions of the city. He heard of a small, exclusive area, British Properties, which was being developed to the north of First Narrows, north of the small town of West Vancouver. Here the old families, the true elite of the province, had begun to withdraw, away from the burgeoning city filled with Orientals and "new" people. They were building a little bit of England, with streets named "Chartwell" and "Queen Mary" and "Eyremount". The houses were set on wide lots, with acres of trees and gardens; there was a central square named after the Duke of Clarence, and while the estate was provincial and insular, and filled with proper English gentlemen and ladies, Lachlan found the area appealing. He purchased a large plot of land, and set about building his dream home.

Nothing but the best would do. Bricks and furnishings were imported from England. The sandstone trim of the Regency style house came over as ballast. Lachlan's agents in London scoured the city for antiques and silver, paintings and objets d'art. His house would be correct in every detail, from the symmetry of the house itself, and the surrounding gardens, to the flamboyant Regency style inside, all enamels and silks and plaster and gold leaf.

No expense was spared. Behind the house was a mews to house Lachlan's carriage horses, his carriages imported from the finest builders in London, and his Daimler. Attached to the mews entrance were two guesthouses, large, comfortable and every bit as over-decorated as the main house. At the rear of the house there was a large, deep, man-made lake, and an Orangerie, filled with orange trees in wooden tubs. Greenhouses, where Lachlan planned to grow exotic blooms were added.

Lachlan's house, begun in the spring of 1912, was the talk of the town. That his neighbours disapproved of his ostentation bothered him not at all. He did not notice any of them refusing his invitation to attend the gala house warming dinner and ball he planned when the house was finished, in July of 1915. That there was a war on, with British and Canadians and Australians, the sons of the Empire, mired in the mud of Flanders, did not prevent Lachlan from ordering the finest food and wines available.

The dinner before the Ball was a great success, up to a point. The great and powerful descended on Lachlan's new home, dressed in the finery. Lachlan, smiling, greeted them and basked in their insincere comments. He smiled happily as gratuitous comments on the furnishings and paintings, on the weight of the silver spoons, on the antiquity of the centrepieces and candelabra that graced his dining tables, on the maroon livery that Lachlan had chosen for his footmen, on the stature of his butler (stolen away from one of the first families of British Columbia, the Levesons) and the reputation of his cook (likewise purloined from the first family of British Columbia, the Arundels).

Lachlan smiled through the first course, a clear, exquisite terrapin soup. He laughed appreciably and smiled during the second course, perfectly prepared Sturgeon. He continued to smile when the third course, a sorbet made with vintage champagne and served in a crystal glass on a gilt plate, was placed in front of him. At first Lachlan's fixed smile caused no comment. He was, after all, not that well known to his guests. When he did not respond, however, to a compliment by the lady on his right, the guests realized that something was wrong. It took no time for them to also realize that Lachlan was quite dead.

Lachlan McGregor was barely in his final resting place in Mountain View Cemetery when the "For Sale" sign was metaphorically posted. His heirs in the East had no desire to move west. The house, the grounds, the furnishings, everything from Lachlan's Daimler, to his town carriages, to the bathroom fittings, was available to the highest bidder - with no takers.

At the time, Uncle Henry Chan, then plain "Henry", was much too busy consolidating his position in the Chinese underworld and smuggling booze. For reasons best known to the Federal officials in Ottawa, who had listened to the whining and puling of the churchmen, the Temperance Leagues, and the loud-mouthed do-gooders, and had banned the sale or drinking of spirits. In every province and territory it was now illegal to sell, or consume alcohol.

This did not mean that people did not drink. They did so, in great quantities, only in small, hidden speakeasies, many of them in Chinatown. Henry was young - only 25 at the time - but he knew people and he knew that the easiest way to make a man want something was to forbid it. He also knew that while it was illegal to drink alcohol, the government was not about to loose the excise tax dollars it earned on the distillation of manufacture of spirits for export. He set up a dummy corporation to purchase for export large amounts of Canadian whisky. He also, through the same dummy corporation, purchased several non-descript buildings just on this side of the BC-American border. He set some of his retainers (the Tsangs) to digging tunnels, and stockpiled as much liquor as he could get his hands on, for he had read that the same Temperance movement that had closed the drinking establishments of Canada was gaining strength south of the border where, except for the deep South Bible Belt, alcohol still flowed freely.

Henry Chan was also busy in other areas, reaching out to the elders in the small Chinatowns that seemed to be in every large city across the country. He also established ties with the Chinese in San Francisco, Seattle, and New York.

Many of Henry's business associates thought that he had taken leave of his senses. He had hidden warehouses filled with booze that he could, they thought, never sell. They nodded smugly, and predicted his downfall when, in March 1918, Ottawa forbid the manufacture or the transportation between the provinces of liquor, beer and wine. The government did not forbid the manufacture of liquor for export to foreign countries, however and Henry was content to wait for the market to open. Henry ignored the naysayers, and expanded his sphere of influence, gaining "friends" in many of the right places. He also established contacts in Ontario, close to the border of Québec, where the pols and people enthusiastically ignored the prohibitionists.

From his lair in Vancouver's Chinatown, Henry Chan continued to expand and reap profits from his gambling and bootlegging enterprises. He added gambling parlours, and loan-sharking, but avoided prostitution and drugs. He was making money, but he could have made much more. Still, he refused the blandishments, the promises of mountains of money until, annoyed, he set the Tsangs loose.

With the Great War over, and his enemies more or less quiet, Henry, more and more being addressed by the honorific, "Uncle", went to Europe where he fell in love with the English way of living, and negotiated the purchase of pre-war Scotch whisky. Very soon he also owned warehouses in Southampton and Liverpool. He "crossed the Channel by rail" (he was a poor sailor) and enjoyed the French way of life. He was not overly impressed with the French, but stifled his feelings and negotiated the purchase wines and champagnes, brandies and cognacs, usually one step ahead of agents of the Bronfman Brothers of Montreal and the upstart Kennedys of Massachusetts. As he had in England, he also purchased warehouse space on the docks of Le Havre and Cherbourg.

On his return to Canada, Uncle Henry helped with the campaign to repeal the Ottawa government's shortsighted experiment in Temperance. Québec City was overrun with tourists, the Québecoise having rejected the Ottawa ban, and British Columbia, within walking distance of a vast tourist market, was not about to let good, Yankee dollars flow into the bars and pensions of the old walled city.

Uncle Henry was also eying the burgeoning bootleg market in the States, where the Volstead Act, and the 18th Amendment, decreed total prohibition of alcohol of any kind from the 16th of January 1920. On the 17th of January 1920, in a small, hastily-built "auto repair" shop just inside the Canada/USA border in Washington State, the floor opened and Henry Chan led a small column of men, each laden with a case of liquor and while this mode of smuggling proved safe and profitable, Henry was never one to kick opportunity in the face when she came knocking. He invested, with the Italians and several of the more farsighted Elders of the Tongs, in a five-masted schooner, the SS Malahat, with cavernous holds. She became, in time, the "Queen of the Rum Runners", a floating liquor store that supplied the bootleggers of San Francisco with 175 premium brands.

Uncle Henry never looked back. As the Great Depression deepened he used his money to alleviate the suffering of the Chinese poor, establishing soup kitchens and a homegrown type of social assistance, thereby increasing his "face" with his countrymen. With American prohibition ended, Uncle Henry invested in many new enterprises, in an out of the Chinese community, some illegal, some legal. So long as he made money, Uncle Henry was happy. He continued to avoid any hint of involvement in drugs and prostitution, cultivated friendships within the white community, and grew in power and stature thereby.

The Second World War, with rationing and small deprivations of gasoline, butter, eggs and alcohol, brought new business prospects. The war also brought personal danger. Vancouver was growing by leaps and bounds, new money pouring in, and the jackals and vultures gathered to partake of the feast. Uncle Henry was no fool. He was vulnerable to those who lusted after what he had. Many of his enemies were men with no scruples, no morals and little compassion for families. Only the Italians observed the unwritten rule that families were sacrosanct. The others would cheerfully blow away anyone who stood between them and their target, in this case, Uncle Henry Chan.

Henry had been born in Chinatown, lived in Chinatown, and maintained his oversight and control of his business enterprises in Chinatown. His family was gathered around him, as was proper, and the Tsangs ensured that no one came too close. Still, Uncle Henry was uncomfortable. The family compound, a multi-storied block of flats on East Pender, was secure enough, but after two failed attempts on his life, Uncle Henry decided that it was time to move.

As became a Chinese man of rank and high station, Uncle Henry could not just "move". He had to consider his extended family, including his aged parents, aunts, uncles, his brothers and their children. He also needed a residence that lent stature to his position as "Emperor" of Chinatown. People expected him to look after his family, which was the traditional role of the eldest son. They also expected him to show his status by living and travelling in great style. Tradition and "face" demanded it.

Uncle Henry was in no hurry. When he made his move from downtown Vancouver, he wanted to be certain that the place he moved to provided sufficient space for all his family and the security he needed. He considered lands and estates in Delta, Surrey, Burnaby and North and West Vancouver. All had their merits, and all had their faults. This was too small, that too open. The price on this was right, but too close to other homes (Uncle Henry had to consider the safety of neighbouring "civilians") and that was much too expensive for what was offered.

Vancouver, indeed all of BC, was awash with money. The war in Europe was over, but the war in the Pacific was still raging and the Allied Forces needed food and supplies and shipping. The Vancouver ship and repair yards took the overflow from the Pacific battles, and troops were being funnelled in to await transport to the war zone. Uncle Henry's Chinatown business made more and more money and generated more and more jealousy.

On the 4th July 1945 Uncle Henry was sitting in his office, negotiating with the representatives of the Tongs, who felt that they deserved a bigger cut of the pie. The various societies, which controlled the daily lives of the people from their particular province back home, could not be ignored. The Tongs did good work, paying for scholarships (to which Uncle Henry contributed), maintained homes for old people, provided assistance to their people and generally helped maintain the social fabric of the growing community. To maintain their status and largesse, the Tongs also controlled, or owned outright, restaurants catering to the tourists, and gambling dens.

Two of the Tong elders traded in opium, and heroin, which Uncle Henry knew of, but turned a blind eye to. So long as they did not try to expand their operations he left them alone. But the lure of vast wealth proved too much for some, and more and more Uncle Henry had been required to send the Tsangs out. He had done this with misgivings, being of the opinion that Chinese battling Chinese was not something that anyone wanted. He was trying also to keep the peace between the warring gangs. He did not need adverse publicity or dead bodies turning up all over Chinatown!

Henry was also deeply involved in politics, using his money and political influence in an attempt to have the Alien Exclusion Act, which barred all Chinese immigration, repealed. He did not need a fragmented Chinese community sniping behind his back. He needed to mend fences, make deals, and generally make the peace. He called a meeting of his competitors, of the Elders, and as many of the community leaders that would acknowledge his suzerainty.

In doing so, Henry Chan made his first, and last business error. A gathering of the Chinese underworld did not, could not, go unnoticed. Henry had paid off the authorities downtown, greasing all the right palms at City Hall. He did not worry that the Vancouver Police Department would come calling. He had spoken with the Italians, assuring them that he was involved in what was a purely Chinese matter. He also assured them that their business interests would in no way be affected and in fact would be increased, to the greater profit of all. Henry thought he had covered all the bases. He was wrong.

As Henry opened his meeting a long, low, tarpaulin covered lorry navigated the Pender Street traffic and ground to halt directly under the windows of the meeting room. The driver, Mike "Chubbs" Davies, the leader of the small, vicious "Powell Street Boys", a gang of Irish thugs that tried to control the docks lining Burrard Inlet, reached down, and lit the primer cord that led to the huge cache of explosives piled in the back of the truck. As he climbed down from cab of the truck a sedan pulled up. Davies, with not so much as a backward glance, climbed into the car and sped away.

Five minutes later the explosives in the truck detonated, destroying the façade of the building, collapsing the ceiling of the meeting room, and blowing a crater five feet deep in the roadway.

Across the city the Powell Street Boys began the "Irish War", armed men coolly gunning down as many of Henry Chan's men as they could find. They spared no one. It did not matter if a woman, or a child accompanied their target. All died in a hail of bullets. Davies' men launched attacks on Henry's speakeasies and gambling dens. They assaulted the compound that housed Henry's family. They tried to eliminate the Tsangs, a foregone failure. The Tsangs were even more thuggish than the Powell Street Boys, more vicious, and even more without conscience or scruples.

Uncle Henry, scraped and bleeding, and with a broken leg, waved away any suggestion of hospitalization, was pulled from the wreckage and gave his orders. If the Irish gang wanted war, it would have war. Henry set loose the Tsangs, and called for reinforcements from his fellow Chinese in San Francisco. He sent out calm, deliberate messages to Toronto and Montreal: Send men.

For three weeks the city was in an uproar. The Mayor, the Chief of Police, the Superintendent of the RCMP, scrambled to maintain order. Extra police were hired, Special Constables sworn in. The police raided every illicit enterprise in Chinatown and along Powell Street. The headquarters of the Powell Street Boys was raided, Mike Davies escaping through a window at the rear. Henry Chan was nowhere to be found, nor were any of the Elders (most of whom were dead, killed in the blast that had all but levelled Henry's offices). The Italians, firmly in Henry Chan's camp, did what they could and with the arrival of the new men from the east, the war began to wind down. Uncle Henry sent word through trusted emissaries: I will end it.

The war had brought unwanted attention not only to Uncle Henry's business interests, but also to the interests of the Italians, and the stranglehold the Powell Street Boys had on the docks, and the dockworkers. Canada Customs agents descended, the RCMP descended, and because there was a war on, Navy Intelligence, Army Intelligence, the FBI and every badge-carrying officer in flying distance hit the ground running.

Uncle Henry had dabbled in the black market, and had forged ration books and petrol certificates. But he had little influence on the docks, where huge amounts of military supplies, from arms and ammunition to underpants, were loaded into ships to support the war effort. Mike Davies and his "Boys" had ravaged the cargos, supplying unscrupulous black marketers with herds of sides of beef, mountains of butter, tanker trucks filled with gasoline. His organization, although small, had contacts and customers as far east as the Ontario/Manitoba border.

With the descent of the government agents, Davies quickly realized that he was in deep trouble. He could not sustain the war with the Chinks, and the Italians were making threatening gestures. His own men, never knowing what was waiting for them when they stepped outside their front doors, were cowering and hiding. He accepted Uncle Henry's offer, brokered and guaranteed by the Italians, of peace.

As Chinatown returned to normal, and the newspapers found other uproars to create, specifically castigating the federal government for its decision not to pursue the war in the Pacific except through the use of volunteers, Uncle Henry cultivated an air of placid normality. Those who knew him well waited for the axe to fall, but as 1945 turned into 1946, Uncle Henry seemed content to mend fences, tend to his normal business interests and have no interest in anything else.

Uncle Henry was biding his time. As he taught the young boy who would eventually succeed him, he never forgave a slight, or forgot an injury. Uncle Henry would have his revenge, but in his own time. He had lost face in the war, and lost more face by seeming to back down from all out war. It would take time, but Henry was determined to rise again.

He worked slowly. The federal agents investigating the corruption on the docks unearthed more than enough scapegoats. City officials, and customs officers, and bureaucrats in the Ministry of trade were grist for their mills. The levels of insulation built over the years shielded Uncle Henry. He had not been involved in wholesale theft from the cargoes being loaded at the docks, and had no connection with the unions, or any of the shipping companies. The war with the Powell Street Boys had shown that he had no connection with the lower forms of underworld life, and while some of his enterprises were closed and the paper owners fined, Uncle Henry actually came out on top.

As the power of the Powell Street Boys waned, and their influence with it, Uncle Henry quietly moved in. He avoided conflict as much as possible, and quietly placed his own men in the union offices. His real estate company, legally registered, began to purchase waterfront property, including warehouses along Burrard Inlet. The deaths of eight of the 12 Elders of the Tongs also afforded an opportunity, and before long Uncle Henry was receiving loyal delegations which presented gifts and promises of loyalty. In return Uncle Henry endowed a chair of Oriental Studies at the university, built a home for the aged, and began to act the part of a benevolent dictator. He continued to avoid any involvement in drugs and prostitution, which kept City Hall and the moralists downtown from becoming too interested in what he was actually doing.

One of the lessons Uncle Henry learned was that maintaining his headquarters downtown was no longer feasible. The attack on the family compound had driven home that he could no longer maintain a home in a city environment. He gave instructions: find a place, not too isolated, but easily defendable, and large enough to accommodate the entire family.

This was no small order. Uncle Henry, by tradition and custom, was responsible for his entire family, which included Chiangs, Chans, a Lee or two, widowed aunties and aged uncles, not to mention cousins and nephews of every degree of consanguinity. All depended on his largesse and all expected it, as became their age and relationship. Then there was Uncle Henry's status. As the "Emperor of Chinatown" he was expected to not only act the part, but live it. He could not live in a hovel, nor could his relatives. They were "Mandarins", and expected to at least give the impression of wealth and power.

In the end, it was the federal government that solved Uncle Henry's problem. As the war in the Pacific came to an end the government began to divest itself of properties acquired to support the war effort. The army was demobilised, and barracks and hastily constructed bases put on the open market. The Royal Canadian Navy, at one time the third largest Navy in the world (after the United States and Great Britain) with over 400 ships, offered surplus destroyers, corvettes, and auxiliary craft. Warehouses full of uniforms, webbing, everything needed to clothe an army, were offered at bargain rates.

Vancouver, flush with surplus buildings, bases and office space, became a government sponsored bazaar and perceptive entrepreneurs descended. Uncle Henry, already in place, and with friends in all the right places, knew in advance which parcel of land would be put on the market. He used his insider knowledge to good advantage, and shared this knowledge with his friends, particularly those in the white community. They, in turn, shared what they knew with him and one of them, knowing that Uncle Henry was looking for a new base of operations, told him of the MacGregor Estate Hospital.

The house that Lachlan MacGregor had built had, except for a brief period during the First War when it had been used as a convalescent home for officers wounded in France, lain dormant for years. The asking price was too high and, in the opinion of many, too isolated and located in an insular enclave of unaccepting wealth. The people who lived in the area, known as British Properties, would not accept just anyone, and while money helped, birth and family counted more. Their houses, each located on five or more acres, were perfect replicas of a forgotten era, built to designs by Adam and Wren, and the high Georgian architects. They guarded their privacy and the exclusiveness of their little bit of England as a tiger protected her cubs.

The Great Depression had added to the insularity of the district. The offers made during the good times evaporated and the heirs of Lachlan Rob Roy MacGregor allowed the property to deteriorate to the point of becoming derelict. They simply could not keep it up.

The estate was located on the northern reaches of British Properties, the last house but one on Chartwell Maidan, and hidden behind a stout, red brick wall. To the north and west were miles of Crown Lands, virgin forests. The wall was what gave the house a reprieve when the Royal Canadian Navy was looking for a new home for its neophyte telegraphists and code-breakers. Dubbed HMCS Chartwell, with armed guards at the gates, the school supplied wireless and ASDIC ratings until 1944 when, with the war in Europe now on the Continent, the sparkers and ping merchants were moved to Royal Roads and the house and grounds designated a Royal Canadian Navy Hospital. Armed ratings were replaced by stern-faced matrons and starched nursing sisters.

When the war with Japan ended, and all the prisoners of war were repatriated, someone closed the gates and once again a metaphorical "For Sale" sign was posted on them. On offer was the house, the 55 acres it stood on, the stable block, an ornamental pond and an Orangerie, now devoid of Orange trees in tubs, and filled instead with battered wicker furniture. Uncle Henry thought the place a bargain at $50,000.00. What it cost him in aggravation and renovation Uncle Henry never revealed, not even to his nephew and heir, Michael.

In the event, the house was gutted, and years of mould and government grey paint were removed. The drawing rooms were restored; the houses that flanked the Mews gate were rebuilt and plumbing was installed. The ornamental pond was cleaned, the gardens replanted. When everything was ready, coincidentally three days after the birth of the boy who would become his heir, Uncle Henry issued his orders and the family moved in, brothers, sisters-in-law, nephews, aunties, uncles and cousins of every degree of consanguinity. Uncle Henry lasted a month before he found a small house in Burnaby.

The relatives, although happy in their new home, still complained. They were too far from their friends in Chinatown. There was no market where they could pass the day shopping and gossiping. The neighbours, Ferengi all, had made it plain that they did not appreciate, or approve of, a large, tempestuous family of Chinese moving into their quiet little world. The younger cousins, chaffing under the eye of the Tsangs, complained that the ornamental lake was too small, and too shallow. They were accustomed to swimming every day, at the beach, or in the local pool. There were not enough bathrooms, this room too large, that room too small. The litany of complaint ranged from the minuscule to the ridiculous, and included a complaint that the chickens did not get along with the ducks.

Uncle Henry, who had generation upon generation of Chinese patience bred into his being, listened and promptly lost his temper. Chickens! He would have the builders return. New bathrooms would be added. Rooms would be enlarged, or made smaller. The Orangerie would be cleared of the rubbish and a large, deep pool would be dug. The Tsangs would visit the carping and complaining neighbours. All would be put to right but . . . Chickens!

Uncle Henry could never understand the affection his elder relatives held for the stupidest creature ever created by God. They were loud, dirty birds, forever cackling and crowing and always under foot, pecking and scratching in the courtyards and stable yard. He had moved the family north, out of the city, where they complained that more and more strangers were encroaching on Chinatown, where crime was on the rise, where drunks and derelicts were gradually staking a claim on the downtown streets and what did his relatives complain about? Chickens!

Uncle Henry's explosion of temper was talked about in whispers by the relatives for years to come. They had scattered in all directions and when, finally, Uncle Henry had calmed down, they listened with trepidation. He would make everything right, even bring in a necromancer to help them placate the sheng fui. But, and here he was firm, they were aristocrats now, and aristocrats did not keep chickens! The family could make a choice. They could return to the old compound, with their chickens. Of course, if they did that, they could not expect Uncle Henry's purse to be as open as it had been, nor could he spare guards to protect two compounds.

Bowing, Uncle Henry left the room, leaving his relatives to their deliberations. He went downtown to the restaurant that he had opened on Richards Street, across from Holy Rosary Cathedral and the Chancellery of the See of Vancouver.

Here, in a back booth that would become familiar to all that had dealings with him, Uncle Henry held court. He adjudicated complaints, dispensed funds, laughed, joked with the men who thought him their friend and crony, ate and when there were no more suppliants, went home.

He found that the chickens were gone - replaced by a small flock of ducks paddling and quacking happily in the ornamental lake. He also found the family waiting, dressed in their ceremonial robes. This was a sign that they either wanted something, or had decided to obey his orders. After much kow-towing, expressions of eternal devotion, and drinking of tea from delicate, ancient cups that were used only for the most ceremonial occasions, Uncle Henry was presented with the latest addition to the family, a boy child who would be named, with Uncle's permission of course, Michael.

As the child was presented naked, Uncle Henry noted that he had been "sealed", as was proper, and indicated his pleasure by adding a gift of gold and jade to the small pile of gifts left in the hospital for the doctor who had sealed the boy.

There was something else, however, something that Uncle Henry could never explain. As he looked down at the boy child, the child stared back, his dark brown eyes never wavering. There was look, a special something in those dark brown eyes and Uncle Henry realised that the baby in his mother's arms was not a boy child, but man child, and in time he would succeed to Empire that Uncle Henry had built.

In later years, Uncle Henry was enigmatic whenever Michael asked him about the "Powell Street War", or the eventual fate of Mike "Chubbs" Davies. The only hint that Michael ever had was when he was met at Vancouver International Airport by Cousin Tommy Chan who, while they waited for Michael's luggage, observed that the Department of Transport had done everyone a favour by extending the runways on Sea Island.

Uncle Henry looked to the future. While he made a great deal of money from his clandestine business interests, sooner or later others would come to snatch them away. His power, which was based on financial and personal arrangements with government officials, policemen, judges and assorted legislators and Members of Parliament, was personal to him. When he died, which was inevitable, there was no guarantee that the loyalties of his friends and associates would be transferred to his heir, which he did not have! Without an heir he had to guarantee that the family's wealth continued to grow, that when he was gone his cousins and aunts and uncles would never have to worry about their incomes. He was not only their "Serenity", he was their Elder Brother, and responsible for them all.

Uncle Henry also knew that regimes changed, that what was good for say, the Liberals, might not be so for the Tories, who were notoriously straight-laced. There was no guarantee that the laissez-faire attitude of today would be carried over to tomorrow. He therefore decided that the males of the family would not become a part of his illegal business activities. None of them seemed interested anyway. When he was gone they would be firmly entrenched in legal activities.

At Uncle Henry's instructions, boys of the family were encouraged to further their education, or were given positions in some of his legal businesses. Girls were married off, to proper Chinese boys, and gifted with a huge dowry to ensure that no tongues would cluck and wag.

Michael shared his uncle's desire not to involve the family. Although he had grown up in the massive Regency house with his cousins, Michael had moved away from the compound to separate his business from his family. He did this for two reasons. First, he had taken to heart the lessons of the Powell Street War. As the Emperor of Chinatown Michael had enemies. Some were inherited; others were of Michael's own making. Enemies were the price of doing business. What Michael had to consider was that his enemies would stop at nothing to eliminate him, given half the chance.

A case in point had been Mike "Chubbs" Davies, who had detonated a bomb outside of Uncle Henry's office. He had not given a thought to the fact that of the 12 Tong Elders present, ten of them were innocent of any wrongdoing and had no connection with Uncle Henry's business interests. They had been "collateral damage". Michael knew that his enemies could, if they were determined and willing to take casualties, infiltrate the compound with relative ease, and would not stop to separate the innocent from the guilty. Michael could not, and would not, risk the lives of his family for his actions.

The second reason Michael moved away was that as "The Serenity", an honourific he did not care for but could not stop people from using, he sought serenity, spending very little time in his old home. Michael abhorred the noise and confusion, the lack of privacy, and the constant inquisitiveness of his cousins, none of whom he took into his businesses. He did not look for an heir, and none of his cousins showed any interest in becoming the heir. Cousin Tommy, while a dedicated member of Michael's organisation, was Hong Kong born, and not all that ambitious. He was more of a follower than a leader.

There was no one in the family, really, whom Michael could trust to succeed him and this lack of an heir had been instrumental in his decision to marry. The family was too westernised, too assimilated, to produce an heir. In some ways they had become decadent, which Uncle Henry, and Michael had encouraged. Each Chinese New Year's Day first Uncle Henry, and then Michael, as Elder Brother, would meet in the main drawing room of the great Regency house and receive the gifts traditionally given. Then, as was the custom, he would present each "Younger Brother" of the family with a red envelope containing a Certificate of Deposit and, if duck was on the luncheon menu, went out to count the flock paddling in the ornamental lake.

"I do not believe it!" Mrs. Arundel said with a shocked gasp. "It cannot be my sons!"

The Phantom followed Mrs. Arundel's gaze and saw the Twins strolling across the green lawns. The Phantom could see nothing wrong. The Twins were behaving, not arguing or bickering, and wearing their Seminarian's rig: navy blue shorts and white T-shits. Behind them, chattering away, with towels draped over their shoulders were Joey, Randy, Calvin and Simon. Randy and Joey were wearing the swimming shorts that The Phantom had bought them in Victoria - the kind with the built in pouch to hold their parts. Phil Thornton, Randy and Joey's friend, lover, and keeper, following the four boys.

As The Phantom watched, Tyler, Val and Harry stepped from the house. As became senior cadets, all three were decorously clad. The only complaint, and that minor, was that both Two Strokes and Thumper were wearing their usual swimming kit: skin tight, khaki-coloured, USN swimming shorts, which they had obtained in a trade with the visiting USN Sea Cadets sometime last summer. Accompanying the cadets, and looking embarrassed in the variegated swimming suits, were their minders, Sgt. Mosser, Dino Antonelli, Rob Jones, Pat Ives and Dave Edge.

At first The Phantom wondered what Mrs. Arundel was on about. Then realised that she was remembering the old Twins, the Twins who gloried in bedevilling their detractors by wearing the most outrageous outfits they could think of, vibrant coloured Speedos, horribly hued briefs, all at least one size smaller they their bodies were.

"I'm afraid you have me to blame," The Phantom said with a slight smile of remembrance.

Mrs. Arundel looked sharply at The Phantom. "What did you do to them?" she asked.

Laughing, The Phantom shook his head and described, carefully, the metamorphosis of the Twins.

There had been a baseball game, during which Cory had, in addition to becoming the hero of the moment, and hitting the game winning ball, lost his shorts, although The Phantom did not tell Cory's mother that! After the game there had been a victory celebration in the Gunroom. Harry had got drunk, and offered his opinion of what was wrong with being a Sea Cadet. It had been a deep, satisfying evening, and the Twins, much to their surprise, had learned that not only were they accepted by their fellow cadets, they were loved and, more importantly, respected. It made no difference to the denizens of the Gunroom if the Twins slept with each other, or the ship's cat.

The Phantom had added his two cents worth. He admired the Twins, secretly lusted after them, and felt proud and honoured that they considered him a friend. He had told them bluntly, as true friends will, that simply because they happened to be gay, they didn't need to go around advertising the fact. He had also told them that nobody cared about their sexuality and he was sick, sore and tired of the "Queen for a Day" act!

The Twins had retired to the breezeway flats, discussed the matter, and decided to enter the closet. They would not pile the winter blankets over themselves, and the door would open a crack from time to time, but they would moderate their conduct, and change their wardrobe.

The Phantom had seen them coming down the path leading from the barracks blocks to the swimming beach, dressed like Seminarians on a outing in neat blue shorts and white T-shirts and immediately did a double take. He was a little miffed at their sudden change, but understood the underlying reasons for their change, not the least of which had been their recognition of the hurt and pain they caused their parents.

Not only had The Phantom understood, he had agreed to act as the Twins' agent in the purchase of their new wardrobe. This included conservative underpants, boxers for the most part, with Cory insisting that at least one pair be pin-striped, black and white, thank you, in the unlikely event that he might feel the need to attend church.

Mrs. Arundel laughed delightedly at The Phantom's tale of the Twins. Then she looked soberly at the young man. "They love you, you know," she said quietly.

"I know."

"They also trust you," Mrs. Arundel said. Then she added darkly, "Which is more than can be said for myself!"

A puzzled look came into The Phantom's emerald green eyes. "I'm sorry?"

Mrs. Arundel never lost her composure. "Oh, it's not you, Phantom dear. It is I! My own husband and my sons, whom I love beyond measure, don't trust their old Mummy!"

The Phantom suspected that Bertie Arundel, Catherine's husband and the Twins' father, who was, in addition to being an Associate Justice of the Supreme Court of Canada, and a high ranking Knight of the Order, was involved in Michael's business. As Michael's friend, and possibly his legal counsel, Bertie Arundel would be privy to many secrets, not the least of which would be the investigation into the ring of paedophiles, and the reason why the Boys of Aurora were here in Vancouver.

"Now I know that Bertie is up to something," Mrs. Arundel complained gently. "I also know that my sons are involved in something as well." She made face. "They won't tell me what! And do you know, Phantom, Cory had the nerve to tell me that it was 'a guy thing'! Can you imagine it?"

Actually, The Phantom could imagine it. He looked at the young men straggling across the lawns, and at the men they were surrounded by, and nodded involuntarily. It was a guy thing, more or less.

Mrs. Arundel reached out to take The Phantom's hand in hers. "Please, Phantom, tell me what is going on!" she asked, her voice tremulous. "My sons are going into danger! Please don't deny it!"

"Um, Mrs. Arundel . . ." began The Phantom.

"No," she said firmly. "I can feel it! You, the other boys, Cory, Todd, you are going into danger! I know Phantom, a mother knows!"

The Phantom felt Mrs. Arundel's hand in his and heard the pain, the worry, in her voice. He could not lie to her. "There is a certain element . . . of danger . . ." he admitted slowly. "But we don't know that."

"Phantom, do not talk in riddles, do not procrastinate," Mrs. Arundel replied in a tone that brooked no reply other than his total honesty.

Very well.

"Mrs. Arundel, believe me when I say that I do not know all the details," The Phantom asked.

"But you know some of them?" she not quite demanded.

"Yes." The Phantom took a deep breath. "There is a . . . ring . . . of paedophiles, men who are buying and selling boys, as sex slaves!"

Mrs. Arundel gasped and her face paled. "A Bar of Justice has been called," she said when she had collected her thoughts.

"You know?" asked The Phantom.

Mrs. Arundel blushed prettily, "Please, don't ever divulge my secret, but I, well, I listened in on a conversation my husband had with Michael!"

"There is no need to be embarrassed," soothed The Phantom, smiling inwardly and thinking that Cory came by some of his habits naturally.

"I wish I could say that I had accidentally picked up the telephone, but I was snooping," replied Mrs. Arundel with honesty. "Bertie would not tell me what was going on, the boys were in Comox, and so I . . ." She smiled winningly. "Resorted to other methods!"

The Phantom could not help laughing. Then his face grew stern. "We, that is the other boys and I, we know about the Bar of Justice. There are knights involved, men who have brought dishonour to the Order. But," he hastened to add, "we are not involved in the investigation. The Gunner, you remember him? He's co-ordinating something, in Toronto."

"A fine man, a stern man, a man of principles," replied Mrs. Arundel. Then a look of sadness crossed her face. "Poor Michael! He was so proud of his Order." She looked directly at The Phantom. "And it is his Order, Phantom. He has worked so hard to bring it back."

"I know."

"You know that The Gunner has been commissioned?" she asked suddenly.

The Phantom's eyes grew wide. "No, I didn't know."

"Well, he has!" returned Mrs. Arundel, pleased to something that nobody else seemed to know. "He's been made a Lieutenant!"

Smiling, The Phantom's eyes gleamed with pleasure. "He deserves it. He was wasted as a Leading Seaman."

"And as a mere Knight," countered Mrs. Arundel. "Michael needed a strong man to be his Chancellor and chose him." Then she said something The Phantom never expected. "You loved him."

"I . . ." began The Phantom, not willing to reveal his innermost secrets.

Waving his hand, Mrs. Arundel leaned forward. "Phantom, do you think I do not know the bonding, the love, that springs up between young men? Do you think that I am ignorant of the love, the devotion that turns a disparate gaggle of seamen into a cohesive, trusting, ship's company, or a platoon of soldiers? Do you think that I do not see the pride in the eyes of the old comrades when they speak of 'The Regiment'? I know of the bonding that happens, Phantom, I know."

"I loved him, or thought I did," admitted The Phantom bluntly. "In a way, I still do. But he is destined for other things, things that do not include me," he finished sadly.

"You have learned to live with it, though?" suggested Mrs. Arundel.

The Phantom nodded slowly, took a deep breath, and sighed, and said, "Life goes on, Mrs. Arundel. Sometimes not the way we want it to, but we have to accept that it does." He looked directly at the still beautiful woman. "I have been gifted with something I do not understand." He shrugged. "I probably never will understand why I was chosen to be what I am."

"The leader," said Mrs. Arundel briskly. "You're the leader of all these young men," she continued as she waved her hand expressively. "I saw it that day at the Passing Out Parade. My sons have given you something I never expected, never thought they would give: their love and trust." She smiled kindly. "And you have given them yours in return."

"They are my friends," replied The Phantom, temporising, still unwilling to delve deeper into what he, and his friends, were about to do.

Mrs. Arundel was not to be put off. "I know that! Which is why they are following you to Sainte-Anne-de-Beaupré. I understand that you wish to honour the memory of a friend, who has passed on, but Phantom, there is something else! I can feel it! Remember . . ."

"A mother knows!" exclaimed The Phantom with a warm smile.

"Well, then, shall we now discuss the truth?" Mrs. Arundel asked, smiling, and secretly thinking what a wonderful young man this strange, green-eyed Phantom was.

The Phantom decided. "You remember Sylvain Beauharnais?"

"I do," replied Mrs. Arundel with a nod. "The Drum Major of the Bugle Band, tall, blond, too handsome for his own good, and very too much full of himself."

"Well, he was, sort of," conceded The Phantom. "But at the end of the day he was one of us."

Mrs. Arundel understood, and saw no reason to reply.

"What came next is something you might . . . well, you might laugh at," said The Phantom, colouring slightly.

"Why would I laugh?" asked Mrs. Arundel. She could see that The Phantom was discomfited, and more than a little embarrassed.

The Phantom lowered his eyes, and then looked at Mrs. Arundel. "Well, um, I saw Sylvain again, after he was dead. He came to me in a dream."

Mrs. Arundel started. "A dream?" she asked in a whisper.

"Yes. It was very vivid," explained The Phantom. "He was very badly hurt. He wanted to come home, home to his friends and home to Aurora."

Mrs. Arundel sat back in her chair, looking pensive. She had heard of the dead returning to someone they loved, to say goodbye, to bring a hint of what the future might bring, more often they returned at the moment of death, to lead the dying into the brightness of God's love.

Catherine Arundel considered herself to be a modern woman. She believed in God, as she had been taught to believe. She also believed that there was a scientific explanation for some things, and simple belief for others. She placed no credence in dreams, and while she doubted, she was prepared to listen. "Perhaps you might explain a little," she suggested gently.

"I saw a battlefield, a field of death filled with bodies. I didn't recognise any of them. On one side were these . . . fiends, all black and transparent, dancing and shrieking." The Phantom did not see any purpose or need to tell Mrs. Arundel that one of the "fiends" was Paul Greene, whom everybody called Little Big Man. "Towering over these . . . creatures . . . was a huge, black figure, glowering and bloody. I don't understand the significance of that."

Mrs. Arundel nodded her acceptance. She had had dreams, as everybody did, and some things she understood, some she did not. It was the nature of dreams.

"Anyway, on the other side of the battlefield we, all of us, we were gathered." He giggled in embarrassment. "Chef says I've been reading too much Shakespeare, 'cause we were all dressed in tabards and chain mail. We were dirty and our clothes were torn and battered, and I guess we'd been in a hell of fight - sorry."

"I assure you that 'hell of a fight' is a most gentle expression," Mrs Arundel said with a smile. "Cory, or Todd would have been much more expressive!"

The Phantom laughed and continued. "We were all there, The Gunner, Chef, Cory, Todd, all of the Boys of Aurora. Mr. Michael was there, and some others I didn't know." A serious look came into The Phantom's eyes. "It was if we, the forces of good, were arrayed against the forces of evil. I know it sounds silly, but I've thought about that dream so much, and that is what I believe."

"And Sylvain?"

"He was wounded, hurt, and crawling toward where we were. He reached out, he was crying, and begging to be brought home. I went out, and took him in my arms. Before he died he told me that he was home, home with his brothers and friends." The Phantom's voice was firm and devoid of pathos or emotion. "Somehow, for some reason, he wanted to be with us."

"There is more," said Mrs. Arundel.

"Yes. I cannot now, and I could not then, whenever I thought about what he said, help thinking that he wanted to tell me more, tell me something so horrible that he needed to come home. Later we found out that he smashed his car on the road leading to airport at Québec City. He had no business there, because he lived north of where he had been. He was in his new car. He could have left his uncle's house, which was where he had been staying, and gone north to Rimouski. Instead he turned south." Shaking his head, The Phantom said softly. "Whatever Sylvain saw in Beaupré, whatever he heard, he wanted me, us, to know."

"And you are determined to find out, aren't you?" asked Mrs. Arundel. "You don't know what you will find there, but you are going."

"Yes. I must."

Sighing, Mrs. Arundel shook her head. "And the others?"

"They are a part of the Tapestry," replied The Phantom simply. "They know that they could be going into danger, but we have talked it over, all of us, and everyone was given the chance to think about what might happen, what we might discover, and where we might end up." He shrugged. "I am going, alone, or with them."

Mrs. Arundel glanced sharply at the young man. "And I will be going with you!"

The Phantom almost fell out of his chair. "I . . ."

Holding up her hand, Mrs. Arundel's face was firm, her voice strong. "This . . . Tapestry you spoke of . . . were there no women?"

The Phantom thought a moment. "I can't say no, because I don't know." Then he remembered his conversation with Peter Race and his thoughts afterward. "I believe that the Tapestry is a living thing. In time faces and figures will fade. In time other faces, other figures, will be woven into it."

Mrs. Arundel paused, and then spoke quietly. "Phantom, like you I do not understand the meaning of what you saw. I do believe that you are firm in your convictions and that nothing I say or do will stop you." Once again she clasped The Phantom's hand. "But, Phantom, I am not about to sit idly by and watch my sons, and in a way you, all the boys are my sons, go off to war. You cannot say what will come, just as I cannot say what will come." Her grip tightened. "But know this, Phantom Lascelles, when my sons are involved, I will move heaven and earth to be there." She released The Phantom's hand and chuckled. "So, I suggest you reach for your loom and start weaving. There are three new figures about to appear on your Tapestry!"

Somewhat stunned at Mrs. Arundel's outburst, The Phantom sat back, his mouth slightly agape. Then the meaning of what she had said sunk in. "You're . . . three? Three what?" he squeaked.

"Three figures, all female!" returned Mrs. Arundel. "You don't think that I would travel with a horde of young men alone, do you?"

The Phantom thought it best not to protest too much. "Um, who . . ."

"Why Mary Randolph and Mabell Airlie, of course," responded Mrs. Arundel without hesitation. She snickered. "Of course, they don't know it just yet."

The Phantom giggled. "Well, if you're determined to go, you won't get any opposition from me." He looked at Mrs. Arundel, recognising a very determined woman when he saw one. "I won't try to stop you. I wouldn't dare!"

"No, you wouldn't," replied Mrs. Arundel, smiling. "The Twins might."

"I'm not so sure," said The Phantom. "Knowing them, they'd be proud of their mother." Then he frowned. "But Michael, now . . ."

Mrs. Arundel rose from her chair, the clouds of battle gathering in her deep blue eyes. "You leave him to me!"