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Some minutes later the officers on the Badger’s quarterdeck moved over to the leeward side as their captain appeared, followed by his guest. In the waist, the sailmaker and his mates were sewing the dead men into their hammocks, in preparation for the funeral. The gunner’s junior mate emerged form the main hatch, bearing a bucket of roundshot for their feet, to carry them down.
Philip led Dr M’Mullen to the taffrail. “The battery commands the harbor,” he explained, “and now that they know who we are there will be no sneaking past them. And, of course, we have to get you to Gideon's Bay.” He paused, but Dr M’Mullen did not take the opportunity to observe that perhaps he didn’t need to get to Gideon’s Bay just yet, far less to observe that Philip should land seamen and marines and take the fort from behind, then burn, sink, take, or destroy all of the shipping in the harbor. Philip sighed. “Mr Horrace,” he said to the gunner, whose watch it was, “once the service is done we will up anchor and lay in a course for Gideon’s Bay.”
Simkin mounted the quarterdeck, flipping through the General Printed Instructions for the funeral service. “Here, sir,” he said.
Captain Fitton took the book from his servant and nodded, saw that the crew was assembled, and pressed his hat more firmly onto his head. He read the service - it mingled strangely with that occurring on the Chasseur, just to windward, and took off his hat as the dead mens’ mess mates lifted the hatch cover, three times, sending the bodies into the water one at a time. The Captain placed his hat back on his head and turned away to wipe a tear from his eye. He glanced over at the Chasseur and saw that they were done (only one splash followed their service). “Mr Horrace, up anchor. Mr Wilkins, signal Chasseur to follow.”
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GLOSSARY
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Why we're asked about eggs when we get the flu shot
When we receive the flu shot (influenza vaccination) we're typically asked a few things, such as are we currently sick, have we ever had Gullian Barre' Syndrome (GBS), and are we allergic to eggs. We're asked if we're sick because the vaccine triggers our immune system, and if we're sick, our immune system is already busy. Depending on how sick we are, perhaps it's better to allow our immune system to finish off our illness before presenting it with the vaccine. We're asked about GBS because having it once suggests that we may get it again. I discuss GBS and the flu vaccine in more detail here. Eggs are my focus on this post, and that explanation requires a little bit of background on how a virus (such as the flu) reproduces (copies itself).
A Little Virology (Study of Viruses)
A cell, whether it's one of the cells in our bodies, or a cell from our pet cat or dog, or whether it is a bacterium (1 bacterium + 1 bacterium = 2 bacteria, and each bacterium is a single cell) contains everything it needs to reporduce. All we need to do is feed the cell, and it does the rest - it repproduces its DNA and all of its internal parts, and then splits into two new cells.
A virus can't do this on its own. It lacks some of the machinery needed to reproduce, and needs to break into a cell and trick the cell's internal machinery into reproducing the virus.
Making the Vaccine - the Chicken Egg Connection
The flu vaccine works by showing a weak or inactivated copy of the flu virus to our immune system, so that if we later see the real flu virus, the immune system can quickly pounce on it and kill it off. As I've said before (see this post for details), the vaccine is kind of like a test prep course for our immune system, where the flu is the actual test: taking the vaccine leaves our immune system better able to take the flu.
The point for this post is that in order to make the vaccine, we need to make a lot of copies of the flu virus, and the easiest way for us to do that is to put the virus in a cell and let the virus do its thing, hijacking the cell and making lots of copies of itself. The cell we use for this is a chicken egg (a chicken egg is a cell).
Since we grow the virus up in a chicken egg, we can end up with some egg in the vaccine itself. So, if someone is allergic to egg, then perhaps the vaccine isn't for them.
A Little Virology (Study of Viruses)
A cell, whether it's one of the cells in our bodies, or a cell from our pet cat or dog, or whether it is a bacterium (1 bacterium + 1 bacterium = 2 bacteria, and each bacterium is a single cell) contains everything it needs to reporduce. All we need to do is feed the cell, and it does the rest - it repproduces its DNA and all of its internal parts, and then splits into two new cells.
A virus can't do this on its own. It lacks some of the machinery needed to reproduce, and needs to break into a cell and trick the cell's internal machinery into reproducing the virus.
Making the Vaccine - the Chicken Egg Connection
The flu vaccine works by showing a weak or inactivated copy of the flu virus to our immune system, so that if we later see the real flu virus, the immune system can quickly pounce on it and kill it off. As I've said before (see this post for details), the vaccine is kind of like a test prep course for our immune system, where the flu is the actual test: taking the vaccine leaves our immune system better able to take the flu.
The point for this post is that in order to make the vaccine, we need to make a lot of copies of the flu virus, and the easiest way for us to do that is to put the virus in a cell and let the virus do its thing, hijacking the cell and making lots of copies of itself. The cell we use for this is a chicken egg (a chicken egg is a cell).
Since we grow the virus up in a chicken egg, we can end up with some egg in the vaccine itself. So, if someone is allergic to egg, then perhaps the vaccine isn't for them.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
The flu
A colleague recently wrote me that he had read my post on the flu vaccine and GBS, and his son had had GBS at age 3.
I am sorry that his son had GBS. It is not a fun condition, and it must be horrifying to see in one's own child. But as a medical professional, and as a public health professional, I have to be very careful not to confuse one patient's experience with what is likely to happen to all, most, or even many patients.
My point on flu vaccine and GBS is that, although there is the possibility of GBS from getting the vaccine, not getting the vaccine leaves people liable to influenza - so the question is, which possibility is greater, and which condition is worse? WHO states that on 1 million vaccinations, 1 case of GBS will result. Last year, (as of 1 July 2008) the US population was 304,059,724(1) - if we had vaccinated everyone, that would translate into 304 cases of GBS; with a fatality rate of 6% (the larger end of the estimate from the CDC, as discussed in the previous post) that would yield 18 deaths total.
On the influenza side, for the 2007 - 2008 season, 88 "Influenza-Associated" pediatric deaths occurred. That's pediatric deaths only - not counting the deaths in young adults, middle aged adults, and the elderly. And this is death from seasonal flu only, not swine flu (also known as H1N1)(2)
So, looking at these numbers, we have 18 vaccination deaths in the entire population, if we vaccinated everyone; or 88 deaths in the pediatric population from the flu itself, plus additional deaths in the adult populations.
I'd rather go with the vaccination.
[Edited 25 October 2009]
Previous post: The flu vaccine and GBS
SOURCE:
(1) http://www.census.gov/popest/states/tables/NST-EST2008-01.xls
(2) http://www.cdc.gov/flu/weekly/weeklyarchives2008-2009/weekly32.htm
I am sorry that his son had GBS. It is not a fun condition, and it must be horrifying to see in one's own child. But as a medical professional, and as a public health professional, I have to be very careful not to confuse one patient's experience with what is likely to happen to all, most, or even many patients.
My point on flu vaccine and GBS is that, although there is the possibility of GBS from getting the vaccine, not getting the vaccine leaves people liable to influenza - so the question is, which possibility is greater, and which condition is worse? WHO states that on 1 million vaccinations, 1 case of GBS will result. Last year, (as of 1 July 2008) the US population was 304,059,724(1) - if we had vaccinated everyone, that would translate into 304 cases of GBS; with a fatality rate of 6% (the larger end of the estimate from the CDC, as discussed in the previous post) that would yield 18 deaths total.
On the influenza side, for the 2007 - 2008 season, 88 "Influenza-Associated" pediatric deaths occurred. That's pediatric deaths only - not counting the deaths in young adults, middle aged adults, and the elderly. And this is death from seasonal flu only, not swine flu (also known as H1N1)(2)
So, looking at these numbers, we have 18 vaccination deaths in the entire population, if we vaccinated everyone; or 88 deaths in the pediatric population from the flu itself, plus additional deaths in the adult populations.
I'd rather go with the vaccination.
[Edited 25 October 2009]
Previous post: The flu vaccine and GBS
SOURCE:
(1) http://www.census.gov/popest/states/tables/NST-EST2008-01.xls
(2) http://www.cdc.gov/flu/weekly/weeklyarchives2008-2009/weekly32.htm
Thursday, October 15, 2009
The flu vaccine and GBS
In 1976, a study showed a possible connection between influenza vaccination (the flu shot) and Guillain-Barré Syndrome (GBS). In GBS, the body attacks its own nervous system, causing weakness and paralysis. Most people recover completely over several weeks or months, but some do have permanent problems, and about five percent of people who get GBS die. So, a connection between influenza vaccination and GBS alarmed a lot of people (and rightly so) because we don't want to be giving people GBS when we vaccinate them against the flu. Since 1976, many other studies have looked for a connection between influenza vaccination and GBS.(1)
Only one study has found a connection: it stated that for every one million people vaccinated against the flu, one person "may be at risk of GBS associated with the vaccine." Not "will get GBS," but "may be at risk." And again, no other studies have found any connections between the vaccine and GBS.(1) (See also (3))
What this means is that there may have been a real connection between the vaccine and GBS. Unfortunately, we cannot rule this out absolutely. there is a chance - a very small chance, but a chance - that today's vaccine is somehow connected to GBS.
Does this mean that we shouldn't get vaccinated against influenza? Not necessarily. To decide whether or not to get the vaccine, we need to look at what might happen if we do get the shot and compare it to what might happen if we don't get the shot. We've already looked at the biggest potential negative of the shot. The smaller negatives include things like redness at the injection site, soreness, headache, etc, most no different from the results of placebo treatment. For a small group of people there is an additional negative - if you’re allergic to something in the vaccine, the vaccine can give you an allergic reaction. (This is why they ask you if you’re allergic to eggs, for instance, since eggs are used in the preparation of the vaccine).
There have also been concerns regarding vaccines and autism. This originated with the MMR vaccine. Hilton, Hunt and Petticrew, writing in 2007, note that
Next, we need to look at the positives of getting the vaccine, and then the positives and negatives of not getting the vaccine. Then we’ll be able to make an educated decision on whether or not to get the vaccine.
The benefits of the vaccine are that it provides protection from the flu, as I discuss in this post. Some readers may also be aware of the study that showed that people who received a flu shot are less likely to die - from any cause - over the following year, but I suspect that this is because that those who receive a flu shot are also receiving better all-around medical care - I doubt that the flu shot is a panacea (a cure for all ills). So for our discussion, we’ll focus on the flu, which means we need to talk about what the flu actually can do to us.
Next up: the flu
Also: Why do we need a flu shot every year?
Edited 16 Oct, 4:40 pm Eastern)
SOURCES:
(1) Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, “Seasonal Flu and Guillain-Barré Syndrome (GBS)” at http://www.cdc.gov/flu/about/qa/gbs.htm, on 13 October 2009
(2) Hilton, Hunt and Petticrew, “Autism: a Focus Group study: MMR: marginalised, misrepresented and rejected?” Archives of Disease in Childhood. downloaded 21 March 2008 from adc.bmj.com
(3) World Health Organization, "Influenza vaccines: WHO position paper." downloaded form http://www.who.int/entity/wer/2005/wer8033.pdf on 16 October, 2009
Only one study has found a connection: it stated that for every one million people vaccinated against the flu, one person "may be at risk of GBS associated with the vaccine." Not "will get GBS," but "may be at risk." And again, no other studies have found any connections between the vaccine and GBS.(1) (See also (3))
What this means is that there may have been a real connection between the vaccine and GBS. Unfortunately, we cannot rule this out absolutely. there is a chance - a very small chance, but a chance - that today's vaccine is somehow connected to GBS.
Does this mean that we shouldn't get vaccinated against influenza? Not necessarily. To decide whether or not to get the vaccine, we need to look at what might happen if we do get the shot and compare it to what might happen if we don't get the shot. We've already looked at the biggest potential negative of the shot. The smaller negatives include things like redness at the injection site, soreness, headache, etc, most no different from the results of placebo treatment. For a small group of people there is an additional negative - if you’re allergic to something in the vaccine, the vaccine can give you an allergic reaction. (This is why they ask you if you’re allergic to eggs, for instance, since eggs are used in the preparation of the vaccine).
There have also been concerns regarding vaccines and autism. This originated with the MMR vaccine. Hilton, Hunt and Petticrew, writing in 2007, note that
The aetiology of autism remains unclear. The suggestion that MMR vaccination may be a cause received wide-spread publicity, although subsequent scientific research has failed to support a link.(2)On a different note, people who get the vaccine sometimes still get the flu - the vaccine matches what the virus looked like when the vaccine was being made, but the virus looks slightly different now. But the vaccine is still useful, since it primes the immune system, and people who get the flu after getting the vaccine have a milder case of the flu - the illness isn’t as bad. So if you’ve ever gotten the vaccine and later gotten sick with influenza, you would have been even sicker without the vaccine.
Next, we need to look at the positives of getting the vaccine, and then the positives and negatives of not getting the vaccine. Then we’ll be able to make an educated decision on whether or not to get the vaccine.
The benefits of the vaccine are that it provides protection from the flu, as I discuss in this post. Some readers may also be aware of the study that showed that people who received a flu shot are less likely to die - from any cause - over the following year, but I suspect that this is because that those who receive a flu shot are also receiving better all-around medical care - I doubt that the flu shot is a panacea (a cure for all ills). So for our discussion, we’ll focus on the flu, which means we need to talk about what the flu actually can do to us.
Next up: the flu
Also: Why do we need a flu shot every year?
Edited 16 Oct, 4:40 pm Eastern)
SOURCES:
(1) Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, “Seasonal Flu and Guillain-Barré Syndrome (GBS)” at http://www.cdc.gov/flu/about/qa/gbs.htm, on 13 October 2009
(2) Hilton, Hunt and Petticrew, “Autism: a Focus Group study: MMR: marginalised, misrepresented and rejected?” Archives of Disease in Childhood. downloaded 21 March 2008 from adc.bmj.com
(3) World Health Organization, "Influenza vaccines: WHO position paper." downloaded form http://www.who.int/entity/wer/2005/wer8033.pdf on 16 October, 2009
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
The flu shot, and why we need it every year
So, we've said that the immune system can learn to recognize pathogens, and that a vaccine teaches the immune system to recognize a pathogen (If you don't remember how or why, see the previous post.) If that's the case, why do we need a vaccine for the flu every year?
It turns out that the flu virus is prone to mutation. This year's flu virus doesn't quite look like last year's virus. The change is enough that even if the immune system will recognize last year's virus (either from a vaccine or from getting the actual illness), it probably won't recognize this year's flu virus. So even if we got last year's vaccine, we need this year's to be protected this year.
Next: aren’t there problems with the flu vaccine?
It turns out that the flu virus is prone to mutation. This year's flu virus doesn't quite look like last year's virus. The change is enough that even if the immune system will recognize last year's virus (either from a vaccine or from getting the actual illness), it probably won't recognize this year's flu virus. So even if we got last year's vaccine, we need this year's to be protected this year.
Next: aren’t there problems with the flu vaccine?
STO'B 44
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
Chapter 4
Once they were well clear of the battery Philip tacked and stood the crew down from quarters. He fed them watch by watch, set them on repairing the damage wrought by the battery, and retreated to his cabin to think.
It was not until he was sweeping aside the curtain that now served that cabin for a door that he remembered that for the moment, the cabin not his, but by then he had already intruded. “I beg your pardon,” he said. Then, “I merely meant to ask if you had been, uh, inconvenienced by the banging.”
“Not at all,” said Dr M’Mullen. “Would you care for some coffee? I’m sure there’s another mug somewhere.”
There was another mug, and thus it was in the great cabin that Dr Foster found Captain Fitton (Dr M’Mullen having stepped into the quarter gallery for the moment) when the surgeon went to make his report. “Three dead, sir, and seven wounded, of which most should survive.”
Ten casualties - about ten percent of his men. He took the list from the surgeon. “Wykoff and Brown, ordinary, and Mitchel, able, killed.” He remembered Wykoff, a strong, talkative fellow, covered with tattoos, and Mitchel he had served with in an earlier command. “Brown was the man with the red handkerchief, yes?”
“Yes, sir, he died of a leg wound, and after some interference by - oh, Dr McMuffin, how do you do?”
“Very well, sir, and yourself?” asked Patrick, buttoning the last button on his breeches. “You were saying something about interference? How did the man with the leg wound do?”
“He died,” said Philip.
Patrick sat down. “Cautery might have saved him.”
“There was not time to find out. And may I request, sir, that you leave the care of the men to their proper physician?”
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
GLOSSARY
Chapter 4
Once they were well clear of the battery Philip tacked and stood the crew down from quarters. He fed them watch by watch, set them on repairing the damage wrought by the battery, and retreated to his cabin to think.
It was not until he was sweeping aside the curtain that now served that cabin for a door that he remembered that for the moment, the cabin not his, but by then he had already intruded. “I beg your pardon,” he said. Then, “I merely meant to ask if you had been, uh, inconvenienced by the banging.”
“Not at all,” said Dr M’Mullen. “Would you care for some coffee? I’m sure there’s another mug somewhere.”
There was another mug, and thus it was in the great cabin that Dr Foster found Captain Fitton (Dr M’Mullen having stepped into the quarter gallery for the moment) when the surgeon went to make his report. “Three dead, sir, and seven wounded, of which most should survive.”
Ten casualties - about ten percent of his men. He took the list from the surgeon. “Wykoff and Brown, ordinary, and Mitchel, able, killed.” He remembered Wykoff, a strong, talkative fellow, covered with tattoos, and Mitchel he had served with in an earlier command. “Brown was the man with the red handkerchief, yes?”
“Yes, sir, he died of a leg wound, and after some interference by - oh, Dr McMuffin, how do you do?”
“Very well, sir, and yourself?” asked Patrick, buttoning the last button on his breeches. “You were saying something about interference? How did the man with the leg wound do?”
“He died,” said Philip.
Patrick sat down. “Cautery might have saved him.”
“There was not time to find out. And may I request, sir, that you leave the care of the men to their proper physician?”
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Immune system basics
THE BASICS
The immune system can be divided into two parts: the innate (aka non-specific) part and the acquired (aka specific) part. In most textbooks, the acquired part of the immune system receives the most coverage, but the innate part carries most of the weight, so we'll start there.
The non-specific part of the immune system consists of all of the things that keep pathogens (germs) out of the body. It works similarly to the walls and moat surrounding a castle, which work to keep the enemy soldiers out. The non-specific part of the system includes the skin, and also things like the stomach acid (which dissolves any pathogens that we swallow), and lysozyme (which is found in tears, and breaks down pathogens), and mucus (which traps pathogens that we inhale). Most pathogens don't get past these parts of the non-specific immune system. There are also things like fever, and other changes which help the body fight infections, but also make us feel sick, and these can be considered part of the non-specific system as well.
The specific part of the immune system is only activated if a pathogen does sneak past the non-specific part of the system. It is similar to friendly soldiers within the castle walls, whose job is to recognize, hunt down, and destroy any enemies that manage to get inside of the castle. It consists of B cells and T cells, each of which targets a specific pathogen. (A T cell that can target the bird flu virus, for instance, can only target the bird flu virus. A different T cell is needed for chicken pox virus.) When the specific immune system is activated, it also activates those parts of the non-specific immune system (like the fever, etc discussed above) that make us feel sick. (The fever, etc, also serves as a call to arms for the specific part of the immune system.)
TEACHING THE SPECIFIC PART OF THE IMMUNE SYSTEM
The non-specific immune system is always primed and ready - your skin is always there, keeping pathogens at bay. The specific part of the immune system, when we're born, is naive - it can't really respond to anything very well. But, it does learn. Once the specific immune system meets a pathogen for the first time, it remembers it and responds to it much quicker the next time. This is why if the chicken pox virus sneaks past the non-specific part of the immune system once, we get chicken pox. If the chicken pox virus sneaks past the non-specific part of the immune system a second time, the specific part of the immune system recognizes it and pounces on it, killing it before it can really make us sick. We get the chicken pox once, but not twice. (For those of you familiar with shingles and how it relates to chicken pox, I will be getting to that - don't start writing angry comments just yet)
Wouldn't it be great, though, if we could teach the specific part of the immune system to recognize chicken pox without having to actually get the chicken pox that first time? It turns out that we can. We show the immune system a model of the chicken pox virus, and the system learns what the chicken pox virus looks like from the model. The non-specific immune system activates (so we may feel a bit sick, since merely activating the immune system can make us feel sick), and the specific immune system learns to recognize the chicken pox virus. Then, the first time the actual chicken pox virus sneaks past the non-specific immune system, the specific part of the immune system recognizes the virus from the model and pounces on it before it can make you sick.
What is this model? It's a vaccine. The vaccine looks like the actual pathogen, activates the specific part of the immune system (and may make us feel sick briefly) and teaches it to recognize that pathogen, and when the real pathogen comes around, the immune system pounces on it.
Next: The flu shot, and why we need it every year -->
Edited 20 April 2010
The immune system can be divided into two parts: the innate (aka non-specific) part and the acquired (aka specific) part. In most textbooks, the acquired part of the immune system receives the most coverage, but the innate part carries most of the weight, so we'll start there.
The non-specific part of the immune system consists of all of the things that keep pathogens (germs) out of the body. It works similarly to the walls and moat surrounding a castle, which work to keep the enemy soldiers out. The non-specific part of the system includes the skin, and also things like the stomach acid (which dissolves any pathogens that we swallow), and lysozyme (which is found in tears, and breaks down pathogens), and mucus (which traps pathogens that we inhale). Most pathogens don't get past these parts of the non-specific immune system. There are also things like fever, and other changes which help the body fight infections, but also make us feel sick, and these can be considered part of the non-specific system as well.
The specific part of the immune system is only activated if a pathogen does sneak past the non-specific part of the system. It is similar to friendly soldiers within the castle walls, whose job is to recognize, hunt down, and destroy any enemies that manage to get inside of the castle. It consists of B cells and T cells, each of which targets a specific pathogen. (A T cell that can target the bird flu virus, for instance, can only target the bird flu virus. A different T cell is needed for chicken pox virus.) When the specific immune system is activated, it also activates those parts of the non-specific immune system (like the fever, etc discussed above) that make us feel sick. (The fever, etc, also serves as a call to arms for the specific part of the immune system.)
TEACHING THE SPECIFIC PART OF THE IMMUNE SYSTEM
The non-specific immune system is always primed and ready - your skin is always there, keeping pathogens at bay. The specific part of the immune system, when we're born, is naive - it can't really respond to anything very well. But, it does learn. Once the specific immune system meets a pathogen for the first time, it remembers it and responds to it much quicker the next time. This is why if the chicken pox virus sneaks past the non-specific part of the immune system once, we get chicken pox. If the chicken pox virus sneaks past the non-specific part of the immune system a second time, the specific part of the immune system recognizes it and pounces on it, killing it before it can really make us sick. We get the chicken pox once, but not twice. (For those of you familiar with shingles and how it relates to chicken pox, I will be getting to that - don't start writing angry comments just yet)
Wouldn't it be great, though, if we could teach the specific part of the immune system to recognize chicken pox without having to actually get the chicken pox that first time? It turns out that we can. We show the immune system a model of the chicken pox virus, and the system learns what the chicken pox virus looks like from the model. The non-specific immune system activates (so we may feel a bit sick, since merely activating the immune system can make us feel sick), and the specific immune system learns to recognize the chicken pox virus. Then, the first time the actual chicken pox virus sneaks past the non-specific immune system, the specific part of the immune system recognizes the virus from the model and pounces on it before it can make you sick.
What is this model? It's a vaccine. The vaccine looks like the actual pathogen, activates the specific part of the immune system (and may make us feel sick briefly) and teaches it to recognize that pathogen, and when the real pathogen comes around, the immune system pounces on it.
Next: The flu shot, and why we need it every year -->
Edited 20 April 2010
Thursday, October 1, 2009
The War of 1812 revisited
A friend of mine recently pointed out that if Iran were to successfully attack an American warship in any meaningful way, their joy would be short-lived: "I think Iran would regret their victory. The 19th century Royal Navy, for all its immense power had nothing like a B-52 or, heaven forbid, the U.S.S. Tennessee." I think he's correct, and that's part of my point, since England in 1812 felt similarly confident about any naval clash they had with the U.S. So my point is this: England in late 1812 was shocked by the American successes, as shocked as America would now be if its navy repeatedly lost to the Iranians.
(original post: The War of 1812)
(original post: The War of 1812)
Friday, September 25, 2009
The Rovers and the Voyagers
Every once in a while I wander over to the NASA page on the Mars rovers. You probably remember those guys - six-wheeled semi-autonomous robots we sent off to Mars several years ago, figuring they'd run for three months before the Martian environment killed them off. Well, they're still running around on the red planet, five years after their three-month warranty ran out, and I'm frequently amazed by that. When Mars and Earth are on the same side of the sun, 50 million miles separate them. Read that again: 50,000,000 miles, when the planets are close to each other.
Mars's temperature averages about -60 C, or -81 F. That's cold. There's little, if any, oxygen (though I suppose that helps prevent corrosion), and dust storms are fairly frequent, which is a problem if you're solar-powered (as the rovers are). And these guys are still running.
And then I think about the Voyager spacecraft. The Voyagers, who were launched when JFK was president, are each now over 8 Billion miles away - that's billion with a b (Voyager 1 is 9.9 Billion miles away). And they're still collecting and sending data back, and still fueling discoveries.
Wow.
Mars Rovers: http://marsrovers.nasa.gov/home/index.html
Voyagers Spacecraft: http://voyager.jpl.nasa.gov/index.html
Mars's temperature averages about -60 C, or -81 F. That's cold. There's little, if any, oxygen (though I suppose that helps prevent corrosion), and dust storms are fairly frequent, which is a problem if you're solar-powered (as the rovers are). And these guys are still running.
And then I think about the Voyager spacecraft. The Voyagers, who were launched when JFK was president, are each now over 8 Billion miles away - that's billion with a b (Voyager 1 is 9.9 Billion miles away). And they're still collecting and sending data back, and still fueling discoveries.
Wow.
Mars Rovers: http://marsrovers.nasa.gov/home/index.html
Voyagers Spacecraft: http://voyager.jpl.nasa.gov/index.html
The Water Bowl
I feel bad for Christian. Every time he finds a new hidey-hole (and hidey holes are important to a cat's sense of safety and well-being) Shadow comes along and evicts him, moving in herself (and abandoning her old hidey-hole (his old hidey-hole) to do so). His most recent find was his cat carrier, which lives nestled in a corner between two bookcases, behind the third book case that's been in the middle of the floor since the roof began to leak last month, and beside the box of papers that I don't know what to do with, but can't throw out because they're valuable somehow. But the point is that he found a place to sit quietly, which was protected but enabled him to see out, and once again Shadow ousted him. As I said, I feel bad, and I don't know what to do.
So about twenty minutes ago, when Christian discovered that his carrier was unoccupied, he went over to it and crept inside. He was mostly in - only his tail was poking out - when Shadow discovered him and headed over there herself. I stepped out of the kitchen to observe, and as I did, my foot caught something. The location of the object, and its weight, and the sound it made when my foot hit it all meant that I knew what it was before I looked down - it was the cats' water bowl - the one by the kitchen.
I have caught and spilled this water bowl before - it's really not in the best of locations, from the not-catching-it-with-your-foot perspective. The cats have upset it, too, when racing around and horseplaying. There was even the memorable time when they knocked into it, sloshing some water out, and then I did the same when stooping to clean up what they had spilled, sloshing yet more water onto the wooden floor. But we have never yet managed to empty the entire bowl onto the floor, until I tonight.
And this is no small bowl, either, because I am paranoid about the cats running out of water. I picture the power going out, and with it the air conditioning, and my poor cats, tongues hanging out, finally collapsing of dehydration because I didn't leave enough water. This is a bowl designed for dogs, which holds a liter of water when full, as it approximately was twenty minutes ago until I caught it with my foot.
(If that bowl proves to be insufficient, there is another, equally large bowl of water over by their water fountain, which itself holds over a liter of water when full, but more on the fountain in another post.)
So, there I was, with a liter of water on my floor, which is rented and wooden, and no doubt greedily drinking in all of that water because it's also unfinished. Or maybe it has lost its finish through years of deferred maintenance, not to say neglect, on the part of my landlord. More on that in another post, too. Either way, it's not protected from water. And apart from the water that was soaking into the Stop & Shop ad ("do you know an employee who deserves an A+?") and that which had soaked my jeans up to the knee, all of that water was on the floor.
No big deal, but all I can think of while stripping my bathroom of its towel and cleaning up the mess was "ooh, what a great blog post." And, "how do I wrap this post up?"
So about twenty minutes ago, when Christian discovered that his carrier was unoccupied, he went over to it and crept inside. He was mostly in - only his tail was poking out - when Shadow discovered him and headed over there herself. I stepped out of the kitchen to observe, and as I did, my foot caught something. The location of the object, and its weight, and the sound it made when my foot hit it all meant that I knew what it was before I looked down - it was the cats' water bowl - the one by the kitchen.
I have caught and spilled this water bowl before - it's really not in the best of locations, from the not-catching-it-with-your-foot perspective. The cats have upset it, too, when racing around and horseplaying. There was even the memorable time when they knocked into it, sloshing some water out, and then I did the same when stooping to clean up what they had spilled, sloshing yet more water onto the wooden floor. But we have never yet managed to empty the entire bowl onto the floor, until I tonight.
And this is no small bowl, either, because I am paranoid about the cats running out of water. I picture the power going out, and with it the air conditioning, and my poor cats, tongues hanging out, finally collapsing of dehydration because I didn't leave enough water. This is a bowl designed for dogs, which holds a liter of water when full, as it approximately was twenty minutes ago until I caught it with my foot.
(If that bowl proves to be insufficient, there is another, equally large bowl of water over by their water fountain, which itself holds over a liter of water when full, but more on the fountain in another post.)
So, there I was, with a liter of water on my floor, which is rented and wooden, and no doubt greedily drinking in all of that water because it's also unfinished. Or maybe it has lost its finish through years of deferred maintenance, not to say neglect, on the part of my landlord. More on that in another post, too. Either way, it's not protected from water. And apart from the water that was soaking into the Stop & Shop ad ("do you know an employee who deserves an A+?") and that which had soaked my jeans up to the knee, all of that water was on the floor.
No big deal, but all I can think of while stripping my bathroom of its towel and cleaning up the mess was "ooh, what a great blog post." And, "how do I wrap this post up?"
Thursday, September 24, 2009
The War of 1812
I'm going to give you a hypothetical situation to think about: what if an Iranian frigate (a type of warship) took - destroyed - a U.S. frigate?
Now, I'm aware of the attack on the U.S. Cole several years ago - and this is not what I'm driving at. Some crewmen died in that attack, but the Cole survived, was repaired, and returned to service in the U.S. Navy. As shocking as the attack was, the Cole wasn't destroyed, and she wasn't taken. But what if an Iranian frigate took a U.S. one?
In 1812, the United States of America declared war on England. The reasons for this are long and complex (as is so often the case on war) and are beyond the point of this post), but the outcome of the war arguably marked the entrance of the U.S. onto the world stage.
Before the war, the U.S. was merely a loose group of former colonies - a third-rate nation at best. They possessed little in the way of a navy, with 19 vessels, of which 16 were actually in service. Seven of these were frigates, with the remainder being smaller vessels such as brigs and sloops. England's navy (the Royal Navy) possessed over 600 in-service vessels, of which about 175 were ships of the line - a class of ships that would eventually come be known as battleships, and which were larger and heavier than the frigates that formed the largest ships in the American navy. So on paper, there was no contest: the American navy would be lucky to capture a few British Merchantmen before being captured itself, or at best bottled up by Royal Navy blockade.(1)
The course of history also seemed to be against the Americans. For the past 20 years, the Royal Navy had routinely routed every enemy it had faced. Nelson's victory at Trafalgar(2) had been notable only for the scale of the victory; the Royal Navy simply won and won, even when out manned and outgunned. It was a foregone conclusion that the war at sea would be swiftly over, with England victorious.
It was with supreme confidence, therefore, that Captain Dacres of the HMS Guerriere met the US Constitution (Captain Hull) on August 19th, 1812. He addressed his men, saying that he exepcted them to beat the Constitution in 30 minutes, and that he would be "offended with them if they did not do their business in that time." Dacres was not too far off in the length of the battle (Constitution ceased firing less than 25 minutes after she opened fire at 6:05pm) but he was wrong in his prediction of its outcome: Constitution destroyed the Guerriere, so badly shattering her that she was worthless as a prize and had to be burned so as not to be a menace to navigation. Besides their frigate, the British lost 23 killed, plus another 56 wounded. American casualties were seven killed, and seven wounded.
Let me pause here to see if I can put this in modern terms. England no longer rules the waves - if anyone does, I suppose it is America. So, what would we think if, say, an Iranian frigate engaged a U.S. frigate - and destroyed her in less than half an hour?
Of course, this only begins to approach the reality of what happened in the War of 1812, because the U.S. Navy hasn't spent twenty years defeating every other armed nation on earth. If the U.S. Navy were to tomorrow take on, say, the combined English and German navies, I don't know who would win. And, of course, not only did the Constitution take the Guerriere on August 19th, but a little over one month later the US United States took the HMS Macedonian. And then on December 29th, Constitution met and took the HMS Java. The United States, an infant nation with an insignificant navy, met and smashed the forces of the most powerful international force in the world. The world took notice.
(follow-up post: The War of 1812 revisited)
(1) This disparity is lessened by the fact that England was then also embroiled in the Napoleanic wars, which placed great demands on her navy, but the fact remains that the Royal Navy was much more powerful than the U.S. Navy, with larger, heavier ships and greater reserves of men and materiel.
(2) Nelson, with 27 ships of the line, trounced a combined Franco-Spanish fleet of 33 ships of the line, sinking one and capturing 17 while losing none of his own,
Sources:
* Battle of Trafalgar: Grant, R. G. Battle at Sea: 3,000 Years of Naval Warfare. DK Publishing, New York. 2008 @ pp 188-189.
* War of 1812:
- relative strength of the Royal and American Navies: Toll, Ian W. Six Frigates: The Epic History of the Founding of the U.S. Navy. Norton, New York. 2006. @ pp 331-333.
- Constitution:Guerriere engagement: Toll (ibid) @ pp 347-354.
- Constitution:Java engagement: Toll (ibid) @ pp 375-380.
- United States:Macedonian engagement: Toll (ibid) @ pp 360-365.
NOTE: this post has been cross-posted at http://badgersclassroom.blogspot.com/2009/09/war-of-1812-and-us-navy.html
Now, I'm aware of the attack on the U.S. Cole several years ago - and this is not what I'm driving at. Some crewmen died in that attack, but the Cole survived, was repaired, and returned to service in the U.S. Navy. As shocking as the attack was, the Cole wasn't destroyed, and she wasn't taken. But what if an Iranian frigate took a U.S. one?
In 1812, the United States of America declared war on England. The reasons for this are long and complex (as is so often the case on war) and are beyond the point of this post), but the outcome of the war arguably marked the entrance of the U.S. onto the world stage.
Before the war, the U.S. was merely a loose group of former colonies - a third-rate nation at best. They possessed little in the way of a navy, with 19 vessels, of which 16 were actually in service. Seven of these were frigates, with the remainder being smaller vessels such as brigs and sloops. England's navy (the Royal Navy) possessed over 600 in-service vessels, of which about 175 were ships of the line - a class of ships that would eventually come be known as battleships, and which were larger and heavier than the frigates that formed the largest ships in the American navy. So on paper, there was no contest: the American navy would be lucky to capture a few British Merchantmen before being captured itself, or at best bottled up by Royal Navy blockade.(1)
The course of history also seemed to be against the Americans. For the past 20 years, the Royal Navy had routinely routed every enemy it had faced. Nelson's victory at Trafalgar(2) had been notable only for the scale of the victory; the Royal Navy simply won and won, even when out manned and outgunned. It was a foregone conclusion that the war at sea would be swiftly over, with England victorious.
It was with supreme confidence, therefore, that Captain Dacres of the HMS Guerriere met the US Constitution (Captain Hull) on August 19th, 1812. He addressed his men, saying that he exepcted them to beat the Constitution in 30 minutes, and that he would be "offended with them if they did not do their business in that time." Dacres was not too far off in the length of the battle (Constitution ceased firing less than 25 minutes after she opened fire at 6:05pm) but he was wrong in his prediction of its outcome: Constitution destroyed the Guerriere, so badly shattering her that she was worthless as a prize and had to be burned so as not to be a menace to navigation. Besides their frigate, the British lost 23 killed, plus another 56 wounded. American casualties were seven killed, and seven wounded.
Let me pause here to see if I can put this in modern terms. England no longer rules the waves - if anyone does, I suppose it is America. So, what would we think if, say, an Iranian frigate engaged a U.S. frigate - and destroyed her in less than half an hour?
Of course, this only begins to approach the reality of what happened in the War of 1812, because the U.S. Navy hasn't spent twenty years defeating every other armed nation on earth. If the U.S. Navy were to tomorrow take on, say, the combined English and German navies, I don't know who would win. And, of course, not only did the Constitution take the Guerriere on August 19th, but a little over one month later the US United States took the HMS Macedonian. And then on December 29th, Constitution met and took the HMS Java. The United States, an infant nation with an insignificant navy, met and smashed the forces of the most powerful international force in the world. The world took notice.
(follow-up post: The War of 1812 revisited)
(1) This disparity is lessened by the fact that England was then also embroiled in the Napoleanic wars, which placed great demands on her navy, but the fact remains that the Royal Navy was much more powerful than the U.S. Navy, with larger, heavier ships and greater reserves of men and materiel.
(2) Nelson, with 27 ships of the line, trounced a combined Franco-Spanish fleet of 33 ships of the line, sinking one and capturing 17 while losing none of his own,
Sources:
* Battle of Trafalgar: Grant, R. G. Battle at Sea: 3,000 Years of Naval Warfare. DK Publishing, New York. 2008 @ pp 188-189.
* War of 1812:
- relative strength of the Royal and American Navies: Toll, Ian W. Six Frigates: The Epic History of the Founding of the U.S. Navy. Norton, New York. 2006. @ pp 331-333.
- Constitution:Guerriere engagement: Toll (ibid) @ pp 347-354.
- Constitution:Java engagement: Toll (ibid) @ pp 375-380.
- United States:Macedonian engagement: Toll (ibid) @ pp 360-365.
NOTE: this post has been cross-posted at http://badgersclassroom.blogspot.com/2009/09/war-of-1812-and-us-navy.html
Monday, September 21, 2009
The Smoke Assassin - or whatever they call it now
There's a relatively new anti-smoking device out there they called the Smoke Assassin. Actually, they now seem to call it something else - just about the same ad with a new product name, but the name Smoke Assassin came first, and stuck in my head, so that's the one I'll run with here.
So here's the deal with the Smoke Assassin: the commercial tells you that the product doesn't actually work. "We won't tell you that you'll quit smoking, but thousands quit every day." Very nice - I support quitting smoking, but the fact that thousands quit every day doesn't mean that the Smoke Assassin had anything to do with it. In fact, if Smoke Assassin did help these people quit, I suspect the ad would say so. So between the lines, the message is: buy this device! - it won't help you quit smoking.
Accoding to the Smoke Assassin website, the gas you inhale from the device contains no nicotine, so switching from cigarettes to Smoke Assassin would be the equivalent of quitting cigarettes cold turkey, with nothing to help you face the nicotine cravings. The Smoke Assassin does give you an opportunity to maintain the oral habit, but the refils aren't cheap. Each refil is the equivalent of a pack and a half of cigarettes, the website tells us, and they sell for $70 for 20, or $100 for 40. That's cheaper than real cigarettes, but its still nothing to sneeze at. Why not switch to carrot sticks instead?
Looking for customer service? See this post. (Added 4/4/2010)
So here's the deal with the Smoke Assassin: the commercial tells you that the product doesn't actually work. "We won't tell you that you'll quit smoking, but thousands quit every day." Very nice - I support quitting smoking, but the fact that thousands quit every day doesn't mean that the Smoke Assassin had anything to do with it. In fact, if Smoke Assassin did help these people quit, I suspect the ad would say so. So between the lines, the message is: buy this device! - it won't help you quit smoking.
Accoding to the Smoke Assassin website, the gas you inhale from the device contains no nicotine, so switching from cigarettes to Smoke Assassin would be the equivalent of quitting cigarettes cold turkey, with nothing to help you face the nicotine cravings. The Smoke Assassin does give you an opportunity to maintain the oral habit, but the refils aren't cheap. Each refil is the equivalent of a pack and a half of cigarettes, the website tells us, and they sell for $70 for 20, or $100 for 40. That's cheaper than real cigarettes, but its still nothing to sneeze at. Why not switch to carrot sticks instead?
Looking for customer service? See this post. (Added 4/4/2010)
Monday, September 14, 2009
STOB 43
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
By now she was a total wreck, with her foretopmast gone, her mainsail full of holes, and her hull half-filled with water. She had slowed to two knots or less, so her grounding on the soft, sand bar was gentle enough that the men didn’t even stagger as she came to a halt. “Into the boat,” said Philip, and as his men piled into the cutter he found a lantern and tinderbox, lighting the lantern and then using it to light the frayed ropes, smashed barrels and crumpled canvass at the base of the mainmast. A bucket of tar caught, and by the time he raced across the deck and into the cutter the flames were already climbing the mast.
They pulled for the Badger, which had slowed to allow them to catch up and dropped a line over her stern. The bowman made the line fast and they pulled in under the counter, climbing aboard through the stern gallery of the officers’ dining cabin.
Philip found the master on deck, conning the ship at the sloop. “Welcome aboard, sir,” he said, saluting. He paused to shout an order forward, to the group of men working about the foremast rigging prior to sending up a new yard, then, “welcome aboard. What course, sir?”
“Northeast by east. Wilkins,” he called, “where is Wilkins? How are you both manning the con and seeing to the foreyard?”
“In the waist, sir, with the cannon that were unseated, like,” said South.
“Well,” said Philip. Rogers and Adams, the other true midshipmen (as opposed to supernumerary boys, though the difference was at times difficult to discern, particularly when relieving the watch early in the morning), were aboard the Chasseur, leaving only himself, the Master, and the two men at the wheel on the quarterdeck, aside from the usual Marine. “You,” said Philip, “What’s your name?”
“Crowe, sir,” said the Marine, saluting stiffly.
“Crowe, hail the Chasseur and tell them to follow. Take a speaking trumpet from the binnacle - the binnacle, man, where the compass is, and tell them to follow.”
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
GLOSSARY
By now she was a total wreck, with her foretopmast gone, her mainsail full of holes, and her hull half-filled with water. She had slowed to two knots or less, so her grounding on the soft, sand bar was gentle enough that the men didn’t even stagger as she came to a halt. “Into the boat,” said Philip, and as his men piled into the cutter he found a lantern and tinderbox, lighting the lantern and then using it to light the frayed ropes, smashed barrels and crumpled canvass at the base of the mainmast. A bucket of tar caught, and by the time he raced across the deck and into the cutter the flames were already climbing the mast.
They pulled for the Badger, which had slowed to allow them to catch up and dropped a line over her stern. The bowman made the line fast and they pulled in under the counter, climbing aboard through the stern gallery of the officers’ dining cabin.
Philip found the master on deck, conning the ship at the sloop. “Welcome aboard, sir,” he said, saluting. He paused to shout an order forward, to the group of men working about the foremast rigging prior to sending up a new yard, then, “welcome aboard. What course, sir?”
“Northeast by east. Wilkins,” he called, “where is Wilkins? How are you both manning the con and seeing to the foreyard?”
“In the waist, sir, with the cannon that were unseated, like,” said South.
“Well,” said Philip. Rogers and Adams, the other true midshipmen (as opposed to supernumerary boys, though the difference was at times difficult to discern, particularly when relieving the watch early in the morning), were aboard the Chasseur, leaving only himself, the Master, and the two men at the wheel on the quarterdeck, aside from the usual Marine. “You,” said Philip, “What’s your name?”
“Crowe, sir,” said the Marine, saluting stiffly.
“Crowe, hail the Chasseur and tell them to follow. Take a speaking trumpet from the binnacle - the binnacle, man, where the compass is, and tell them to follow.”
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
Set your computer free
Historically, music has been mixed with a rack of filters, amplifiers, and such, and many computerized mixers seek to reconstruct the tactile mixer. Ethan explores a simpler method: using the computer to set the software free from the hardware. It's a design technique that might work well in other arenas, too.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
STO'B 42
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
But now, with all three vessels turning north out of the harbor, the fortress battery opened up again. Shot, some of it heated, rained down on them at an unbelievable rate as they approached the narrow channel between the bar and the opposite shore, and one of these plunged through the Citoyen Pierre’s decks, through the bottom of her hull, and into the water below.
This was the end. Water surged in through this new hole, overcoming the pumps, which were already struggling to keep the snow afloat. “Steer for the bar, Kent,” Philip said to the man at the tiller, “we’ll beach her.”
“Yes, sir,” said Kent.
“Sergeant Quinn,” Philip called his junior Marine sergeant over, “take your men and move the prisoners into the snow’s jolly boat and set them adrift. Gather up all of the combustibles you can find and place them around the main mast.”
“Yes, sir,” said Quinn, saluting and then tasking off men to search different parts of the snow. Philip stepped below to the cabin to rifle, found a speaking trumpet, the logbook and a few other papers that might prove useful if they could be translated, and returned to the deck just as the Citoyen Pierre ran up on the bar.
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
GLOSSARY
But now, with all three vessels turning north out of the harbor, the fortress battery opened up again. Shot, some of it heated, rained down on them at an unbelievable rate as they approached the narrow channel between the bar and the opposite shore, and one of these plunged through the Citoyen Pierre’s decks, through the bottom of her hull, and into the water below.
This was the end. Water surged in through this new hole, overcoming the pumps, which were already struggling to keep the snow afloat. “Steer for the bar, Kent,” Philip said to the man at the tiller, “we’ll beach her.”
“Yes, sir,” said Kent.
“Sergeant Quinn,” Philip called his junior Marine sergeant over, “take your men and move the prisoners into the snow’s jolly boat and set them adrift. Gather up all of the combustibles you can find and place them around the main mast.”
“Yes, sir,” said Quinn, saluting and then tasking off men to search different parts of the snow. Philip stepped below to the cabin to rifle, found a speaking trumpet, the logbook and a few other papers that might prove useful if they could be translated, and returned to the deck just as the Citoyen Pierre ran up on the bar.
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
Saturday, September 12, 2009
X-Ray vignette
The tall, pillared nave of the stone cathedral was filled with the moving sound of Bach’s “Saint Mathew Passion.” The singers, 20 or so of the congregations oldest members, plus two younger members, understood the true nature of the piece, having practiced all year, and most of their audience sat in rapt admiration of the beauty of their singing.
In the middle aisle, however, rather closer to the front of the nave than to its back, a small group of people was not paying attention. One of them was a young woman, very beautiful but clinically dead. Two were EMTs, vigorously performing CPR to revive the young woman, and two more were paramedics, who struggled feverishly to provide the young woman with an airway by fitting a tube into her trachea.
In the middle aisle, however, rather closer to the front of the nave than to its back, a small group of people was not paying attention. One of them was a young woman, very beautiful but clinically dead. Two were EMTs, vigorously performing CPR to revive the young woman, and two more were paramedics, who struggled feverishly to provide the young woman with an airway by fitting a tube into her trachea.
Friday, September 11, 2009
STO'B 41
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
Philip hailed the Chasseur just as one of the Chasseur’s shot tore through the foretop shrouds and another slammed into her hull just below the main chains. Citoyen Pierre was lightly built, and she could not take much more of this. Nevertheless, she would last longer against the Chasseur’s guns than against the fortress, with its plunging fire and exploding shells, though to be true, the fort seemed to have left off for the moment. He saw Lieutenant Grey call for a speaking trumpet and put it to his ear. “Ahoy, the Chasseur,” Philip called again. “Lieutenant Grey, we have taken the snow. Cease fire!”
“Captain Fitton!” came Lieutenant Grey’s voice. “Is that you, sir?”
“Yes,” replied Philip. “What is your condition?”
“Seven men down, sir, one quarter gallery destroyed, several holes in the deck,” replied the lieutenant.
Philip could also see several cracked or leaning spars. A steady flow of water flowed from each of the forward scuppers, no doubt fed by pumps working to clear out water rushing in below. “Set a course for Pont du Chat. We must get out of range.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the lieutenant, saluting and giving the orders that would take the Chasseur out of the harbor. The Badger, observing the motions of the other two vessels, set a similar course, and soon all three vessels were leaving Arcades in their wake.
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
GLOSSARY
Philip hailed the Chasseur just as one of the Chasseur’s shot tore through the foretop shrouds and another slammed into her hull just below the main chains. Citoyen Pierre was lightly built, and she could not take much more of this. Nevertheless, she would last longer against the Chasseur’s guns than against the fortress, with its plunging fire and exploding shells, though to be true, the fort seemed to have left off for the moment. He saw Lieutenant Grey call for a speaking trumpet and put it to his ear. “Ahoy, the Chasseur,” Philip called again. “Lieutenant Grey, we have taken the snow. Cease fire!”
“Captain Fitton!” came Lieutenant Grey’s voice. “Is that you, sir?”
“Yes,” replied Philip. “What is your condition?”
“Seven men down, sir, one quarter gallery destroyed, several holes in the deck,” replied the lieutenant.
Philip could also see several cracked or leaning spars. A steady flow of water flowed from each of the forward scuppers, no doubt fed by pumps working to clear out water rushing in below. “Set a course for Pont du Chat. We must get out of range.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the lieutenant, saluting and giving the orders that would take the Chasseur out of the harbor. The Badger, observing the motions of the other two vessels, set a similar course, and soon all three vessels were leaving Arcades in their wake.
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Lily the Pink
LILY THE PINK
"Lily the Pink"
Chorus:
We'll Drink, we'll drink, we'll drink
To Lily the Pink, the Pink, the Pink
The savior of (the savior of)
The human ra-a-ace
She invented
A medicinal compound
Most effective
In any case
Henry T-Tammer
Had a t-terrible stammer
He could hardly say a wo-o-ord
So they gave him
Medicinal compound
Now he's seen but never heard
(chorus)
Uncle Paul
Was very small
He was the smallest man in town
Till they gave him
Medicinal compound
Now he's nowhere to be found
(chorus)
Ebenezer
Thought he was Ceaser
So they put him in a home
Where they gave him
Medicinal compound
Now he's Emperor of Rome
(chorus)
When Lily died
And went to heaven
All the church bells, they did ring
And she brought her
Medicinal compound
Hark, the herald angels sing
(chorus)
Lydia E. Pinkham's Vegetable Compound was sold as medicine, starting in 1873, by Lydia Pinkham of Lynn, Massachusetts. Whether the stuff was medically effective or not I don't know, but it was financially successful, making Lily the Pink the nation's first millionairess. (Source: Porter, Roy, Blood and Guts: A Short History of Medicine W.W.Norton. New York. 2002 @ Ch 2)
Ms Pinkam's Vegetable Compound was only one of many proprietary medicinal elixirs in the 1700s and 1800s, some of which had true value (Eau medicinale, sold by a Frenchman, contained colchicum, thus providing true therapy for gout, for instance) while others, to borrow a phrase from Stephen Sondheim, were "nothing more than piss and ink." All of them, regardless of merit or demerit, were scorned by orthodox medicine, but patients flocked to them. (Source: Porter, Roy, ibid @ Ch 2)
In the 1800s, in America and no doubt other places as well, there were several medical sects. At the time, medicine was not really a science, based on evidence-based therapy (even today only some portions of Western medicine are evidence-based). Each of the several medical sects had pet theories and treatments, and each, generally, scorned the practices and practitioners of the others. But there was also the eccentric sect, who reasoned that they should use whatever was shown to work, and freely borrowed from all other branches of medicine as their education and experience dictated - in short, they practiced an early type of evidence-based medicine, though their evidence was flimsy by today's standards (using cohorts, anecdotal evidence, and generally not using any type of formal study, double-blind or otherwise).(Source: The Encyclopedia of Civil War Medicine - I don't have the book in front of me for a full citation, sorry.)
In some ways, things haven't changed. Orthodox Western Medicine is still, and increasingly, facing competition in the form of elixirs (e.g. herbal remedies) and other practices, some of which have real value, most or all of which are dismissed by mainstream medicine. And the reasons for this haven't changed, either. Patients continue to know (or think they know) what's best for them, to demand quick fixes, and to be credulous to those who promise quick fixes. Western medicine continues to function as a business, to whom a competing industry is anathema. To be fair there are physicians who, with real reason, worry about the potential harm to patients that some "folk remedies" may cause, and to be fair many "folk remedies" are dangerous, but many are also not only safe but effective. It's time for the eclectics to return.
"Lily the Pink"
Chorus:
We'll Drink, we'll drink, we'll drink
To Lily the Pink, the Pink, the Pink
The savior of (the savior of)
The human ra-a-ace
She invented
A medicinal compound
Most effective
In any case
Henry T-Tammer
Had a t-terrible stammer
He could hardly say a wo-o-ord
So they gave him
Medicinal compound
Now he's seen but never heard
(chorus)
Uncle Paul
Was very small
He was the smallest man in town
Till they gave him
Medicinal compound
Now he's nowhere to be found
(chorus)
Ebenezer
Thought he was Ceaser
So they put him in a home
Where they gave him
Medicinal compound
Now he's Emperor of Rome
(chorus)
When Lily died
And went to heaven
All the church bells, they did ring
And she brought her
Medicinal compound
Hark, the herald angels sing
(chorus)
Lydia E. Pinkham's Vegetable Compound was sold as medicine, starting in 1873, by Lydia Pinkham of Lynn, Massachusetts. Whether the stuff was medically effective or not I don't know, but it was financially successful, making Lily the Pink the nation's first millionairess. (Source: Porter, Roy, Blood and Guts: A Short History of Medicine W.W.Norton. New York. 2002 @ Ch 2)
Ms Pinkam's Vegetable Compound was only one of many proprietary medicinal elixirs in the 1700s and 1800s, some of which had true value (Eau medicinale, sold by a Frenchman, contained colchicum, thus providing true therapy for gout, for instance) while others, to borrow a phrase from Stephen Sondheim, were "nothing more than piss and ink." All of them, regardless of merit or demerit, were scorned by orthodox medicine, but patients flocked to them. (Source: Porter, Roy, ibid @ Ch 2)
In the 1800s, in America and no doubt other places as well, there were several medical sects. At the time, medicine was not really a science, based on evidence-based therapy (even today only some portions of Western medicine are evidence-based). Each of the several medical sects had pet theories and treatments, and each, generally, scorned the practices and practitioners of the others. But there was also the eccentric sect, who reasoned that they should use whatever was shown to work, and freely borrowed from all other branches of medicine as their education and experience dictated - in short, they practiced an early type of evidence-based medicine, though their evidence was flimsy by today's standards (using cohorts, anecdotal evidence, and generally not using any type of formal study, double-blind or otherwise).(Source: The Encyclopedia of Civil War Medicine - I don't have the book in front of me for a full citation, sorry.)
In some ways, things haven't changed. Orthodox Western Medicine is still, and increasingly, facing competition in the form of elixirs (e.g. herbal remedies) and other practices, some of which have real value, most or all of which are dismissed by mainstream medicine. And the reasons for this haven't changed, either. Patients continue to know (or think they know) what's best for them, to demand quick fixes, and to be credulous to those who promise quick fixes. Western medicine continues to function as a business, to whom a competing industry is anathema. To be fair there are physicians who, with real reason, worry about the potential harm to patients that some "folk remedies" may cause, and to be fair many "folk remedies" are dangerous, but many are also not only safe but effective. It's time for the eclectics to return.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
STO'B 40
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* * *
“Come on, sir!” cried Needle again.
“Right,” said Philip, shaking his head to clear it of accumulating confusion and panic. He was still in the water. “Right.” He pulled himself through the wreckage of spars and rope, eventually reaching the hawser that bound his makeshift raft to the Citoyen Pierre.
“Catch, sir,” said Needle, tossing a rope. It was a deep sea line, for measuring the water’s depth, Philip discovered, and Needle had tied a bowline into it. Philip slipped his arms and head through the loop and allowed himself to be dragged to the Citoyen Pierre’s side, which was strangely low in the water. With Needle pulling from above, Philip clambered up the side and regained the deck.
“Thank you, Needle,” he said, mastering his panting breath (a captain could never afford to show any weakness in front of his men), and reflecting that he was expressing real gratitude to a common sailor. What would they say at Fitton Hall? What would his uncle, say?
He could worry about that later. For now there was the Citoyen Pierre to save, and all three vessels to get out of the harbor. He looked about, saw Needle and another sailor had finally freed the snow from her anchor and fallen spars and rigging, and cupped his hands to hail the Chasseur.
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“Come on, sir!” cried Needle again.
“Right,” said Philip, shaking his head to clear it of accumulating confusion and panic. He was still in the water. “Right.” He pulled himself through the wreckage of spars and rope, eventually reaching the hawser that bound his makeshift raft to the Citoyen Pierre.
“Catch, sir,” said Needle, tossing a rope. It was a deep sea line, for measuring the water’s depth, Philip discovered, and Needle had tied a bowline into it. Philip slipped his arms and head through the loop and allowed himself to be dragged to the Citoyen Pierre’s side, which was strangely low in the water. With Needle pulling from above, Philip clambered up the side and regained the deck.
“Thank you, Needle,” he said, mastering his panting breath (a captain could never afford to show any weakness in front of his men), and reflecting that he was expressing real gratitude to a common sailor. What would they say at Fitton Hall? What would his uncle, say?
He could worry about that later. For now there was the Citoyen Pierre to save, and all three vessels to get out of the harbor. He looked about, saw Needle and another sailor had finally freed the snow from her anchor and fallen spars and rigging, and cupped his hands to hail the Chasseur.
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STO'B 39
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As he knelt there, the Badger’s hull shook and crashed as shot hit her. “Heavens,” he exclaimed, “is it always like this in battle?”
“Yes, Dr M’Mullen,” said the sailor. He opened his mouth to say more when he was cut off from a savage shout from above:
“Thompson! How long are you going to take?”
“Beg pardon, sir,” said the sailor, “I’m needed on deck, but is there something you need?”
“Something to cauterize this man - something hot.”
“Thompson!” came the shout again.
“Yes, Mr Wilkins,” replied the sailor. “Something hot, sir? I’ll see what I can do,” and he disappeared up a ladder.
But now here was Dr Foster, peering, with red-rimmed eyes, over the edge of the coaming. “What are you doing with that man?” he asked.
“He’s bleeding,” began Patrick.
“Yes, I can see that. Once these two other men are treated I will see to him.”
“He’s dying.”
“Patients are served in the order that they arrive, Dr M’Mullen. Surely you know that. We have no room for democratic ideals in medicine. Holles,” he called down into the cockpit, “give me a hand with the next case.” He took a quick drink from a metal flask and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, then disappeared down the ladder, emergening a moment later with a bear of a man, his assistant. Between the two of them they manhandled the next case, a man with a broken arm, through the hatchway and so below. Dr M’Mullen and the patient with the thigh wound were forgotten.
The patient had started to shiver from loss of blood. There was not much time left - certainly not enough time for that fool Dr Foster to finish two cases - but if Thompson might bring or send something to cauterize the wound with, he could still be saved.
Another shadow fell across the deck, and looking up Patrick saw the servant that Captain Fitton had assigned to his guest, standing there with a steaming mug. “Sir, Thompson said you wanted something hot. Would coffee suit?”
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As he knelt there, the Badger’s hull shook and crashed as shot hit her. “Heavens,” he exclaimed, “is it always like this in battle?”
“Yes, Dr M’Mullen,” said the sailor. He opened his mouth to say more when he was cut off from a savage shout from above:
“Thompson! How long are you going to take?”
“Beg pardon, sir,” said the sailor, “I’m needed on deck, but is there something you need?”
“Something to cauterize this man - something hot.”
“Thompson!” came the shout again.
“Yes, Mr Wilkins,” replied the sailor. “Something hot, sir? I’ll see what I can do,” and he disappeared up a ladder.
But now here was Dr Foster, peering, with red-rimmed eyes, over the edge of the coaming. “What are you doing with that man?” he asked.
“He’s bleeding,” began Patrick.
“Yes, I can see that. Once these two other men are treated I will see to him.”
“He’s dying.”
“Patients are served in the order that they arrive, Dr M’Mullen. Surely you know that. We have no room for democratic ideals in medicine. Holles,” he called down into the cockpit, “give me a hand with the next case.” He took a quick drink from a metal flask and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, then disappeared down the ladder, emergening a moment later with a bear of a man, his assistant. Between the two of them they manhandled the next case, a man with a broken arm, through the hatchway and so below. Dr M’Mullen and the patient with the thigh wound were forgotten.
The patient had started to shiver from loss of blood. There was not much time left - certainly not enough time for that fool Dr Foster to finish two cases - but if Thompson might bring or send something to cauterize the wound with, he could still be saved.
Another shadow fell across the deck, and looking up Patrick saw the servant that Captain Fitton had assigned to his guest, standing there with a steaming mug. “Sir, Thompson said you wanted something hot. Would coffee suit?”
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Sunday, August 23, 2009
STO'B 38
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Over on the Badger, Dr M’Mullen asked a little boy where the wounded were taken, and was shown to the cockpit, a dim, cramped, triangular space, wedged into the bows far below the waterline, and accessible only via a ladder. The place smelled like a cross between an abattoir and a distillery. The wounded were laid out on the deck above in the order they had arrived. “Dr Foster,” Patrick called down from above, “I should be happy to assist if you would like.”
Whatever reply Foster may have made was drowned out by the rising scream of the man whose leg he was then driving his saw through. Patrick climbed down the ladder, slipping on the blood on the bottom rung and accidentally knocking into Dr Foster as the surgeon finished his cut. “Get out!” said Foster, picking himself up and wiping bloody sand from his hands, “get out now!”
“I beg your pardon,” began Patrick, “I merely thought -”
“Get out!” roared the surgeon again, this time reaching for a heavy surgical knife, and Patrick retreated up the ladder.
Back on the deck above, he looked at the wounded as they lay there. Perhaps he could do some good here. One man, with a massive chest wound and surrounded by a pool of blood, was already dead. Of those remaining he judged that all of them had survivable wounds, though one man, recently brought and bleeding from a thigh wound, needed immediate surgery if he was to live. He placed his hand into the wound, feeling for the severed artery and pressing on it. “You there,” he called to a passing sailor. Once he had the sailor’s attention, though, he paused, considering his options.
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Over on the Badger, Dr M’Mullen asked a little boy where the wounded were taken, and was shown to the cockpit, a dim, cramped, triangular space, wedged into the bows far below the waterline, and accessible only via a ladder. The place smelled like a cross between an abattoir and a distillery. The wounded were laid out on the deck above in the order they had arrived. “Dr Foster,” Patrick called down from above, “I should be happy to assist if you would like.”
Whatever reply Foster may have made was drowned out by the rising scream of the man whose leg he was then driving his saw through. Patrick climbed down the ladder, slipping on the blood on the bottom rung and accidentally knocking into Dr Foster as the surgeon finished his cut. “Get out!” said Foster, picking himself up and wiping bloody sand from his hands, “get out now!”
“I beg your pardon,” began Patrick, “I merely thought -”
“Get out!” roared the surgeon again, this time reaching for a heavy surgical knife, and Patrick retreated up the ladder.
Back on the deck above, he looked at the wounded as they lay there. Perhaps he could do some good here. One man, with a massive chest wound and surrounded by a pool of blood, was already dead. Of those remaining he judged that all of them had survivable wounds, though one man, recently brought and bleeding from a thigh wound, needed immediate surgery if he was to live. He placed his hand into the wound, feeling for the severed artery and pressing on it. “You there,” he called to a passing sailor. Once he had the sailor’s attention, though, he paused, considering his options.
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Tuesday, August 18, 2009
STO'B 37
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Several thoughts flew through Philip’s head. He would never see Angela again, Lt Grey would have command of the Badger, the irony of being killed by his own command, the extraordinary clarity of the water, and why hadn’t he ever learned to swim? He had meant to learn - Jevons had tried to teach him, once, in the old Illustrious, but they had been interrupted. Why had they been interrupted? Had an enemy appeared? He couldn’t remember. He struck the water.
A tremendous splash erupted beside him. The jerk of the Citoyen Pierre coming to a halt had also broken her foretopmast, sending most of it into the water as well, and its associated canvas and rigging plunged into the water beside him. He reached out, grasping a rope, saving himself, but his clothes were so terribly heavy in the water, and for a moment it was all he could do to drag himself over to a broken spar - the foretopsail yard, he guessed - and wrap his arms around it.
A shout broke him from his reverie. “It’s the Captain,” Needle cried from his place on the bows. His axe was raised to chop the anchor cable free, and to cut the shrouds and running rigging of the broken foretopmast free, too, as the broken spar had tangled itself in the anchor, pinning the merchantman as effectively as the anchor itself; but he lowered the blade and gestured, “come on sir, come on!”
Philip wrestled with the spar, but his clothes hampered him, and he was swallowing a lot of water. “Come on, sir,” called Needle again, though he sounded so very far away. My boots, thought Philip, recalling one of the few things Jevons had had time to teach him, I must kick them off. And my coat. He was wearing an old woolen coat, lighter than the broadcloth of a uniform jacket, but still heavy, and he struggled with it in the water, alternately draping one arm and then the other over the spar beside him and finally freeing himself of the garment. He shed his boots next, and his shirt, and free of the dozens of pounds of sodden clothing he felt his strength return.
But the Citoyen Pierre could not wait for him forever. Already the floating spars had given her one shrewd knock, opening a hole below the waterline, and she could not suffer another blow without the danger of sinking.
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Several thoughts flew through Philip’s head. He would never see Angela again, Lt Grey would have command of the Badger, the irony of being killed by his own command, the extraordinary clarity of the water, and why hadn’t he ever learned to swim? He had meant to learn - Jevons had tried to teach him, once, in the old Illustrious, but they had been interrupted. Why had they been interrupted? Had an enemy appeared? He couldn’t remember. He struck the water.
A tremendous splash erupted beside him. The jerk of the Citoyen Pierre coming to a halt had also broken her foretopmast, sending most of it into the water as well, and its associated canvas and rigging plunged into the water beside him. He reached out, grasping a rope, saving himself, but his clothes were so terribly heavy in the water, and for a moment it was all he could do to drag himself over to a broken spar - the foretopsail yard, he guessed - and wrap his arms around it.
A shout broke him from his reverie. “It’s the Captain,” Needle cried from his place on the bows. His axe was raised to chop the anchor cable free, and to cut the shrouds and running rigging of the broken foretopmast free, too, as the broken spar had tangled itself in the anchor, pinning the merchantman as effectively as the anchor itself; but he lowered the blade and gestured, “come on sir, come on!”
Philip wrestled with the spar, but his clothes hampered him, and he was swallowing a lot of water. “Come on, sir,” called Needle again, though he sounded so very far away. My boots, thought Philip, recalling one of the few things Jevons had had time to teach him, I must kick them off. And my coat. He was wearing an old woolen coat, lighter than the broadcloth of a uniform jacket, but still heavy, and he struggled with it in the water, alternately draping one arm and then the other over the spar beside him and finally freeing himself of the garment. He shed his boots next, and his shirt, and free of the dozens of pounds of sodden clothing he felt his strength return.
But the Citoyen Pierre could not wait for him forever. Already the floating spars had given her one shrewd knock, opening a hole below the waterline, and she could not suffer another blow without the danger of sinking.
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Saturday, August 15, 2009
STO'B 36
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The snow proved to be the Citoyen Pierre, one of the vessels named the Chasseur’s late captain’s orders. Under Philip, she gathered way again, setting for the English brigs, and Philip climbed onto her bowsprit, steadying himself with the forestay. The fort had continued to fire on the brigs, and had done considerable damage. Badger’s foreyard was missing, and her smoke funnel had several holes - smoke filled her waist and lower sails. The Chasseur was actually on fire - the fort must have switched to heated shot. Several men clung to her starboard bow with pikes and axes, chopping and prying at the still-glowing red ball at the center of the slowly spreading flames. Two of the men leaned back, back; the ball pulled free, splashing into the water and sending up a pillar of steam. The men retreated back over the rail and water began to splash down from the scuppers above - the pumps must be going, Philip reasoned, with the other scuppers blocked off to divert the water to the fire.
The Citoyen Pierre approached the English brigs on the starboard tack, and with her fire now all but out, the Chasseur’s guns began to speak. Philip frowned. The English guns could not hope to hit the fort, perched as it was high above the water; what was Lieutenant Grey thinking?
The disintegration of the Citoyen Pierre’s cathead and the subsequent splash as her anchor fell into the water answered his question: Citoyen Pierre still flew her French colors, and Lt Grey must have assumed that Philip’s boarding party had failed. Another ball smashed into the Citoyen Pierre’s foretopmast, cutting it almost in half.
Had there been a cable bent to that anchor? Philip leaned out over the Citoyen Pierre’s side. Yes - there was the cable, plunging from the hawse hole into the water below. The harbor could not be deep, and at any moment the anchor would hit the bottom. “Cut away the anchor cable!” he cried. “Needle, Pope, cut the cable,” but as he spoke the Citoyen Pierre’s jerked to a halt - not a terrible jerk, but enough to throw him off his balance. He grabbed at the bulwark, missed, and to his horror he fell over the side.
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The snow proved to be the Citoyen Pierre, one of the vessels named the Chasseur’s late captain’s orders. Under Philip, she gathered way again, setting for the English brigs, and Philip climbed onto her bowsprit, steadying himself with the forestay. The fort had continued to fire on the brigs, and had done considerable damage. Badger’s foreyard was missing, and her smoke funnel had several holes - smoke filled her waist and lower sails. The Chasseur was actually on fire - the fort must have switched to heated shot. Several men clung to her starboard bow with pikes and axes, chopping and prying at the still-glowing red ball at the center of the slowly spreading flames. Two of the men leaned back, back; the ball pulled free, splashing into the water and sending up a pillar of steam. The men retreated back over the rail and water began to splash down from the scuppers above - the pumps must be going, Philip reasoned, with the other scuppers blocked off to divert the water to the fire.
The Citoyen Pierre approached the English brigs on the starboard tack, and with her fire now all but out, the Chasseur’s guns began to speak. Philip frowned. The English guns could not hope to hit the fort, perched as it was high above the water; what was Lieutenant Grey thinking?
The disintegration of the Citoyen Pierre’s cathead and the subsequent splash as her anchor fell into the water answered his question: Citoyen Pierre still flew her French colors, and Lt Grey must have assumed that Philip’s boarding party had failed. Another ball smashed into the Citoyen Pierre’s foretopmast, cutting it almost in half.
Had there been a cable bent to that anchor? Philip leaned out over the Citoyen Pierre’s side. Yes - there was the cable, plunging from the hawse hole into the water below. The harbor could not be deep, and at any moment the anchor would hit the bottom. “Cut away the anchor cable!” he cried. “Needle, Pope, cut the cable,” but as he spoke the Citoyen Pierre’s jerked to a halt - not a terrible jerk, but enough to throw him off his balance. He grabbed at the bulwark, missed, and to his horror he fell over the side.
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Thursday, August 13, 2009
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Oops
I accidentally reposted installment 35 here, so I've now deleted it and will post installment 36 once it's done.
- B
- B
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Space-6
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Once the data dump was complete, Finn hailed the mystery ship, which responded, “Received. Please Stand By,” in the same voice that had originally hailed the Amanda Ray, and then fell silent.
“Try them again,” said the captain fifteen minutes later. By now Kershaw, the senior comm-off, had reached the bridge, and it was his portly fingers that danced over the communications console. “Received. Please Stand By,” replied the mystery ship, falling silent again.
Captain Leigh drummed her fingers in a moment of indecision. She was tempted to scan them, but that would be seen as a hostile act, wouldn’t it? Or would it? And there was something strange about that voice on the mystery ship, too. Something not human.
Ten more minutes passed. “Scan them,” said Captain Leigh.
Several moments passed as R & S scanned the mystery ship and formulated their report. “Approximately our size,” read the sublieutenant. “Strong energy signatures, though they seem suspended or attenuated. Possible life readings. Weapons are present but don’t seem to be activated. Shields are up but low - as if they were using their docking shields rather than combat shields. R & S can’t identify it, but it doesn’t look malignant - malevolent, I think they mean. But that’s the best they can do.”
“That’s it?” asked the first lieutenant.
“Few of them have ever scanned a vessel, lieutenant. Most of the folks in the original department have died.”
“Very true, I was forgetting,” replied the first lieutenant, sulkily.
Several more miutes passed during which the mystery ship said nothing, did nothing. “Send a CQD,” said Captain Leigh, finally. “That should get their attention. And put the whole thing through on the speakers.”
“Working,” said Kershaw as he processed the captain’s order. “Coming though now.”
“All Stations, Distress,” said the Amanda Ray’s automated distress signal. “Amanda Ray Requests Emergency Assistance.”
“Greetings Amanda Ray,” the mystery ship immediately replied. “Please State The Nature Of Your Emergency.”
The voices were the same.
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Once the data dump was complete, Finn hailed the mystery ship, which responded, “Received. Please Stand By,” in the same voice that had originally hailed the Amanda Ray, and then fell silent.
“Try them again,” said the captain fifteen minutes later. By now Kershaw, the senior comm-off, had reached the bridge, and it was his portly fingers that danced over the communications console. “Received. Please Stand By,” replied the mystery ship, falling silent again.
Captain Leigh drummed her fingers in a moment of indecision. She was tempted to scan them, but that would be seen as a hostile act, wouldn’t it? Or would it? And there was something strange about that voice on the mystery ship, too. Something not human.
Ten more minutes passed. “Scan them,” said Captain Leigh.
Several moments passed as R & S scanned the mystery ship and formulated their report. “Approximately our size,” read the sublieutenant. “Strong energy signatures, though they seem suspended or attenuated. Possible life readings. Weapons are present but don’t seem to be activated. Shields are up but low - as if they were using their docking shields rather than combat shields. R & S can’t identify it, but it doesn’t look malignant - malevolent, I think they mean. But that’s the best they can do.”
“That’s it?” asked the first lieutenant.
“Few of them have ever scanned a vessel, lieutenant. Most of the folks in the original department have died.”
“Very true, I was forgetting,” replied the first lieutenant, sulkily.
Several more miutes passed during which the mystery ship said nothing, did nothing. “Send a CQD,” said Captain Leigh, finally. “That should get their attention. And put the whole thing through on the speakers.”
“Working,” said Kershaw as he processed the captain’s order. “Coming though now.”
“All Stations, Distress,” said the Amanda Ray’s automated distress signal. “Amanda Ray Requests Emergency Assistance.”
“Greetings Amanda Ray,” the mystery ship immediately replied. “Please State The Nature Of Your Emergency.”
The voices were the same.
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Monday, August 10, 2009
Richmond Rail Heist #6
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CHAPTER TWO
Getting to Marietta was the first step, and it did not prove easy.
Two great obstacles stood before them. The first was simply getting into rebel territory, and for this the men split into small groups. A group of twenty men moving south would be obvious, and suspicious, so James had advised them to split into small groups until they were well beyond the front lines. The second part, as James had pointed out, was keeping out of the rebel army. Cover stories that addressed the first trouble only exacerbated the second, for if they were on the run from Federal troops, then didn’t it make sense that they’d want to join the armies assembling against those same damned Federal troops?
“What was your cousin’s name again?” Will asked his big traveling companion as the three of them (Jones was still with them) crested a hill and a rebel check point appeared at the crossroads in the valley below, “the one in the rebel army?”
“David Porter,” answered Rufus, tugging at his clothes. “He’s a sergant in the Georgia 63rd.” During the night they had found wash hanging on the line, almost dry but not quite, and they had discarded most of their northerner’s clothes and uniforms for the homespun shorts and trousers worn by most southerners. Jones, a soldier in the U.S. Army (like the rest of the men, except for Will and perhaps James), had been unable to replace his uniform trousers.
Since the night, the sun and heat had increased, and a haze had set in, and the clothes were now damper than when the men had found them - damp with sweat. And they fit poorly. Will hoped that the rebels wouldn’t look too closely. “How far would you say we are from the front?” he asked.
“Ten miles? Twelve?” Rufus replied.
“No more than four or five” said Jones confidently.
“We’ve been walking for hours,” Rufus said. “It has to be at least ten miles.”
Jones shook his head. “It’s only because we’re miserable that it seems so long.”
“Miserable?”
“It’s hot, humid, our clothes don’t fit-”
“My clothes fit fine,” said Rufus.
“Then why are you always tugging at your waistband and collar? No, our clothes fit poorly, the weather is uncomfortable, and we’re traipsing into the enemy’s home. It feels like its ten o’clock, or eleven, but it’s no more than eight or eight thirty at the latest.”
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CHAPTER TWO
Getting to Marietta was the first step, and it did not prove easy.
Two great obstacles stood before them. The first was simply getting into rebel territory, and for this the men split into small groups. A group of twenty men moving south would be obvious, and suspicious, so James had advised them to split into small groups until they were well beyond the front lines. The second part, as James had pointed out, was keeping out of the rebel army. Cover stories that addressed the first trouble only exacerbated the second, for if they were on the run from Federal troops, then didn’t it make sense that they’d want to join the armies assembling against those same damned Federal troops?
“What was your cousin’s name again?” Will asked his big traveling companion as the three of them (Jones was still with them) crested a hill and a rebel check point appeared at the crossroads in the valley below, “the one in the rebel army?”
“David Porter,” answered Rufus, tugging at his clothes. “He’s a sergant in the Georgia 63rd.” During the night they had found wash hanging on the line, almost dry but not quite, and they had discarded most of their northerner’s clothes and uniforms for the homespun shorts and trousers worn by most southerners. Jones, a soldier in the U.S. Army (like the rest of the men, except for Will and perhaps James), had been unable to replace his uniform trousers.
Since the night, the sun and heat had increased, and a haze had set in, and the clothes were now damper than when the men had found them - damp with sweat. And they fit poorly. Will hoped that the rebels wouldn’t look too closely. “How far would you say we are from the front?” he asked.
“Ten miles? Twelve?” Rufus replied.
“No more than four or five” said Jones confidently.
“We’ve been walking for hours,” Rufus said. “It has to be at least ten miles.”
Jones shook his head. “It’s only because we’re miserable that it seems so long.”
“Miserable?”
“It’s hot, humid, our clothes don’t fit-”
“My clothes fit fine,” said Rufus.
“Then why are you always tugging at your waistband and collar? No, our clothes fit poorly, the weather is uncomfortable, and we’re traipsing into the enemy’s home. It feels like its ten o’clock, or eleven, but it’s no more than eight or eight thirty at the latest.”
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Thursday, August 6, 2009
STO'B 35
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Two sailors and a marine grabbed the grapnels, tossing them up over the snow’s bulwark. Two of the grapnels caught and as the third was tossed up a second time, Philip grabbed the nearest rope and began hauling himself aboard. They would have to be quick, to take the merchantman before the battery smashed them all to kindling.
They would also have to be quick if they wished to climb aboard the snow before her crew cut the grapnel ropes. Philip’s rope quivered, and looking up he saw a striped-shirted seaman chopping away at it with an axe. The man lifted his axe for another stroke, and another, but now Philip was up, one foot scrambling for purchase on the snow’s smooth side but the other in her main chains, and his pistol reaching over the bulwark, toward the man with the axe. “Rendre!” he cried, “Rendre!”
But the man already had his axe raised, and he turned to Philip, swinging the axe at him. Philip ducked, firing the pistol and falling back, down into the boat, on top of the two men behind him on the rope, and a moment later the rope itself, finally severed, fell on top of them.
Philip looked at the other two boarding ropes. A marine was still working to get catch one on the snow’s deck, the other was choked with climbing men. He had to find another way aboard.
“Axes!” he cried, and a marine placed one in his hand. He reversed it, swinging the pick head deeply into the snow’s side. “Another!” he said, and he swung the next blade into place, higher up and slightly aft of the first. An explosion sounded next to his ear as he wound up with the third axe, deafening him, partially blinding him, but with what was left of his vision he made out a body toppling from the snow’s bulwark, still gripping a pistol. Philip nodded to the marine beside him, busily reloading his carbine, and climbed up his makeshift ladder, swinging yet another axe into place for the next step.
Philip climbed, cautiously peering through a scuttle. Two or three men were involved in a scuffle near the bow, but otherwise there was little activity on deck. He hoisted himself up on board. “‘Vast fighting, there,” he roared at the fighting men, “she’s struck!”
This was sophistry - the snow’s French merchant’s flag still flew from her ensign staff, but the knot of men in the bows fell apart from each other, one of the Britons politely, formally accepting a belaying pin from the surrendering French sailor. All other resistance had already stopped. One of the Badgers stepped aft to actually strike the French colors, but Philip stopped the man - the French fort was not firing on them, and while Philip did not know why, he had no intention of provoking them unnecessarily.
“All prisoners into the hold,” ordered Philip, repeating the order in a bastardized French, and the surviving Frenchmen - all four of them - stepped into the darkness below. Four more French bodies lay on the deck, two of them moving, and a marine reported that a ninth man had escaped in a boat. The English, with the exception of one man clutching a bloody arm to his chest, were uninjured. “Kent, take the tiller - head her for the Badger,” said Philip. “Needle, Pope, see to the injured. The rest of you, sheets and braces.”
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Two sailors and a marine grabbed the grapnels, tossing them up over the snow’s bulwark. Two of the grapnels caught and as the third was tossed up a second time, Philip grabbed the nearest rope and began hauling himself aboard. They would have to be quick, to take the merchantman before the battery smashed them all to kindling.
They would also have to be quick if they wished to climb aboard the snow before her crew cut the grapnel ropes. Philip’s rope quivered, and looking up he saw a striped-shirted seaman chopping away at it with an axe. The man lifted his axe for another stroke, and another, but now Philip was up, one foot scrambling for purchase on the snow’s smooth side but the other in her main chains, and his pistol reaching over the bulwark, toward the man with the axe. “Rendre!” he cried, “Rendre!”
But the man already had his axe raised, and he turned to Philip, swinging the axe at him. Philip ducked, firing the pistol and falling back, down into the boat, on top of the two men behind him on the rope, and a moment later the rope itself, finally severed, fell on top of them.
Philip looked at the other two boarding ropes. A marine was still working to get catch one on the snow’s deck, the other was choked with climbing men. He had to find another way aboard.
“Axes!” he cried, and a marine placed one in his hand. He reversed it, swinging the pick head deeply into the snow’s side. “Another!” he said, and he swung the next blade into place, higher up and slightly aft of the first. An explosion sounded next to his ear as he wound up with the third axe, deafening him, partially blinding him, but with what was left of his vision he made out a body toppling from the snow’s bulwark, still gripping a pistol. Philip nodded to the marine beside him, busily reloading his carbine, and climbed up his makeshift ladder, swinging yet another axe into place for the next step.
Philip climbed, cautiously peering through a scuttle. Two or three men were involved in a scuffle near the bow, but otherwise there was little activity on deck. He hoisted himself up on board. “‘Vast fighting, there,” he roared at the fighting men, “she’s struck!”
This was sophistry - the snow’s French merchant’s flag still flew from her ensign staff, but the knot of men in the bows fell apart from each other, one of the Britons politely, formally accepting a belaying pin from the surrendering French sailor. All other resistance had already stopped. One of the Badgers stepped aft to actually strike the French colors, but Philip stopped the man - the French fort was not firing on them, and while Philip did not know why, he had no intention of provoking them unnecessarily.
“All prisoners into the hold,” ordered Philip, repeating the order in a bastardized French, and the surviving Frenchmen - all four of them - stepped into the darkness below. Four more French bodies lay on the deck, two of them moving, and a marine reported that a ninth man had escaped in a boat. The English, with the exception of one man clutching a bloody arm to his chest, were uninjured. “Kent, take the tiller - head her for the Badger,” said Philip. “Needle, Pope, see to the injured. The rest of you, sheets and braces.”
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Space-5
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The mystery ship’s upload took almost a hour to complete. Partially this was due to limitations in the Amanda Ray’s communications systems (they had been damaged in the fight that had disabled her, and some of what had remained had been shut down to conserve power), but a lot had happened in the past 30 years, as Captain Leigh and her crew discovered when they started to sort through all that had arrived.
In the short term there was little else to do, as the hadn’t been able to send any messages since the data dump had begun. So, the sorting started almost as soon as the data stream had been identified as positively benign, with the crew standing down from quarters less than five minutes after they had been sent there. Word spread that this appeared to be the first part of their rescue, and a relaxed, jovial attitude prevailed, infecting even the first lieutenant, who in discovering two crewmen engrossed in reading up on the exploits of various sports teams, rather than attending to their sensor arrays, had merely frowned. The frown had been enough to return them to their duty (merely the lieutenant’s presence was enough for that), but the lack of any discipline (delivered or even promised) or even any harsh words added to the sense of holiday.
Throughout the Amanda Ray people discovered that the war with the Sasquinaw was over, or apparently over, since no one had heard from them in over 20 years. Allied forces found Sasquinaw sentinel ships vanished, their stations abandoned, even whole planets suddenly depopulated of Sasquinaw life. No clue remained as to what had become of humanity’s greatest threat for the last century and a half.
“Listen to this,” said the sublieutenant, reading in the Times Digest, “‘the crew of the Astoria encountered Sasquinaw station Bravo 3 shuttered and riding without its Anti-Collision beacons. On entering they discovered most systems intentionally powered down, with the exception of the anti-wander system and the A-C beacons. These had apparently failed when rats got at their wiring, leaving the station dark. Rather than repair the beacons for them to fail again, the station was towed to the nearest star for disposal.’ I never thought of the Sasquinaw as having problems with rats.”
“It’s a problem we all face,” said the captain. “They get into everything they can. Mr Finn,” she said to the comm-off, “any luck contacting someone aboard that ship?”
The comm-off coughed before responding. “No, ma’am. I still can’t get a signal past the fu-, past the data dump.”
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The mystery ship’s upload took almost a hour to complete. Partially this was due to limitations in the Amanda Ray’s communications systems (they had been damaged in the fight that had disabled her, and some of what had remained had been shut down to conserve power), but a lot had happened in the past 30 years, as Captain Leigh and her crew discovered when they started to sort through all that had arrived.
In the short term there was little else to do, as the hadn’t been able to send any messages since the data dump had begun. So, the sorting started almost as soon as the data stream had been identified as positively benign, with the crew standing down from quarters less than five minutes after they had been sent there. Word spread that this appeared to be the first part of their rescue, and a relaxed, jovial attitude prevailed, infecting even the first lieutenant, who in discovering two crewmen engrossed in reading up on the exploits of various sports teams, rather than attending to their sensor arrays, had merely frowned. The frown had been enough to return them to their duty (merely the lieutenant’s presence was enough for that), but the lack of any discipline (delivered or even promised) or even any harsh words added to the sense of holiday.
Throughout the Amanda Ray people discovered that the war with the Sasquinaw was over, or apparently over, since no one had heard from them in over 20 years. Allied forces found Sasquinaw sentinel ships vanished, their stations abandoned, even whole planets suddenly depopulated of Sasquinaw life. No clue remained as to what had become of humanity’s greatest threat for the last century and a half.
“Listen to this,” said the sublieutenant, reading in the Times Digest, “‘the crew of the Astoria encountered Sasquinaw station Bravo 3 shuttered and riding without its Anti-Collision beacons. On entering they discovered most systems intentionally powered down, with the exception of the anti-wander system and the A-C beacons. These had apparently failed when rats got at their wiring, leaving the station dark. Rather than repair the beacons for them to fail again, the station was towed to the nearest star for disposal.’ I never thought of the Sasquinaw as having problems with rats.”
“It’s a problem we all face,” said the captain. “They get into everything they can. Mr Finn,” she said to the comm-off, “any luck contacting someone aboard that ship?”
The comm-off coughed before responding. “No, ma’am. I still can’t get a signal past the fu-, past the data dump.”
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Thursday, July 30, 2009
Space-4
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Amanda Ray had some teeth left, and as the klaxons blared throughout the ship, these came to life. Her HK-35 plasma cannon emerged from their wing pylons, her hull-mounted Browning EMP generator unfolded, and her remaining Vulcan ELA oscillator extended its antenna. Throughout the ship, blast doors closed, soldiers and crew rushed to their battle stations, and the medical staff, wiping sleep from their eyes, assembled in the surgical suite. Lighting in residential and other non-martial areas dimmed to divert energy to shields and weapons. In less than two minutes, Amanda Ray went from the near-silence of third-shift sleepiness to a bristling wakefulness.
On the bridge the surround to the main view screen pulsed red, as did all of the other viewscreens - a red alert was not to be accidentally overlooked. Captian Leigh took up her usual position in the center of the room near the back, where she could see all of the other officers without having to turn around. “All stations reporting,” said the sublieutenant, “crew is at full alert.”
A moment later the comm off broke in, “receiving on all channels, ma’am, heliocartographic, medical science, military, BIOS update, communications. It’s a fucking da,” he coughed, “it’s a data dump. I think it’s everything that’s happened in the last thirty years.”
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Amanda Ray had some teeth left, and as the klaxons blared throughout the ship, these came to life. Her HK-35 plasma cannon emerged from their wing pylons, her hull-mounted Browning EMP generator unfolded, and her remaining Vulcan ELA oscillator extended its antenna. Throughout the ship, blast doors closed, soldiers and crew rushed to their battle stations, and the medical staff, wiping sleep from their eyes, assembled in the surgical suite. Lighting in residential and other non-martial areas dimmed to divert energy to shields and weapons. In less than two minutes, Amanda Ray went from the near-silence of third-shift sleepiness to a bristling wakefulness.
On the bridge the surround to the main view screen pulsed red, as did all of the other viewscreens - a red alert was not to be accidentally overlooked. Captian Leigh took up her usual position in the center of the room near the back, where she could see all of the other officers without having to turn around. “All stations reporting,” said the sublieutenant, “crew is at full alert.”
A moment later the comm off broke in, “receiving on all channels, ma’am, heliocartographic, medical science, military, BIOS update, communications. It’s a fucking da,” he coughed, “it’s a data dump. I think it’s everything that’s happened in the last thirty years.”
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Sunday, July 26, 2009
Space-3
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“Why is there no video?” asked the captain, brushing her hair from her eyes. She had been asleep when the hail had come through and had not taken the time to put on a uniform or tie back her long, deeply greyed hair.
The comm-off tapped away at his console again. He was a thin, pale man with a habit of coughing when he was nervous. “Audio-only signal, ma’am,” he reported at last.
“Greetings Amanda Ray. Please Respond,” said the speakers again - the same voice, timbre, speed, and inflection as the first time, just softer now that the comm-off had lowered the volume.
“How do they know our name?” asked the first lieutenant.
The sublieutenant refrained from stating that their name was etched and painted on their hull, contenting himself with a small sniff instead, but the captain had no such scruple. “It’s written on our hull in block capitals. Even the Sasquinaw can read it,” she said, taking her seat.
“Greetings Amanda Ray. Please Respond,” said the ship’s speakers again. No new inflection, no irritation at not being answered, just the same message, again. “Put me through,” said the Captain.
The comm-off tapped once at his console, then nodded at his captain.
“This is the Amanda Ray,” said the captain. “Who are you?”
“Voice metric accepted, Captain Leigh,” said the voice. “Stand by.”
“We are being scanned, ma’am,” said Hockley, the weapons officer, and indeed the displays all flickered as the mystery ship’s sensors probed the Amanda Ray, searching out her capabilities, and her limitations.
“Crew to quarters,” ordered the captain. The Amanda Ray, with no mobility and limited energy reserves, could not hope to put up much of a fight, but she would no peacefully roll over and play dead, either.
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“Why is there no video?” asked the captain, brushing her hair from her eyes. She had been asleep when the hail had come through and had not taken the time to put on a uniform or tie back her long, deeply greyed hair.
The comm-off tapped away at his console again. He was a thin, pale man with a habit of coughing when he was nervous. “Audio-only signal, ma’am,” he reported at last.
“Greetings Amanda Ray. Please Respond,” said the speakers again - the same voice, timbre, speed, and inflection as the first time, just softer now that the comm-off had lowered the volume.
“How do they know our name?” asked the first lieutenant.
The sublieutenant refrained from stating that their name was etched and painted on their hull, contenting himself with a small sniff instead, but the captain had no such scruple. “It’s written on our hull in block capitals. Even the Sasquinaw can read it,” she said, taking her seat.
“Greetings Amanda Ray. Please Respond,” said the ship’s speakers again. No new inflection, no irritation at not being answered, just the same message, again. “Put me through,” said the Captain.
The comm-off tapped once at his console, then nodded at his captain.
“This is the Amanda Ray,” said the captain. “Who are you?”
“Voice metric accepted, Captain Leigh,” said the voice. “Stand by.”
“We are being scanned, ma’am,” said Hockley, the weapons officer, and indeed the displays all flickered as the mystery ship’s sensors probed the Amanda Ray, searching out her capabilities, and her limitations.
“Crew to quarters,” ordered the captain. The Amanda Ray, with no mobility and limited energy reserves, could not hope to put up much of a fight, but she would no peacefully roll over and play dead, either.
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Saturday, July 25, 2009
STO'B 34
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Chasseur fired her signal guns again, and through his telescope Philip could see the green and tan brig’s crew standing about in confusion. One man was pointing at their flogging sails, and then at the English brigs, while another vehemently gestured to the fort, which fired again, and again with a second gun. Aboard the snow someone, presumably the master, was climbing into the mainmast’s weather shrouds with a speaking trumpet. “Mr Wilkins, lower the cutter,” Philip called to his midshipman.
A fountain of water erupted between the Badger and the Chassuer, followed some moments later by a second fountain only ten yards from the Badger’s side, a fountain that collapsed onto and soaked the quarterdeck. And now that the French guns had found the range, the rest of the battery opened up, five guns at once, followed by a sixth. Philip watched one of the shells, watching it fly high, high, almost out of sight before passing the top of its arc and plummeting down toward him, and finally exploding some yards off to starboard, perhaps a foot above the water. Iron shell fragments slammed into Badger’s hull, and the starboard fore shrouds collapsed, but nothing carried away yet. The cutter was in the water now, with its crew (most of them marines wearing seamen’s slops, on this occasion) in place around some poorly folded canvas, but before Philip climbed down into it he turned to Wilkins, “the moment we hook on to the snow, strike the French colors - not a moment before or after.”
Into the cutter he went, and the boat’s crew pulling hard across the lane of water separating them from the snow, ducking as the shells exploded around them, for now the fort had shifted from the brigs to the cutter, hoping to cut them off before they reached the merchantman. Philip glanced back at the Badger. Wilkins stood at the rail, watching them intently through a glass, waiting to order one of the Badgers to strike the colors. A hail from the snow, asking what in hell was going on, what were they about; but Philip ignored it, said nothing, folding his telescope and nodding at the bowman, who picked up his boat hook.
The snow was still uncertain, not sure if Philip and his men were friend or foe, and although she had not dropped any manropes or ladders for them, neither had she rigged boarding netting. “Lower a rope,” Philip called in French, but either he wasn’t heard or he was ignored, or perhaps he had mis-spoken - in any event no rope appeared.
The bow man hooked on. Philip swiveled in his seat and saw the French colors flutter down from the Badger’s top. Over on the Chasseur the English colors raced aloft to appear over the French naval flag. “Grapnels,” Philip ordered, and the marines stripped the folded canvas aside to reveal three grapnels with ropes bent to them, along with several muskets, cutlasses, and collection of boarding axes as a back-up for the grapnels.
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Chasseur fired her signal guns again, and through his telescope Philip could see the green and tan brig’s crew standing about in confusion. One man was pointing at their flogging sails, and then at the English brigs, while another vehemently gestured to the fort, which fired again, and again with a second gun. Aboard the snow someone, presumably the master, was climbing into the mainmast’s weather shrouds with a speaking trumpet. “Mr Wilkins, lower the cutter,” Philip called to his midshipman.
A fountain of water erupted between the Badger and the Chassuer, followed some moments later by a second fountain only ten yards from the Badger’s side, a fountain that collapsed onto and soaked the quarterdeck. And now that the French guns had found the range, the rest of the battery opened up, five guns at once, followed by a sixth. Philip watched one of the shells, watching it fly high, high, almost out of sight before passing the top of its arc and plummeting down toward him, and finally exploding some yards off to starboard, perhaps a foot above the water. Iron shell fragments slammed into Badger’s hull, and the starboard fore shrouds collapsed, but nothing carried away yet. The cutter was in the water now, with its crew (most of them marines wearing seamen’s slops, on this occasion) in place around some poorly folded canvas, but before Philip climbed down into it he turned to Wilkins, “the moment we hook on to the snow, strike the French colors - not a moment before or after.”
Into the cutter he went, and the boat’s crew pulling hard across the lane of water separating them from the snow, ducking as the shells exploded around them, for now the fort had shifted from the brigs to the cutter, hoping to cut them off before they reached the merchantman. Philip glanced back at the Badger. Wilkins stood at the rail, watching them intently through a glass, waiting to order one of the Badgers to strike the colors. A hail from the snow, asking what in hell was going on, what were they about; but Philip ignored it, said nothing, folding his telescope and nodding at the bowman, who picked up his boat hook.
The snow was still uncertain, not sure if Philip and his men were friend or foe, and although she had not dropped any manropes or ladders for them, neither had she rigged boarding netting. “Lower a rope,” Philip called in French, but either he wasn’t heard or he was ignored, or perhaps he had mis-spoken - in any event no rope appeared.
The bow man hooked on. Philip swiveled in his seat and saw the French colors flutter down from the Badger’s top. Over on the Chasseur the English colors raced aloft to appear over the French naval flag. “Grapnels,” Philip ordered, and the marines stripped the folded canvas aside to reveal three grapnels with ropes bent to them, along with several muskets, cutlasses, and collection of boarding axes as a back-up for the grapnels.
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Thursday, July 23, 2009
STO'B 33
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There might still be time to confuse the issue, Philip thought as he waited to the fall of the shot. Theoretically, there might be captured British sailors on a French brig, and they would wear their own uniforms, of course. Ideas flitted through his mind, none particularly plausible. He cursed his lieutenant for unwittingly blowing their cover, and himself for not issuing orders prohibiting the wearing of uniforms and hoisting of signals.
A fountain of water splashed up beyond the two English brigs, followed a moment later by an explosion of froth as the French shell detonated underwater, and as the bubbles died away they revealed several fish on the surface, floating on their sides. Far down in the harbor the snow was clearly making her way out to join the two naval brings, while one of the merchant brigs - the green and tan one, which had responded to his signal by shipping her capstan bars - had dropped her maincourse and was catting her anchor.
Philip walked forward to the Badger’s bows, collecting a speaking trumpet from the binnacle as he went. “Lieutenant Grey,” he called over to the Chasseur, as loudly as he dared. The French would be watching very carefully, and though he knew that their telescopes could not amplify sound, he worried that they might do so anyway. He did not want the French to know that the allegedly-captured Badger was actually giving the orders. “Lieutenant Grey, signal the fort,” he said, “and make the private signal again.”
The fort fired again, this time firing short, but not by very much, and the Chasseur fired a leeward and a windward gun. “Mr Grey, lead us in to meet the snow,” said Philip, “but not too fast. We don’t want to spook her. Mr South, follow the Chasseur in, half a cable’s-length astern.” The green and tan brig was coming up into the wind, but the snow did not seem to have recognized the danger, and if he could get nothing else he wanted to be certain of her.
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There might still be time to confuse the issue, Philip thought as he waited to the fall of the shot. Theoretically, there might be captured British sailors on a French brig, and they would wear their own uniforms, of course. Ideas flitted through his mind, none particularly plausible. He cursed his lieutenant for unwittingly blowing their cover, and himself for not issuing orders prohibiting the wearing of uniforms and hoisting of signals.
A fountain of water splashed up beyond the two English brigs, followed a moment later by an explosion of froth as the French shell detonated underwater, and as the bubbles died away they revealed several fish on the surface, floating on their sides. Far down in the harbor the snow was clearly making her way out to join the two naval brings, while one of the merchant brigs - the green and tan one, which had responded to his signal by shipping her capstan bars - had dropped her maincourse and was catting her anchor.
Philip walked forward to the Badger’s bows, collecting a speaking trumpet from the binnacle as he went. “Lieutenant Grey,” he called over to the Chasseur, as loudly as he dared. The French would be watching very carefully, and though he knew that their telescopes could not amplify sound, he worried that they might do so anyway. He did not want the French to know that the allegedly-captured Badger was actually giving the orders. “Lieutenant Grey, signal the fort,” he said, “and make the private signal again.”
The fort fired again, this time firing short, but not by very much, and the Chasseur fired a leeward and a windward gun. “Mr Grey, lead us in to meet the snow,” said Philip, “but not too fast. We don’t want to spook her. Mr South, follow the Chasseur in, half a cable’s-length astern.” The green and tan brig was coming up into the wind, but the snow did not seem to have recognized the danger, and if he could get nothing else he wanted to be certain of her.
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Saturday, July 18, 2009
Space-2
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* * *
“Ma’am, R and S may have something,” reported the sublieutenant, referring to the division that oversaw long and medium range monitoring, and whose official name was not RADAR and SONAR, nor Rocks and Ships, but Reconnaissance and Surveillance.
“Ah?” said the first lieutenant, still a fool 30 years later.
“Yes, ma’am. Something built, though they can’t identify it. Communications is standing by to hail.”
“Are there life signs?”
“R and S says ‘no,’ but acknowledges that their equipment is insufficient to be sure. There are several readings that they can’t interpret. Strong energy readings, though.
Before the lieutenant could respond, or before he did respond, at any rate, an electronic chime sounded and the surround to the bridge’s main view screen began to pulse purple. The lieutenant stared at the pulsing light, trying to remember what it meant. “We are being hailed, ma’am,” said the sublieutenant.
The lieutenant was absorbed in the meaning of the pulsing purple light, however, and did not reply. “We are being hailed,” the sublieutenant repeated. “Shall I put them through?”
“Put them through, receive-only” said the captain, whose arrival had passed unnoticed amidst the novelty of the foreign ship, or thing, or whatever it was.
“Put them through, receive-only” said the sublieutenant to the comm(unications) off(icer).
“Receive only, aye,” said the comm-off, tapping at his console, bringing up the hail and canceling the hail-waiting signal.
A moment later a sightly garbled, though perfectly understandable and extremely loud voice filled the bridge: “GREETINGS AMANDA RAY. PLEASE RESPOND.”
“Sorry,” said the comm-off, tapping his console to bring the volume down. In the presence of the captain the first lieutenant did not respond.
Silence filled the bridge. They had been found at last. But who had found them? They were still deep in Sasquinaw space, in spite of towing with the shuttle craft for three hours a day (the most the craft could pull the Ray’s bulk for with out losing control). At least, according to their 30-year-old charts they were.
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“Ma’am, R and S may have something,” reported the sublieutenant, referring to the division that oversaw long and medium range monitoring, and whose official name was not RADAR and SONAR, nor Rocks and Ships, but Reconnaissance and Surveillance.
“Ah?” said the first lieutenant, still a fool 30 years later.
“Yes, ma’am. Something built, though they can’t identify it. Communications is standing by to hail.”
“Are there life signs?”
“R and S says ‘no,’ but acknowledges that their equipment is insufficient to be sure. There are several readings that they can’t interpret. Strong energy readings, though.
Before the lieutenant could respond, or before he did respond, at any rate, an electronic chime sounded and the surround to the bridge’s main view screen began to pulse purple. The lieutenant stared at the pulsing light, trying to remember what it meant. “We are being hailed, ma’am,” said the sublieutenant.
The lieutenant was absorbed in the meaning of the pulsing purple light, however, and did not reply. “We are being hailed,” the sublieutenant repeated. “Shall I put them through?”
“Put them through, receive-only” said the captain, whose arrival had passed unnoticed amidst the novelty of the foreign ship, or thing, or whatever it was.
“Put them through, receive-only” said the sublieutenant to the comm(unications) off(icer).
“Receive only, aye,” said the comm-off, tapping at his console, bringing up the hail and canceling the hail-waiting signal.
A moment later a sightly garbled, though perfectly understandable and extremely loud voice filled the bridge: “GREETINGS AMANDA RAY. PLEASE RESPOND.”
“Sorry,” said the comm-off, tapping his console to bring the volume down. In the presence of the captain the first lieutenant did not respond.
Silence filled the bridge. They had been found at last. But who had found them? They were still deep in Sasquinaw space, in spite of towing with the shuttle craft for three hours a day (the most the craft could pull the Ray’s bulk for with out losing control). At least, according to their 30-year-old charts they were.
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Wednesday, July 15, 2009
STO'B 32
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But the French gunnery officer did not fire, though by Philip’s estimation the Badger and Chasseur were within long shot of his guns. Even better than long shot, he reflected, thinking of the wicked peppering he and the rest of the crew of the Intrepid had received from the pair of French long guns of the Le Corbosie battery as they attempted to take that tower in 1837. The memory remained strong: 36 pound shot hulling the poor Intrepid again and again, smashing the main mast and its attendant rigging, taking off Captain Lawrence’s head at the shoulders so that one moment that kind man was talking to him, calming his fears (it was Philip’s first time under fire); and the next moment his head was gone, replaced by a spurting red fountain that soaked Philip as the captain collapsed at his feet. “I beg your pardon, Mr Wilkins?” he said.
“Chasseur is signaling sir, asking for direction,” repeated the midshipman.
Theoretically, Chasseur was the senior vessel, she having apparently captured the Badger, but now was not the time to deal with that - not in front of the enemy, with the blue peter flying on one - he swung his glass back to the clustered merchantmen - two vessels. And as he watched the snow’s anchor broke free of the water, and water started to cream along her bow. Might the snow lead the others out?
The Chasseur fired a gun, attempting to draw Philip’s attention to her signal, but Philip took the captain’s prerogative and ignored it. Perhaps the shore might think that the signal was for them, though Philip saw no navy vessels in the harbor. He shifted his glass back to the fortress, the other potential source of orders, and with dismay he noted that the gunnery officer still had his telescope raised, though now he appeared to be looking at the Chasseur.
Philip turned his own glass to the Chasseur, bringing her startlingly close. He could make out the weave of the rigging, count the stripes on the helmsman’s shirt as he stood by the wheel, make out the bright gold braiding on Lieutenant Grey’s epaulettes; he could almost make out the lettering on the brig’s bell. He swung his glass back to the lieutenant’s epaulettes. To his English lieutenant’s epaulettes. That was what the gunnery officer was staring at, and now the fort was firing a gun.
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But the French gunnery officer did not fire, though by Philip’s estimation the Badger and Chasseur were within long shot of his guns. Even better than long shot, he reflected, thinking of the wicked peppering he and the rest of the crew of the Intrepid had received from the pair of French long guns of the Le Corbosie battery as they attempted to take that tower in 1837. The memory remained strong: 36 pound shot hulling the poor Intrepid again and again, smashing the main mast and its attendant rigging, taking off Captain Lawrence’s head at the shoulders so that one moment that kind man was talking to him, calming his fears (it was Philip’s first time under fire); and the next moment his head was gone, replaced by a spurting red fountain that soaked Philip as the captain collapsed at his feet. “I beg your pardon, Mr Wilkins?” he said.
“Chasseur is signaling sir, asking for direction,” repeated the midshipman.
Theoretically, Chasseur was the senior vessel, she having apparently captured the Badger, but now was not the time to deal with that - not in front of the enemy, with the blue peter flying on one - he swung his glass back to the clustered merchantmen - two vessels. And as he watched the snow’s anchor broke free of the water, and water started to cream along her bow. Might the snow lead the others out?
The Chasseur fired a gun, attempting to draw Philip’s attention to her signal, but Philip took the captain’s prerogative and ignored it. Perhaps the shore might think that the signal was for them, though Philip saw no navy vessels in the harbor. He shifted his glass back to the fortress, the other potential source of orders, and with dismay he noted that the gunnery officer still had his telescope raised, though now he appeared to be looking at the Chasseur.
Philip turned his own glass to the Chasseur, bringing her startlingly close. He could make out the weave of the rigging, count the stripes on the helmsman’s shirt as he stood by the wheel, make out the bright gold braiding on Lieutenant Grey’s epaulettes; he could almost make out the lettering on the brig’s bell. He swung his glass back to the lieutenant’s epaulettes. To his English lieutenant’s epaulettes. That was what the gunnery officer was staring at, and now the fort was firing a gun.
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Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Yesterday's New York Times
Yesterday's Times had a front page story on Sarah Palin's slow collapse from popular governor to retiring, less popular governor. Ooh, I said to myself, this should be interesting, and after reading about the manner in which George Bush, Jr's presidency may have damaged the current administration's ability to turn things around for the US, and how civil unrest continues in Iran, I began the Palin article with real eagerness.
I should have known better, because what happened was not at all new. The Sarah Palin story, it quickly became evident, is the same story as everyone else has - a human being trying to do the right thing (based on her understanding of 'right'), and not always succeeding. And running into the real life that happened while she was off making other plans. the press, always eager to leap at the shallowest of controversies, didn't help; though it isn't their job to help. Her daughter's personal relations didn't help, though again, catering to her mother's political career shouldn't be the at the top of Bristol Palin's list of priorities - Bristol Palin should live her life for Bristol, not Sarah, Palin. Many people seem to have forgotten that.
But the point of all of this is that, much as I am relieved that Sarah Palin is not our Vice President, and as much as I suspect that she had more to do with John McCain's losing the election than Joe Biden did with Barack Obama's wining the election, she is a human being, and as long as I'm able to keep that perspective, it's hard to wish her ill. Nor do I want to wish her ill. Though I do wish her out of the spotlight.
And out of politics.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
STOB 31
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* * *
Thirty-six hours later Philip found himself intimately concerned with the line between acceptable and unacceptable behavior in warfare. The Badger had met the Chasseur in the early morning fog off of Arcades, on the Sicilian coast, and now the two brigs stood across the mouth of that long harbor, the Chasseur under French colors, the Badger wearing the French colors over the English ensign, as if she were a prize of the French brig rather then the other way around. Philip had placed the two flags on different lines, so that although from even as close as a dozen yards away they appeared to be flying together, he could strike the French colors without lowering the English ones; but the question of when to strike them troubled him: strike them too early and the convoy would scatter before he had a chance to snap them up, strike them too late and his captures would be illegal.
For the moment, though, the convoy still rode at anchor: three brigs, two sloops (one ship-rigged, the other brig-), and a snow, all of them deeply laden and no doubt undermanned, as merchantmen so often were. The Chasseur and the Badger hove to just outside the bar, and the Chasseur raised the blue peter and fired two guns - one to windward, the other to leeward: the signal for the convoy to get under way, according to the code book Philip had captured with the French brig.
But not one of the merchantmen responded. Philip trained his glass on them, clustered together at the end of the harbor. The crew of one of the brigs had actually gathered around her capstan, and as he watched the capstan gave a preparatory turn, pulling in some of the anchor cable’s slack. Behind the brig Philip made out a puff of smoke, and refocussing he saw that the snow had fired up its donkey engine in preparation for winning its anchor. But the other vessels, with the exception of one of the other brigs, who raised the blue peter and fired a gun, lay motionless. Philip had participated in convoys who were only able to get under way at last with much harrying from their escorts, by shouted threat and unshotted gun, and he feared that this convoy might prove the same.
Philip shifted his gaze to the fort that guarded the harbor, high on Franciscan Hill. Half a dozen cannon peered from its embrasures, and several men clustered around each of them. An officer, his telescope to his eye, focussed on the Chasseur. Why was he focussed on the Chasseur? Had he smoked the cheat? The six cannon under his command would be more than enough to smash the Badger and Chasseur into kindling.
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GLOSSARY
Thirty-six hours later Philip found himself intimately concerned with the line between acceptable and unacceptable behavior in warfare. The Badger had met the Chasseur in the early morning fog off of Arcades, on the Sicilian coast, and now the two brigs stood across the mouth of that long harbor, the Chasseur under French colors, the Badger wearing the French colors over the English ensign, as if she were a prize of the French brig rather then the other way around. Philip had placed the two flags on different lines, so that although from even as close as a dozen yards away they appeared to be flying together, he could strike the French colors without lowering the English ones; but the question of when to strike them troubled him: strike them too early and the convoy would scatter before he had a chance to snap them up, strike them too late and his captures would be illegal.
For the moment, though, the convoy still rode at anchor: three brigs, two sloops (one ship-rigged, the other brig-), and a snow, all of them deeply laden and no doubt undermanned, as merchantmen so often were. The Chasseur and the Badger hove to just outside the bar, and the Chasseur raised the blue peter and fired two guns - one to windward, the other to leeward: the signal for the convoy to get under way, according to the code book Philip had captured with the French brig.
But not one of the merchantmen responded. Philip trained his glass on them, clustered together at the end of the harbor. The crew of one of the brigs had actually gathered around her capstan, and as he watched the capstan gave a preparatory turn, pulling in some of the anchor cable’s slack. Behind the brig Philip made out a puff of smoke, and refocussing he saw that the snow had fired up its donkey engine in preparation for winning its anchor. But the other vessels, with the exception of one of the other brigs, who raised the blue peter and fired a gun, lay motionless. Philip had participated in convoys who were only able to get under way at last with much harrying from their escorts, by shouted threat and unshotted gun, and he feared that this convoy might prove the same.
Philip shifted his gaze to the fort that guarded the harbor, high on Franciscan Hill. Half a dozen cannon peered from its embrasures, and several men clustered around each of them. An officer, his telescope to his eye, focussed on the Chasseur. Why was he focussed on the Chasseur? Had he smoked the cheat? The six cannon under his command would be more than enough to smash the Badger and Chasseur into kindling.
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Monday, July 6, 2009
STO'B 30
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“And, of course, there is the coal torpedo,” said the master. “Though that won’t go until you tosses it in the firebox, like.”
“A coal torpedo?” asked Captain Fitton, who had never heard of such a thing.
“Why, yes, sir. It is a torpedo but what looks like coal, and is filled with powder - with gunpowder, Doctor,” the master said to Dr M’Mullen, in case a landsman might not understand powder. “You tosses it in the firebox and it goes off, right in the firebox, or so I’ve heard.”
“But would not that merely make the ship go faster,” asked Dr M’Mullen, “it being, as I understand, the fire in the box that makes the steam, and makes the engine go?”
“Yes, Doctor,” said the master, “but the explosion overwhelms the firebox, opening it to the water above, and at the least the water puts out your fire, like. But more commonly the whole boiler goes once any part of it is ruptured - the engineer could explain it better than I - but I’ve heard tell of French locomotives well nigh destroyed by such a device.”
“Why would anyone want to toss that into their fire?” asked the surgeon, his mind now worked on by enough grog to overcome his reserve.
“It’s planted by spies, like, in the enemy’s coal bunker, and you throws it in unawares,” said the master.
“So before you know, it’s too late,” observed Philip. “What a damned cowardly thing to do.”
“That is the nature of war, however,” said Dr M’Mullen.
“Oh, come Doctor,” said Philip. “War is quite honorable. There are certain rules we all abide by, like not striking our colors and then fighting again, or raising flags of distress to lure in the enemy; or not fighting under false colors, or no colors at all. Everyone knows what the limits are, and none of us step beyond them.”
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“And, of course, there is the coal torpedo,” said the master. “Though that won’t go until you tosses it in the firebox, like.”
“A coal torpedo?” asked Captain Fitton, who had never heard of such a thing.
“Why, yes, sir. It is a torpedo but what looks like coal, and is filled with powder - with gunpowder, Doctor,” the master said to Dr M’Mullen, in case a landsman might not understand powder. “You tosses it in the firebox and it goes off, right in the firebox, or so I’ve heard.”
“But would not that merely make the ship go faster,” asked Dr M’Mullen, “it being, as I understand, the fire in the box that makes the steam, and makes the engine go?”
“Yes, Doctor,” said the master, “but the explosion overwhelms the firebox, opening it to the water above, and at the least the water puts out your fire, like. But more commonly the whole boiler goes once any part of it is ruptured - the engineer could explain it better than I - but I’ve heard tell of French locomotives well nigh destroyed by such a device.”
“Why would anyone want to toss that into their fire?” asked the surgeon, his mind now worked on by enough grog to overcome his reserve.
“It’s planted by spies, like, in the enemy’s coal bunker, and you throws it in unawares,” said the master.
“So before you know, it’s too late,” observed Philip. “What a damned cowardly thing to do.”
“That is the nature of war, however,” said Dr M’Mullen.
“Oh, come Doctor,” said Philip. “War is quite honorable. There are certain rules we all abide by, like not striking our colors and then fighting again, or raising flags of distress to lure in the enemy; or not fighting under false colors, or no colors at all. Everyone knows what the limits are, and none of us step beyond them.”
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Sunday, July 5, 2009
STO'B 29
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The presence of the master and surgeon relieved some of the awkwardness, nevertheless the meal was not a success. Or not at first, anyway. Convention dictated that no one beneath the captain’s rank should speak at his table without having first been spoken to - it was an extension of the court etiquette, the captain representing the king - and though Dr M’Mullen was either ignorant or uncaring of this custom, the surgeon and master were properly mute. Further, Philip had not yet had time to acquire any wine on board, nor any personal stores of any kind, and he was forced therefor to feed his guests the same salt horse eaten by the crew, wetted by nothing more than rum, grog, and coffee.
Nor did he know his guests terribly well. Dr M’Mullen, of course, he knew only through having crashed into him. The master he knew to be a good seaman, if perhaps somewhat lax in discipline, though the men did jump for him just as they did for Lt Grey. The surgeon he knew not at all, save for observing his generally shabby appearance. The man had shaved and put on a creased, clean uniform coat for this invitation to the cabin, however, and the creases in his rarely-worn coat gave him an even frailer, more bent look than he usually displayed. “Dr Foster,” Philip called across the table, “a glass of grog with you, sir.”
Philip also had a glass of grog with Mr South and another with Dr M’Mullen, and so fortified he began to relax. “Dr M’Mullen will be accompanying us as far as Gideon’s Bay,” he said, passing the grog around again as Simkin brought in their simple meal. “I trust you have found your accommodations to your liking, Doctor?”
“Yes,” replied Dr M’Mullen. My books are spread out on the desk, by the windows, and I expect that most of them will recover.”
“Your books, sir?” asked Philip
“Yes, sir. I accidentally dropped several of them as I climbed down to the boat. The crew were good enough to fish them out again, however.”
“I remember when I was a midshipman in the London,” said Philip, “74, Captain West, the Valkerie, Captain Corbell, was taking aboard gunpowder and they dropped one of the casks. It must have stove and hit a lantern - they were working at night so as to sail before sunrise - or perhaps someone was smoking, but the powder caught and the whole brig went up - vanished. London was a quarter mile away but we were rocked at our moorings, and we all talked in a roar for days afterward. Several of the men were looking at her when she went and they couldn’t see right for many hours.”
“Did anyone survive?” asked Dr M’Mullen.
“No,” said Philip. “The largest piece we found of anyone was a head, and that was too badly burned to recognize.”
Ship explosions were rare, but they were common enough for everyone to have a story about them, and the dinner wound its course through explosions due to accident and enemy fire, those due to igniting magazines and boiler failures, the need for dowsing all lights when bringing powder aboard, and some captains’ insistence that all lights be dowsed for loading coal as well.
“Why is that?” asked Patrick.
“The coal dust can explode.” Philip said.
“Oh, indeed?”
“Yes. But it needs a shock, like, to get it going, as well as a light,” explained the master.
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GLOSSARY
The presence of the master and surgeon relieved some of the awkwardness, nevertheless the meal was not a success. Or not at first, anyway. Convention dictated that no one beneath the captain’s rank should speak at his table without having first been spoken to - it was an extension of the court etiquette, the captain representing the king - and though Dr M’Mullen was either ignorant or uncaring of this custom, the surgeon and master were properly mute. Further, Philip had not yet had time to acquire any wine on board, nor any personal stores of any kind, and he was forced therefor to feed his guests the same salt horse eaten by the crew, wetted by nothing more than rum, grog, and coffee.
Nor did he know his guests terribly well. Dr M’Mullen, of course, he knew only through having crashed into him. The master he knew to be a good seaman, if perhaps somewhat lax in discipline, though the men did jump for him just as they did for Lt Grey. The surgeon he knew not at all, save for observing his generally shabby appearance. The man had shaved and put on a creased, clean uniform coat for this invitation to the cabin, however, and the creases in his rarely-worn coat gave him an even frailer, more bent look than he usually displayed. “Dr Foster,” Philip called across the table, “a glass of grog with you, sir.”
Philip also had a glass of grog with Mr South and another with Dr M’Mullen, and so fortified he began to relax. “Dr M’Mullen will be accompanying us as far as Gideon’s Bay,” he said, passing the grog around again as Simkin brought in their simple meal. “I trust you have found your accommodations to your liking, Doctor?”
“Yes,” replied Dr M’Mullen. My books are spread out on the desk, by the windows, and I expect that most of them will recover.”
“Your books, sir?” asked Philip
“Yes, sir. I accidentally dropped several of them as I climbed down to the boat. The crew were good enough to fish them out again, however.”
“I remember when I was a midshipman in the London,” said Philip, “74, Captain West, the Valkerie, Captain Corbell, was taking aboard gunpowder and they dropped one of the casks. It must have stove and hit a lantern - they were working at night so as to sail before sunrise - or perhaps someone was smoking, but the powder caught and the whole brig went up - vanished. London was a quarter mile away but we were rocked at our moorings, and we all talked in a roar for days afterward. Several of the men were looking at her when she went and they couldn’t see right for many hours.”
“Did anyone survive?” asked Dr M’Mullen.
“No,” said Philip. “The largest piece we found of anyone was a head, and that was too badly burned to recognize.”
Ship explosions were rare, but they were common enough for everyone to have a story about them, and the dinner wound its course through explosions due to accident and enemy fire, those due to igniting magazines and boiler failures, the need for dowsing all lights when bringing powder aboard, and some captains’ insistence that all lights be dowsed for loading coal as well.
“Why is that?” asked Patrick.
“The coal dust can explode.” Philip said.
“Oh, indeed?”
“Yes. But it needs a shock, like, to get it going, as well as a light,” explained the master.
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