Part #278: The English, Patient
“And finally, there are muted, cathartic celebrations across Verdigris, Britannia and neighbouring provinces tonight, as Egbert and Alfred Rawlings are found guilty by the Michigan Assizes of plotting last year’s planned death-luft attack on local October Festival revellers—which was foiled by the gallant Confederal Guard. The brothers, members of the extremist Pilgrim Society which desires an Anglo-Saxon America purged of all alleged foreign influence, continue to deny all charges and will appeal to the Privy Council, dragging out their case further…”
– Transcription of a C-WNB News Motoscope broadcast,
recorded in Waccamaw Strand, Kingdom of Carolina, 19/03/2020
*
From: “A History of Europe, 1896-1960” by Susan Dempsey (1985)—
The life of Charles Grey could fill several books—and has, in the form of his celebrated Diaries which were recently published in an expurgated form. Certainly, he would likely be a figure known to history even if he had retired quietly on returning in triumph to England with King Frederick III in the Third Glorious Revolution. That was, apparently, his intention at the time; but as things turned out, two decades on he would be called upon as an unexpected choice to succeed the embattled Anglian Party President Jeremy Merrick.
Grey always knew that he faced a great challenge. Though Merrick’s handling of the Panic of 1917 was praised in hindsight, with the former Finance Minister making great use of his economic aptitude, at the time ordinary citizens had little basis for comparison with other nations. The economy was recovering by the time Grey became President, and he had also inherited a substantial buildup of military and domestic infrastructure under the Hughes presidency. Some sighed with relief and hoped Grey’s presidency would be a new golden age of prosperity, a relatively young man to be President with an exotic and glamorous Chinese wife, Amy, who usurped Princess Mildred as the kingdom’s fashion trend-setter. But while England was far more stable than any would have dared to hope in the immediate aftermath of the Third Glorious Revolution, war was coming.
It would appear that Grey’s general view of the situation was a combination of a veteran’s sadness that conflict had come again, and concern about England becoming too close to France, but also a cold resolve that countering the Russian threat could not be avoided. The crucial days for England, as for other nations in the crumbling ‘Cannae Mondiale’, came in June 1922. Perhaps surprisingly, the current English Government has allowed these passages to be published in an unexpurgated form in Grey’s diaries…
*
From: “The Grey Diaries, Volume III: In Power (1921-1929)” (1983)—
June 23rd.
I woke up this morning with the firm conviction that today would be a day of destiny, an ultimate day of decision for the country. I think the Downing House staff are still a little shocked about how blasé, as they see it, I am towards such things, going to bed at midnight and awakening at 8 am like clockwork. The cook has told me stories of Jemmy Merrick working all hours into the night. Each to their own; war in the jungle taught me that conducting matters of life and death without adequate rest is akin to driving one’s mobile from London to Howick on an empty bunker.[1] That is irresponsible if it is merely one’s own life with which one gambles; it would be criminal murder for a man in my position, who decides the fate of millions.
Perhaps I will change my perspective now this terrible war is beginning; there were times in the jungle when I was forced to fight and march without the rest I needed, or risk falling into enemy hands. Though perhaps these new breakthroughs in communications are a two-edged sword; I think how I, as the mere fighting-man of my youth, would react if the Feng generals had been able to send me orders all hours of the day, orders written by men who could not know the situation at the front as I did. I must remember this and resist the urge. I must trust my commanders.
Speaking of two-edged communications, I had the planned call with M. Cazeneuve at 10 am. I suppose I should consider myself fortunate that he did not fob me off with that Foreign Minister of his, whom Roddy Jenkins thinks is merely a cipher for his own ends. A quist line under the Channel may be a miracle of modern technology, and it is certainly more useful for a dialogue than exchanging anodyne textual messages. But the quality leaves a lot to be desired, with plenty of shouting, and unlike the Lectel it cannot be encrypted—though I’m sure some gentleman with a high forehead, up in Leeds, is working on it.[2] It concerns me that the Russians could intercept it; I know nothing of the technology, but if they have a tea girl in the room next to the one in which I am shouting—or, I suppose, a coffee girl next to M. Cazeneuve’s office—it would not take a lot to piece it together! We did use a book of code words for locations and people, but it would not take a genius to figure out. It is not as if there are so many places where the Belgian fleet can sortie from!
Amy came in when I was writing up the notes of the meeting; too sensitive for a secretary, of course. She marched into the room, fire in her eyes, and dramatically slung down her handbag on my desk. “Do you know what has happened to Sharon?” she asked angrily.
Sharon—Xiaoyu, to use her Chinese name—is her favourite maid. It was a rhetorical question, but I would have answered “No, what?” had I not been paralysed by her beauty. We are older now, but to me she is always Cheung Amoy, the gutsy, pretty girl of Hanjing I fell for, years ago, and nothing pierces that veil of memory more than when she is consumed with righteous fury. I had to resist the urge to leap up from my desk and kiss her passionately then and there. Perhaps I should not have resisted; in a time when war and death are on the horizon, we need more love.
Amy belatedly realised my frame of mind and snorted, though even through her anger she could not resist a secret smile at my obvious infatuation. “Stop mooning. She was attacked in the street for being Chinese—looking Chinese, I mean, because she said the little barbarian [censored] have burned a Siamese barber’s as well.” She shook her head. “She’s got a black eye. She says I should travel with guards. Me! In my own city!”
This time I did get up, though forced myself to limit myself to wrapping her into a hug. I could feel her heart hammering with emotion. It was not truly fear, for Amy fought alongside me as bravely as any man. I knew what it truly was. It was the same second-hand fear I had felt in the jungle; not that I would lose my life for my own sake, but that I would leave her alone as a result.
Now she felt the same anxiety. Not on a jungle battlefield in Tonkin, but on the streets of London Town!
“I’ll do something about it,” I promised. “I’ll get Parliament to legislate against that vile and Jacobin behaviour.” I shook my head. “Besides being the moral thing to do, it won’t win us any long-term favours from the Chinese government. Though it’ll probably make that damn fool Beckworth complain about Russian internment again.”
Amy nodded bleakly. “I’ve also heard the same attacks are happening in Paris,” she said softly. “What kind of world are we living in, Caajisi?”
We were speaking Cantonese. It was a useful way to ensure our conversations could not be overheard, but I knew the staff gave me suspicious looks when we used that tongue. Perhaps those would increase now, I thought nervously; my position might become embattled due to my past Chinese service—and my Chinese wife.
From Amy’s expression, I knew she was thinking the same. “I could go away, if you want, Caajisi,” she said softly. “Take the children. Go back to Howick, or live somewhere else in the kingdom, for a while—until this has blown over—”
She gasped as I squeezed her tightly again. “Don’t you ever—
ever say that,” I said fiercely. “If my England becomes a place where I cannot love you, it has lost my loyalty.”
She smiled and blushed. When we had first met, she had been one of the rule-breaking girls who shocked their mothers by not using white makeup to hide such reactions. The Flippants these days think they invented being rebellious; those who don’t know history are doomed to repeat it, as Tressino said.
The thought made me sad for a moment. Is that what this war was? Shouldn’t we know better?
I shook the thought aside. There would be time for mourning the stupidity of humanity later.
“You’re going to stay here right by my side,” I told her firmly, “and every lady in the realm is going to keep hanging on your every word and watching your clothes as they all cope with rationing.”
Amy coquettishly flipped my words away. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Caajisi.” She meant the second part; she has never truly internalised how much of a fashion icon she has become, even though her face so frequently appears on the covers of the ladies’ magazines.
She sat down beside me and glanced at my notes, which were written in a private pidgin shorthand that was a mixture of English word, Chinese characters and code. She was the only other person on this terraqueous globe who could decipher it. “So Cazeneuve wants us to make the first move?” she asked. “Typical French vulture…”
“Somebody has to,” I said, though I half agreed with her. The French were always eager to push one of their alleged allies into the shark lake first and pause to see what happened. “Or else the alliance will fragment and the Russians will simply roll over Persia. They are subduing the rebellions across Tartary now.”
Amy sighed. “If only the Emperor cared about China’s historic claims there…” She shook her head, dislodging one of her elaborate braids for a moment before she impatiently tucked it back and adjusted the lacquered needles in her hair.
“If only,” I repeated. “But the Germans are dithering. Ruddel has ordered the army to mobilise, but the Bundeskaiser won’t commit to a pre-emptive strike on the Russians. He claims there has been insufficient provocation to honour the alliance.”
“An excuse?” Amy asked.
“I think so,” I sighed. I wish I had a basis for understanding how good or bad Roddy’s alienistic cameos of foreign leaders are. “He either has no stomach for war himself, or fears it will end badly and he’ll get the blowback from the people as his father did.”
“He might be right,” Amy pointed out. “But I doubt this indecision will endear him to them, either.”
“Right,” I agreed. “And while the Germans dither, the Russians are on the move. And the Belgians. Cazeneuve’s people think the main fleet is about to sortie from the Scheldt and combine with the smaller northern one at Den Helder. If we let them get away with it…”
Amy grimaced. “Then the Russians have a powerful fleet that can dominate the German Ocean, shell our coastline and raid our shipping, or France’s. Maybe even reach the Baltic and combine with their fleets there.”
I raised my eyebrow, though I don’t know why Amy’s habit of gaining expertise on all sorts of subjects should surprise me by now. “Yes. We have to bottle them up
now. The Channel Fleet will go for the Scheldt and Cazeneuve tells me the Scandinavians will attack the fleet at Den Helder.” He grimaced. “I hope he’s not taking that for granted.”
“Did he take your agreement for granted?” Amy asked pointedly.
“He can’t,” I said, and felt a brief moment of satisfaction. “Not thanks to Admiral Hughes and Jemmy. We’re too strong to be bossed around like their other allies. The Channel Fleet, under Hotham, has a lot more English than French ships.”
Amy nodded in relief. “Then you said ‘yes, but’?”
“Got it in one, Amy,” I nodded. “I don’t like to play politics at a time like this, but let’s just say I’ve locked us into some trade arrangements that Jemmy was trying to get for years.”
To say it wasn’t the most romantic line, it led to quite a few things. Poor Williams sounded like he was quite red in the face when he knocked loudly on the door to tell me that we’d had a signal from a Photel-equipped steerable: Hotham had engaged the enemy…
[1] At this point mobiles (cars) that run on sun-oil (diesel) are also appearing, but Grey is using the coal-based metaphors of the mobiles he grew up with.
[2] Leeds and Bradford have become general centres of technological innovation in 20th century England, originally driven by a local need to develop improved mining technologies that complied with the safety regulations introduced by the People’s Kingdom.
