'Tis the tramp of Saxon foemen,
Saxon spearmen, Saxon bowmen,
Be they knights or hinds or yeomen,
They shall bite the ground!
Rebecca always woke up early. Part of it was habit, instilled by a military career as long as her lifespan, but when sleep was most seductive, it was a sense of duty that got her going for the day. She knew she was called to do much.
Before even leaving her room, there were stretches to do, a bit of exercise to warm the body up before a long day. After that, her usual outfit: a white shirt above a brown skirt with a belt. The most remarkable feature of her outfit was probably the gloves, which were complex articles of leather.
Then there were arms. Her simple melee option was a hammer; not some complex warhammer with a hook or anything, just a simple, unremarkable hammer, the sort that might be used for crushing stones. She knew how to use it, but it wasn't her weapon of choice…
It stood just a touch taller than her, even with heels, and it had a draw weight to embarrass every officer that ever tried to fire it. Honestly, she thought it was kind of amusing, how they kept on trying, like they'd be the exception to a well-established pattern.
The bow, like her responsibilities, could only be handled by her. Most everyone else would be left straining in vain, needing assistance, and those few who got the closest would only get themselves hurt. The string would strike the arm or they would push themselves too far.
In her quiver were arrows. The plainer sort, the ones just meant to strike through flesh, but then the special ones: ones that would shift into planes if she so willed it, the piercing heads of anti-rigging ammunition, and old reliable explosives. Alongside her planes, it was all the kit she needed to put the foe to rout and to slay those great riggings the Germans were so fond of.
(When she dreamt– and that was rarely– she dreamt of a dragon, white as ivory, smoke in the mouth and fire in the eyes. It would circle around her, and she would only have her bow and a single arrow as her defense. Sometimes the arrow would strike true. Sometimes she'd be devoured.)
Breakfast was a humble affair, cooking done on rotation like many other roles in their navy. Admittedly, there wasn't much power you could accumulate while peeling the potatoes, but it was a good reminder for some of them, that they weren't completely above busywork.
Rebecca was a bit surprised to see laverbread among their breakfast. Something of an unusual choice, to the point that she would have thought it Japanese if she didn't know about Welsh cuisine. Eating seaweed!
She didn't know of any countries other than Japan that focused on that particular ingredient. Another odd similarity between that far-flung isle and Britain. A love of tea, a disconnect from the continent, and experimentation with carriers. For a long while, they shared in being imperialist monarchies…
Perhaps Japan would join Britain in enlightened syndicalism but for now… Rebecca was glad she wouldn't have to tangle with them. They could spend themselves up fighting foolish imperial struggles if they so pleased.
A bit of rebellion was in her blood. Or rather, it was in her name. The Rebecca riots saw the Welsh revolt against excess taxation, with a special focus on smashing up tollbooths, as a visual symbol of economic oppression.
Why that necessitated them dressing up as women…? Whatever. They styled themselves daughters of Rebecca, citing a verse from the Bible: "And they blessed Rebekah, and said unto her, Thou art our sister, be thou the mother of thousands of millions, and let thy seed possess the gate of those which hate them."
The gate line was a rather obvious choice for a movement directed against toll gates if nothing else. She had discussed the line with one of her officers, who had some ties with a Christian worker's union, and he explained how Rebecca was the mother of Esau and Jacob, and therefore, the whole nation of Israel. Meanwhile, the rioters of her namesake styled themselves as Rebecca's Daughters.
Motherhood… motherhood was a strange concept to think of. They didn't even know if it was possible for her in the first place– and she didn't want to get her own hopes up, as a piece of military hardware– but she supposed she fulfilled that role, in a sense. At times, she thought the other members of her fleet were like her children.
She also understood how rich that thought was. She was one of the youngest among their number, she depended on them terribly to handle submarines. She would never lord over her fellows, but she felt powerfully protective of them, especially the smaller destroyers. So meager, so small… the thought of them in combat pierced her heart as a blade might.
Regardless, she hoped that she lived up to her name. That she might be remembered as a mother to her fleet and her crew, shatterer of the schemes of the wicked, and perhaps, if it didn't seem too ambitious, the start of something great. Syndicalist domination, carriers…
In a similar vein to Rebecca, her escort for the day had a name that called back to a revolt against Britain. Samuel Sharpe– who preferred Sammy, usually– was a girl with flaming hair and well-tanned skin, and she burned with the same revolutionary zeal that made the slaves attempt a strike a bit more than a hundred years ago.
(Well, if you dug enough, there was some theological richness to Sammy's name as well. The original Sharpe led revolutionaries in the Baptist War.)
Did Rebecca genuinely believe in syndicalism? Yes, she did, but she wasn't as much of a zealot as some of the other girls were. Anson was notable, but Sammy was a particular zealot, seeing capitalism as a sort of overarching, subversive Evil that was, perhaps, actively malevolent in the sense of having a literal will. Not necessarily all there in the head, but you wouldn't find a more determined girl anywhere.
"Good morning, Rebecca!"
"Morning, Sammy."
Sammy took a quick peek at Rebecca's quiver. "You've got enough? I could grab you some–"
"There's no need to worry over it." Rebecca reassured her. "And no need to run off and grab some."
"Aye aye, Bos–" Sammy cut herself off. It was a tic she was working to drop. "Just making sure. You have to mind fuel and arrows both."
"It's a learned skill." Rebecca shrugged. Logistics and numbers were simple to track if you put your mind to it. Numbers in, numbers out. "Speaking of… how are your seaplane exercises going?"
"Could be better." Sammy conceded.
"Launching? Recovery? I'm afraid I can't help as much with the latter."
"Launching, yes." Samuel conceded.
"I can show you a few tricks. Wind direction is quite important…" It was easy to launch into a spiel. Sammy was more grown than the destroyers, a more attentive listener.
Sometimes, Rebecca felt that she was a bit divorced from the other ships, unlike anything that came before. She didn't fight like a carrier, and definitely not like a battleship.
She wasn't the first carrier the Union had, but she was purpose-built. A fleet carrier, if you preferred the parlance of the naval think tanks. Her precedent would be followed by generations of ships… if she proved the idea worthwhile.
Belfast was Ireland's sole shipgirl and something of a beaut. There were worse things to see at sea, even if Ireland and the Union of Britain did not always agree. Despite politics, Belfast was invariably polite and cordial with Rebecca, but with the occasional hint of a playful personality.
(Rebecca very much regretted that she had little chance of getting to know the woman more fully, of unlocking the humor behind those courteous mannerisms.)
Unfortunately, the way politics were developing, Rebecca doubted that their amicable meetings would last that much longer. The world teetered on the edge of conflict.
Her approach was a bit more hesitant today, but they still met, Belfast looking unusually melancholic. "I fear this will be our last meeting. The Admiralty wants me on a tighter leash."
After Ireland had thrown her lot in with the Entente, they understood that their meetings were doomed, eventually. It was too close to fraternization to be allowed.
Rebecca sighed. "If only you fought under the Starry Plough…"
(Connolly had dreamt of an Ireland that controlled her own destiny from the plough to the stars. The proposed flag showed the familiar asterism– the hind of Ursa Major, called the Plough in Britain, the Big Dipper across the pond– but the plowshare was a blade as if hinting at a day when swords would be beaten into plowshares. One day, hopefully, Ireland would be as free as Britain, and they would live in peace.)
Belfast smiled sadly. "I always thought you one of Britain's finest, Rebecca. More noble than a prince."
Her immediate thought was that princes and the like weren't noble, but Rebecca understood what Belfast was trying to say.
"Thank you."
"If… however this war comes to an end, I swear I will do my best to see your people treated fairly. I hope you will do the same for me."
A servant to her nation until the very end. Perhaps the universe finally decided to repay the Irish for their bad luck throughout history. What a woman, that Belfast.
Rebecca nodded. "I know what war is like… but please, if you can, don't kill the destroyers."
They made to part, but Rebecca said one last thing: "And you've more nobility than all of Canada put together!"
You'd think that Saint George was English, considering how he was beloved in the country– even if they no longer flew his flag. It was funny. He wasn't English, he probably died in the Levant somewhere. His story was just that renowned.
Well, that and being a favorite of several English kings. Letting one man define your national symbolism was one of the lesser cons of monarchism, overall, but she supposed even royalty could occasionally have bouts of good taste.
Despite the seriousness of the coming fight, her mind raced with the children's stories she would tell the destroyers. Saint George slaying the dragon. Arthur's Avalon, a splendid court that fell to pieces due to petty dynasts. Vortigern's castle, built over two clashing dragons. White and red, Saxon and Briton, locked in a struggle for England.
These dragons weren't white, although they were actual Germanics with actual hopes of invading Britain. The French fought like devils on land, but the battle for Britain and her sea lanes would be out here.
No scales shimmered, but thick plates of armor gleamed. Red and black, a color scheme that seemed almost comically evil. Malevolent eyes and mouths that belched scalding steam. It wasn't fire, but you'd best dodge like it was.
She drew and loosed, an arrow thickening and beginning to spin, the fletching morphing into the blades of a propeller.
Draw and loose. A wing of dive bombers, shooting towards the glowing eye, as malevolent as the fires of hell.
Draw and loose. Fighters, just in case the laughable German naval air forces tried something.
Draw and loose and– a glancing shell that still blew her off her feet, sending her into the water. She barely managed to avoid inhaling a lungful of salt water, and she had to slowly drag herself above the surface of the water.
(This was the sort of thing they did drills over. Helping the destroyers recover in a pool.)
She broke the surface, gasping for air. Shells flew this way and that, torpedoes drew trails in the water. Any German could have sailed up and sunk her right there. A sitting duck.
No, no, no. Without an advantage in the air, the numerical superiority of the German battleships would win the day… but no one took the obvious chance.
The destroyers and the cruisers were orbiting her, keeping the Germans at bay as she recovered, but they couldn't do it forever. They were already bleeding. Bum leg there, face covered in blood, missing arm.
They weren't supposed to die for her! No, damn it all! That was no price to pay for victory! Who was she, Jephthah?
No.
Judah, thou art he whom thy brethren shall praise: thy hand shall be in the neck of thine enemies; thy father's children shall bow down before thee.
Judah is a lion's whelp: from the prey, my son, thou art gone up: he stooped down, he couched as a lion, and as an old lion;
Who shall rouse him up?
WHO SHALL ROUSE HIM UP?
I tried to explain most references in the text, but the end passage is a reference to the Fifth Monarchists, who saw the overthrow of monarchy in the original English Civil War as ushering in a Fifth Monarchy, a kingdom of the saints. Wacky lads.