Echoes Loudly
Waking
© 2008 by Walter Reimer (Harold Poynter and Kara Karoksdottir courtesy of EO Costello. Thanks!) Friday December 29, 1911 Dear Edward, I realize that it’s quite a while past the time I usually wish you a very Happy Christmas and wish you the best for the coming year, but things have been rather unsettled of late. The native government here has grown more intransigent, and even seems resentful of the code of laws I drew up for them a few years back. I fail to understand why, as it took the best of British common law (thank the Lord for Blackstone’s Commentaries!) and combined it with what I know of the customs around here. Many of the assorted villages and tribes seem to want to do for themselves, however. The absolute limit came not a day before Christmas . . . The hound walked into the courthouse that morning and stopped, the small folder of papers in his paw falling to the floor as his mouth dropped open in shock. After perhaps a moment where nothing but small, strangled sounds emerged from his mouth, he found his voice. Harold Poynter had been known for his voice even as a pup. Puberty and maturity had only served to deepen and extend his range so that he could easily fill a room of almost any size. He showed this to good effect as he roared, “Take your paws off that!” The two furs at the far end of the courtroom, perched on a chair and a ladder respectively, paused in their work. The Royal Seal of the British Empire, symbol of Britain’s dominion over the Spontoons, was now slightly askew. They looked at the angry canine, then at the feline representative of the Spontoon Althing who stood nearby. That worthy, a man named Pu’ala from a village on South Island, looked at Poynter and gave a disdainful sniff. He turned back to the workers and barked an order in the native language. As the two shrugged and went about their task of removing the Seal from the wall Pu’ala stepped out from behind the bench. “Mr. Poynter,” he said simply. “That’s Magistrate Poynter, blast it! What’s the meaning of this?” “This is an independent country, Judge,” the fishing cat replied, “and the British no longer run things.” “And I am the sole remaining member of His Majesty’s Government on these islands!” Poynter raged. “This courtroom is – “ “Spare me, Judge. Your legal protests notwithstanding, these islands do not acknowledge your King-Emperor’s writ any longer.” The feline smiled. “Of course, you can always take the Seal home with you – we were planning on simply tossing it out into the street.” The temerity of the man rendered Poynter speechless as the two workers managed to remove the elaborate insignia of the Empire from the wall. One hefted it and carried it to the canine, who gathered up his papers and numbly accepted the carved and gilded wood. . . . So you can see that things have gone from bad to worse between me and those indefinites on the Althing. I must confess that it took quite a lot of willpower not to knock the smirk off the man’s face before I walked out of the courthouse, but the Seal now resides in a place of honor in my drawing-room. It will wait there until I can take it Home, or I decide to go back to court. Still, my dear brother, I remain in the pink of health, and I must not forget to thank you from the bottom of my heart for your hampers from Fortnum’s, which after all keep me in the pink! The preserves and cakes all traveled well, and do much to enliven the fare here. When you’re having tea on the Great Lawn next (too chilly now!) think of me. I close now, and have the honour to remain, Your brother, Harold ***
March 1, 1912 Dear Edward, I apologize for failing to write you last month, but circumstances have prevented me from doing so. These explain the dereliction, but do not excuse it, so mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. The number of pirate attacks inside the lagoon here increased, and it was with some trepidation that I addressed myself to the defence of my home. Fortunately I was not unarmed, having equipped myself admirably, as you may remember, with several brace of Holland & Holland’s best shotguns, as well as the small sounding gun that once sat before the Governor’s Mansion to announce the raising and lowering of the Union Jack (another item the Althing wanted to throw on the rubbish pile – I ask you!). After ensuring that I had sufficient in terms of ammunition and supplies, I and my staff (my two housefurs, the gardener and the maid) settled in to await developments. We didn’t have to wait long, as the pirates attacked Meeting Island in force on the evening of February 23rd . . . “They are coming!” the canine yelped, his accented English echoing down the front hallway as he ran to the study. “Your Honour, they are coming!” Poynter nodded, a tumbler of good Scotch in one paw. “I’ll be there presently, Pa’lu,” he said quietly without turning around. “Get everything ready.” As the housefur hastened back to his post the hound took another sip of his drink and resumed studying the painting above his mantelpiece. The painting, while not done by Sargent (but by a very close imitator of his early school), showed a curly-furred spaniel femme dressed in the prevailing aristocratic fashion of the last century. She had a winsome smile and held in her paws a single English rose. His fiancée, now dead these many years of typhoid before they could be wed. Harold found that having her portrait was, while a pale ghost of the woman Lady Sharon Ellesmere had been (no image could possibly match the living canine, however well executed), a comfort to him when he became lonely. He had even started talking to it at times. Silly of him. But it was somehow comforting. He raised his glass to her memory, then drained the glass in one long swallow. Setting the glass down he picked up the shotgun that stood ready nearby, shouldered arms and stepped out of the study and into the drawing room. There he kept two mementoes he considered valuable – the Royal Seal, and the Union Jack that had flown from the courthouse before those damned anarchists on the Althing had forced him to take it down. He gazed at the Seal, mouthing the words of the motto on the scroll beneath it. Dieu et Mon Droit – God and My Right. Harold Poynter had never been a military man. While his older brother, as the heir to the Earldom, seemed made for a career in the Army, he himself had gone into law. But the Poynters had lived on the Marches for time out of mind, and his ancestors had been used to battle. They had even enjoyed it. Besides, his middle name was Godwinson; it had tickled his father’s fancy to name one of his children after the last Saxon king of England. Still gazing at the Seal, Poynter murmured, “Now, lad, bristle thy courage up, face the foe head-on, and God defend you.” He looked around, and chuckled. "It's not Harlech Castle - but I shouldn't have to be besieged in it seven years, either." He walked out of the room. He emerged into the front garden in time to see the lights of torches as the pirates started advancing up the lane toward the house. Pa’lu and the other housefur, Ranui, were alert but tense as they gripped fowling pieces in their paws. The gardener, a heavily-built and taciturn badger named Carson, didn’t have a gun but seemed quite content with a pitchfork, mattock and two garden spades. The maid had spent the past several hours rolling bandages fashioned from strips of table linen. All of the second-best glassware had been smashed. From the look of the torches and the figures lit by them, it wasn’t a large group that trotted forward. Perhaps six to ten furs, all told, and no telling what they had in the way of weapons. Conversely, Harold thought to himself, they didn’t know that one of the houses on this street was defended. Well, they were about to get an education. The sounding gun, a small one-pounder brass cannon, was shoved into position facing the front gate. He had claimed the right to fire it, and the Spontoonies seemed glad to let him have it. Now he checked the angle and elevation of the barrel before nodding to Carson. The badger swung the gate open and Harold shoved the cannon forward. Yes, the group was close enough, he judged. He sat down and braced his feet against the small gun’s carriage and struck a match, then touched the lit end to the touchhole. The report of the gun was quite satisfying, but the recoil almost left the thing sitting in his lap. The shards of leaded crystal glassware that he had loaded into the small cannon had done its work admirably, as had the sound and overall fury. Clearly, the pirates had not expected it. Carson closed the gate and Harold started reloading the cannon as Pa’lu and Ranui started shooting, keeping under cover behind the garden wall and shooting through the hedges. Some shots were fired in return as the surviving ruffians recovered from their initial shock. As he filled the cannon’s muzzle with another load of glass shards, Poynter started to sing. Mainly to keep his spirits and those of his helpers up, and partly to unnerve the assault party: “Men of Harlech, march to glory, Victory is hov'ring o'er ye, Bright-eyed freedom stands before ye, Hear ye not her call? At your sloth she seems to wonder; Rend the sluggish bonds asunder, Let the war-cry's deaf'ning thunder Every foe appall. Echoes loudly waking, Hill and valley shaking; 'Till the sound spreads wide around, The Saxon's courage breaking; Your foes on every side assailing, Forward press with heart unfailing, 'Till invaders learn with quailing, Cambria ne'er can yield!” Poynter finished and grinned at his fellows, who rewarded his efforts with grins of their own. Pa’lu started barking war cries in Spontoonie as he and Ranui kept up a steady volume of fire. After several minutes of this Poynter yelled, “Cease fire!” Five pairs of ears strained to catch any sign of the pirates, but nothing could be heard above the groans of a severely wounded fur in the road who writhed on the ground, clutching at the glass shards in his face. Finally he managed to get his feet under him and he stumbled off down the street. “ . . . The ruffians didn’t get anywhere near the house the entire night, and when the sun finally came up we made a foray. Several houses had been burnt right down, and a few shops still smoked. Poor furs, to have to come home to that. The courthouse was damaged, though – part of the roof burned away and the walls blackened with soot. How fortunate, I thought, that the Althing had ordered me to vacate the building, and I relocated everything of worth to my home! I received a few bemused looks from the natives at the sight of me in my best khaki suit and solar topi, a shotgun tucked securely under one arm and flanked by my housefurs, each bearing their own shotguns. I was very pleased to see that one of my neighbors on the island, the Catholic priest, had also made it through the troubles. A native told me later that he had made some sort of incantation to curse the pirates. I’m deeply sorry I missed it, especially as it seems to have worked. His garden, alas, has suffered, so I shall send Carson, my magician of the roses, to see what can be done. “Looks a bit of a mess, doesn’t it?” Pu’ala whirled, spinning away from his inspection of the fire-damaged courthouse (luckily, the Jail and Constabulary buildings had not been damaged, being of much stouter construction) to confront a smiling Magistrate Poynter. “Jolly glad to see you made it unscathed as well, old chap.” Pu’ala was not certain how much of that was sarcasm. The feline looked a bit nonplussed. “I heard that you had put up a defense last night, Judge.” “With the help of these stalwarts here,” and he smiled at his two native housefurs. They grinned at him in return and he looked back at the fishing cat to see something he had not expected. A certain amount of grudging respect. “Be that as it may,” Poynter remarked, “we must be wary that more of these ne’er-do-wells do not come back to trouble us. What are your government doing about this?” “The Militia’s out in full force,” Pu’ala replied, uneasy that he might give too much away to this foreigner. ***
Thursday May 8, 1912 Dear Edward, Just a few lines for this month’s letter, old chap. Many happy returns on your birthday, and I am dreadfully sorry that I missed it again this year! But that’s how things go, you know, when you’re assigned to the colonies. Absence may make the heart grow fonder, but it certainly gets quite lonely. The Shropshire sunsets you see every day are a present in and of themselves. Late spring here in the Spontoons is certainly a wonderful sight, of course, with simply acres of tropical flowers in full bloom. I’ve enclosed a few watercolors made with my own two paws as a birthday present; I hope they travel well and arrive intact. Perhaps I shall press and dry some flowers and send them on as well. I read in last month’s letter how you’ve been getting on with my solicitors and the Government. That strutting ass Asquith is a complete waste as P.M., if you ask me. And an Oxford fur, no less! Someone should have a word with his Tutor. He’s one of the reasons the Radicals shouldn’t be allowed to form a government, I say. Well, I know that you and Messrs. Ramsbottom and Owenby-Smythe shall do your utmost to get my case reviewed and this matter of my pay resolved. In the meantime, my dear older brother, I cannot say again how indebted I am to you for your sending me some funds. I know it is you who have to face the Trustees every quarter, and what with the “People’s Budget” and all, it is a trial. Brotherly loyalty is a strong thing. The strangest thing’s been happening. Since the unpleasantness here back in February the pirates made a few more forays to Meeting Island, but seem to have widened their horizons a bit by attacking the other islands more heavily. I find that I am apparently in better odour with the people here than with their new government, as a few court cases have been advanced, minor commercial disputes, and one marriage contract(!). Mind you, it certainly is an odd feeling conducting proceedings in one’s drawing-room, but I recall that court used to be held under any available tree. Some of them still flinch a bit at the sight of the Royal Arms, though, but there’s no help for that. I refuse to take it down. A fur’s home is his castle. In closing, I have the honour to remain, Your brother Harold. ***
Monday June 10, 1912 Dear Edward, This may be a bit of a red-letter day for me, as I have just finished hearing my very first capital case. So please attend, and I shall Tell All . . . The ratel walked up to the front gate of the house and held a brief, whispered conversation in Spontoonie with the older canine who was the guard that day. The older fur gave a laugh and gestured for the honey badger to go around the house to the back garden. As the ratel thanked him and walked off, the canine sat back down beside the huge shotgun resting near his chair. As he walked around the house he heard the sound of shears and the clacking drew him further onward until he paused at the sight of a canine rump sticking out of a clump of bushes. “Er, excuse me? Judge Poynter?” the badger asked. The clacking ceased and a cheerful-looking brown-furred hound poked his head out of the bushes. “Good morning!” Poynter said. “Did Pa’lu send you ‘round?” “Er, yes.” “Splendid! You can give me a paw with the cuttings. There’s a bright shiny shilling in it for you. Not much work today.” The ratel raised a paw. “Judge, I’m A’alati Pomaresson, from the Althing, and – “ A flicker of annoyance marred the canine’s usually cheerful demeanor. “Yes?” he asked warily. “We – well, we need your help.” “My help? Now, there’s a surprise, and no mistake,” Poynter said. He straightened further and walked over to his garden spade. He started digging where he earlier been pruning the bushes as he asked, “And what does the Althing want, sir?” “Oh, um, well – “ “Come on, Mr. Pomaresson, out with it, please. For a representative of your government, y’know, you’re scarcely cutting a graceful figure.” The ratel’s fur bristled at the slightly condescending tone. “Fine, I’ll come right to the point. Judge, we need your help on a case in court. You know about all the pirate raids, of course.” Poynter paused and leaned on his spade. “Yes, of course,” he said, his usual cheerful manner sobering instantly. “We caught one,” Pomaresson said, “and we want to try him. But, well, we . . . oh, all right, the Althing’s committee hasn’t gotten around to writing the law yet.” “I see. I wrote a law code for you, about ten years ago.” “There’s no need to remind me, Judge, because that’s why I’m here,” the honey badger said with a hint of resignation in his voice. “The Althing is asking you to preside over this case.” The canine looked down at his paws, then up at the mustelid. “Have the prosecuting and defending counsels before me in court, tomorrow morning at nine, Mr. Pomaresson.” Poynter’s tone was solemn. “Thank you, Judge,” and the ratel walked away. He paused and turned, suddenly sheepish. “Um, we still haven’t rebuilt the courthouse.” Poynter nodded. “Other priorities, yes. We’ll hold the trial in camera, here at my home. Till tomorrow morning, then, Mr. Pomaresson.” “Er, yes, Judge,” and the honey badger hurried away. . . . I knew straightaway that the actual trial could not be held in the house. Picture it, if you will: Myself, the accused, three constables, two counsels (the native P.C. and a sea captain hired as defence counsel), and a native bailiff, all in my drawing room. Add in the witnesses and spectators and there wouldn’t have been room to breathe. A suitable spot was suggested by the P.C. and all agreed on it (the accused was not consulted, but then, I suppose he’s getting better than if we left the matter to some of the villages). The site was one of the walls of the courthouse, flanked by trees. Provided rain didn’t stop play, the trial would proceed. “Hear ye! Hear ye! The Spontoon Court of Oyer and Terminer is now in session!” the bailiff cried. An older fur, he had called court into session before the British had packed up and left. Some of the assembled Spontoonies stood up and a few snickered as Poynter stepped out into the daylight, wearing his robe and peruke, and sat down behind a desk with his back to the wall. The accused sat manacled to a chair flanked by two burly constables. Two nearby tables were reserved for the counsels. “This is the case of the Althing versus John Doe!” He gave Poynter a nod and sat. “Constable,” the magistrate said, “read out the charges, please.” The equine, looking ill-at-ease in his uniform, asked, “Are the charges necessary, sir?” The hound in the peruke gave him a penetrating glare. “Ahem.” “Oh!” The constable drew a sheet of paper from a pocket. “The accused is charged with thirteen counts of murder, twenty-one counts of burglary, and one count of sexual assault.” “I see. The Court shall entertain arguments at this time from the Prosecuting Counsel, to include the presentation of evidence,” Poynter said in measured tones for the benefit of a secretary. Several furs in the audience were sketching drawings of the proceedings. The sketches would later be used to make lithographs for the newspaper. “After the arguments by the Prosecution, we shall break for lunch and then hear from the Defence. Is that acceptable to both counsels?” It was, and the trial began. It transpired that the man, who had refused to give his name, had been found in the vicinity of a village on the eastern end of Main Island that had been sacked by raiders. Thirteen furs there had been killed and the whole place torched. The burglary charges stemmed from the twenty-one pieces of jewelry found on the accused when he was apprehended. “And what of the, ah, sexual assault?” Poynter asked. The witness, a native P.C., looked a bit uncomfortable and informed the Court that the accused when arrested had various musks on him not his own, indicating that he had, indeed, partaken of at least one femmefur within the time-frame. Poynter nodded solemnly and bade the counsel proceed. The Prosecution summed up by saying that the accused had been unable to account for himself, had refused to give his name and did not appear to be a native of the atoll. With the case against the man completed, Poynter recessed the proceedings until after lunch. It was deucedly uncomfortable out there in the heat, my dear Edward, and even more so to hear the catalogue of the man’s alleged crimes. I looked forward to hearing what he had to say in his defence. After lunch the defense counsel, a portly wolf wearing his best uniform and a weather-beaten cap, sat up straighter in his chair and shuffled his papers together. “The defense will call John Doe to the stand.” The accused, a rodent with ungroomed fur and a nasty-looking mouse under one eye (doubtless he had resisted arrest, or had ‘resisted arrest’) was duly sworn in by the bailiff without having to leave his seat. “Now then, sir,” the captain said, “what is your name?” “I – I’m sorry, sir,” the rodent stammered, “but I can’t remember.” This response caused some muttering among the members of the crowd. Poynter tapped his gavel against his desk for order. “You say you cannot recall?” “Yes, sir.” “And did you live in the village that was attacked?” “Yes, I did, sir.” It transpired that the accused had, so he testified, been asleep when the village was attacked and had probably received a blow to the head that rendered him unconscious. A lump on his head was indicated, and Poynter jotted a note as the counsel carried on. “Why did you take these items of jewelry?” “They were mementoes of my fellow tribesfurs, sir. I wanted them so that I could venerate their memory.” “I – “ the wolf broke off as a paw reached out from the crowd and tugged on the prosecuting counsel’s tail. The prosecuting counsel looked around and the assembly noted that the fur was a bright-eyed young vixen, perhaps twelve years old. She signaled urgently to the man, and whispered in his ear. “Problem, Counsel?” Magistrate Poynter asked. “One moment, sir,” the vulpine said, and he and the vixen held a whispered conversation for perhaps a minute. Finally the fox said with a grin, “May it please the Court, I wish to make an inquiry of the accused as to his native status.” “Oh?” and the Bench raised an eyebrow. “How so?” “This young woman,” and the counsel indicated the vixen, “has brought to my attention that there is a way of determining whether this man is a native of these islands.” “May I object, sir?” the captain interjected. “I haven’t finished questioning him.” Poynter considered for a moment before saying, “I shall sustain the objection until the Defence has finished questioning the witness, at which time the prosecution may cross-examine, or may reserve the questions for the rebuttal case. Proceed, Captain.” “Thank you, sir.” The wolf summed up his case on behalf of the accused, who looked hopefully toward the judge as the defence case concluded. “Now,” Poynter said, “we shall hear the rebuttal witness. Step forward, young lady.” The vixen, head down and looking about self-consciously, stepped forward from the crowd. She was dressed in a sarong, looked nervous and her tail dipped between her legs as the bailiff swore her in. Poynter smiled gently. “Don’t be afraid, my dear. What is your name?” The girl swallowed hard and replied, “Kara-daughter-Karok, sir.” “I see,” and he signaled rather sternly to the secretary to attend to his note-taking. “And it’s your argument that this man is not a native to your country?” “Well . . . I just think we should test that,” the vixen said. “He’s only talking English right now.” Poynter put a fingertip to his chin. “That is true. And you’re questioning his native status, which he’s asserted. Well, Kara-daughter-Karok, I will allow you to question this man. Secretary, pay close attention to what is said for the record, please. The Court will want an accurate translation.” The vixen stepped to within about ten feet of the rat and asked him a long question in Spontoonie. The man looked confused. She asked him another question, shorter this time. He stammered a reply, his words very halting, and the vixen promptly colored and her ears went flat. Several in the crowd started to laugh. “What did you say, Miss?” Poynter asked. The vixen got herself under control. “I asked him where he was from, sir.” “And his reply?” She swished her brush. “’My motor launch is full of eels.’” The crowd started to titter again. Poynter gaveled for order and asked the secretary, “Is it true? Is that what he said?” “Yes, sir.” The secretary looked as if he were trying to avoid having a seizure. “Does the Defence Counsel wish at this time to change his plea on behalf of the defendant?” The wolf shrugged. “Not much I can do for him now, sir. I done my best for him.” “And you did a fine job, Captain. Hardly your fault that he lied. Now, you,” and Poynter fixed the rodent with a glare, “what is your name? Your real name?” The rat didn’t say anything. “Hmmph. Court will stand in recess while I deliberate.” The man was an obvious pirate, as that little girl’s test proved. Bright young thing – if she gets a proper education she might go far in life. Still there was a bit of confusion of roles, and all on my part . . . “John Doe, this Court finds you guilty of the charges brought before me,” Poynter said nearly an hour later. The crowd muttered, and quieted as he waved them to silence. “Have you anything now to say before I pass sentence on you?” “Well, er, that is, I . . . don’t I get an appeal?” the rat asked. The canine smiled. “Why, yes. In fact, you have the right to appeal to the appeals judge." "Who is that?" the accused asked hopefully. "By Order in Council,” and Poynter glanced at a page in an open folder on his desk, “dated April 19, 1907 . . . me." "Then I appeal to you." "Rejected.” A few in the crowd laughed. “You also have the right to petition for mercy from the ranking government official, in the absence of the Governor." "Who is that?" "By Order in Council dated April 19, 1907 . . . me." The rat gulped. "I appeal . . . for mercy?" he quavered. "Rejected.” The crowd’s amusement became both general and grim as Poynter pulled on a pair of black kid gloves and the bailiff placed a swatch of black cloth on the canine’s peruke. “Having been found guilty, the sentence is death. “God have mercy on your soul." It was only then that the accused started to confess, bursting into tears as he was led away. Edward, I must tell you that it was a hard thing to do. Dash it all, it was the hardest thing I’d had to do since leaving England. To pass judgment on another person like that, even though he was guilty of the crimes he committed, and many besides I don’t doubt. Still, it was a burden I couldn’t lay on anyone else. There was one added problem . . . “What do you mean, there’s no law regarding the death penalty yet?” A’alati Pomaresson spread his paws helplessly. “We haven’t gotten around to it, Judge. It’s scheduled for next month, though. We’ve been busy fighting off these pirate attacks – “ “I understand, first things first, of course.” Poynter’s brows furrowed. “And there’s never been a capital case tried here, so there’s no precedent.” He looked at Pomaresson. “What was the standard execution method?” “Well, um, we could always bash his head in with a war-club – “ “Barbaric.” “Or we could feed him to the sharks.” The hound eyed the ratel coolly. “And where do you think we might find such an obliging creature on short notice?” “I see your point, Judge. We could hang him.” “There’s no gallows.” “There’s a perfectly serviceable tree out in front of the courthouse, Judge,” the bailiff piped up. “And, er, pursuant to the Order in Council, dated – “ “Let me guess.” “Er, yes, sir.” So we hanged the man, Edward, out in front of the courthouse before a large crowd. He was given the solace of the Church, in the form of the Anglican mission doctor, Dr. Hamm, and a native priestess was also present. Everyone said that it set a good precedent for the country, and would help to deter future malefactors. Under the circumstances, it was the best that could be done. I am well, however, and I hope that you and your family are as well, so in closing I am happy to remain Your brother, Harold. ***
Wednesday August 21, 1912 My dear Edward, Many heartfelt congratulations on the anniversary of your wedding, old chap! I do hope that you and Felicity have many more years of happiness together. I received the photograph of you and your family in the mail last month, and it quite tickled this old dog’s fancy to see that his watercolours hold pride of place in your drawing-room! I am very pleased to see that you are well, that your wife is still a fine example of English womanhood and that your children are the very spit and image of their parents. I am also glad to read in your letter that the children like the pretty shells and beadwork that I send along from my isolated outpost here in the Spontoons. In reply to your letter of last month, yes, I am feeling much better. The illness that carried off a few of the islanders did touch me, but not to the degree it did the natives. A few days of high fever and weakness and I was right as rain. I ascribe my rapid recovery to the beef tea that you so thoughtfully provided in the latest hamper. What I’d do out here without your gracious assistance I don’t know. Saw the most interesting bird in the market the other day, and I’m enclosing a watercolour of it for the delectation of young Eddy. It’s a type of parakeet, but larger and more robust than any other I’ve seen, and it has the most astounding black bars on its white wings. It comes from a neighbouring island, so I’m told, and its colouring has persuaded some to call it a ‘jailbird.’ The person selling it offered it to me as the “perfect gift for a judge,” ha-ha! I read the latest briefs you enclosed regarding my case in the Lords. I’m glad that it’s being held there because I know that Justice will be served there, if nowhere else. Please keep me abreast of all developments, will you dear chap? As always, Your brother Harold ***
Sunday October 6 My dear Edward, Things have been rather unsettled here of late, so I apologize for not writing to you sooner. You might have heard in the Times how there was an actual naval battle north of here last month, and that the Navy was in it. Details are a bit sketchy even here so close to the action, but I’m sure that our lads acquitted themselves in the best traditions of Trafalgar and Nelson. Drummed ‘em up the Channel as they drummed ‘em long ago. Later in the month – in fact not two weeks ago – we here on Meeting Island were privileged to watch a battle between two of those newfangled airship things. The local militia here operates several, and one of them did battle high over our heads with an enemy craft. The enemy was destroyed, but much to our distress the pilot of the militia craft died of wounds sustained in battle. He’s buried over on Moon Island. The pirate attacks have largely petered out, and good riddance to them, I say. A few days ago came a bit of a shock. I was taking my morning constitutional when I was approached by a native canine gentleman, a fur of some prominence here, with the most astounding proposal. He told me, in his best English, that I had earned a great deal of respect for my efforts over the past year, and he wanted to show his gratitude by offering his eldest daughter in marriage to me! His daughter stood nearby, and I confess that she was very attractive. It took a great deal of effort to inform him, much to his and his daughter’s disappointment, that I am still faithful to Sharon’s memory. The man looked rueful and muttered something about ‘married to a shade’ as he walked away. In a way, I suppose I am, at that. Still, it has been a very eventful summer and now the seasons are starting to think about the winter months here in the Spontoons. The courthouse has a new roof and much to my surprise I am actually welcomed back! The Althing finally saw the light and adopted the law code I drew up for them years ago, with some modifications that are in keeping with their quaint ways. Still, it is good to wear my robes and preside over cases in a proper courtroom. Without the Royal Seal, I’m afraid. I snuck it into my chambers, though. I am enclosing another set of watercolors as Christmas presents for the children (so please do not let them unwrap them until Father Christmas says so!) and I look forward to your next letters. Hoping this letter finds you as it leaves me Your brother, Harold. end |