by Jeffrey Cook
The talks went on like that for a very long time. They would address each other in quick, sharp words and streams of gibberish, then speak slowly to her. She would work her tongue around their words and respond, slow and hesitant, as if wanting to guard every word and make sure she could not say the wrong thing. Though she was as calm as ever, I cannot imagine that it was not a nerve-wracking thing, to have so many lives hanging upon an unfamiliar language. No matter how long it went on, however, I do not think any of them much moved from their positions, and certainly none relaxed. I am even more certain that we did not, for I know I was expecting an attack at any moment – and do not believe I was at all alone.
It was full night, such that even those who had emerged from cover appeared little more than shadows. Had they attacked then, I am sure only Eddy could have been sure of hitting anything on his first shot, and then they would be upon us. Still, the four who had come forward raised their open hands, rising to their feet in a slow, uncomfortable fashion, keeping their hands far from their belts. Miss Bowe did likewise, careful to keep her open hands displayed, and she and they moved, almost mirroring one another, until they had reached their weapons.
It was almost a ceremony then, as they rearmed themselves, but did not ever look away from the other side for more than a moment. They would replace a weapon, returning it to hand, or belt, or knife sheath, and then display their open hands again.
Finally, she stepped backwards, not looking at us, the final three meters, and spoke quietly.
“They will meet again with us tomorrow for a morning meal. If we've done them no violence and do not poison their food, then we can talk for real.”
I do not want to know what all of the earlier slow conversation and nervous gesturing was if that was what they had established, but I have also seen politics between lawyers and educated men move far slower. Perhaps they knew something of civilization after all.
I cannot imagine that I will sleep at all tonight, imagining what breakfast may bring.
Letter from Heathsville, Northumberland County, Virginia Colony Archives, Wright Collection.
May 8th, 1816
Dear Everyone,
Another letter that will have to be sent with the last. Mama dear, by the time I get to a post office, I might be mailing you a book. I know, however, that you think lady novelists to be scandalous, so it shall simply be a large bundle of letters.
In good news, I must state that we have now landed for repairs in the area Dr. Bowe described so blissfully – and yet possibly blasphemously – as 'Eden on Earth' in his most controversially titled journal. And, having seen the lush lands flying over, I must say it may very well be true.
In bad news, we will not be exploring Eden, since it comes with the corollary piece, The Deadliest People on Earth. Having seen the locals, I will take his word, trust his judgment, and stay aboard to make repairs. It is, I know, such a sensible decision, just when you had despaired of my ever displaying a whit of sense.
Repairs would, admittedly be easier with supplies of some sort. I have seen my dear cousin gazing about the Dame Fortuna in contemplation. We may soon be disassembling the ship in order to reassemble the ship. Yet another reason to miss dear James: I have to hold all of the bolts myself.
Mrs. Fisher stopped by. I haven't really had the time to ask for her advice lately, but she knocked and said hello. She said the charcoal chemise was a good choice for engine overhaul. That was very nice to hear.
Your Loving Daughter,
Harriet Wright
May 9th, 1816
37º03' S 175º53' E
My Dearest Cordelia,
We have met with the locals of this land for breakfast, and while it was hardly a civil affair, or even quite what we might recognize as a meeting over a meal, we seem to have made strides. Our men and Miss Bowe alone were allowed to meet with them, with those women who chose to do so serving the food and drink. Though I could certainly not report on the meaning of any of it, their women, who go about bare-chested – it made us quite uncomfortable, to be certain – had some sort of ceremony and precision to how they served. Based upon what I have heard from Miss Bowe, not all wives here are entirely willing, and sometimes marriages, such as they recognize them, are used to seal pacts and peace, so not everyone is always perfectly certain that their new wife or slave can be entirely trusted. So they watch, hold conventions that often present their hands, and show the food before they simply eat, at least at such formal occasions as this. In closer proximity, many of them seem quite lean, a few almost gaunt, and they have very few elders and children among them, and there are only a few who show signs of marriage.
Miss Bowe talked with them very slowly for breakfast, for she does not speak the language well. That she speaks it at all seems a near miracle, for it is incomprehensible to the rest of us. Even hearing so much of it in the morning, I cannot say I understand any more of it. By the end of breakfast, she seemed to have remembered a few more details, or perhaps just re-familiarized herself with its pacing and flow once more, for she was speaking more rapidly, though still slow and measured compared to all of the men we were with.
We learned that their tribe was at war with at least one other, though Miss Bowe has taken them to mean that they have a number of other groups they are at war with, and that territory is very much in dispute among the tribes. Though it has been going for so long as most of them remember, the elders of their tribe have said that this has been a time – or generation – of great change. At one time, while suspicious of outsiders and proudly quite capable of the arts of war, they were primarily farmers and gatherers, with many tribes spread apart enough that war was occasional.
England gave the first official reports of this land, but expansion here was halted during the colonial conflict and the war with Napoleon. While we were sitting idle, the French came here, first forcing the natives back, then giving them no option save to trade or perish. While this trade certainly benefited France, it changed this land. Hard as it may be to imagine, the oldest of these people still regard the potato as a new thing, and it changed a great deal. They grow well in this soil and take up less land than the crops native to the people. And so they needed fewer farmers and more warriors to protect this 'wonder' they had received from the French.
Seeking to strengthen their trade partners, the French armed those tribes most friendly to them with muskets and gave them more potatoes. The tribes then needed more land on which to grow these things. They built structures in the manner the French had, in pale imitation. They made defenses, and they trained more young men to fight, while women and slaves became farmers. This, before us, is their first generation to grow this way, with far more men who know their ways of war and fewer farmers.
At least this is the case among this tribe, which has only those weapons and potatoes they have stolen from their rivals in raids. Even that growth may be short-lived, for now their lands are surrounded by the tribes with agreements with the French. One of the largest of these recently greeted something new to these lands, described as a great bird descending from the sky. Shortly thereafter, the tribes nearest them went on a new warpath, just some weeks past, and now those with fewer guns, fewer warriors, fewer defenses, and not as much growing land, such as our new company here, are being driven back.
They asked Miss Bowe if we were new devils, like the ones seeking to kill them and take their land, or if we are their gods, come down from the sun to give them muskets, ambition, and the land that shall be theirs. Miss Bowe was not entirely certain how to answer, but at the very least, we are now somewhat on better terms with these people. For their gifts of food and agreement to share the meal with us, she says, we have allied ourselves with them for the time being. Both sides are less certain about allying in the war effort, but we have a peace. Even so, more discussion will happen regarding the 'other devils' and those tribes with whom they have allied themselves. As she said it, we are against the devils, who are not gods, who are not unstopp
able things, whatever they may appear to be. They are our enemies.
This seemed to please these Maori, but I am now not quite certain what position this puts us in beyond a moment's protection. It seems that we have little choice but to become embroiled in yet another war brought to us by York's manipulations. He is quite willing to wage another such war, and quite willing to kill all of these people in order to see to our deaths.
Much as he did the Spanish, I have little doubt that he killed the Frenchmen overseeing this colony. (10) Those who seemed so unstoppable with their fortifications and guns to the Maori's fathers might appear quite vulnerable to a well-armed group with an airship and surprise. And with this, we seem to have found allies. Yet we are still outnumbered, outgunned, and stuck in a war we do not understand entirely and did not wish to fight when we came here.
For all this, my companions at least seem to once again have found common challenge. It is one thing to go into the unknown, having no idea what we might face. These are soldiers, explorers, and adventurers now, whether it was their intent to be or not, and not a person has not been tested in some fashion. Though final details have not been established, we seem to be allied here, and therefore we must first defend this place. With permission and help, we have begun the forestry necessary to build fortifications, both to protect the dirigible while it is being repaired, and to serve as our base of operations.
Eventually we shall have to bring the fight to York, but he is known for his gambles and risks to try to eliminate his competition where he can, and he must know he outnumbers us if they truly have such a powerful tribe behind them. We must rescue Sir James, and to do this, eventually, we will need to attack, but until the time he brings the fight to us, we must treat all of this for what it is, what these people consider it. We must prepare for war.
I will apologize now for this, for I know the cost of war. You have heard your father's memories and seen me first as the young man who went off to war, then the returning soldier; I cannot promise this to be so much different. I shall do my best to survive and return once again, but it will be difficult, especially when before, I was fighting for my country and all I believed in. Here, we seem to be trapped in a small space, no country, not even a people I know well or can claim any but the narrowest allegiance to, but I also feel as if we have no choice. In the last full war, while we were defending our country and our ideas, we fought on the soil of France, Spain, Germany, and some units so far away as Italy. Some piece of it was fought on American shores as we seized all that belonged to the French, but I was never there. This time, we are fighting to rescue a friend, certainly, but in luring us here, York has pushed us into a war of survival.
It is a different sort of war, for without Sir James, we are leaderless, for certain. No one gives commands, but everyone knows their place and their role. All act as their own unit, preparing, building, and getting ready to force some small part of this war to be fought on their own terms.
Eddy, especially, is a man possessed. He is moving about, marking sniper positions with room to accommodate two, that he can find them even on the run, should it be necessary. He is teaching Matthew the arts of a rifleman and sniper: what to look for, how to find cover, how to disappear into his surroundings. Every moment since that breakfast that we were not among these Maori, he has been working at fighting a war in his head, setting the battlefield to his liking.
Miss Coltrane and Miss Wright have nearly disappeared, for this land is not at all like France, where most of the battle suit's war was fought. They are preparing it to fight here, to hold territory on these rolling beaches, to move amidst and through the trees without losing footing, changing its armament, and doing whatever they can with the very few resources at hand to prepare the greatest weapon we have.
Miss Penn has been at her cards, and when she works with them, those Maori that have come among us at all seem quite enraptured. They have ever since given her an odd sort of respect accorded to no other, though I cannot quite be certain why. Still, whatever respect we can gain among these people is that much more assurance we will not be killed in our sleep should they decide we are these devils after all.
Miss Bowe has begun scouting with the ornithopter. The Maori are mystified by the thing, as much as I was repulsed. The idea of flight, from York's arrival, our arrival, all the change it brought, certainly captures their imaginations, and for all she has sworn to them we are not gods, they watch her take the skies, and they do not seem certain. Meanwhile, for her, it is certainly valuable scouting, but it also seems a kind of freedom. She is made for these kinds of spaces, for wild places and wild people, with no hint of civilization or sanity. If we are to win this war, as she is very much a go-between of both cultures, sometimes perhaps their spokesman as well as ours, then it must become her war. I shudder at the thought.
Mr. Franzini seems uncertain what he should be doing. He helps where requested, but he is a man of cities – of gambling dens and smoky rooms where cards are dealt and deals are made. In his element, he has learned things none of us could, moved in circles we cannot, and still come back to us as respectable as any European among Englishmen, in a suit and with fine manners. But here, he is lost, and he knows it. Just as in his first days among us, he seems to have taken to it by being quiet. He settles into a routine of helping where he is asked and where he is able, and otherwise, he watches. The first is helpful, the second is disconcerting at times.
The Fishers have continued as they were, doing everything they can to fix the ship, though the purpose has largely changed. There is a certain feeling of finality to this place. Either we will change the course of these potato wars and change the land, or we will die. Very likely, one way or another, we may know soon. Surely York must be aware of us by now. He is simply making sure he has the resources to move against us over whatever territory lies between his position and ours, for he must also know that the longer we are here, the better our chances of digging in and being harder to remove. He also knows that eventually we must come to him. Given the motivations of these Maori, however, I wonder if he has authority enough to halt their war in order to wage his own. One way or another, I imagine we will know soon.
Either way, my love, I will only hope that I live to see a day where I might send this letter off, for it shall mean both that I still have hope to see you again, and that I have survived the dark days ahead. You are always in my thoughts and give me the light that these strange skies do not.
My love, always,
Gregory Conan Watts
(10) It was 11 months before the French even knew their operatives were dead, and their luck in the matter did not improve once they had noticed. Colonization while in debt and without fast ships is a messy, slow business. - C B-W
From the journals of Gregory Conan Watts,
May 16th, 1816
37º03' S 175º53' E
It has now been a week, if I am tracking the days correctly. It is difficult to tell among these people. So far, we have not been attacked, and the Maori here have reported that the other tribes have pulled back to their former borders. Apparently York wears his devil crown quite well. He has established himself as a strong presence among these people, even directing the tribes that had thought themselves powerful before. He is waiting for us out there in the darkness, with Sir James held hostage. Not the strategy I had expected of him, but a sound one nonetheless.
Despite being outnumbered, however, we have had time to give some spirit to these people. Before, they were being pushed back and, I have since learned, believed their time was limited. Now they seem determined that we are here to deliver them, to bring them muskets and potatoes and tools in exchange for whatever we might wish from them.
For the moment I am content with survival and their aid in recovering Sir James. I am likewise pleased that they have taken up much of the scouting and watch for us, and do much of the hunting and food preparation. Their food is bland and ill prepared, but it has held us over without us havin
g to spend our resources at hunting, which is fortunate, for both Eddy and Miss Bowe have had a great deal to do, as our two most capable warriors in their own way. With this time, they have both taken up training with the Maori to some small degree, learning the land and their tactics, so that they will know where allied warriors will be, and Eddy and Matthew might shoot the right people.
Eddy seems to have taken to their gunmen, for their tactics are similar to his own, while Miss Bowe has been adopted by their spears. We shall see if this remains the case when we get into a real fight, but those two seem to have made themselves quite at home. Sometimes, whatever the war, those born to such conflict are going to be at home when there is a fight to be had.
The rest of us have had a more difficult time. Mrs. Fisher is the most uncomfortable with these people. She does not care for the effectiveness of their methods or what they might do for us, and I can understand that. Despite being very alien, the Maori are clearly farmers and soldiers and have even adopted some European techniques at both, creating an odd juxtaposition. Mrs. Fisher does not lapse into the folly of seeing them as anything less than intelligent human beings, and this heightens her ladylike sense of wrong at the dramatic differences.
In any case, it seems very much like these might be a people with which we can have some understanding, but certainly not so long as this war rages here. For my own part, had I not seen the Apsáalooke and as hospitable as they were capable of being, I would likely feel quite horrified here as well. If anything, now, I feel somewhat sad for them, seeing what the French have wrought, while also seeing shades of what might be.
Miss Coltrane and Miss Wright have evaded this question neatly by having almost nothing to do with the Maori. Save for those meals which they must attend, they have kept themselves secreted away in the workshop. They are a curiosity for the Maori, to be certain. They do not see them at anything the Maori deem women's work, and none of our women, save Mrs. Fisher, participate in serving meals or drink. Miss Bowe, this time, gets to be the mitigating factor, for she has so fallen in with their spearmen as to have become adopted, regardless of gender. Perhaps they simply regard us as something so unusual that they do not try to guess at our social conventions, at least not yet.
