Robert Wilson - Julian Comstock - A Story of 22-nd Century America

“It’s certainly not a word in English; but in Dutch―”

“If they’re going to write out letters, why can’t they do it decently? No wonder we have to fight them. But I suppose it’s not meant to be understood. Not by the likes of us, at least. Perhaps it’s a code. Maybe what you have there is a plan of action, written from one Dutch General to another.”

That had not occurred to me. The suggestion was troubling, and I determined to show the letter to Major Ramsden of our regiment. Major Ramsden spoke a little Dutch, since his father had been a stranded Dutch sailor, and it was Ramsden who interrogated captured prisoners in their own language.

I found him dozing in his tent, taking advantage of the Sabbath calm, and he was not delighted to see me; but he agreed to look at what I’d brought him.

When I handed him the letter he turned it half-sideways, and squinted at it, and ran his fingers over it, and hummed to himself at length. He was so reluctant to render a translation that I wondered whether he might be illiterate―able to speak Dutch but not read it. But when I hinted at that possibility he gave me a venomous look, and I let the matter drop.

I have preserved the letter through many years, and it sits beside me as I write, and this is how it looked, though the ink is faded now and some of the letters are uncertain: Liefste Hannie (it began), Ik hoop dat je deze brief krijgt. Ik probeer hem met de postboot vanuit Goose Bay te versturen.

Ik mis je heel erg. Dit is een afschuwelijke oorlog in een vreseleijk land―ijzig koud in de winter en walgelijk heet en vochtig in de zomer. De vliegen eten je levend, en de bestuurders hier zijn tirannen. Ik verlang er zo naar om je in mijn armen te houden!

“What does that mean?” I asked.

Major Ramsden frowned some more, and looked at me resentfully; then he said, “It’s all about how he hates America.”

“He hates America?”

“They all do―the Dutch.”

“What does he hate us for?”

Major Ramsden squinted at the text.

“For our freedoms,” he said.

This had been the subject of today’s Dominion Service, by coincidence: our God-given freedoms, enumerated, and the enemy’s instinctive hatred for them. “Does he say which freedoms upset him so? Is it the Freedom of Pious Assembly? The Freedom of Acceptable Speech?”

“All those.”

“And what about this?”

I pointed out the second sheet of the letter, on which the Dutchman had committed a drawing. The pen sketch was ambiguous: it appeared to show some sort of animal, or perhaps a sweet potato, with spots and a tail. Under it was written: Fikkie mis ik ook!

“It says, ‘All Americans are dogs,’ ” the Major explained.

I could only marvel at the fanaticism of the Mitteleuropans, and at the unreasoning hatred their rulers had instilled in them.

For the next few months our Regiment was largely exempted from the war, though not from its consequences. It was explained to us in a series of general camp meetings that the Dutch attack on Montreal , as it turned out, had been little more than a feint by a few divisions of the Mitteleuropan army. The real action was at the Saguenay River where it entered the St. Lawrence east of Quebec City. That was where our freshwater navy under Admiral Bolen fought a pitched battle with a fleet of heavily-armored enemy gunboats, which had been assembled in Lake St. John by the stealthy Dutch. We had lost many a vessel in that encounter; and the burning wrecks, some still flying the Thirteen Stripes and Sixty Stars, had been seen floating down the St. Lawrence like the candled boats the Japanese launch in honor of their dead. [Mr. Easton describes this poignant custom in his novel of 2168, A Union Sailor in the Orient. ]

The Dutch proceeded to build fortifications near Tadoussac overlooking the river, and brought up their best artillery, including a Chinese Cannon, to harass Union traffic and strangle American trade, and it quickly became apparent that the purpose of the Campaign of 2173 would be to reduce these fortifications while maintaining a protective cordon around both Montreal and Quebec City.

Much of the Army of the Laurentians, therefore, was put aboard boats and shipped east to participate in the land battle. But Montreal itself must still be garrisoned, and that responsibility fell to the less seasoned troops, which included our Regiment of western conscripts.

I was sad not to be included in the summer action, but Julian scoffed at that sentiment, and said we were lucky, and that if our luck held we might be released from the military without seeing more bloodshed than the Battle of Mascouche, and that would be a fine thing. But my patriotism, or naïveté, burned more brightly than Julian’s, and I was occasionally distraught to think of all the Dutchmen being killed by other soldiers, creating a shortage for the rest of us.

And yet it was not all bad news, for we would be allowed many recreational leaves in the City of Montreal that summer, and I was eager for another chance to meet with Calyxa, and perhaps even to learn her last name.

Our first leave was nearly canceled, however, because of an event which involved Julian and cast a pall over the entire camp.

A new-fashioned Colonel, lately assigned from New York City , had decided our encampment ran too close to our breastworks, and I was assigned to help relocate the offending tents. The tents by this time had taken on all the qualities of Homesteads, however, with rude cooking-pits, flues made of mud, lines strung to dry laundry, and all such small domestic entanglements; thus the work had lasted well into the night, and I had not had very much sleep when I was awakened by Sam Godwin’s hand on my shoulder the following morning.

“Wake up, Adam,” he said. “Julian needs your help.”

“What’s he done now?” I asked, rubbing my eyes with hands still gritty from the night’s work.

“Only the usual intemperate talk. But Lampret has got wind of it, and Julian has been called to the Major’s headquarters for what Lampret calls ‘a discussion.’ ”

“Surely Julian can handle a discussion all by himself? I would like to sleep an hour longer, and then go down to the river to bathe, if it’s all the same.”

“Bathe later! I’m not asking you to go with Julian and hold his hand. I want you to conceal yourself outside Lampret’s tent and listen to their conversation. Take notes, if necessary, or just apply your memory. Then come and tell me what transpired.”

“Can’t you just ask Julian about it, after the thing’s done?”

“Major Lampret is a Dominion officer. He has the power to assign Julian to some other company, or even send him off to the front, at any time he chooses. If Lampret is angry enough he might not give Julian time to pack—we might not see Julian again, in the worst case, or discover where he’s been sent.”

That made sense, and was alarming. I said (as a last wistful defense), “Can’t you listen in on their conversation as well as I can?”

“A muddy young private who’s been on work detail all night might be excused for dozing off among the ropes and barrels outside Lampret’s tent. I have no such excuse, and my age makes me conspicuous. Go on, Adam: there’s no time to lose!”

So I roused myself, and drank a little tepid water from a canteen to bring myself fully awake. Then I walked over to Major Lampret’s headquarters, which was just a big square tent pitched next to the Quartermaster’s warren of fresh supplies. It was this surplus of barrels, boxes, ropes, and loose equipment that provided my cover, as Sam had suggested. Three convoys had unloaded just yesterday, and our Quartermaster was overworked trying to distribute, store, and apportion the bounty. As a result I was able to saunter into a labyrinth of stacked goods and negotiate my way to the layer of provisions which happened to abut Major Lampret’s tent. By some quiet and artful shifting I created a blind, and I curled up in it just adjacent to Lampret’s canvas.