Pagan's Ark

  Pagan’s Ark

  Matt Eaton

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Pagan's Ark

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  EPILOGUE

  Thanks for reading Pagan’s Ark ––––––––

  Pagan’s Ark

  © Matthew J. Eaton 2019

  Cover art by J.T. Lindroos

  CHAPTER 1

  November 16, 1940

  Bill Donovan tapped his driver on the shoulder, telling her to stop the car. She looked concerned.

  “That’s probably not a good idea, sir,” she said. It was the morning after another Luftwaffe air raid. There was bomb damage everywhere, a grave danger to the uninitiated.

  No doubt her orders were to keep a close eye on their American visitor. But Donovan was confident he could find his way around inner London unassisted. “I want to walk,” he told her. In the end, there was little she could do to stop him.

  A smoky gloom cast an improbable beauty upon the chaos. All around him, Londoners had begun to emerge from their holes in the ground to face the morning chill and take their first look at the night’s destruction.

  He sensed they had almost grown used to it. Certainly, they were putting a brave face on coping with the hardships. There was also angry defiance in the faces of many. A woman caught his eye. Defiant, brave. Stoic and hardened, weathering the storm. Knowing all too well the Germans sought to rain fear and despair upon them with every bomb. She was not about to give them the satisfaction. Donovan had to stop himself from approaching her to talk about it. He reminded himself this was not the English way, that she would look at him strangely, perhaps see him as some sort of macabre voyeur.

  He struggled to navigate the hazards and road blocks set up as protection from the fires and collapsed buildings. There were many places that remained remarkably untouched by bomb or firestorm, like the part of Cannon Street that retained a Dickensian air, frozen in the calm of another century. Then, just around the corner on Cheapside (the shock of it stopped him in his tracks), a building smashed to pieces, smoke still rising from the rubble.

  At Newgate Street, train carriages gutted by fire on the open tracks, stripped to bare metal by the deathly storm, carriage roofs spattered with molten paint that now resembled lichen, as if years of neglect and weathering had done the damage rather than the momentary arrival of Hell.

  Donovan stared open-mouthed at the cavernous, silent ruin around those tracks. Rays of morning sun cast unworldly shadows as the light of a clear, blue day poured inside-out through empty window cavities – hollow buildings devoid of floors and roofs, daylight impossibly illuminating fractured internal walls.

  There was more destruction along Upper Thames Street. Building facades were on fire near the Embankment. Amid the carnage, small parts of some structures remained intact. Donovan stared at the organs of an office block; stairs leading nowhere, someone’s office incredibly untouched. Corner fragments of wall reached five storeys into the open air, all that once supported them now blown apart.

  Fire hoses snaked down roads like giant, pre-historic serpents, wielded methodically by the firemen seeking to halt the spread of flames. Men in uniform clambered over unstable masonry, searching for survivors. Or unexploded bombs. Donovan wanted to rush in there to help, but he knew they didn’t need his help, that any such offer would prove more of a hindrance. Everyone had a role to play in London’s response to the Blitz. Everyone knew his or her place. His was to stay out of trouble.

  He glanced at his watch, more out of habit than concern. Somehow, hours had passed without him realizing and now he risked being late for the appointment that was the primary reason for his journey to the British capital.

  He tried the Underground at Blackfriars and found, to his enormous relief, the trains were still running. Upon entering the station, he noticed the smoke and ash in the air had left him rather disheveled. A little water sprinkled across his face in the men’s toilet was his only option. Cardinal Hinsley would surely understand. He arrived quickly at Westminster Station, hoping from here it would only be a short walk to Westminster Cathedral. At street level, he found himself opposite Big Ben and the House of Commons, still steadfast amid the turmoil, somehow spared from the bombing as if the collective will of the British people had kept the bombs at bay.

  He turned away from the Thames to make his way to Victoria Street, from where the steeples of the Cathedral were visible in order to focus his thoughts on the task at hand.

  The Cardinal’s approach to President Roosevelt had been highly unorthodox, a request both urgent and insistent. It had come not from Rome but from Hinsley himself, renowned and outspoken opponent of the Nazis, supporter of Winston Churchill’s refusal to sue for peace.

  Roosevelt had sent Donovan to meet with Cardinal Hinsley, citing an eagerness to maintain an air of diplomatic courtesy in light of recent embarrassments involving the US Ambassador to Great Britain, Joe Kennedy. FDR found himself no longer able to countenance Kennedy’s vocal calls for appeasement and was infuriated by Kennedy’s off-book attempts to meet with Hitler without the approval of the State Department. Roosevelt knew all too well that Kennedy sought to succeed him in the Oval Office as the first Catholic president. But FDR had run out of patience with Kennedy’s defeatism in the face of Fascist aggression.

  Roosevelt had also admitted to Donovan he was also deeply concerned that Kennedy’s sympathies were mirrored inside the Catholic Church. He said senior clerics within the Roman Curia were Hitler sympathizers. While himself a committed Catholic, Donovan had nevertheless kept his views to himself. He knew fear of the Nazis was at the heart of it and, like FDR, was keen to hear Cardinal Hinsley’s views on the matter.

  For Donovan, the London visit was a perfect opportunity to assess England’s preparedness for war. As an architect of the Lend Lease Act providing US warships to the British fleet and Roosevelt’s personal intelligence advisor, it was his duty to take stock of Britain’s position.

  He also suspected Roosevelt had also been holding something back in his sudden insistence upon this meeting with the Cardinal. He had demonstrated a certain reluctance to spell out precisely why this meeting should trump all other concerns.

  Cardinal Hinsley’s letter to the President was most odd. He wrote of something he feared might have a bearing on the outcome of the war. Something he said he held in his possession.

  Donovan had, of course, seen the letter. It read like the ravings of a madman. One sentence in particular stuck out: “The item concerned, should it fall into Nazi hands, could secure Hitler’s rule for decades to come.” At a time when the sovereignty of nations was being decided by heavy weaponry and ground troops, it seemed impossible to imagine anything in the possession of a priest, no matter how highly placed, that could warrant such concern.

  Far more likely that like so many others living through German bombing raids and contemplating invasion, Hinsley had simply lost his nerve.

  ***

  A small crowd had gathered outside the Cathedral. Barriers were hurriedly being erected to keep people at bay, though Donovan could see no obvious bomb damage to the building itself. The towering, ornate stonework appeared untouched. As his eyes were drawn to a group of men deep in discussion, he did spot fragments of stained glass on the ground. Below the damaged window, men in black cassocks were pointing. He could not make out what they were saying.

  An aging and portly member of the Home Guard offere
d reassurance to passers-by. “Nothing to worry about here,” he told them, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. “But you’ll need to stand back.”

  Donovan asked, “Did this happen last night?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s right. No one hurt. Bit of minor damage, that’s all.”

  “I see. I wonder, do you know if the Cardinal is about?”

  The man smiled. “The Cardinal you say? I’ve heard he’s been known to cast the odd stone, but I’m fairly sure this was the work of the Jerries.”

  Donovan bristled. “I have a meeting with Cardinal Hinsley.”

  The man’s grin held fast. “He ain’t here, guvnor. This is Westminster Abbey. Church of England. What you want is Westminster Cathedral.” He pointed down Victoria Street. “A half-mile down there. Any chance you Yanks are gonna lend us a hand with Adolf?”

  Now Donovan smiled. “You never know.”

  He couldn’t be sure how or why he had the Abbey and the Cathedral confused, but he chided himself for the error — not because it made him look foolish for a moment but because it was the sort of mistake that got people killed behind enemy lines.

  He was forced to ask directions again before he eventually pinpointed his destination. Only when he finally saw the building did he realize he had seen the place before. It featured prominently in Alfred Hitchcock’s new movie, Foreign Correspondent.

  The film was, of course, in black and white. In reality, the brickwork gleamed bright orange and the massive bell-tower loomed large like it had been modelled on an Egyptian obelisk. The Cathedral itself was a modern building, no more than 50 years old. A reminder, perhaps, the Catholic faith was, from the time of King Henry VIII through to the late 18th century, much hated by many in Britain.

  From the piazza in front of the church it was but a short distance to Archbishop’s House, the Cardinal’s official London residence. And from the outside at least, the home of Britain’s highest-ranking Catholic seemed rather unimpressive. But when a youngish cleric in a dark green robe opened the front door, Donovan realized the splendid interior offered a very different impression.

  “Mr Donovan,” said the priest.

  “Colonel Donovan.”

  “You’re late.”

  “Yes, but I do, at least, endeavor to prevent my ill timing from descending into rudeness. Who may I ask are you, sir?”

  “Father Clarence Paulson.”

  “Well, Father, I don’t know if you’ve looked about lately, but there’s a war on. Are you going to allow me inside?”

  Paulson appeared affronted that someone dared speak to him in this manner but stepped back to allow the American into the foyer. “I’d have thought tardiness does not speak well of a military man,” the priest returned.

  Donovan laughed aloud at his audacity. He almost suggested it might be a question worth putting to Adolf Hitler if the Germans ever got around to invading. ‘Where have you been Adolf? We expected you months ago.’

  “I’m sorry,” Donovan said, “but who are you exactly?”

  “I am the voice of His Eminence in absentia.”

  “Well your Absent Eminence, let me just say that due to the state of London’s roads and the disrupted underground service I had to walk much further than anticipated.”

  Father Paulson nodded but appeared unwilling to forgive. “Come with me,” he said, leading Donovan up one of the two grand stairways that rose in tandem from the foyer. Donovan took a moment to look around. Greek columns lined the marble staircase, a baronial chandelier hung from the first landing. Joyous and triumphal Catholic grandiosity.

  From a hall atop the second flight, Father Paulson took him down a short hallway to another large room – evidently the Cardinal’s library. Book shelves lined the ground floor. On top of them, a walkway ran the perimeter of a second level with more bookshelves. An arched ceiling loomed high above as if to suggest a heaven just beyond the reach, while tall windows near the ceiling flooded the space in natural light. It all tended to leave mere mortals feeling rather insignificant.

  Cardinal Arthur Hinsley rose from a chair at one end of the library, holding out his hand to welcome his American visitor. “Colonel Donovan – thank you so much for coming.” Hinsley’s smile was warm, his handshake firm. “That will be all for now, Father,” he told Paulson.

  “Very good, Your Eminence,” the priest replied before turning to walk away without so much as a glance in Donovan’s direction.

  Hinsley waited a moment then said, “He’s a bit upset.”

  “Really?” said Donovan. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “He knows my intentions. He doesn’t approve.”

  Donovan nodded, relieved to find the old man less severe than his assistant and eager to hear precisely what it was that had gotten under Father Paulson’s skin. “Quite some spread you have here. Reminds me of Buckingham Palace. Is that what the designer had in mind, do you think?”

  Hinsley shrugged and nodded. “Most likely. I keep expecting to wake up one morning to find it all reduced to a pile of rubble.”

  “I’ve just seen the damage to... Westminster Abbey.”

  “Is it bad?”

  “Superficial. A few windows broken. No casualties.”

  “Spoken like a true soldier. Did you know Coventry Cathedral was destroyed the night before last?”

  “I hear the Germans spared nothing in the city.”

  “The Germans aren’t sparing anyone or anything,” said Hinsley.

  “Well, at least you’ve been spared their presence.”

  “For the moment.” Hinsley pointed Donovan toward a chair at one of the library’s reading tables. “So, tell me, Colonel, what is an ardent Republican doing in the employ of a Democrat President?”

  “Answering the call of his country, Your Eminence.”

  “Well said sir, well said. Pity your Ambassador doesn’t see fit to do the same.”

  “Then you might be pleased to hear we accepted Joseph Kennedy’s resignation this morning.”

  Hinsley raised an eyebrow and thought a moment before responding. “That’s wonderful news. Churchill couldn’t stand the man.”

  “I believe the feeling was mutual,” said Donovan, hoping candor might go some way toward engendering trust.

  “And what words of wisdom do you bring for us to boost the British war effort, Colonel Donovan?”

  Donovan paused, suddenly aware Hinsley was sizing him up. “Cardinal, you might recall I have come to you as the personal envoy of the President in answer to your written request. I have travelled some distance at some considerable inconvenience. Is that not enough to assure you of my credentials?”

  Hinsley shifted gingerly in his chair. “I’m an old man. My work with the church has taken me across the world, from Rome to Johannesburg. In that time, I have met many men unworthy of their credentials.”

  He was wily, this old man of the cloth. “Very well then. The war... I presume you’re talking about the risk of German invasion?”

  “The risk?” Hinsley huffed. “Surely it’s a matter of when rather than if.”

  “I met him,” Donovan replied. “Hitler, I mean. In Berlin, shortly after the ’36 Olympics. A powerful orator. I mean, I didn’t understand a word, but he’s Caesar and Napoleon rolled into one. He inspires the German people with a vision of greatness and they will do anything to achieve it. It’s the oil that keeps his army moving. And it’s why no-one in Europe has dared stand in his way.”

  Hinsley’s eyes widened as if he could see the horror of it approaching across the English Channel. “Then it’s as I fear, we will see them on our shores.”

  “I wouldn’t be so quick to leap to that conclusion,” said Donovan. “They could have, they should have invaded months ago. Did you know Britain’s escape from Dunkirk was largely thanks to Hitler?”

  Hinsley appeared affronted. “What on Earth could you mean?”

  “He personally ordered his army to halt their advance. British intelligence intercepted the message
. He chose to let most of the British Army escape, even though wiping them out would have assured immediate surrender.”

  “Plenty of men died at Dunkirk. It didn’t look to me like the Germans were going easy on us.”

  “The fact that most of your men escaped is proof enough.”

  Hinsley thought about that for a moment. “Why would Hitler do such a thing?”

  “Why indeed. A gesture of goodwill, perhaps? I think he presumed Britain’s position to be hopeless, and that surrender would come as surely as it had in Belgium, Holland and France.”

  “You’re not suggesting Adolf Hitler grew tired of killing?”

  Donovan shook his head. “No, there is no evidence of that. But he does respect the British Empire. And Germany could never hope to rule the world, though I doubt Hitler would yet openly contemplate the limits of German expansionism. Still, the seed of doubt is surely eating away at the back of his mind. I think it’s what slowed his advance.

  “That said, his army is vastly superior in both ability and weaponry,” Donovan added. “Certainly the British commanders know this to be the case.”

  “A most perplexing revelation,” the Cardinal concluded.

  “There is also another factor. It’s widely believed that Hitler has turned his eyes to the east. He seeks to invade Russia, to cut off all hope of Stalin forming an alliance with Churchill. If he does so, it will be his big mistake. One we very much hope he will make.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right.”

  “Hitler isn’t the tactical genius so many people believe,” said Donovan. “He seeks to conquer with overwhelming force. He’s been trying to bomb London to rubble, to destroy the English spirit. But London endures. And now, instead of marching into the city unopposed like they did in Paris, the German army will face a people already conditioned to hardship and loss. The English people will fight to the death to defend what’s theirs. Hitler has made the job much tougher for his own soldiers.

  “Furthermore, he now faces a British Prime Minister implacably opposed to the German advance. Neville Chamberlain never had the stomach for war. Churchill almost seems to welcome it.”