January 9th, 1905
Bangor, Maine
Tommy Boyle was caught up in patriotic
fever. 1905 was his coming of age year, as he would turn 18, vote in a
national election, and finish school before the year was through. He was
also volunteering several hours a day every weekend to help prepare for
the 35th National Anniversary on March 17th. Yes, the year was looking
to be a good one, perhaps his best ever. Except that there were clouds
of war developing over the St Lawrence, and a British invasion looked increasingly
imminent with each passing day. It was of little concern to Tommy, because
he knew no foreign aggressor could ever succeed in overrunning his beloved
Brunswicka. What Tommy was concerned with was the one thing he couldn’t
get right, and here she came.
“Hi Tommy! I just got out too! You
wanna walk home together?” called Louise St Claire, a girl who lived in
Tommy’s neighbourhood. He had borne a secret crush on her since he had
started to notice girls, though she seemed content to remain simply friends.
They often ran into each other on their way home from separate schools.
“Certainly, Madam,” he quickly answered.
He always entered an unstable mood whenever Louise was around, and to hide
that he used his sense of humour. “If you will follow me, your carriage
is waiting to take you back to the palace.”
Louise giggled and pretended to
slap her equally pretend servant. They started down the sidewalk for the
long walk home, which on somedays seemed to be uphill both ways through
40 miles of snow. Perhaps I will tell my children that, Tommy pondered.
“Speaking of palaces Tommy, what
do you think of the situation with the British? Everyone seems sure there
will be a war! I certainly hope there is not, don’t you?” Louise asked
after a brief silence.
“Of course I don’t want there to
be a war, Louise. Although if there is one, we can stop them! We beat the
limeys before, and we weren’t even a fully organized country then,” Tommy
responded. He had been an ardent patriot since he’d been old enough to
read. His father often spoke of the revolution and the troubled final years
of the protectorates.
“But if worst comes to worse, what
can we do? They have such a big Empire!” Louise groaned in despair. Tommy
could tell she had put some serious thought to the matter, something he
had not known a girl to do.
“I know, I know… but they are going
to be hard pressed to supply their forces from the British Isles. The Canadian
east coast is either under our guns from across the St Lawrence, or within
short reach of our navy. And we have a pretty good fleet, Louise,” Tommy
said, trying to reassure the object of his affection.
“Oh I know we have a good navy,
Tommy. My brother is in it, after all!” Louise said. She seemed at ease
after thinking about the Navy.
“Oh yes, I’d forgotten. How is Jack
these days? Have you seen him lately?” Tommy asked. If he could get her
mind off the British invasion, he would talk about anything.
“He had leave a couple of weeks
before Christmas, because he was being transferred to a new ship. I believe
it’s called the Warlock… and he’s doing fine. He enjoys the navy
life. Speaking of which, if this war does happen, will you be joining the
services?” Louise inquired. Tommy had thought about the matter briefly,
and was able to respond without a long pause for thought.
“It’s every Brunswickan boy’s duty
to defend his country, and I do not turn my back on duty. I would probably
be conscripted shortly after the start of the war anyway, so I will fulfill
my patriotic obligation if the need arises,” he said nobly. Without really
noticing, he spoke his last sentence as they arrived in front of Louise’s
house.
“You’re a brave man, Tommy Boyle,”
Louise said as she stepped up and kissed Tommy on the cheek. “Thanks for
walking with me, see you later!”
Tommy waved, smiled and kept walking
proudly. Yes, it was going to be a great year after all.
January 10th, 1905
Stomping across the frozen soil of southeast
Quebec, Corporal Hugh West coughed and wheezed for what must have been
the hundredth time today. Marching off to war had seemed much more glorious
before he’d actually done it. Of course, in two months he would be back
in Winnipeg working the spring harvest, having done his part for King &
Country. At least that’s what everyone kept saying.
“I tell you Corporal, the train
ride was much more comfortable than all this damn marching,” commented
Anson McDowell, sergeant of C Company in the Royal Winnipeg Rifles (which
was West’s company as well).
“I’m not going to argue with you
Sarge. Anything’s more comfortable than freezing out here,” West replied.
They had ridden the rails from Winnipeg to Laval, and after five warm,
relaxed days on the CNR they had returned to reality. It had been West’s
first train ride, and he hoped it wouldn’t be his last. With the war coming,
he couldn’t be sure about the answer to that question. “Sarge, you were
in South Africa right? What’s it like to be under real enemy fire?”
“Well... you know Mildred Franklin
back home? Imagine being forced to get your fix from her for the rest of
your life, and you’ll understand what it’s like to be under fire,” McDowell
responded. He was always able to put a humorous touch on even the worst
situation. “But seriously, it was the scariest happening I’ve ever experienced,
and this coming from a bunch of filthy Boer farmers with popguns and muskets
and whatever little rifles they could bring from home. We’re going off
to fight the Brunks, and they’re a nation heavy on industry. They won’t
have hunting rifles, I know that.”
“Well that just brightens my day
and makes me forget how cold I really am,” said West. Since leaving Laval
for Montreal and the start of the invasion, they had stopped once for drill
practice, twice for range practice, and thrice to eat. Seeing Colonel Douglas
F. Banks riding down the line on horseback, West knew they’d be stopping
again for something. Banks addressed Sergeant McDowell, but West was within
earshot.
“Sergeant, halt your squad in a
minute or two. Another round of target practice, as we’re arriving at a
pre-established shooting range. Good day,” the Colonel said and rode further
down the line to spread the word.
“Allright men, you heard Colonel
Banks. Halt!” McDowell bellowed. Hugh relayed the order, as did Jamie Myer,
the squad’s other corporal. Most of them groaned in dismay, and Hugh shared
their sentiment. The troops were already part of the most elite army in
the world, and did not see the need for further exercises. They weren’t
the sorts that would disobey orders though.
After the exercises had been completed,
the men’s exertions were rewarded with hot venison and apple cider, both
from northern Quebec. Actual meals were a rare treat for the soldiers,
and the deer meat and cider did wonders in warming their bodies. When the
meal was devoured, Colonel Banks addressed the entire company.
“Gentlemen of C Company, Royal Winnipeg
Rifles. I know how much the lot of you hates marching around, practising
this and practising that. That is why I’m sure you will be happy to know
that we are marching back to Laval Station, where we will once again board
a train and embark for Montreal. From there, we will sow the seeds of invasion.
Good day.”
The warmth of a railway car followed
three more hours of marching, and Hugh settled himself into a padded chair.
Shortly after the “All aboard?” had been called, a vendor paced the aisle
with refreshments and reading material.
“Newspapers from Ottawa, one day
old. French ones from Quebec City, this morning’s edition!” called the
gray-bearded merchant.
“Give me an Ottawa, and a Coca-Cola!”
called West. Pulling out a ten-cent piece emblazoned with the profile of
King Edward VII, Hugh took his purchase, paid the vendor, and received
four pennies in change.
He took a long suck on the pop,
and began to read an article with the headline:
BRUNK PRESIDENT ISSUES ULTIMATUM TO
THE KING, BALFOUR AND LAURIER
Ottawa (DP)- Prime Minister
Laurier today received a strongly worded ultimatum from Brunswickan President
Peter Cormier demanding the withdrawal of Dominion and mother country forces
stationed along the Canadian-Brunswickan border. Similar ultimatums were
received by His Majesty the King and British Prime Minister Balfour. The
specifics of the demands were not released, but the Prime Minister did
issue a statement.
“It is the policy of Canada
and the rest of the British Empire not to negotiate when such rude demands
are made by the other party.”
What impact this will have
on the already terrible and rapidly declining state of Imperial-Brunswickan
relations is not immediately apparent, although it certainly will not help
things.
“Would you look at that, Jamie? Shows how
much the government’s letting the public know,” West said to his fellow
corporal while letting him see the brief article. Taking another pull on
the Cola, he finished the bottle. “What I could really use, is some rum.”
“Amen to that, Hugh,” said Sergeant McDowell
from the seat behind West’s. Hugh laughed, and inside the hour they had
arrived in Montreal. Stepping off the train, Hugh wondered if he would
ever step on again.
Late Night, January 10th, 1905
“Mr Prime Minister, if you would
follow me, I shall show you my map room,” General Michael Tavington beckoned
to Canadian Prime Minister Wilfred Laurier. The French-Canadian followed
the General commanding all Imperial forces into a small chamber.
“This is quite…cozy, General,” Laurier
remarked upon entering the room.
“Yes, well it suits my campaign
planning needs, and it keeps me from having too many unwanted visitors.
Not that you are unwanted, Mr Laurier,” Tavington replied.
“I see your rationale there, General.
Now tell me where and how the invasion is to commence this evening,” Laurier
inquired.
“Of course, Mr Prime Minister,”
said Tavington as he pointed at a map of the continent of North America.
Ten divisions will cross from Montreal into Gaspé at dawn, and more
will follow in the coming week. Also at dawn tommorow, I have ordered a
small offensive into Vermont, to be carried out by two divisions. This
is more of a diversionary tactic, as I have gather from intelligence reports
that the Brunks have already transported nineteen divisions to Gaspé
since word of the mobilization became known, and more arrive everyday.
As of yet, they have only one division in all of Vermont.”
“Very good, very good. When do you
plan the invasion of the Island?” Laurier asked.
“The island named for His Majesty
that Brunswicka calls Abegweit will have its turn. I don’t plan to invade
their until the spring, as the Northumberland ice is difficult to push
through even with the biggest ship. If we can capture the entire Island,
the Brunks must, if at all sane, surrender. We could easily invade New
Brunswick or Nova Scotia with PEI, or Abegweit if you prefer, in our hands.
But now, Mr Prime Minister, I must get the few hours of sleep permitted
to a commanding General like myself. Good night,” Tavington said.
“Good night General, and good luck.
God save the King!” Laurier said.
“God save the King!” echoed Tavington.
8AM, January 11th, 1905
Bridge, BNS Warlock
Lieutenant Kenneth Barter brought another
dispatch from the wireless room to Captain Boxhall and Admiral Danforth.
As the fleet flagship’s fourth officer and a man who understood Morse code,
he often acted as liason between the bridge and wirless operators.
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Admiral Bernard
Danforth said. The head of 1st Fleet read the telegram, and grunted. “Looks
as if the limeys are going to reject the ultimatum. Either that, or ignore
it.”
“Shame on them. Well, if they want a war,
God help them if they fail. We won’t go soft on them, that’s certain,”
Captain Douglas Boxhall responded. Danforth nodded, and Barter stepped
away.
“Oh, Lieutenant Barter? Would you go to
the Engine Room and see how things are working?” Boxhall asked moments
later. Barter nodded, and started to leave the bridge.
“Wait, Lieutenant?” Admiral Danforth called.
“On your way back from the engines, please stop by the wireless room and
see if anything new has come in. Things are heating up rapidly.”
“Yes, Admiral,” Barter said. The Admiral
was right about things heating up. In the five days since Task Force 34
had sailed from Halifax, things between Brunswicka and Great Britain had
become increasingly worse.
After a thorough inspection of the Engine
Room, the twenty-six year old Lieutenant made his way to the wireless room.
Sure enough, Able Seamans Richard Keane and Nick Dobson were busy tapping
away on their sets and scribbling down messages. Just over a minute later,
Dobson turned around.
“Lieutenant Barter sir, what a convenient
surprise! I was just about to bring this to you on the bridge!”
“No need for that, Mr. Dobson. Just give
it to me now, if you would.”
“Obliged sir, but I’m afraid it’s rather
bad news,” Dobson said with a frown. Barter took the telegram and read
it. He understood why Dobson frowned.
“Don’t be so glum, Dobson. Allright, so
we’re at war the biggest goddamned Empire this side of Rome. But we beat
them before, and we sure as hell can do it again!” Barter said. He tended
to get cocky when his nation was questioned. He turned and headed back
to the bridge.
“Ah, Lieutenant Barter! And you have a
telegram for me! Why am I not surprised?” Admiral Danforth said smiling.
“Sir, I’m not sure this is a smiling matter…”
Barter said as he passed the telegram to Danforth. Danforth read it, and
sure enough, his smile descended.
“Hmm, Captain, take a look at this. It’s
started; the British have crossed into Gaspé. They struck at several
small villages on the way to Longeuil last night. Our orders are to head
for the port city of Sept-Îles and briefly bombard it,” the Admiral
said. Boxhall said something Barter didn’t hear, as he was still letting
it hit him. We are at war; he repeated in his mind, we are at
war.
Within 90 minutes, the entire task
force was lying off the coast of Quebec, the port city of Sept-Îles
and the seven small islands that surround it. Although the task force contained
almost 15 ships, only Warlock, the battleship Victoire, and
the armoured cruisers Apocalypse and Doomsday would fire
at actual targets. The smaller ships would simply fire point blank into
the city/harbour, and wherever the shells landed, too bad for the people
nearby.
BLLLLAMMMMMMM
Barter was shaken as Warlock salvoed
her eight 11” main guns, and it took a few seconds for him to hear Admiral
Danforth say: “Now we show the British the measure of our resolve!”
In twenty minutes the port and city
of Sept-Îles had been turned into a raging storm of hellfire and
brimstone, and although the four eight inch guns that guarded the harbour
had scored a negligible hit on the Victoire, they were promptly
knocked out.
“Congratulations, Admiral!” Captain
Boxhall said elatedly.
“Yes, yes… I was hoping there’d
be some enemy ships come out to challenge us. I guess their further downriver…
and that is where we shall head! 12 knots!”
Dawn, January 11th, 1905
Sycamore Grove, Vermont, on the Canadian/Brunswickan
border
You could be 17 to volunteer for
a labour batallion, but Joseph Patrick Kennedy wasn’t even that. He loved
his country with a passion however, and the teen who wouldn’t be 17 until
September was desperate to serve her. So three weeks ago, just after Christmas,
he had appeased the recruiting officer in Boston into letting him join
the 2nd Massachussetts Howitzer Assistants. Such units consisted of the
17 year old volunteers of whom Kennedy was a fradulent part, and men too
old or physically incapable of regular army service, who were also volunteers.
Kennedy had woken early this morning,
and had decided to take a short stroll along the hill the guns he brought
ammunition to were positioned on. He savoured the long, sweet breaths of
fresh morning air, and was thankful that the sun was shining in a week
that had been full of cold, cloudy days. Suddenly, his calm walk was interrupted
when he saw the forward sentry running back to the Brunswickan lines faster
than he’d ever saw anyone run in his life.
“What’s the hurry, Corporal?” Kennedy
called.
“Redcoats! More fuckin’ redcoats
than I ever imagined existed!”
TO BE CONTINUED...