6 Degrees of Seperation
World Influencers
S. G. Lacey
August 27th, 1783: Paris, France – Ben Franklin @ 77 Years Old
“What’s that crowd gathered for?” I wonder silently to myself.
It’s a beautiful, sunny morning, so I’m letting my legs lead the way on this journey through Paris. These are my last few days of freedom before heading back to school at Brienne-le-Château. Located a few hours to the east, this week off between the summer and fall sessions is one of my few chances to travel to France’s big city.
While scheduled activities on this holiday is fairly sporadic, I do have one important task. The school I’m hoping to attend next year after graduating from Brienne is the École Militaire. This prodigious military academy is housed in the majestic stone building which sits at the far end of the Champ-de-Mars park that I’m currently walking across.
However, instead of finding an open grassy expanse to leisurely stroll through, I’ve encountered a random throng gathered. At the center to the group rises a massive floating object, unlike anything I’ve ever seen in my life.
Intrigued, I squeeze through the horde, taking advantage of my short, slight teenage frame. Reaching the front, I find the crowd has formed into a rough ring around this specter. Not surprisingly, everyone appears to be keeping back a cautiously safe distance.
A hand-painted sign stuck in the moist grass with an arrow pointing skyward identifies this thing as “Le Globe”. My French isn’t great, but that’s an easy one to interpret, and not a very original name.
On the ground next to the sign is a vertically oriented wooden barrel. These are ubiquitous enough for various food, and booze, storage needs. Despite having just turned 14 years old, I’m not that innocent. What isn’t commonplace is the lead pipe extending out the top of the barrel, and all the way up into the airborne ball, where it disappears from sight inside.
The creation seems to be hovering in place, currently about 3 meters off the ground. Stout hemp ropes looped over the top, then passing through various accommodating side loops, appear to be the only thing keeping this “globe” on the ground. As the wind gusts, the lines go taught against the constraining grasp of 4 brave souls holding the free ends of these cords. This object is ready to escape.
Scanning the crowd reveals a broad cross section on society, both old and young, rich and poor, based on their varied clothing, dialect, and mannerisms. This floating aberration seems indiscriminate on what type of observers it attracts.
Suddenly, in the roadway on the far side of the circle, I spot a familiar face. I’ve seen this person many times before in newspaper illustrations, but never in real life. However, my curious mind, and premonition towards math and history, cause me to recognize the white-haired visage instantly. Benjamin Franklin!
Searching my memory banks, I recall the most recent newspaper images and commentary have been associated with Franklin’s roll as U.S. Minister to France; specifically, the pending signing of the Treaty of Paris next week.
We studied the particulars of this document at school back in the spring when it was drafted. While the agreement is primarily between Great Britain and the newly formed United States of America, the final terms can have long-lasting implications for France, along with the rest of Europe. Our teacher seemed convinced that the substance of this treaty was exceedingly generous to the new nation state being created on the other side of the Atlantic.
Currently, Mr. Franklin’s long, wispy, grey hair is flapping wildly in the warm breeze, since the entire upper half of his body is extended out through the carriage window in an effort to see over the gathering of people. He must be trying to figure out how this unique technology works.
Inspired, I move as close as I dare to the upright barrel, which seems to be the key to the operation. Now, I can hear bits and pieces of the discussion between one of the rope handlers, and a middle-aged man in a white blouse and blue velvet overcoat, who appears to be in charge. The conversation is in French, still not my specialty even after 5 years of formal schooling, but I’m fluent enough to catch the gist of the setup via universal scientific words like “vitriol”, “ferric”, and “inflammable air”.
Apparently, combining diluted sulfuric acid with scrap iron filings in the barrel results in a chemical reaction that generates some form of low-density gas, which is causing the observed bladder inflation. Finally, the goal of the project clicks together for me. They are making an oversized balloon.
My mathematical mind springs into action. Estimating the orb’s diameter at 4 meters, and assuming a basic sphere, this balloon requires roughly 35 cubic meters of gas to fill it. No idea on the flow rate for this chemical reaction, but with such a small pipe diameter the process must have taken a while.
Right now, its envelop appears to be about 80% full, with patches of wrinkled, loose fabric still visible at the top and sides of the balloon. The skin material is an ugly yellow color, with some darker and lighter areas. The entire surface looks to have been covered with some thick coating using a coarse brush, the streaks are easily visible when sunlight hits to curved surface at certain angles.
Content with my analysis, I start working my way around the inner circle of people in an effort to get closer to Dr. Franklin. My delusional mind even starts to naively think I can explain this balloon technology to him, one of the most learned and cultured individuals in the world.
As I break back into the human swarm, working out towards the roadway, a murmur breaks out. Starting as a low hum, the volume rises as more individuals join in the chorus of exited yelling and animated gestures.
Breaking free from the pack, I spot Franklin still leaning out of his carriage window. At this closer vantage point, he looks just like the pictures I’ve seen, pronounced wrinkled cheeks and bald forehead glistening with sweat in the mid-day heat. But most noticeable are his bright and piercing grey eyes, which are currently pointed skyward with a distinct twinkle of wonderment.
Turning, I see the balloon moving upward at a surprisingly quick rate. The ropes, which were taming the beast minutes before, now dangle loosely down at the mercy of gravity. In contrast, the inflated sphere of fabric shows no such yielding to the whims of Earth’s relentless pull.
One of the onlookers, with the distinct look of a tourist from Ireland or Scotland, shouts “Look, it’s rising.”
Not the most astute observation, but certainly true. This gentlemen’s next comment is even more blockheaded. “What good is that for?”
Ben Franklin, without taking his eye off the floating orb, quips back quickly, “What good is a newborn baby.”
This comment catches this British Iles dweller completely of guard, either because he doesn’t get the inference, or because he is so embarrassed about doubting the potential for an airborne vessel. My guess is the former.
My own young mind, unencumbered by the preconceived notions formed by the spending many decades in a simple world, is already mulling the possible uses for this device. Being constantly surrounded by military tutelage, this is clearly the most obvious avenue.
How valuable would it be to have a bird’s eye view of the battlefield, and what tactical advantages could such a vantage point employ? Obviously, there will need to be a person in tow to make the observation, and some form of communication between the sky and ground. How quickly will these balloons be able to accommodate the weight of a human occupant?
This flight appears to be unencumbered by a passenger, or any other ballast, aside from a few tools that have become tangled in the rigging. Apparently, the balloon’s release was earlier than planned. The two hammers and solitary shovel still attached to the dangling roles can’t weight more than 10 kg total, so a significantly larger gas volume is likely need to accommodate human lifting power.
Still, the opportunities for military application, along with other weather-related scientific uses, are immense.
Carried by the burgeoning wind, the balloon quickly takes a northerly course towards the River Seine.
Pulling my gaze from the mesmerizing anomaly in the sky back to Mr. Franklin’s carriage, I see his head has returned to the safety of the cabin. However, a chubby hand remains sticking out the window, waving vigorously. Combined with some inaudible shouting to the driver seated up front, and the aggressiveness with which this cabbie takes the whip to the horses, it’s clear that Dr. Franklin means to follow the balloon.
Watching the carriage roll off in a cloud of dust, I hesitate briefly, then take the plunge. I’ve got all afternoon to come back and wander the grounds of École Militaire. I may as well get some exercise, and enjoy a little adventure along the way.
I set off at a steady jog, one eye on the still rising balloon, and the other on the bumping buggy in front, which houses one of the preeminent polymaths of the 18th century.
October 5th, 1821: Little Pigeon Creek, Indiana, U.S.A. – Napoleon Bonaparte @ 51 Years Old
The firelight flickers in the small room, casting a dull orange glow with long shadows. It’s comfortable here by the fire, but bed will be cold. I would rather stay up and read anyways.
I can hear the wind whipping outside, and occasionally feel its presence when well-oriented gusts find holes between the cabin’s sturdy logs.
My older sister is sitting in the rocking chair next to me, open Bible on her lap, dozing in and out of co nsciousness.
In contrast, I’m much more engaged in my reading project. Despite the limited light, I’m working through a special treat, a newspaper from Washington, DC. These typically only show up once a month in a compiled bundle, and each literate household in the settlement is only allotted one or two daily editions. It’s a sporadic way to keep up with happenings in the broader world.
I’ve ended up with the Friday, August 24th print of the Daily National Intelligencer, as identified by the enlarged, fancy script font across the top of the front page. Over a month old, but that’s fine with me. Any news is better than no news. Plus, it’s a great opportunity to expand my vocabulary beyond the more readily available children’s book offerings like Aesop’s Fables.
Reading the newspaper is a pleasant distraction from today’s sad anniversary. It represents the 3-year mark of my mother’s death from milk poisoning. I’ve been trying to avoid thinking about this fact all day, but the obituary listings I stumble on in the paper are an especially painful and unwanted reminder.
Trying to quell a show of emotions, I quickly flip the page, which reveals stories on relevant foreign events. I’m always intrigued by the goings-on throughout the world, activities that seem so distant from this plot of land in the Midwestern United States wilderness.
The first headline of the top-left column grabs my attention, and also strains my limited history knowledge.
“Napoleon Dies in British Prison”
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Though I don’t have much formal schooling, I’ve gotten enough access to books and newspapers to glean a basic understanding of this individual. I recall some military acumen, winning several major battles, and amassing a unified domain throughout Europe. It seems like the British Empire has had a tough go of it recently, between us upstarts in the American colonies, and the French expansion ambitions closer to home.
The brief article goes on to elaborate that Napoleon died of illness in a British jail on an island off the coast of Africa. Aimlessly spinning the wooden globe, wrapped with paper identification markings, at our tiny schoolhouse is the closest I’ve ever been to Africa. It may as well be an imaginary land in a fictional story.
My own life seems like a fairy tale at times, and not always a pleasant one. It’s been a tumultuous 5 years since moving from Kentucky to Indiana, mainly due to my father Thomas’ opposition to slavery. I appreciate and agree with his moral stance, but farming is hard work and, without any hired help, days in the field are long. The only thing I knew about Indiana before we arrived is that it had just been voted into the Union as the 19th state; one of the few facts I’m able to retain from early schooling.
My sister Sarah, two years my senior, does a great job in the kitchen and with basic household chores. However, with just my father and I to work the 160-acre claim, there’s no shortage of laborious tasks. Between clearing timber to build our cozy cabin, then preparing the land for farming and livestock, the settlement progress in Little Pigeon Creek has been slow, and stressful.
I glance over at one of my prize processions, the felling axe currently lodged in the stump on the far side of the fire. Even at 12 years old, hours spent wielding this implement have already left callouses on my hands which I’ll have for life.
Using my long, boney, index finger for guidance, I shift over to the next column in the newspaper, eager to continue my learning on Napoleon Bonaparte, and his unfortunate early demise. I slip back into the story, trying to interpret each line of small black text on the fragile, yellowed paper.
“Are you still up?” Sarah inquires groggily.
I suddenly realize that I have been reading out loud. This is a technique I learned during my brief time spend at the “blab” school a few miles up the road, where all lessons encourage verbal participation for the entire class. Between the chores and the distance, our attendance at lessons over the past few years is spotty at best, but apparently, I picked up a few learning techniques.
When I get excited about a specific reading passage, my volume tends to rise involuntarily. This verbal outburst most have awoken my sister.
“Sorry Sarah, I’m just finishing up,” I reply.
The firelight is fading, as are my eyes, at this late hour. However, there’s a single passage in the newspaper article that continues to resonate through my young mind.
“No man ever lived whose personal agency had so immediate and so vast an influence on the concerns of the world.”
While I’m not entirely sure what “personal agency” means, I still get the general gist of Napoleon’s global impact and lofty ambitions.
It has been a long time since a military leader earned a single word moniker; Napoleon’s exploits in Europe over a two-decade period definitely fit the bill. I hope to utilize some of his governing insights like legal equality and religious toleration if I ever get involved in politics in the future. I fold up the newspaper and tuck it into my shirt, intent on rereading Napoleon’s litany of accomplishments in the morning.
Detangling my long, gangly legs from their crossed position on the rough-hewn wood floor, I rise slowly. My pants, tattered and worn, barely make it to the middle of my shins. I’m growing quickly.
Throwing another log on the fire, I tuck the blanket tightly under Sarah’s chin on my way to bed. She’ll be joining me later on our cold straw mattress, may as well let her get some rest by the warmth of the fire for now.
February 26th, 1862: East Cowes, United Kingdom – Abraham Lincoln @ 53 Years Old
In the middle of our desk is a heaping pile of mail in a red velvet lined box. The letters come in every shape and size, with various quality and color of paper, and all manner of stamps identifying transit from numerous countries throughout the world.
My butler is good about screening the incoming correspondence, putting the most urgent items on the top. In first position on the stack today is a large, thick envelop with the tell-tale signs of diplomatic flair.
I look to my right at the empty chair next to me, where my husband Albert of Saxe-Coburg used to sit. Like this long wooden desk here in our study, we shared everything. This mound of paperwork would go much faster with him by my side, his helpful and encouraging tone spurring me along. But now I’m on my own.
Sighing heavily, I flip the packet over to reveal the official United States of America seal embossed in red wax securing the flap. I’m still getting use to this eagle and flag shield emblem; the country has been around for almost a century now, but official communication between our leadership ranks is limited.
Using a delicately shaped ivory letter opener, I gain entry to bundle and peak inside, discovering a hefty reem of individually sealed envelopes and bound documents, along with many loose-leaf sheets. Relations between Great Britain and the United States have been much stretched in recent months. Apparently, there’s a lot for our two governments to discuss.
Deciding to take this challenge in order, I pull the top two pages from the sleeve; hopefully the courier in the U.S. has the same prioritized ranking method as my butler.
The paper is of rich quality, delicate in thickness and almost bright white, as opposed to the more traditional dingy tan. As I start scanning the letter, the name at the top of the page immediately registers and identifies this communication as important.
“Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States of America”
How old is Mr. Lincoln? I have seen plenty of his photographs in the British tabloids of late; occasionally depicted in a tall, black top hat. With his thick, dark beard, wrinkled skin, and frail build, he appears to be quite advanced in age, though I wager he isn’t more than a decade older that myself. His upbringing was likely a lot harsher than my privileged path of nobility.
Contemplating my own arc of life thus far, my eyes instinctively flicker to my daily journal which sits on the table next to the obscenely large pile of paperwork. This small, leather-bound item is never far out of reach; it’s my outlet and private counselor. After Albert’s death in mid-December, I stopped writing until the start of this year. I’ve found the daily entries provide structure to my otherwise listless existence.
Dear Albert and I were married for 21 years before typhoid fever took him from me. I loved him more than anything: his witty intellect, his tender affection, and of course his dashing good looks. Enough reminiscing, time to get back to work.
Rising with the letter, I move to the window, hoping the improved natural light will aid in interpreting the scrawling fountain pen, cursive script on the paper in my left hand, sans gloves but covered up to the wrist by delicate fabric. I’m clad in all black, the only color I’ve worn since Albert’s passing.
Looking outside, I find the day is non-descript, not sunny, but not cloudy. Just dreary, like my mood. I’m sure President Lincoln is currently in a similar temperament, considering the political pressures and recurring human losses in the ongoing Civil War there.
Perhaps it’s just morning haze which will burn off later, as the sun’s warming rays arrive. Still, the weather is not nearly hot enough for me to take my morning tea out in the garden. Hopefully spring will come soon, and along with it some cheer.
I jump suddenly as a scream comes from somewhere behind me, deep in the bowels of this modern stone mansion. Fortunately, it’s the shrill outburst of innocent play, not urgent pain. No doubt one of the 5 children, now fatherless, who wander the grounds. Sure, the servants take care of most of the rearing responsibilities, as I could never be bothered with breast feeding or tending to babies. However, my husband was an important influence on their upbringing, which will no longer be there.
Through the tall glass windows of the sitting room, I can see the Solent, a narrow strip of sea separating the Isle of Wight from the main coast of England. Some of the best times of my adult life have been spent at this isolated compound with my family since we moved here after construction was completed in 1846.
Prince Albert devoted much time and energy on the construction and planning of this complex. The Italian palazzo architecture inspiration for the main building is of his conception. He was especially enamored with the grounds and landscaping. Looking down, I can also see the terraced gardens with intertwined walking paths that were Albert’s passion in life.
I wonder what Mr. Lincoln is doing right now? Who tends to his gardens? Can he see the ocean from his house?
I’ve never been to the United States of America, if they still call it that with all the recent civil unrest, so have no idea what the accommodations in Washington, DC are. However, my eldest son, Albert Edward, the current Prince of Wales, went to North America in 1860, becoming the first member of British royalty to make the trip across the Atlantic. I’ll have to ask him how the White House compares with the modern amenities here at our Osborne House lodgings.
No doubt this is how President Lincoln heard of Albert’s unfortunate passing, as my son still maintains contact with key political leaders across the pond. However, international relations with the United States have been a sore subject in recent months.
Last year, at the urging of our Prime Minister, I issued a British declaration of neutrality to our people, acknowledging the Confederate States as a sovereign entity, and providing their ships the same access as Union vessels at any foreign ports we control. As Queen, I must appease the English people, who have a heavy dependence on the quality textiles which are produced from fine Southern cotton.
Feeling the effects of that third cup of tea drank earlier this morning, I turn and head for my dressing room, depositing the letter on the desk on my way out of the sitting room. On route, my mind continues to mull over the recent interactions with the United States, and its unique leader, Mr. Abraham Lincoln.
Just a few months ago, a U.S. Navy vessel captured two Confederate diplomats on a British mail ship, the RMS Trent. This affair quickly escalated to an international incident involving blockades, tariffs, and assorted other political bluster. At least that’s how Consort Albert, ever the diplomat, explained the situation to me. Lincoln and his cabinet eventually released the Confederate prisoners, who were allowed to continue on to Europe. This issue was a source of significant stress for my husband, at an especially bad time considering the sickness he was already suffering from.
It’s been over two months since poor Albert’s death, and I still pray each morning that he will wake up next to me. I bring his nightgown to bed with me each evening, but its warmth is not the same as his lithe body.
On my way back through the sitting room door, I peer into Albert’s dressing room across the way, where the maids have laid out his clothes for the day, along with a warm bucket of water for his bath. I have instructed them to do this each morning, in the off chance that by some miracle he’ll rise from the grave and need them.
Returning to my work at the desk, I give this diplomatic letter a final cursory scan before logging it in the completed pile. Most of the verbiage is typical political pleasantries and tact, but the final line of the letter hits me deeply, providing a reminder of the current predicament.
“I know that the Divine hand that has wounded, is the only one that can heal: And so, commending Your Majesty and the Prince Royal, the Heir Apparent, and all your afflicted family to the tender mercies of God, I remain Your Good Friend,
ABRAHAM LINCOLN.”
Mr. Lincoln seems like an honorable man, and I appreciate his condolences, but it’s going to take more than a few curt lines of well-wishing to improve my mood. With a heavy heart, I pull the next queued up offering from the box of correspondence, a solitary tear dripping onto the envelop as I move it towards me with shaking hands.
November 19th, 1888: Medway, England – Queen Victoria @ 69 Years Old
The train rattles harshly along the tracks, jostling my frail frame. This is supposed to be a new section of line. Granted, I’m in the extreme rearward rail car, the cheap seats. Maybe that’s why it’s such a rough ride.
There were limited ticket options, since the first two carriages are reserved for the royal family today. I knew this was going to be the case; in fact, that’s why I’m on this excursion from downtown London.
As we roll into the station, I peer out the window excitedly, hoping to catch a glimpse of personage I’ve been stalking. The railroad tracks take a gentle turn to the left as they near the terminus of the line, and the train correspondingly slows to a crawl. The jerking has subsided at least.
The arc of the tracks provides an opportunity to view the front of the train through the left side windows for the first time in a while on this relatively straight journey. Leading this procession is an emerald green locomotive engine, white steam spewing from its black stack, with “South Eastern Railway” emblazoned on the side in yellow lettering. Somewhere in one of the next two passenger cars is my mark.
Out my window, a lengthy pier extends well over 100 meters out into the water. There’s a massive ship moored off its sturdy supportive pilons, but my view is blocked by the train itself. Quickly, I jump across to the right seats of the car; the River Medway estuary side provides much better views of the station itself.
This combined ship and rail port was only built 6 years ago, and it looks the part. Heavily varnished wood on the ocean breakwater, a high sheen on the white tubular metal railings, attendants in finely pressed navy-blue outfits. Maybe it’s just a coincidence, but I’ve heard murmurs of this station being built for the express purpose of serving the royal family.
The direct railway run from Windsor Castle, combined with a multitude of passenger shipping routes to the Queen’s favorite vacation destinations in France and Germany. Maybe it’s no coincidence this transit center on the Hoo Peninsula is named Port Victoria.
I’ve only been in England for two months, and am still learning the ropes on etiquette. As a result, I hang back, letting the few other poor souls relegated to the rear of the train disembark ahead of me, toting their ragged assortment of beat-up luggage. It looks like most of these individuals are headed for long-distance travel: the port here apparently serves a multitude of locations in Europe. I’ll have to check the route options for further afield adventures next spring, or even my return booking to India.
Currently I have no luggage, as this is simply a day trip. Convinced everyone else has departed, I rise and adjust the collar of my flannel suit, checking my appearance in the reflection of a conveniently shiny brass hand rail. I’m anxious to fit into this British society, but many of the cultures are still very foreign to me.
Seeing an abandoned Pall Mall Gazette on the seat next to me, I fold up the newspaper and stuff it in my back pants pocket. On the ride back, I want to catch up on the latest happenings in this ongoing Jack the Ripper serial killer saga which has terrorized London in recent weeks. The 5th murder of a young girl, by this now well-publicized criminal, occurred in the Whitechapel District just 10 days ago.
Giving my vest a final tug to straighten it, I step off the train and into the grey, damp chill of ocean fog.
On account of the haze, the electric street lamps lining the platform are on. These industrial metal poles, sparsely spaced, cast a muted yellow light through frosted glass. The luxuries of electricity, a modern amenity not available in my native India. I hurry forward towards the front to the train, hoping I have not missed my opportunity in the dim light.
Fortunately, my timing is perfect.
Just as I reach the station entrance, and select a convenient spot to lean nonchalantly against the exterior wall, Queen Victoria herself emerges from the front rail car, dressed entirely in black including her veiled head. Despite having never seen this woman in person before, her image is synonymous with British culture, even for someone who just moved here.
As part of Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee celebration last summer, numerous statues, plaques, and other tributes were erected throughout London in her honor. 50 years as leader of the English people, that’s an impressive feat. At this rate, she’s got a chance to break King George III record of 59 straight years in power.
The prospects of seeing the Queen in the flesh were sparked my first night in London, when I stayed at her namesake, The Hotel Victoria. A luxurious splurge on lodging in downtown London after three weeks on the ocean sleeping in a tiny cabin, it only took me one night to become enamored with the luxuries of modern city living.
Also, reading about the recent history of the British royals on my ocean journey revealed that Queen Victoria is almost exactly 50 years my senior. So, there’s an element of fate in this pursuit as well.
The whim evolved into an obsession, but it has taken several months for our schedules to align. Based on her movements thus far, the Queen appears to be quite reclusive, and not prone to public appearances, content to hole up in Windsor Castle. But now I’ve tracked her down via train, well outside her usual confines.
My journey using bus and rail support today is a welcome break for the legs. In an effort to save money, I have relegated myself to walking around London, typically racking up 10 or more miles per day between my West Kensington flat, the Inner Temple law school, and various other compulsions along the way. Despite the aid of mechanically powered travel, my growling stomach tells me this chase has used significant energy, likely more mental than physical.
Extracting a brown paper bag from my coat pocket, I reach in and remove a perfectly fried, golden brown samosa. Taking a large bite into the flakey crust, I can already feel my diminished vigor being restored. The potatoes and peas inside are even still slightly warm, which helps to fight off the chill of this soggy day.
Food has been one of my biggest challenges in London. With a limited budget, and my religious vegetarian diet, plus as strict non-alcohol policy, the various restaurants, pubs, and other dives in downtown are quickly crossed off the list. With over 6 million inhabitants in this metropolis, you would think there might be one or two decent vegetarian options.
Fortunately, Indian street food is available in certain parts of town now that I know where to look. Finishing my snack, I brush the crumbs from my hands with the paper bag, and turn my undivided attention back to the royals.
As well publicized in the newspapers, Queen Victoria’s journey out to this Isle of Grain port is not for leisure. Instead, she is here to pick up her oldest, namesake daughter who is returning from Germany after the untimely death of her husband. A chance to see not one, but two, Queen Victoria’s at the same time. How convenient.
I shift my gaze to the seafaring vessel, where the first passengers are just descending the gangway. Leading the way is a woman in her mid-40’s, followed by two porters lugging suitcases nearly as large as they are. My first view of Princess Victoria.
Her eyelids are sagging and heavy, there has clearly been much crying on the channel crossing. However, beneath the mourning lies a strong woman. She is short and slightly plump, with long wavy brown hair, similar to her mother in all respects. Not beautiful, but pleasant to look at, even in her time of distress.
As quickly as these thoughts rise up, I push them from my mind, cursing my unconstrained inhibitions. I have a wife of my own at home in Bombay, with a 3-month old boy as well. Assuming he is still alive after our last birth complication. Another thought which I immediately brush aside.
Meeting on the platform at the bottom of the ramp, I watch the embrace between the older and younger Victorias closely. I have always been perceptive on body language, which is an important part of the Indian culture. This interaction appears to be a combination of dark dresses and darker times.
Their current connection is tender, but reserved. Neither party wants to admit too much; mother anxious for details on how her daughter is holding up under duress in the foreign Germanic land, and daughter hesitant to reveal too many details to a prying and influential superior. At least, that’s my interpretation based one hug, viewed at a distance of 30 meters.
I’ve achieved my sighting of the reigning Queen of England, and her daughter. Queen Victoria seems to be an honorable person to aspire in terms of influencing people, though I already disagree with some of her monarchy methods based on my new political acquaintances in London. However, any time you have an era of history named after you, something must be working.
Turning away from the gathering throng around her heiresses, most of whom were apparently completely oblivious to this planned meeting, I reenter the most rearward rail car. Hopefully I can get some studying done for my pending law exams on the way back to downtown London, if the Gazette doesn’t distract me too much.
January 24th, 1900: Spion Kop, South Africa – Mahatma Gandhi @ 31 Years Old
Gun fire rings out around me, bullets ricocheting off the jagged rocks of the hillside. My horse bucks, clearly unsettled by the flurry of activity engulfing us. I can’t blame her, I’m a little shaken myself, but determined not so show any fear in front of my fellow soldiers.
Tacking right, I follow the ridgeline upward, staying below the crown on our side in the hopes this spine of earth will provide some cover from the onslaught.
It’s clear our British forces are struggling to hold back the local Boer rebels. We must maintain our position to allow for an advance on to Ladysmith, where many of our countryfolk have been overrun by these insurgents.
I’m part of the British Army’s South African Light Horse regiment. My explicit roll right now is to provide communication between the troops in the field, and our lead general Buller back at headquarters. Unfortunately, so far there’s not much good news to report.
As I work my way back down the hill towards camp, a pack of mules approaches up the narrow, winding path. These animals are heavily burdened with large canvas sacks, presumably filled with water, based on the bulging girth, and telltale droplets with occasionally fall to the dusty earth at their feet. Flanking this parade of animals are young men in khaki military uniforms, some carrying empty stretchers, others various medical supplies.
I recognize this group as the Natal Volunteer Ambulance Crops. They have been traveling with our army for the past few weeks. It’s a mixed bag of characters, some local white men, along with many Indians, who are apparently common in these parts.
During my time in South Africa this far, I’ve seen a surprising number of Indian immigrants, especially in and around the port city of Durban, where incoming boats from major cities in India like Bombay, Madras, and Calcutta are common.
Curious, I asked one of my fellow soldiers who has spent more time here. He confirmed these individuals are participating in indentured servitude to hopefully earn their freedom in South Africa. Most work in sugar plantations, supplementing the labor lost when slavery was banned by our British and other European governments in the middle of the 19th century. This leaves these Indian immigrants working at the most taxing, and undesirable, manual tasks on the farms, often under poor living conditions. Seems like a tough situation.
However, the local Ambulance Corps has over 1,000 men, nearly all volunteering their time, so it’s hard to argue with their dedication. Especially if they’re out here on this firing range of their own accord.
I move off the trail to let this procession pass on their way to the front lines. As they shuffle past, I notice groups conversing in dialects unknown to my naïve ears. The only words I recognized are some hushed prayers, these translate in any language.
Then, one Indian gentlemen, unhealthily thin in a broad khaki hat, stops and calls out. “Did you see any wounded?” The chap’s English is decent, but with a slight Irish accent, which I find odd coming from an Indian national.
“Plenty,” I reply briskly. “Just up the hill to the right. They are taking on heavy fire. Many of the wounds are of a horrible nature.”
“Thank you, sir,” the fellow answers in a stoic tone. I can see fear on the faces of many of these medical men, but this individual appears calm and centered.
Looking down, I see the text on the breast pocket of his shirt reads “M.K. Gandhi”. Registering the name in my memory backs, I urge my still-skittish ride back onto the thin, rocky path, and procced downward as quickly as the horse’s hooves, and my own navigating, will allow.
It seems like a lot has happened to me over the past 3 months. Since arriving in Cape Town, South Africa at the end of October, I’ve journeyed on a lengthy train ride with no military support, had a perilous sailing voyage in an ocean storm, snuck behind enemy artillery lines, was captured as a prisoner of war, escaped in spectacular fashion with a few mates, and am now in the midst of an epic battle 13,000 km from my homeland.
I started out as simply a war correspondent for a British newspaper, now I’m a lieutenant in Her Majesty’s Royal Army. It’s been quite a wild ride, if I don’t say so myself.
A shard of rock, no doubt dislodged from the endless onslaught of rifle rounds on the ridge above, strikes my cheek, bringing me back to my senses. I’m only a quarter century old, and would like to live at least a little longer. Sure, I’ve always been cocky, but nobody’s invincible.
Glancing back up the hill, I can see the Ambulance Corps has reached the peak. From my earlier observations, I know they must be taking on heavy fire, but this group of volunteers is going about their duties with resolute determination. Limp bodies are loaded onto stretchers and moved downhill. Still active soldiers are supported with water and medical care while entrenched. It’s a brutal, but effective dance.
As I watch, mesmerized by the squad’s efficiency, the gentlemen who I talked to on the trail minutes before, kneels down to tend to a wounded soldier. Most of the injured lad’s foot is missing, but this medic calmly puts a tourniquet above the wound without flinching. His next gesture is even more telling of character. He takes the young man’s hand in his own, and leans in close to the soldier’s helmet, for what I can only assume are some reassuring words before another life is lost. An impressive display of poise.
Silhouetted by the afternoon sun setting over the bloody ridge, there’s beautiful poetic imagery within this sad scene. It’s a portrait summarizing both the evils of warfare, and the overwhelming power of humanitarianism, that I will not soon forget. For some reason, I sense this may not be my last interaction with M.K. Gandhi.
Wheeling my horse around by the reins, I give the spurs a kick and we bound off towards camp to provide an update on the fighting activity on Spion Kop. I’ve got much to learn about war, and peace.
June 18th, 1940: Alice, South Africa – Winston Churchill @ 65 Years Old
I’m lying on my back in just my underwear, strong, muscular legs fully stretched out. It’s very hot, so I’ve already shed all the blankets. I can’t sleep anyways, between the springs poking out of the mattress, the unbearably humid weather, and most importantly, my own conscience.
Restless, I slide out of bed, and click on the radio sitting on the shared writing desk. It’s a new Philco AM/shortwave tabletop model, with modern electronics housed in a sleek wooden case. It helps when your university roommate comes from a rich family, and is a technology aficionado. Maybe a little background noise will help me doze off.
Most of the shortwave band here in South Africa is blank, but fortunately we can get a few stations as a result of antenna infrastructure installed by the British during their occupation a few decades ago, and maintained by our local government. Adjusting the textured round, plastic dial with a deft black thumb and pointer finger, I finally find a sound that could pass for words.
Unfortunately, it’s someone droning on in English. Catching a few garbled words, I’m pretty sure this is the standard political rhetoric about the ongoing war in Europe, almost two full continents away. Definitely not the calming sounds I need to help relax. I keep scrolling, find another promising option, until I realize it’s the same gruff, baritone voice.
Undeterred, I continue searching. As I near the far end of the spectrum, as evidenced by the narrow black needle on the golden glow-light background of the frequency range bar, another recognizable humanoid noise appears. This is my last chance for gentle bedtime opera, or mellow African drum beats, to sooth my mind and body.
Instead, the exact same forceful, but muddled, male voice with a typical British accent enters my room via the small radio’s cloth speaker. Third time’s the charm, I concede defeat.
Last fall, the South African government declared support for the Allied Powers; potentially this transmitted proclamation is just another in the endless stream of political propaganda.
Setting the volume knob at a manageable level, I crawl back onto the bed. Within seconds, I realize that this broadcast may be a speech worth listening to.
“There are many who would hold an inquest in the House of Commons on the conduct of the Governments – and of Parliaments, for they are in it, too – during the years which led up to this catastrophe.”
This passage, coming loud and clear through the radio, confirms that I am listening to the United Kingdom Prime Minister Winston Churchill addressing his people on the state of affairs in the continuing conflict.
I check the time on my wristwatch, which is sitting on the night stand. It’s 10:05 PM here in South Africa, which sits just one time zone ahead of London, England. This is late for a public radio address, which further reinforces its importance.
I’ve followed the wartime activities in Europe intermittently, using the various global news resources available to us at college, along with gossip from fellow students who have deeper personal connections on that war-torn continent. I know the fight is not going well for the Allied forces. Hitler and his armies have already conquered the Netherlands and Belgium, with France’s capital having just been overrun as well. Great Britain is inevitably next on the list for the invasive Germanic hordes.
I’ve spent the last 18 months studying undergraduate law here at the University of Fort Hare. I’m the first person in my family to attend secondary schooling; being born in a remote village makes formal education difficult.
Fort Hare is the most prestigious university in South Africa for black students. My goal is to find a career in the service industry as an interpreter or clerk. These are two of the better profession available to native black workers in South Africa currently, and a big leap from my rural upbringing. I know such an accomplishment will make my father proud, god rest his soul.
But now that entire future is in jeopardy.
Elected to the Student Representative Council earlier this year, I very quickly became disenchanted with the group, and my responsibilities. I quickly realized that the Fort Hare student body is angry about a variety of important recurring issues, the most significant being poor food quality on campus. Understanding these concerns, I’ve sided with the student’s cause, an action which university leadership is now in the process of expelling me for.
As I’m sure Churchill has learned over his career, it’s important to listen to your constituents, and pick your battles. I wish I had done more such research before accepting the council position, and been more tactful in communication. Now that I’ve made my stance against university management, there appears no way out. I either lose the support of the student body, or my chance at degree and a successful career.
Flustered, I focus back into the continuing oration from Mr. Churchill coming over the ratio. His voice, though slightly slurred by either the broadcast quality, or something he is partaking in during the monologue, has a soothing tone in these troubled times.
I have a pretty good head for historical facts, and a portion of this speech from Mr. Churchill lights a spark in a distant region of my memory. Reaching down, I grab the hefty “An Encyclopedia of World History” text from the shelf under my nightstand. This comprehensive tome, newly published this year, and on permanent loan from the college library, is another outlet for hot nights like this when I can’t sleep. But now I have something specific to verify.
Entering about a 3rd of the way into the book from memory, I open up on the European Age of Enlightenment section. Flipping forward a few pages, I find the information I’m looking for regarding the end of the French Revolution and Napoleonic wars.
Confirmed, today is the 125th anniversary of the Battle of Waterloo, where the Duke of Wellington defeated Napoleon Bonaparte ending his reign in the region. A proud day for the British Empire. And now they will need to draw on that same tenacity again.
Even if I’m personally inspired to help in this fight against the Axis enemy, the opportunities are limited. The South Africa government has made the decision to only recruit European descendant whites to the military. This seems like a major oversight, considering us blacks outnumber whites 2 to 1 throughout the country.
I check my watch again, it’s now 10:33 PM. Assuming the broadcast started at 9 PM local time in England, the Prime Minister has been speaking for over 30 minutes. Suddenly, over the radio the tenor of the speech changes, shifting to almost a poetic cadence of blank verse.
“Let us therefore brace ourselves to
our duties, and so bear ourselves that,
if the British Empire and
its Commonwealth last for a
thousand years, men will still
say,
‘This was their finest hour.’”
The speech, or sermon, depending on your interpretation, finishes abruptly. The radio returns to its default static mode. Apparently, that’s all that the BBC has to broadcast tonight.
Now fully awake, I think back through the content of the speech. Prime Minister Winston Churchill certainly has a way with words. And a steely reserve. I roll over on my stomach, happy to not hear the sounds of whining airplanes and exploding bombs overhead.
Thanks for the guidance Mr. Churchill, I’ll follow my own conscience and resolve. I will not be returning to Ft. Hare next semester, instead I’ll let my moral compass guide the way and see where life leads. My mind is content for the first time in days, and I’m asleep within minutes.
April 28th, 2000: Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, U.S.A. – Nelson Mandela @ 82 Years Old
On this date, the American Philosophical Society presented the Ben Franklin Award for Distinguished Public Services to Nelson Mandela. Considering the number of individuals that Mr. Mandela interacted with, and imparted wisdom on, during his life, it’s likely the next world influencer is already walking among us, helping to keep this saga of inspiration, leadership, and sacrifice going.