Chapter Twenty-one
In the gardener’s cottage, Maggie and Sarah had the wireless on. “Meeeeeeh,” yowled K, desperate for attention.
“Not now, you scoundrel,” Maggie said, scooping him up and holding him close.
“And now a rebroadcast of President Roosevelt’s address to Congress. It was made at twelve thirty today Eastern Standard Time—and we’ve just received word that the United States Congress has passed a formal declaration of war against Japan. The United States is at war with Japan.”
“My God,” Maggie said, rubbing her face against K’s warm flank, listening to President Roosevelt, his aristocratic and nasal voice serious but strong: “Yesterday, December seventh, 1941—a date which will live in infamy—the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.”
Unconsciously, Maggie inhaled sharply. “No …” she said.
“The United States was at peace with that nation, and, at the solicitation of Japan, was still in conversation with its government and its emperor looking toward the maintenance of peace in the Pacific. Indeed, one hour after Japanese air squadrons had commenced bombing in the American island of Oahu, the Japanese ambassador to the United States and his colleague delivered to our secretary of state a formal reply to a recent American message. While this reply stated that it seemed useless to continue the existing diplomatic negotiations, it contained no threat or hint of war or armed attack.”
“No!” Maggie cried. “It can’t be!”
“It will be recorded that the distance of Hawaii from Japan makes it obvious that the attack was deliberately planned many days or even weeks ago. During the intervening time the Japanese government has deliberately sought to deceive the United States by false statements and expressions of hope for continued peace.
“The attack yesterday on the Hawaiian Islands has caused severe damage to American naval and military forces. I regret to tell you that very many American lives have been lost. In addition, American ships have been reported torpedoed on the high seas between San Francisco and Honolulu.”
“This is it,” Sarah said, looking at Maggie when it was over. Both women were pale. “This is what Britain’s been waiting for. Maggie, are you all right?”
Tears glinted in Maggie’s eyes. America. Attacked. Bombed. And yet … And yet that means Britain will be saved. She shivered, blinking back tears. “I suppose I never truly realized how much I love my country.”
“Which one?”
Maggie wiped at her eyes. “Both of them.”
The next morning, the Prime Minister and his staff moved from Chequers back to Number 10 Downing Street, where the P.M. was finalizing plans for his trip to Washington, DC, to meet with President Roosevelt.
The Prime Minister was in his claw-foot bath in his and Mrs. Churchill’s apartment at the Annexe. His body was large and pink. “It’s settled, then,” he announced, sprinkling in a large handful of pine-scented Blenheim Bouquet bath salts. “We’re going to Washington. We set sail on the Duke of York on December twelfth for the so-called Arcadia Conference.” The P.M. peered at his two private secretaries over his gold-rimmed glasses. “And I must have Hope with me.”
“Mr. Churchill …” David began. “I’ve tried to reach Miss Hope, but she’s not responding …”
“Well, try her again! Tell her it is I, asking for her!”
“Also, no women allowed on ships crossing the Atlantic,” John reminded him. “As per the Geneva Convention.”
“Miss Hope isn’t a woman,” Churchill rejoined. “Well, she is, of course—but she’s an agent, by Jove! And she types! And she speaks American. I need her! I must have her! The Prime Minister’s secret agent!” He splashed his hands in the soapy bathwater to punctuate his enthusiasm.
“But sir, why?” David asked. “We can hire a girl to type when we reach the United States.”
“No, no new staff!” Mr. Churchill kicked his feet under the water. “I must have Hope.” The Prime Minister was child-like in his steadfast resolve.
“Miss Hope is still in Scotland now, sir—”
“Well, bring her back!” Churchill bellowed. “I’m not getting on the ship without her!”
“Sir?”
“Do you know what the symbol of Hope is, Mr. Greene—Mr. Sterling?”
“Er, no, sir,” said John.
David resettled his glasses. “Afraid not, sir.”
“And you claim to have a classical education! Hope is an anchor—because of its importance in navigation, it was regarded in ancient times as a symbol of safety. The Christians adopted the anchor as a symbol of hope—and Christ is the unfailing hope of all who believe in him. Hebrews six-nineteen says that when we have Hope as an anchor of the soul, we are firm and sure.