Two Hundred Lost Years

by James Philip

  “What now?” She asked between clenched teeth.

  “Well,” her godfather and boss sighed, feeling a lot better for having weathered the one storm he had dreaded most.

  In the coming days he would be pilloried from all sides; to that he was reconciled, it came with the territory when a man was found wanting in the conduct of great affairs. What most troubled him was that he might permanently lose the respect of the young woman whom he regarded as the daughter he had never had, and whose life he had overseen since her parents had been killed in that tragic boating accident all those years ago.

  “I suppose all this will come out sooner or later,” he offered philosophically. “Whichever way the Fielding trial goes we all get egg on our faces. As to what the Government back in the Old Country decides to do about the Spanish, that’s anybody’s guess but I doubt, whatever it is, that Emperor Ferdinand the Fifteenth or Sixteenth, I lose track of the numbers lately, sitting in his bomb shelter in the Royal Alcázar is going to like it!”

  Sarah had relaxed by degrees as the exchange lengthened. Now she got to her feet, leaned against the sill of the window of the small office – the only one with a secure telephone line – which she presently shared with Melody Danson and gazed, very nearly lost in thought, out of the window across the grey, white-capped waters between New Jersey and Long Island.

  Over the years there had been various schemes to bridge the mile-wide narrows; since the age of sail known as ‘Hell’s Gate’, confusingly because there was also a ‘Hell Gate’ on the upper tidal reaches of the East River. Thus far, all the grand plans had come to nothing. Usually, the excuse was the cost, which would be enormous but actually, the real problem was that neither New Jersey or New York ever wanted the same thing at the same time: on every occasion that one colonial legislature put forward a prospectus the other would play politics, so, it was hardly surprising that the narrows remained stubbornly unbridged.

  Funnily enough, one of the less implausible ideas put forward in Two Hundred Lost Years was that in a ‘United States’ or ‘United Colonies’ the major decisions, and the funding for, big infrastructure projects like railways, roads, the provision of electricity supply grids, and…bridges, would be taken out of the hands of un-elected magnets and investors and managed by the ‘united government’ in the interests of ‘all the citizens of the republic’, rather than ultimately being determined – or not – according to the ‘selfish, constantly shifting sectional vested interests of the merchants and bankers of the individual colonies’.

  Each of the First Thirteen fiercely defended its right to be different. People visiting New England from different parts of the Empire were often struck by the fragmented nature of the wider colonial infrastructure.

  In the old days, this had resulted in there being several different gauges of railway lines, a distinctly higgledy-piggledy road network lacking connections to adjoining colonies, and colonies competing industrially, commercially, agriculturally regardless of any benefits which might be derived from specialisation or cross-colony border economies of scale. For example, at the turn of the century every one of the First Thirteen had had its own shipbuilding yards; none of which had been big enough to compete with any of the small number of hugely larger concerns in the British Isles and Canada. Even now, it was only the territories of the interior; Ohio, Indiana and Illinois – each powerhouse colonies in all but name – which had shown the laggardly First Thirteen the way ahead, albeit kicking and protesting all the way to the bank.

  To a degree the colonies’ rights agenda, of which the ‘separate development’ abomination had initially been a mere splinter, still virulently resisted progress towards integration and several of the First Thirteen still clung to outdated tariff and customs systems designed not for the good of the Commonwealth, but for the preservation of the wealth and influence of their traditional ruling elites.

  “I’ll leave it to you to liaise with Inspector Danson,” Matthew Harrison said, judging the moment had come to conclude their debate. “But remember, you need to keep a low profile. Can you do that for me, Sarah?”

  She scowled, and as words formed on her lips she turned away from the window at the instant the glass shattered.

  The receiver fell to the floor.

  One moment there was the fading afterglow of anger.

  The next, darkness.

  Nothingness…

  Chapter 21

  Wednesday 26th July

  Government House, Philadelphia

  “The shot was fired from an abandoned watchkeeper’s hut outside the perimeter of Fort Hamilton approximately three hundred yards distant. The round struck Captain Arnold just below the right eye and pretty much tore off her head. She would have died instantly. She would have felt nothing.”

  The Governor of New England was pacing in front of the disused, cold hearth in his palatial office, his hands clasped behind his back and his handsome head half-bowed.

  “I am informed that the bullet disintegrated on impact but that the pieces they have recovered are consistent with it having been fired from a .303-inch calibre weapon.”

  News that there had been ‘an incident’ at Fort Hamilton had arrived while Melody Danson and her host, Henrietta De L’Isle had been enjoying a break for an early evening meal at the Governor’s Palace in Williamsburg.

  The two women had spent the afternoon listening to the tape of Sarah Arnold’s conversation with Abraham Fielding, and then, relying on the transcript, systematically analysing what it might mean.

  Details of what had transpired on Long Island had been scarce last night. Williamsburg to Philadelphia might only be around two hundred miles as a bird would fly; by road and rail it was the best part of three hundred and the urgency with which the Governor had demanded their presence in the colonial capital had necessitated a wearying overnight trek in the company of bodyguards armed to the teeth.

  ‘Sarah and I never really got on,’ Henrietta had guiltily admitted to Melody Danson on the train from Richmond. “She was Matthew Harrison’s liaison officer at Government House and very supportive of Mama at the time I came back from Europe and she sort of, well, faded into the background…’

  Melody had held the Governor’s daughter’s hand as her lower lip trembled and tears began to bleed down her cheeks. Henrietta had soon recovered her composure and after a short delay, taken back her hand with a sniffing, sisterly forced smile.

  The Chief Constable of Long Island had phoned through the latest developments shortly after their arrival at Government House in Philadelphia.

  The Governor of New England continued his briefing.

  “A similar calibre weapon was used in the failed assassination of King George V last year,” he explained sombrely. “Fortunately, that was at much longer range and Bertie,” His Majesty and Queen Eleanor and the De L’Isles had been ‘family’ since childhood and the King was ‘Bertie’ to all his friends. “The King,” Philip De L’Isle corrected himself, “was thankfully, unhurt and thereafter insisted on continuing with his program until, of course, the events at Wallabout Bay put the kybosh on all that.”

  The great man halted, viewed the women grim-faced.

  “Brigadier Harrison has been asked to report to the Foreign and Colonial Office in London. There will be a clamour for a public inquest into the ‘Spanish question’ and presumably, the murder of Captain Arnold. That will have to wait for another time. It goes without saying that the priority for the moment is to keep a lid on this thing and to learn as much as possible about the conspiracy before the whole affair blows up in our faces. Once this gets out there will be an outcry throughout the Commonwealth of New England. Suffice to say that in the meantime Sir Henry Rawlinson has summoned the Consul-General of New Spain to this building for a dressing down and presently, will be giving him a piece of his mind.”

  Henrietta fought to suppress an entirely inappropriate smirk twisting at her lips. Her father’s Chief of Staff was a man whose career in the Colonial
Service had been a marvellous preparation for giving miscreant foreigners a ‘piece of his mind’.

  Madrid’s man in Philadelphia was a thirty-eight-year old cavalry officer from an ancient Castilian family to whom all women of a certain class – from pubescence to old age, reputedly – were ‘fair game’. Presently, Alonso Pérez de Guzmán, 18th Duke of Medina Sidonia – a descendent of that ‘gallant victim of perfidious barbary pirates’ back in 1588 - would probably be looking at Sir Henry with mildly vexed, polite bewilderment as if he really did not see what the problem was.

  The man might have been the corporeal representation of the fundamental dissonance within the Empire of New Spain. Like most senior envoys of the Emperor Ferdinand – and the generally accepted power behind the Spanish thrown, the waspish, vindictive, also by repute still dazzlingly beautiful Queen Sophia – de Guzmán regarded himself as being above ‘colonial politics’ and other than a brief spell in the Philippines cut short by a riding accident, prior to his appointment to New England had never troubled to travel beyond the shores of Western Europe. His wife, a niece of the Emperor was, like the strangely unworldly man in the Royal Alcazar, pious to a fault and apparently, blissfully unaware of her husband’s shameless ‘carrying on’ abroad.

  Henrietta had explained to Melody that she always found ‘Alonso’ amusing, diverting company. In fact, they tended to make a be-line for each other at the more tedious diplomatic receptions in Philadelphia. It was as if the Spaniard could relax in her company precisely because he knew she was utterly immune to his charms.

  The poor dear man – politically, he was a schoolboy – would hear out Sir Henry with deeply respectful dignity; a thing made easy exactly because he literally would have no idea whatsoever what the problem was! Never mind, one or other of his mistresses was surely going to comfort him sooner or later.

  Henrietta’s father was laying down the law.

  It was a thing he was very good at.

  “It is now more imperative than ever that you use the full powers vested in you to interview the prisoners at Fort Crailo, Detective Inspector Danson. This situation might rapidly spiral out of control both on the streets of the First Thirteen and in the Gulf of Spain. I intend to hold the line until the Government in England has had a chance to form a view as to how to proceed. While Matthew Harrison is away the CSS will report to Sir Henry.” The Governor relented a fraction. “The truth about Captain Arnold’s death will not come out for some days. Hopefully not, anyway. It behoves us to move quickly. I have arranged for the CAF to fly you up to Albany this afternoon, Chief Inspector…”

  “I must go, too!” Henrietta declaimed.

  “That is out of the question!”

  “Daddy,” the Governor’s youngest daughter retorted in exasperation, “you know as well as I do that those nincompoops in New York will go to almost any lengths to obfuscate and generally delay Melody’s,” she blushed, “I mean, Detective Inspector Danson’s work up there. If I’m there they will know that they are a telephone call away from being made to look even more stupid than they actually are!”

  “It is too dangerous.”

  “We’ll have bodyguards, won’t we?”

  Melody Danson decided to sit this one out.

  She was very aware that she and the Governor’s daughter had – pretty much instantly - struck up a spontaneous, unselfconscious friendship that might easily outlast this hectic episode of their lives and she had no idea how her father felt about that. Presumably, if and when he thought about it, neither would he. Life was awfully complicated sometimes…

  Anyway, this was one conversation she did not need to get embroiled in!

  “Captain Arnold was assassinated from hundreds of yards away by a sniper, Henrietta!” The exasperated father protested.

  “Well, we’ll have to make sure that we don’t stand in any windows!”

  Melody Danson was intrigued by how swiftly Henrietta realised that throwing a tantrum was not going to cut it. The younger woman bit her tongue, paused to gather her wits.

  “Remember,” she went on, “one of the reasons I came back to New England – apart from to be with you and Mama, of course – was to complete my post-graduate research into the history of Anglo-Spanish interaction in North America. I’m a gold-plated expert on the historiography and politics of the ‘Spanish situation’ and with all respect, Melody is not.”

  The troubled father looked to the detective.

  Who shrugged apologetically as if to say: “Sorry, I’m already in this thing way out of my depth!”

  Then, Melody had a second thought.

  “Two women interviewing men who have been locked up without feminine,” she grimaced, ‘relief, for over a year must have an edge. We seem to have been some distance behind the curve on this one. Maybe, we need every ‘edge’ and every ‘angle’ we can get to catch up, sir?”

  Thereafter, Henrietta and her father batted the argument from one side to the other, like tennis players in a long and exhausting rally the result of which was eventually determined by the player with more conviction in his, or in this case, her overall game.

  Before the two women left Williamsburg, Henrietta had introduced Melody to her mother, Lady Diana, who even wheelchair bound was the same elegant, placid presence she was unfailingly, in all her official portraits.

  Allegedly, Lady Diana had taken the news about Sarah Arnold badly but a little red-eyed apart, she was the perfect hostess.

  ‘I’ve heard so much about you, Miss Danson.’

  ‘Not everything they say about me is true, your Ladyship,’ Melody had smiled.

  ‘Where you have gone others of our sex will follow.’ The older woman had sensed that this was not, by a long chalk, a consideration which had ever really motivated her guest. ‘Of course, being a standard-bearer for change is often not a bed of roses.’

  The three women had taken tea in Lady Diana’s suite.

  Henrietta had dominated the conversation, bubbly, optimistic and brave, this latter for her mother’s sake. All the while the old woman, aged before her time by pain and the indignity of her illness, her hands twisted, was serene. More than once Melody found her faded cornflower blue eyes on her face.

  Now, she and Henrietta were in the back seat of the car taking them down to the flying boat station on the Delaware River where a two-engine CAF Maine class maritime reconnaissance plane awaited their arrival.

  “Blue,” Melody said quietly.

  “Sorry,” her companion queried, having been lost in her own thoughts. Philadelphia was proud of its ‘settler heritage’ and much of the old eighteenth and nineteenth century city had survived into the modern era, making it a must visit place for visitors from Europe and a quaint, possibly surreal one for natives of the ‘real’ settler colonies out West. “I was miles away.”

  “Blue,” Melody repeated ruefully. “I’m such an idiot. I’ve read all the files but there’s always something that you register without actually associating it with anything else. Isaac Fielding has blue eyes. According to her file, so did his wife, Rachel.”

  Henrietta De L’Isle gave Melody a baffled look.

  Her confusion was not immediately resolved by what she heard next.

  “Abraham Lincoln Fielding has brown eyes,” Melody explained dully.

  “Yes…”

  “Blue plus blue does not equal brown. It simply is not possible. He’s a doctor, he would know that.”

  “Oh… So, you’re saying that Abraham is not…”

  “Abraham knows that he is not his father’s son!”

  Chapter 22

  Wednesday 26th July

  Fort Crailo, Albany

  The last time Leonora Coolidge had seen Alexander Fielding he had been covered in blood and from the language being employed by the men who had fished them both out of the cold waters of the Upper Bay, not quite as dead as ideally, they would have preferred him to be in the circumstances. She had wondered if her memories of him, brief, fraught things in those m
inutes when she ought, by rights, to have been killed, were remotely trustworthy. Now that the day had finally come when she would actually be in the same room as the man who had nearly got them both blown to bits on Empire Day last year, she was as nervous as a schoolgirl on her first date.

  How ridiculous is that?

  If her friend, and these days, soul mate Maude Daventry-Jones had not driven her to Albany she would certainly have crashed the car half-a-dozen times. She cursed when there were signs everywhere inside the prison compound forbidding ‘Smoking Indoors’.

  The former barnstorming CAF fighter ace’s hair was less tousled than previously, he was wearing a plain grey suit that fitted his whipcord trim frame like a glove and his face, weathered but untanned now, still suggested he was a man with a prize-fighter’s propensity to take hard knocks with the innate capacity to bounce straight back up again to his feet. His blue grey eyes seemed a little more faded, his smile a tad sardonic and oddest of all, she remembered him as being a slightly taller man.

  Perhaps, that is because I have high heels today?

  The prisoner ignored Lord John Ansty Shilton Murray, 13th Earl of Dunmore, KC, and stuck out his right hand in greeting to the stunning platinum blond apparition who had just floated into his drab existence.

  Leonora took his hand, held it far too long because she did not want to let it go.

  Not ever again…

  “I do hope you are not going to distract Mister Fielding, Miss Coolidge,” Alex’s barrister cautioned impatiently.

  Leonora was far too preoccupied looking into the one-time CAF man’s eyes and starting to feel a little dreamy by then – which was wholly unlike her – and had to force herself to sober up in a hurry.

  Reluctantly, she retrieved her hand.

  “How are you being treated, Fielding?” John Murray barked the interrogative like a hanging judge addressing the condemned man.

  “Fine. That’s not to say I’d rather be someplace else. Once I got used to there being no booze I reckoned this was like being a prisoner of war down on the border.” He chuckled ruefully. “Except without the starvation, the heat of the desert and the beatings, obviously.”