He then picked up his telescope and began to search the high seas for a bobbing fishing vessel. As each hour passed, he became more and more anxious as to where the Bonnie Belle, Captain Campbell, and his three shipmates might be. He feared they were in the Fisherman’s Arms, spending his money.
Once the sun had set on this part of the British Empire, Percy restricted himself to half-rations before spending a sleepless night wondering if he was destined to spend the rest of his days on Forsdyke Island, having fulfilled his mission, but without anyone realizing what he had achieved.
He rose early the following morning, skipped breakfast, missed the Today Programme, and climbed back up to the highest point on the island, where he was delighted to see the Union Jack still fluttering in the breeze.
He picked up his telescope, swung it slowly through 180 degrees, and there she was, plowing determinedly, if slowly, through the waves. Not usually a demonstrative man, Percy leaped up and down, shouting with joy. He ran back to his cave, packed his overnight bag with all the evidence he needed to support his claim, then made his way down to the beach. He left everything else in the cave, including his trunk, in case anyone should require more proof that he really had been a resident for ninety days.
Percy waited patiently on the beach, but it was another three hours before the little dinghy came ashore to collect the unappointed ambassador who wished to be transported back to the mainland, having served his tour of duty.
Captain Campbell showed no interest in why Mr. Forsdyke had wished to spend ninety-one days on a deserted island, and left him in his cabin to rest. Although Percy was just as sick on the voyage back to Wick as he had been on the way to Forsdyke Island, his heart was full of joy.
Once the captain, the three crew members, and their passenger had disembarked from the Bonnie Belle they all went to the nearest bank, where Percy withdrew eight hundred pounds. But he didn’t hand over the cash until Captain Campbell and his first mate had signed a one-page document confirming that they had taken him to Forsdyke Island on June 25, 2009, and hadn’t picked him up again until September 24, 2009, when they had accompanied him back to the mainland. The local bank manager witnessed both signatures.
A taxi took Percy to Wick station, from where he began the slow journey back along the coast to Inverness before boarding the overnight train to London. He found his first-class bunk bed uncomfortable, while the clattering wheels kept him awake most of the night, and the fish served for breakfast had unquestionably left the North Sea some days before he had. He arrived at Euston more tired and hungry than he’d been for the past three months, and then had to hang about in a long taxi queue before he was driven back to his home in Pimlico.
Once he’d let himself in he went straight to his study, unlocked the center drawer of his desk, and retrieved the unsealed envelope containing his detailed memorandum and the copy of the 1762 Territories Settlement Act. He placed Captain Campbell’s sworn affidavit in the envelope along with two maps and a diary, then sealed the envelope and wrote on the front, in capital letters, FOR YOUR EYES ONLY.
Despite his impatience to fulfill his dream, Percy didn’t leave the house until he’d checked that his one-eyed, three-legged cat was sound asleep on the kitchen boiler. “I did it, Horatio, I did it,” whispered Percy as he left the kitchen. Once he’d locked the front door, he hailed a passing taxi.
“The Foreign Office,” said Percy as he climbed into the back seat.
When the taxi drew up outside the King Charles Street entrance, Percy said, “Please wait, cabbie, I’ll only be a minute.”
The security guard at the FCO was about to prevent the disheveled tramp from entering the building when he realized it was Mr. Forsdyke.
“Please deliver this to Sir Nigel Henderson immediately,” said Percy, handing over the bulky envelope.
“Yes, Mr. Forsdyke,” said the duty clerk, giving him a salute.
Percy sat in the cab on the way back home chanting the “Nunc Dimittis.”
The first thing Percy did on returning to Pimlico was to feed the cat. He then fed himself and watched the early evening news on television. It was too early for any announcement abo
ut his triumph, although he did wonder if it would be the Foreign Secretary or perhaps even the Prime Minister who would be standing at the dispatch box in the House of Commons to deliver an unscheduled announcement. He climbed into bed at ten, and quickly fell into a deep sleep.
Percy wasn’t surprised to receive a call from Sir Nigel the following afternoon, but he was surprised by the Permanent Secretary’s request. “Good afternoon, Percy,” said Sir Nigel. “The Foreign Secretary wonders if you could spare the time to drop in and have a chat with him at your earliest convenience.”
“Of course,” said Percy.
“Good,” said Sir Nigel. “Would eleven tomorrow morning suit you?”
“Of course,” repeated Percy.
“Excellent. I’ll send a car. And Percy, can I just check that no one else has seen any of the documents you sent me?”
“That is correct, Sir Nigel. You’ll note that everything is handwritten, so you are in possession of the only copies.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” said Sir Nigel without explanation, and the phone went dead.
A staff car picked up Percy at ten-thirty the following morning, and drove him to the Foreign Office in Whitehall. He was dressed in his only other Savile Row suit, a fresh white shirt, and a new, old school tie, in anticipation of his triumph.
Percy always enjoyed entering the FCO, but even he was flattered to find a clerk waiting to escort him to the Foreign Secretary’s office. He savored every moment as they walked slowly up the broad marble staircase, past the full-length portraits of Castlereagh, Canning, Palmerston, Salisbury, and Curzon, before continuing down a long, wide corridor where photographs of Stewart, Douglas-Home, Callaghan, Carrington, Hurd, and Cook adorned the walls.
When they reached the Foreign Secretary’s office, the clerk tapped lightly on the door before opening it. Percy was ushered into a room large enough to hold a ball, to find the Foreign Secretary and the head of the Foreign Service awaiting him at the far end.
“Welcome back, Percy,” said the Foreign Secretary as if he were greeting an old chum, although he had only met him once before, at his retirement party. “Come and join myself and Sir Nigel by the fire. There are one or two things I think we need to have a chat about. Didn’t we do well to win the Ashes?” he added as he sat down. “Although I suppose you missed the entire series, remembering that—”
“I was able to follow the ball-by-ball commentary on Radio Four,” Percy assured the Foreign Secretary, “and it was indeed a magnificent series.” Percy relaxed back in his chair, and was served with a coffee.