James Philip - Empire Day

The Mohawks had no need for great ribbons of concrete across their lands, the great river was their highway, its creeks and tributaries their by-roads and border markers. Motor vehicles were increasingly rare deep in the forests; whatever was needed for the common good, food staples, medicines and fuel for generators, spare parts for the old machines in the handful of factories still operating in the hinterland all came up, or down the seasonally moody waterway in its heart. That the river froze over in winter, was unnavigable in the spring until the ice had melted, flooded and was effectively closed to traffic for half the year was of no matter; the People of the Flint understood as much and lived their lives accordingly, in tune with the whims and the boons of the seasons.

Understandably, more than one kind of exile or fugitive sought sanctuary in Iroquois country and Tsiokwaris’s people did not extend the hand of friendship to every manner of interloper. That could be cruel for although this land could seem like a new Eden this was a harsh country for the unwary, the city-born and bred for whom ‘living off the forest’ was as unrealistic as it was foolhardy.

It was mid-day by the time the Leyland ground to a halt in the foothills of the Adirondack Mountains on the northern slopes of the Mohawk Valley overlooking what had once been the village of St Johnsville. Like so many communities in the valley it had briefly boomed when the order had come from Government House in Philadelphia to drive a ship canal from Lake Erie down the valley – which bisected the Catskill Mountains to the south and the Airondacks to the north – all the way to the Hudson River. But when the money ran out in the 1860s the half-finished ‘great trench’ was forgotten and with it, a dozen places like St Johnsville.

Several long log dwellings were arranged randomly in the trees on the high side of a babbling brook whose course down to the valley was interrupted by the derelict mill ponds of the district’s first European settlers. Now the creeks fell down the hillsides in a series of small artificial waterfalls from one crumbling dyke to another, and here and there fallen trees had formed additional temporary low weirs.

The Iroquois had robbed out the stones of the settler cottages and mill-houses for the foundations for their cabins and to make permanent paths through the trees and across the boggy down slopes adjacent to the creek.

The settlers had cleared the land either side of the waterway; now the forest was growing back, reclaiming its banks and the log long houses almost seemed like a part of the land.

This place would be almost invisible from the air…

Abe found himself being introduced to a dozen aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews and cousins most of whom he had never met. He caught a few words in Kanien'keháka, smiled and nodded his head acknowledging each new smiling face.

Hopefully, his ear would quickly attune to voices and inflexions other than Kate’s, allowing him to begin to understand what was being said to him.

His wife had warned him that few of her people ‘in the forest’ understood or spoke English and that few of her tribe had ever troubled to learn to read or write. In her own land Tsiokwaris was viewed as something of an eccentric – still very respected – elder for still insisting that every member of his immediate family was literate in the White Man’s tongue.

Getrennte Entwicklung was a thing that cut both ways.

For many in the Iroquois Nation it was a blessing to be cut off from the infernal noise and confusion of the colonial world; to be saved from the bizarre religious conventions of the cities and to be able to live again as their ancestors had lived.

Presently, Kate drew Abe aside.

They sat on a rock staring into the waters of the creek tumbling gently down to the valley.

“What are you thinking?” Kate asked.

“I thought I’d be more afraid,” Abe replied.

“Me too,” she confessed.

HMS Lion, Upper Bay, New York

The King was in a grim frame of mind. He and his wife had visited the battleship’s sick bay that morning before returning to what had been Rear Admiral Sir Thomas Packenham’s day cabin to chair the meeting which would determine whether or not the New England leg of the forthcoming Royal Tour went ahead.

However, first he had received the first casualty and damage reports from Rear Admiral Christopher Trowbridge, the Commander of the First Cruiser Squadron.

Trowbridge was a direct descendant of one of Nelson’s band of brothers, a tall, hawk-browed man nearing retirement under whom the King had once served as a junior gunnery officer back in the late 1940s.

“Queen Elizabeth will need to proceed to Norfolk to dry dock for repairs, sir. At a pinch she could steam at twenty-four or five knots and hold her station in the battle line. Princess Royal’s upper deck is a bit of a mess but again, a week or two in dockyard hands will see her as good as new. Tiger’s damage is superficial, a few scorched deck planks. Repairs on ‘Y’ turret’s range-finders will be completed within forty-eight hours.” Trowbridge paused, sucked his teeth. “Lion is fully operational. Negligible structural damage was caused to her bridge superstructure by the crash of that small aeroplane yesterday. The ship’s company expects to have cleared all debris and recovered the bodies of the dead this day. Repairs will be completed in the next twenty-four hours.”

Of the four Lions, only the Tiger had suffered no casualties.

Princess Royal reported seventeen dead, two missing and thirty-nine injured. Queen Mary had twenty-eight dead and four men missing, and another fifty-one injured. Lion had sustained fifteen dead and eleven seriously injured.

“We now believe that at least six aircraft and as many fast motor launches or speedboats attempted to crash into one or other of the Lions,” Trowbridge continued grimly. Of these; four aircraft and four boats succeeded in their suicide missions. The survivors of the second aircraft which attacked the Lion are presently being held under guard in the sick bay. There were no other survivors from these attacks.”

Queen Eleanor coughed genteelly.

At the beginning of his reign her husband’s predilection for inviting her to sit in on his tête-à-têtes with his closest advisors and courtiers had put a lot of noses out of joint. Nowadays, her presence rarely raised an eyebrow. In fact, it often calmed otherwise heated situations and made it easier for everybody to remember their manners and to keep their passions in hand.

“What of casualties among the civilian fleet, Admiral Trowbridge?” She inquired quietly. “All those poor people who found themselves caught, through no fault of their own, in the cross fire?”

“We believe that as many as a dozen craft may have been hit and some twenty persons may have died or gone into the water or been injured. Our rescue boats recovered some two dozen persons from the water yesterday, all bar one of whom was alive at that point, Ma’am.”

The King looked to the stocky, moustachioed brooding presence of the Head of the Colonial Security Service, Colonel Matthew Harrison. The man’s Lincoln Green uniform sat uneasily on his large frame.

“I believe that the man you suspect to have been behind that dreadful business at Wallabout Bay on Saturday was shot and killed in the process of being apprehended by your people?”

Harrison shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“Yes, Your Majesty…”

“Damned unfortunate!”

“Yes…”

“But you have others implicated in recent events in custody, I gather?”