The Art of Imperialism



Prologue
''In the unmistakable might that is the British Empire, there are few who still speak the story of Krantikari. To many, this name is only but a fable - a tale that the people of colonial Sikkim* seldom speak. Much to the fog of the public eye, this tale is one that altered the course of history; one that remains true from start to fine; one that is an essential to any steadfast advocate.''

''Although the details are now a mere iota clouded in my mind, I believe the year was Seventeen Thirty-Three in the Year of Our Lord; and nearly a score has passed since then. The sublime men of the Eighty-Fifth Batallion stood anxiously on the sun-drenched wharfs of Southampton†, eager to depart on-board the HMS Bombay for the distant posts they had been assigned. After the jovial voyage, they would reach Katale‡ in the early days of June. One man, a young corporal of the Eighty-Fifth Batallion, would fine friendship among the natives, and would soon discover the sinister plan his authorities had planned.'' Part I

Chapter I
AS A FRIGID BREEZE suddenly cut the January afternoon, the sails of the HMS Bombay bellowed and the mass creaked sharply in agreement. The twenty-four-gunned ship-of-the-line, proudly bearing a Union Jack and, below that, the insignia of the British Royal Navy, sat patiently, anchored against the wooden wharf on which stood the military company of the Eighty-Fifth Batallion, whom, within hours, would proudly call the docked man-o-war home. As the ship's care-takers finished preparations on the vessel, the company stood anxiously on the wharf, awaiting the disembarkment that would mark the beginning of their journey.

Officially, their duty was to accompany a British dignitary by the name of Sinclair (as well as his cabinet) to the newly-emerging British colony of Sikkim, in the outer-rim of the Empire. Sinclair, a distinguished member of the British parliament in Westminister, requested the military personnal on the account of using them merely as his personal bodyguard, as his diplomatic instructions were executed in Sikkim. None of the soldiers were truly aware of what his said 'diplomatic instructions' were in specific, but no individual questioned the eminent parliamentarian.

In the waning hours before departure, each soldier of the company tended to his own activities as a source of entertainment during the layover. A large fraction of the batallion had wandered up Southampton's sea-side boulevard to the local maritime pub, the 'Neptune's Bride', for a glass of stout. Others had discovered an open heath adjacent to the wharfs and had conducted an impromptu game of cricket. However, a hand-full of companymen had remaind on the docks to commerce among each other. All except one. On a crate on the far end of the wharf sat a young, pale, fine-haired man of about twenty-one. In his hand he held a musket, which he was vigourously shining with a muslin cloth to preoccupy himself.

"You have five-and-a-half months to shine your musket, Bishop." said an amused voice, suddenly.

The young man looked up from his zealous activity to see a fellow soldier towering over him. It was George Hanson, an intelligent sergeant just a few years older than the young man, and the officer of his division.

"A couple of 'em others and I were thinking about going across the street for a quick whiskey or two," continued Hanson in his thick Aberdonian* accent. "Care to tag along?"

"You go on ahead, sergeant." said Bishop with a light smile.

Once Hanson had bid him farewell, Bishop immediately continued to tend to his malachite musket. Never had he been one to 'tag along' with the others; he preferred to remain alone and one could easily describe him as socially inept.

It was an unusually warm and sunny day for the middle of January. Not a cloud dotted the sky, and comfortable, slightly chilled breezes regularly made their passings. The city of Southampton itself was a paradox: despite being one of the busiest and most active port cities in all of Great Britain, it remained relatively quiet on this particular day. The only sounds that were audible from the wooden warf were the sounds of distant conversation, mixed with the various tones of the tide stirring against the dock's wooden frame. The seldom breezes caused the shipyard's naval bells to chime together, forming a melodious symphony. The sun was now at its apex, meaning it was approximately noon. It would not be long before disembarkment.

Suddenly influenced, Bishop lay his musket down on its side by the crate he had been sitting upon, giving care as not to damage it or set it off. He then stood and proceeded on a brisk walk around the wharf. He took notice of all those conversing before him; some of his companymen were engaged in conversation with some of the town's fair-skinned lasses; merchants and traders were conducting business as routine; and, standing in one of the wharf's alcove, garbed in a bone-white wig and a black lourde's coat stood Adrian Sinclair himself: the parliamentarian who mastermined the soon-to-be trip, and the acting admiral of the ''HMS Bombay. ''Standing beside him were his silent dignitaries, dressed very similarly. Sinclair was deep in conversation with a soldier Bishop recognised as Colonel Reynold Stauton, the commander of the Eighty-Fifth Batallion. He was a brawny man, with graying hair and multiple facial scars that proved his experience. He was a no-nonsense man, but nonetheless, knew how to lead a company. Colonel Stauton, looked away from Sinclair for all but a second, and peered suspiciously at Bishop from the corner of his eye. He then proceeded to make eye contact with the parliamentarian.

Bishop continued on his way, walking down the wharf parallel to the sea. He knew there was still a couple hours before the company must assemble for departure, so he decided a stroll down Millbrook Row would be instrumental in killing time. As he walked, he kept his head down, his eyes glued to his alternating feet. Finally he came to the end of the wooden wharf, and took his first step on Southampton's sea-side cobblestone street. A few steps in, his head still down, he collided with another man, knocking against his left shoulder. A collection of documents sporting fine cursive writing the man had been holding suddenly exploded upon the impact, and scattered in all directions.

After grunting from the collision, Bishop was able to find the words, "Ah, excuse me... I must not have been looking." He then proceeded to crouch down and aid the man he had bumped into pick up his scattered documents.

<p style="text-align:left;">"Qu-quite alrigt, lad. One's got to be with care when walking through these parts, yes?" replied the man as he also shoveled paper into his hand.

<p style="text-align:left;">Bishop detected an Irish accent from the man, and immediately looked up. He had an unusual face: round and plump with jolly blue eyes, framed with light blonde hair. The man was wearing a pith† and a dark green suit. He immediately scanned Bishop, and took note of his bright red coat and gold-trimmed tricorne.

<p style="text-align:left;">"And I assume you be one of the sold'yers leaving today, lad?" said the Irishman. Bishop said yes.

<p style="text-align:left;">"Ah, well, I suppose I'll be seeing ye on board! I be going myself as well."

<p style="text-align:left;">"Are you a member of Sinclair's cabinet?" asked Bishop, rather confused.

<p style="text-align:left;">"Nay, I work with the Daily Courant in London. A journalist. I've been asked to cover all events happening o'er in Sikkim."

<p style="text-align:left;">As soon as the two had finished picking up all stray papers, they proceeded to walk together down Millbrook Way.

<p style="text-align:left;">"By the wey," began the journalist, "The name's Colin. Colin O'Leary." He extended his arm towards Bishop, which he met half way.

<p style="text-align:left;">"Octavian Bishop." said Bishop sternly.

<p style="text-align:left;">"Octavian? That be an odd name for a lad." said Colin, amused.

<p style="text-align:left;">"It's named for the first emperor of Rome, I think. It was also the name of my father; he was a pub-owner over yonder in Lyndhurst, not too far from here."

<p style="text-align:left;">"Well, I don't know much about Rome, but I could sure use a bar right now. What say ye lad for a cup o' ale b'fore we take to the seas?"

<p style="text-align:left;">To this, Octavian Bishop agreed, and the two found the nearest pub.

<p style="text-align:left;">It wasn't long before the bells rang at high noon. The soldiers assembled on Hythe Wharf to begin loading on to the HMS Bombay. <h3 style="text-align:left;">Chapter II <p style="text-align:left;">Coming soon

Prologue
<p style="text-align:left;">Sikkim * - ''British colonial India. Also known as Hindustan'' <p style="text-align:left;">Southampton† - Large port city in southern Great Britain <p style="text-align:left;">Katale‡ - Small Hindu kingdom in southwestern India

Chapter I
<p style="text-align:left;">Aberdonian* - Demonym; Aberdeen is a large town in northeastern Scotland <p style="text-align:left;">pith† - Irish-style top-hat popular in the 18th century