Mackinac island nation, p.1
Mackinac Island Nation, page 1
Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Acknowledgements
Book Club Questions
Mackinac Island Nation
Copyright © 2023 Erik Deckers. All rights reserved.
4 Horsemen Publications, Inc.
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Edited by 4 Horsemen Publications, Inc.
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This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022951738
Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-64450-774-2
Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-64450-775-9
Audiobook ISBN-13: 978-1-64450-776-6
Ebook ISBN-13: 978-1-64450-777-3
To Toni, Maddie, Emma, and Ben:
God only knows what I’d be without you
Introduction
December 1814, Ghent,
the Kingdom of The Netherlands
“Gentlemen, please. The war has dragged on too long.” Henry Goulburn, the British Undersecretary for War and the Colonies gripped his lapels. “My government wants an end to it and to bring peace back to our two countries.”
“You mean your merchants want to begin trading with our country again,” said John Quincy Adams.
“Well, that is, we, uh—”
“Hey, we get it. Our wives have been complaining that they haven’t had a proper cup of tea in three years, and the First Lady keeps whingeing about missing out on the latest Paris fashions.”
Women and their fashion! The men around the table chortled and guffawed, their sideburns quivering, and gave each other knowing looks, not knowing what awaited them in 202 years.
“Before we start, we should probably tell the kitchen to begin preparing supper,” said Adams. “We brought five French chefs with us, and I hear these Belgians make some decent chocolate.”
“I could eat,” said Henry Clay.
“Yes, yes, fine, fine,” said Goulburn. “But if we could return to the matter at hand.”
“We’re in no rush,” said Adams. “We just need to set the chefs to work if we want to eat before midnight, Mr. Undersecretary. What these men can do with beef would make you weep.”
“But didn’t your own Mr. Franklin say ‘Eat to live, do not live to eat?’” asked Goulburn.
“Yes, but he also said ‘Eat to please thyself, and dress to please others,’” said Clay. “Plus, the man was a known glutton and struggled with gout for the last 15 years of his life.”
Adams folded his hands on the table and leaned forward. “So what do you want from us?”
“Well, we’d like you to stop attacking our outposts,” said Goulburn.
“And stop attacking our supply base in Canada,” said Lord Gambier, Admiral in HRH’s Royal Navy.
“And reduce the tariffs on our imported goods,” said Goulburn.
“If you stop blockading our harbors and allow shipments to get through,” said Adams.
“Yes, the First Lady’s corsets are weakening,” said Henry Clay. The men chortled and guffawed again, as old white men from history often did.
“Plus, all soldiers must remove themselves from American soil, and reduce your contingent in Canada by half,” said Adams.
“What about the various territories?” asked William Adams, the British admiralty’s lawyer, no relation to John Quincy. His uncle was well-connected in the British government, so William was sent along as a favor. The men started calling him “Wadams” so as not to confuse him with John Quincy.
“Such as?” asked Clay.
“Well, uh, the government of Canada has asked for their territory in Ontario to be returned to them,” said Wadams.
“And what do we get in return?” asked Adams, hands still folded.
“We’ll return Mackinaw City to you, as well as, uh—” Wadams consulted a document in front of him. “I believe it’s called… Michilimackinac Island?”
“Oh sure, Fort Mackinac,” said Adams. “I suppose we could take those off your hands.”
“Take them off our hands? But don’t you want them?”
“Meh. It’s too hard to get to, and the place is overrun with mosquitoes half the year and buried in snow the other half.”
Wadams pressed further. “I have one additional, ah, request, on behalf of Governor General Prévost. He has asked that as a way to thank our Indian allies, the Chippewa and Ottawa tribes, he would like to, ah, give Michilimackinac to them. As a measure of our gratitude.”
Adams looked at Clay. “Give us a few minutes, would you please, gentlemen?” They rose from the table and stepped outside. The rest of their contingency joined them. After a few minutes of low-voiced discussion, Adams and Clay returned to the table.
“We’ll let you have it, but we don’t want to give it to them right away.”
“How much time did you have in mind?” asked Gambier.
“Three hundred years?” said Adams.
“That’s a long, long time,” said Wadams.
“We would even be willing to go to 200 years, but you have to promise not to send any more Marmite,” said Adams. “I tasted that in 1794, and I nearly drank whiskey to get the taste out.”
“But that’s still awfully far off—” stammered Wadams.
“What the hell do we care?” said Goulburn. “These Indians don’t have any concept of time. They just keep talking about ‘moons’ or some such thing.”
“Who should we give it to then?” asked Clay
“That’s the problem,” said Wadams. “Both the Ottawa and Chippewa have claims on the island, but their population continues to change.”
“How about this?” said Adams. “Let’s just put down ‘On July 1, 2015, Mackinac Island shall be separated from the United States, granted its independence, and given to the residents of that island for their total and free control.’”
“Why 2015?” asked Wadams.
“Complete stab in the dark, really. It’ll take us a few weeks just to sail back home, and then Congress has to ratify the treaty,” said Adams. “You know how those things go. I remember all the shit Dad went through when he was President, so I figure they’ll take three months just to read the damn thing, and another three to bitch about it, and then we’ll be looking at June or July. So, you know, 200 years after that. How many ‘moons’ is that, I wonder.” John Quincy laughed at his own joke.
“Sounds good to me.” Goulburn slugged back the rest of his wine. “And hey, by the time they figure out what’s going on, we’ll all be dead anyway, am I right?
Chapter 1
“10…9…”
The parade grounds at Fort Mackinac were packed as thousands of people—tourists, residents, and journalists from around the world—gathered in front of the wall, all counting down to midnight. Pete Bidwell stood on the battlements, watching the crowd staring up at the giant electronic clock that had been installed for this moment.
Around the island, along Market Street, in the yards of the hotels, on boats in the harbor, there were tens of thousands more people, celebrating, drinking, and counting. Excited for what was to come, excited to be on the cusp of history. Pete felt the vibrations of their counting rumble in his chest. Or maybe that was his heart.
The clock ticked the last seconds of the day toward midnight. It sounded like a New Year’s Eve celebration, except it was the last day of June. At least for a few more seconds.
“8…7…”
Pete rubbed the bridge of his nose and wished he could be anywhere else. In six seconds, he was about to make history, or rather, have history thrust upon him. Once the clock struck midnight, his whole world was going to change, putting him at the center of one of the biggest events in the country’s history.
“6…5…”
It was a simple enough problem. Just a bureaucratic snafu, really,” said the fussy little man from the U.S. State Department. A simple oversight that should have been corrected 200 years ago, but everyone had forgotten about it. All it was going to take was a simple vote from Congress, and everything would be fine again.
“4…3…”
But until the most inefficient governing body in the free world got its shit together, Pete was going to be the first President of the Nation of Mackinac Island, a former territory of the United States, in exactly—
“2…1…”
Two weeks earlier…
Pete stared at the fussy man in the gray wool suit sitting across from him. The man constantly adjusted and touched his glasses, and Pete wanted to rip them off his face and stomp on them.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about this,” said Pete. “It sounds like your problem, not ours.”
“Well, this affects us both, Mr. Bidwell,” said the man, touching his glasses again. “And it affects everyone who lives on this island, visits it, or has business interests on it.”
“I don’t see how. It’s a 200-year-old treaty that’s been sitting in a dusty old office somewhere.”
“Actually, it’s been sitting in the historical archives of my office,” said the man. His name was Walter Walker, and he was a mid-level bureaucrat with the U.S. State Department, in charge of treaties and contracts. He had long dreamed of being a diplomat to far-off exotic lands, but a myriad of food allergies, poor social skills, and a complete failure to master the machinations of basic office politics kept him tethered to a cubicle for the last 28 years. And his constant glasses touching made everyone nervous.
And now it was a bright June morning, and he was sitting in the back office of Mackinac Gifts, giving Pete Bidwell a headache.
“So how does the Treaty of Ghent affect our little island? And why are you telling me all this?”
Walter pulled two manila folders out of his briefcase and handed one to Pete. He opened the other.
“I’m bringing this to you, Mr. Bidwell, because you are on the Board of Trustees for the Town of Mackinaw, which controls Mackinac Island,” said Walter, pronouncing it “Mackinack.”
“It’s Mackinaw.”
“What’s that?”
“Our island. The C is silent. It’s pronounced Mackinaw, like the city, but it’s spelled Mackinac. It’s French.”
“Ah. We’ve been pronouncing it wrong at the office all week,” said Walter. “As I was saying, you’re on the Board of Trustees as the representative for Mackinaw Island. As the sole elected official for the island, that puts you in charge, and my responsibility is to make you aware of this situation.”
“Lovely,” said Pete.
Walter continued: “As you no doubt know, after the Revolutionary War, the Americans and the British signed the Treaty of Paris ending the war. We ended up with Mackinac Island under our control. After the War of 1812, where the Americans defeated the British, the Canadians, and the Chippewa and Ottawa Indians, they signed the Treaty of Ghent.” Pete started counting the number of times Walter touched his glasses.
“Still not seeing it.”
“Please, bear with me a moment longer,” said Walter, touching his glasses. (“Six,” thought Pete, counting all the other times since this conversation started.) “During the War of 1812, British forces took over Fort Mackinac. But after we won and the treaty was negotiated, the Americans demanded the return of any and all captured lands, ships, soldiers, and other property. Similarly, any American-held areas of Canada, in what is now modern-day Ontario, were returned to the British.”
Pete opened his mouth to interrupt, but Walter held up a hand. He adjusted his glasses before he continued.
“Lieutenant General George Prevost, the Governor General of Canada, was sympathetic to the efforts of their Chippewa and Ottawa allies. As a gesture of gratitude for their help, he managed to squeeze in a little clause about Mackinac Island. He asked that ownership of the island be returned to the natives after 200 years.”
“Seriously, 200 years? That seems to be an awfully far-off future to be thinking about.”
“Yes, well, the general wasn’t as concerned for their welfare as he wanted everyone to think. This was a way he could thank his allies but still make it palatable to the British high command.”
“So what? We have control of the island now.”
“We who, Mr. Bidwell?”
“America. We won the war, we own the island, right?”
“Ah, there’s the problem, you see. Part of the treaty stated that the island would be removed from American control and returned to the occupants of the island.”
“But there aren’t any Chippewa or Ottawa on the island,” said Pete slowly, as the pieces began falling into place.
“Precisely,” said Walter, glancing down at his paper. He took off his glasses and cleaned them on his tie. Pete debated whether to count that as one long touch or several small touches.
Walter continued: “Governor Prevost had specifically requested ‘control and predetermination of the island be given over to the native occupants of the island of Mackinac.’ And as you say, since there are no Native Americans on the island, control must be given to the remaining residents.”
“Oh shit,” said Pete, as the last piece fell into place, making him lose count.
“Precisely,” said Walter. “And that is why I’m here.”
“But the Americans control it now. We’re the native occupants. Don’t we just keep control?”
“We could, except Governor Prevost specifically asked that control be taken away from America, which means the government can’t control it even if we are the natives. The signatories at the time agreed to it, figuring they would find a solution to the clause. And since many conditions of the Treaty of Ghent still dictate how our relationship with the British government functions, we can’t just violate the terms of the treaty and pretend it never happened. Which means, as far as our lawyers have determined, Mackinac Island will become a self-governing society until—”
“Until what?” demanded Pete. He unconsciously reached up to touch his own glasses until he remembered he didn’t wear any.
“Don’t worry, we’re working on a solution at State and hope to implement it soon.”
“What’s that?”
“We re-annex Mackinac Island back into the country and restore it to its proper place, as a part of the state of Michigan. We assume the people of Mackinac will also want this, and the annexation can take place with a minimum of fuss.”
Pete leaned back. “That’s great, Mr. Walker. You really had me worried there for a minute. How long is that going to take?”
Walter thought for a moment, really working at his glasses now. “Hmm, let’s see. The last territory we truly annexed was the Virgin Islands in 1917. So we’ll have to dig out the paperwork on that…” Walter stared upward, doing some mental calculations with his fingers. “Then we’ll need approval from Congress—”
“Congress!”
“Oh yes, we need to get approval from Congress for this sort of thing. You just can’t fill out a form and be done with it in a week.”
“So how long will all this take?
“At least eighteen months. Possibly two years.”
“Two years!”
“Well, there are legal documents to file, and Congress will hold hearings so they can posture and make grand speeches about this terrible loss of American soil. Plus, next year is an election year, which means they’ll focus on getting re-elected, not actually doing the business of the country.”
Pete’s eyes bugged out, and he ran both hands through his hair.
“Oh shit oh shit oh shit,” he mumbled, staring off into space, his mind blank. “What do we do now?”
Walter glanced at a paper calendar, and then at his watch. “The deadline set forth in the treaty is in precisely two weeks, at the stroke of midnight on July 1, 2015. But until we get this matter sorted out, there’s not much to do.”
“You mean we just have to sit and wait and not be a part of the United States for the next 18 to 24 months?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Walter, putting his folder back into his briefcase and locking it shut.
“Can’t we just ignore it? Pretend you never found it?” asked Pete.
