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GLOSSARY
Chapter Three
The evening outside the opera came flooding back: his crashing into Mr M'Mullen; knocking him down; the shouting, entirely unwarranted; his equally unwarranted advance on M'Mullen and surprise - his dismay and surprise - when M'Mullen failed to retreat; his relief when the opera let out, allowing him to escape the conflict without too much loss of face. But the admiral had said something. "I'm sorry, sir?"
"I said that your appearance doesn't do you much credit - you seem much hacked about."
"Yes, sir," said Philip, collecting himself, "yes, sir. We were attacked by a French brig, and took her by boarding. She shot our rudder away - gudgeons, too - and for a while we were at a loss ..."
"I imagine those dispatches are for me?" said the admiral, clearly uninterested in Philip's account. Any capture made before the Badger's arrival would not provide him with anything in the way of prize money.
"Yes, sir," said Philip, surrendering the packet of dispatches along with his statement of condition. copied fair by the clerk just as the Badger rounded under the Viceroy's stern and still damp with Philip's signature. For several minutes the only sounds in the cabin were the rustle of papers as Admiral Halsey ran through his dispatches and Philip's report of the Badger's state, and the living creak and groan of the Viceroy around them.
Philip stole a glance at M'Mullen, who for his part betrayed nothing at all, his long legs crossed, his dark eyes expressionless. He was dressed in civilian clothes, and perhaps feeling Philip's gaze upon him, he looked at Philip, who looked away. His gaze fell upon the Badger, following in the flagship's wake and off to her port, and looking incredibly small among the line of battle ships.
"Well," said Admiral Hasley, putting the dispatches down at last, and reaching for Philip's statement of condition. "You're a bit short of water, and other supplies, I see. And you have several prisoners - they shall have to be transferred to Gideon's Bay. Since Dr M'Mullen also is bound for those parts, I'll be sending him with you. He may have other destinations as well, you will attend to them as they arise."
"Dr M'Mullen will accompany me?"
"Yes," said the admiral. "The Sick-and-Hurt is sending him to evaluate the hospitals, and it's about time, too. Nasty places, full of infection."
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GLOSSARY
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
STO'B 25
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
The Chasseur was long lost to view by the time the Badger found Admiral Halsey, wearing his flag on the Viceroy, in the false dawn NW of Malta. Once this had been ascertained for certain, once Philip was sure that he wasn't actually sailing into the arms of a French squadron, he borrowed a razor and ducked into his cabin to shave and change into respectable clothes.
Neither task proved easy. Philip had noticed the cramped nature of the cabin before, of course, and he knew that neither he nor anyone else aboard could stand upright in it, but as he had not shaved since stepping aboard he had not realized just how ill-suited the little space was for such a basic task. The quarter gallery in which he had found the small mirror was fine for stooping over its bowl to wash his hands, but too cramped for him to wield his razor. The Badger's tumblehome, coupled with the outward lean of her stern windows meant that there were few places to hang a mirror where it would show anything other than the floor or the ceiling.
The solution, he discovered, was to stand on his table, raise the skylight and remove one of its sides. This was normal enough - the skylight's top was provided with hinges for just this purpose, and each of its sides was designed to be easily removed so that the whole could be replaced with a hatch when the brig stripped for quarters - and no one on the quarterdeck paid the least attention as he did it. But when he pulled out his shaving accoutrements and leaned his mirror against one of the skylight's remaining sides the helmsman stared.
"Mind your luff!" ordered the gunner, who was too far forward to see this little drama unfold but could not fail to notice as the sloop swung into the wind. "Liddle, what are you do- oh, my - eh, beg pardon, sir," said the gunner, turning and saluting.
"Carry on," said Captain Fitton, lathering his face and starting to shave as Liddle brought the Badger back on course for the squadron, "carry on."
Once he was shaved he turned over his meager wardrobe, including his rumpled coat, which still bore his lieutenant's epaulettes. Philip had served as a midshipman under the admiral when Halsey was still a captain, in the old Illustrious in the eastern Mediterranean. He remembered that man's terrible anger on an occasion when Philip had appeared on the quarterdeck sans hat, and another occasion when Halsey had mastheaded Jevons, also a midshipman in the ship, for failing to wear his dirk at quarters. He turned to the box in the desk, noting with relief a barely reputable pair of Commander's epaulettes - worn, heavily tarnished, and much hacked about. They were better than nothing.
By the time Badger joined the squadron, ducking under the Viceroy's stern to deliver Captain Fitton and his dispatches to the flagship, the epaulettes were better still, they having been polished by Simkin. The polishing had not done away with the marks of age, far less those of battle, but at least they gleamed in the sun. And, reflected Philip, he had great reason to be pleased with himself: he had made decent time in spite of his late departure from Minorca, and any lateness might easily be ascribed to damages from the battle with the Chasseur; he had captured a valuable prize, including the French codebook; and he had secured intelligence pointing to the capture of several more. The ceremony of being piped aboard - padded manropes held by white-gloved sideboys, the bosun's mates blowing their silver whistles, the fine stamp and clash of the marines as they presented arms, and the officer of the watch saluting and stepping forward to greet him only increased this sense of well being. He had thus entirely forgotten the shabby state of his uniform when the admiral's secretary showed him into the cabin, where he found the admiral - and sitting comfortably in a chair beside the great man himself, Mr M'Mullen.
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
GLOSSARY
The Chasseur was long lost to view by the time the Badger found Admiral Halsey, wearing his flag on the Viceroy, in the false dawn NW of Malta. Once this had been ascertained for certain, once Philip was sure that he wasn't actually sailing into the arms of a French squadron, he borrowed a razor and ducked into his cabin to shave and change into respectable clothes.
Neither task proved easy. Philip had noticed the cramped nature of the cabin before, of course, and he knew that neither he nor anyone else aboard could stand upright in it, but as he had not shaved since stepping aboard he had not realized just how ill-suited the little space was for such a basic task. The quarter gallery in which he had found the small mirror was fine for stooping over its bowl to wash his hands, but too cramped for him to wield his razor. The Badger's tumblehome, coupled with the outward lean of her stern windows meant that there were few places to hang a mirror where it would show anything other than the floor or the ceiling.
The solution, he discovered, was to stand on his table, raise the skylight and remove one of its sides. This was normal enough - the skylight's top was provided with hinges for just this purpose, and each of its sides was designed to be easily removed so that the whole could be replaced with a hatch when the brig stripped for quarters - and no one on the quarterdeck paid the least attention as he did it. But when he pulled out his shaving accoutrements and leaned his mirror against one of the skylight's remaining sides the helmsman stared.
"Mind your luff!" ordered the gunner, who was too far forward to see this little drama unfold but could not fail to notice as the sloop swung into the wind. "Liddle, what are you do- oh, my - eh, beg pardon, sir," said the gunner, turning and saluting.
"Carry on," said Captain Fitton, lathering his face and starting to shave as Liddle brought the Badger back on course for the squadron, "carry on."
Once he was shaved he turned over his meager wardrobe, including his rumpled coat, which still bore his lieutenant's epaulettes. Philip had served as a midshipman under the admiral when Halsey was still a captain, in the old Illustrious in the eastern Mediterranean. He remembered that man's terrible anger on an occasion when Philip had appeared on the quarterdeck sans hat, and another occasion when Halsey had mastheaded Jevons, also a midshipman in the ship, for failing to wear his dirk at quarters. He turned to the box in the desk, noting with relief a barely reputable pair of Commander's epaulettes - worn, heavily tarnished, and much hacked about. They were better than nothing.
By the time Badger joined the squadron, ducking under the Viceroy's stern to deliver Captain Fitton and his dispatches to the flagship, the epaulettes were better still, they having been polished by Simkin. The polishing had not done away with the marks of age, far less those of battle, but at least they gleamed in the sun. And, reflected Philip, he had great reason to be pleased with himself: he had made decent time in spite of his late departure from Minorca, and any lateness might easily be ascribed to damages from the battle with the Chasseur; he had captured a valuable prize, including the French codebook; and he had secured intelligence pointing to the capture of several more. The ceremony of being piped aboard - padded manropes held by white-gloved sideboys, the bosun's mates blowing their silver whistles, the fine stamp and clash of the marines as they presented arms, and the officer of the watch saluting and stepping forward to greet him only increased this sense of well being. He had thus entirely forgotten the shabby state of his uniform when the admiral's secretary showed him into the cabin, where he found the admiral - and sitting comfortably in a chair beside the great man himself, Mr M'Mullen.
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
Sunday, May 24, 2009
X-ray vignette 4 - Blowfish
GLOSSARY
Down at the Gantry the ambulance bay was full, so Frank parked by
the station's diesel pump. He and Ian draped a blanket over Mrs.
Leonardowitz and hurried her through the downpour to the
hospital.
Inside, patients were backed up into the hallway. Ian
watched a full code unfold in one of the Trauma rooms, and a
housekeeping worker clean the last of a pool of vomit from below
a stretcher in the hallway. Maintenance personal struggled with
the innards of a pneumatic tube station. Nurses, techs, doctors
circulated in a chaotic ballet, while patients and family
wandered like lost sheep. The portable X-ray machine drifted
through, a blind, lumbering beast.
The worst, however, was the patient in curtain twelve.
"Doctor!" he called, "Doctor," he paused, "Doctor!" again and
again, over and over. "Doctor! Doctor! Doctor!"
Ian peeked in the curtain. Patient Twelve stared straight
out into space, "Doctor! Doctor! Doctor!" He was dressed in a
hospital gown, and a thin plastic IV line snaked down from a half
empty bag, curling around and into his left A/C. "Doctor!
Doctor! Doctor!"
Ian considered for a moment. The man's face was entirely
neutral, and he took no notice of Ian's entrance. His skin was
normal, and he was in no distress, but "Doctor! Doctor!
Doctor!" at somewhere between a drone and a yell.
"Blowfish!" Ian suddenly said to the patient, and waited to
see if he had any effect.
"Blowfish!" Patient Twelve said, "Blowfish! Blowfish!
Blowfish!"
Ian stepped back from behind the curtain and traded a covert
glance with Frank. "I guess that's an improvement," Frank said.
Four patients were still in front of them at the triage
desk, and two more had been brought in by EMS while Ian was in
with Patient Twelve. Another patient had walked in alone. Nurse
Dunbar caught Ian's eye as she whisked by with an IV kit. "Have
you been playing with my patient on Table Twelve?" she asked.
"No, Ma'am," said Frank. Ian just smiled blankly.
"Blowfish! Blowfish! Blowfish!" said Patient Twelve. Nurse
Dunbar disappeared into curtain ten.
"You're busy for a Sunday morning," Ian said to Kathy when
she finally had two seconds to take his report.
"Is it Sunday?" Kathy asked.
"Blowfish! Blowfish! Blowfish!"
"Mrs. Leonardowitz is an eighty-seven-"
"I know Mrs. Leonardowitz," Kathy looked up. "Gloria, what
happened? Did you forget your medications again?" Mrs.
Leonardowitz blushed and Kathy continued, "You gave her a neb?"
"Two," Ian confirmed, "Plus Solu-Medrol."
"Mag?"
"There was some reason we didn't give it last time," Frank
broke in, "I don't remember what, but we decided to hold off.
She's doing better without it."
"Blowfish! Blowfish! Blowfish!"
Kathy nodded and leaned over the desk to sign their report.
"Put her in the bed over by the sink," she said.\par
\tab "No room at the inn." Frank remarked dryly as they slid Mrs.
Leonardowitz over and stripped their cot. "That guy doesn't shut
up. Kathy, what's with the patient on table twelve?"
Kathy rolled her eyes but said nothing as she took a quick
set of vitals on Mrs. Leonardowitz. Ian tore off the hospital
portion of their report and left it on the desk. "Blowfish!
Blowfish! Blowfish!"
Frank sprayed down the stretcher while Ian found new sheets,
once the cot was made they rolled out toward the ambulance bay.
"Ihh," Frank shivered, "that guy's driving me crazy.
Ian stopped just outside the curtain for a moment. "I'm
headin' out to the bus," Frank told him, continuing with the
stretcher out toward the bay. Ian nodded and stepped back behind
Patient Twelve's curtain.
"Blowfish! Blowfish! Blowfish!" said Patient Twelve, as
oblivious to Ian's enterance as before. "Blowfish! Blowfish!
Blowfish!"
Ian stepped over to the patient's right ear and softly spoke
into it. "Sssschhhhwwwuff," he said, pausing to hear the result.
Good, but not perfect, he decided. He had to make a few minor
modifications to Patient Twelve's new soundtrack before he was
satisfied with the result.
He caught Amy in the middle of a smirk when he walked out
from the curtain. "Having fun?" she asked.
When he and Frank returned to the Gantry a few hours later
the pace had slowed, but Patient Twelve was still there, and no
one had yet improved on Ian's handiwork. "Sssschhhhwwwwfff,"
Patient Twelve said, "Sssschhhhwwwwfff. Sssschhhhwwwwfff." Mrs.
Leonardowitz, on the other hand, was no longer parked near the
sink. Checking the dry erase board, Ian saw that she was no
longer listed in the department.
"What happened to Mrs. Leonardowitz?" he asked Amy after he
gave his report.
"Gloria? Was she here? Kathy M. must have had her, she's
at lunch."
Anne and a medic Ian didn't know walked in with a patient
and rolled up to the desk. "What, your noise machine is still
here?" she nodded toward curtain twelve.
"Yeah," Amy said, "psyche's running slow today. Somebody
set him on ocean waves, though, so it's kind of relaxing."
Ian nodded a greeting to Anne and remade his stretcher.
"You stopping in at Flanagan's today?" he asked.
Anne nodded at Ian as she gave her report, and Ian rolled
his stretcher out to the bus.
GLOSSARY
Down at the Gantry the ambulance bay was full, so Frank parked by
the station's diesel pump. He and Ian draped a blanket over Mrs.
Leonardowitz and hurried her through the downpour to the
hospital.
Inside, patients were backed up into the hallway. Ian
watched a full code unfold in one of the Trauma rooms, and a
housekeeping worker clean the last of a pool of vomit from below
a stretcher in the hallway. Maintenance personal struggled with
the innards of a pneumatic tube station. Nurses, techs, doctors
circulated in a chaotic ballet, while patients and family
wandered like lost sheep. The portable X-ray machine drifted
through, a blind, lumbering beast.
The worst, however, was the patient in curtain twelve.
"Doctor!" he called, "Doctor," he paused, "Doctor!" again and
again, over and over. "Doctor! Doctor! Doctor!"
Ian peeked in the curtain. Patient Twelve stared straight
out into space, "Doctor! Doctor! Doctor!" He was dressed in a
hospital gown, and a thin plastic IV line snaked down from a half
empty bag, curling around and into his left A/C. "Doctor!
Doctor! Doctor!"
Ian considered for a moment. The man's face was entirely
neutral, and he took no notice of Ian's entrance. His skin was
normal, and he was in no distress, but "Doctor! Doctor!
Doctor!" at somewhere between a drone and a yell.
"Blowfish!" Ian suddenly said to the patient, and waited to
see if he had any effect.
"Blowfish!" Patient Twelve said, "Blowfish! Blowfish!
Blowfish!"
Ian stepped back from behind the curtain and traded a covert
glance with Frank. "I guess that's an improvement," Frank said.
Four patients were still in front of them at the triage
desk, and two more had been brought in by EMS while Ian was in
with Patient Twelve. Another patient had walked in alone. Nurse
Dunbar caught Ian's eye as she whisked by with an IV kit. "Have
you been playing with my patient on Table Twelve?" she asked.
"No, Ma'am," said Frank. Ian just smiled blankly.
"Blowfish! Blowfish! Blowfish!" said Patient Twelve. Nurse
Dunbar disappeared into curtain ten.
"You're busy for a Sunday morning," Ian said to Kathy when
she finally had two seconds to take his report.
"Is it Sunday?" Kathy asked.
"Blowfish! Blowfish! Blowfish!"
"Mrs. Leonardowitz is an eighty-seven-"
"I know Mrs. Leonardowitz," Kathy looked up. "Gloria, what
happened? Did you forget your medications again?" Mrs.
Leonardowitz blushed and Kathy continued, "You gave her a neb?"
"Two," Ian confirmed, "Plus Solu-Medrol."
"Mag?"
"There was some reason we didn't give it last time," Frank
broke in, "I don't remember what, but we decided to hold off.
She's doing better without it."
"Blowfish! Blowfish! Blowfish!"
Kathy nodded and leaned over the desk to sign their report.
"Put her in the bed over by the sink," she said.\par
\tab "No room at the inn." Frank remarked dryly as they slid Mrs.
Leonardowitz over and stripped their cot. "That guy doesn't shut
up. Kathy, what's with the patient on table twelve?"
Kathy rolled her eyes but said nothing as she took a quick
set of vitals on Mrs. Leonardowitz. Ian tore off the hospital
portion of their report and left it on the desk. "Blowfish!
Blowfish! Blowfish!"
Frank sprayed down the stretcher while Ian found new sheets,
once the cot was made they rolled out toward the ambulance bay.
"Ihh," Frank shivered, "that guy's driving me crazy.
Ian stopped just outside the curtain for a moment. "I'm
headin' out to the bus," Frank told him, continuing with the
stretcher out toward the bay. Ian nodded and stepped back behind
Patient Twelve's curtain.
"Blowfish! Blowfish! Blowfish!" said Patient Twelve, as
oblivious to Ian's enterance as before. "Blowfish! Blowfish!
Blowfish!"
Ian stepped over to the patient's right ear and softly spoke
into it. "Sssschhhhwwwuff," he said, pausing to hear the result.
Good, but not perfect, he decided. He had to make a few minor
modifications to Patient Twelve's new soundtrack before he was
satisfied with the result.
He caught Amy in the middle of a smirk when he walked out
from the curtain. "Having fun?" she asked.
When he and Frank returned to the Gantry a few hours later
the pace had slowed, but Patient Twelve was still there, and no
one had yet improved on Ian's handiwork. "Sssschhhhwwwwfff,"
Patient Twelve said, "Sssschhhhwwwwfff. Sssschhhhwwwwfff." Mrs.
Leonardowitz, on the other hand, was no longer parked near the
sink. Checking the dry erase board, Ian saw that she was no
longer listed in the department.
"What happened to Mrs. Leonardowitz?" he asked Amy after he
gave his report.
"Gloria? Was she here? Kathy M. must have had her, she's
at lunch."
Anne and a medic Ian didn't know walked in with a patient
and rolled up to the desk. "What, your noise machine is still
here?" she nodded toward curtain twelve.
"Yeah," Amy said, "psyche's running slow today. Somebody
set him on ocean waves, though, so it's kind of relaxing."
Ian nodded a greeting to Anne and remade his stretcher.
"You stopping in at Flanagan's today?" he asked.
Anne nodded at Ian as she gave her report, and Ian rolled
his stretcher out to the bus.
GLOSSARY
Saturday, May 23, 2009
STO'B 24
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
That evening, Badger shipped her funnel for the first time since receiving Captain Fitton and piled on steam. The captain stood on his quarterdeck, watching the rich, black smoke rise from the funnel. He turned, following the smoke as it passed over the taffrail to vanish in the growing darkness, and his turn brought the Chasseur into view, one cable's length astern. She was dark, except for her toplight, but Philip could still just make out her color, including the red of her foremast cap.
Beneath Philip, the Badger's new rudder groaned, distracting him, and when he looked back at the Chasseur her color had faded. As he looked, though, it occurred to him the the brig was slightly further off, and shortly after a string of colored lanterns rose to her peak, and she fired one of her leeward guns. Philip placed a glass to his eye (the fruit of further searching in his new desk's bottom drawer, which had also revealed three chronometers (two broken) and a box of epaulettes, English, Russian, Dutch, and Spanish that he had yet to sort through) to better distinguish the lanterns' color and order, and deciphering the signal faster than the signal midshipman, in spite of the signal midshipman's possession of the Badger's English codebook. Or perhaps because of the midshipman's possession of that book, for the Badger was plowing forward at a steady ten knots, into a four knot headwind, and the book's pages tended to flutter out of control in the resulting breeze.
"Sir," said the midshipman finally, "Chasseur says she cannot keep up, sir."
Philip nodded. The interval between his reading of the signal himself and his receipt of the midshipman's report had given him time to make a decision, and he immediately replied. "My compliments to Mr South and we will heave to to wait for the prize. And signal Chasseur: Captain repair aboard.
Philip received Lieutenant Grey in his cabin, received his disjointed report on the condition of the Chasseur, and gave him his orders. Then he saw the lieutenant back to his boat. He watched the boat cross to the Chasseur and hook on to her main chains, then he ordered the master to pile on steam again as behind them the Chasseur dropped her sails, tacked, and stood off alone to the north.
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
GLOSSARY
That evening, Badger shipped her funnel for the first time since receiving Captain Fitton and piled on steam. The captain stood on his quarterdeck, watching the rich, black smoke rise from the funnel. He turned, following the smoke as it passed over the taffrail to vanish in the growing darkness, and his turn brought the Chasseur into view, one cable's length astern. She was dark, except for her toplight, but Philip could still just make out her color, including the red of her foremast cap.
Beneath Philip, the Badger's new rudder groaned, distracting him, and when he looked back at the Chasseur her color had faded. As he looked, though, it occurred to him the the brig was slightly further off, and shortly after a string of colored lanterns rose to her peak, and she fired one of her leeward guns. Philip placed a glass to his eye (the fruit of further searching in his new desk's bottom drawer, which had also revealed three chronometers (two broken) and a box of epaulettes, English, Russian, Dutch, and Spanish that he had yet to sort through) to better distinguish the lanterns' color and order, and deciphering the signal faster than the signal midshipman, in spite of the signal midshipman's possession of the Badger's English codebook. Or perhaps because of the midshipman's possession of that book, for the Badger was plowing forward at a steady ten knots, into a four knot headwind, and the book's pages tended to flutter out of control in the resulting breeze.
"Sir," said the midshipman finally, "Chasseur says she cannot keep up, sir."
Philip nodded. The interval between his reading of the signal himself and his receipt of the midshipman's report had given him time to make a decision, and he immediately replied. "My compliments to Mr South and we will heave to to wait for the prize. And signal Chasseur: Captain repair aboard.
Philip received Lieutenant Grey in his cabin, received his disjointed report on the condition of the Chasseur, and gave him his orders. Then he saw the lieutenant back to his boat. He watched the boat cross to the Chasseur and hook on to her main chains, then he ordered the master to pile on steam again as behind them the Chasseur dropped her sails, tacked, and stood off alone to the north.
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
STO'B 23
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
While this was going forward, Philip flipped through the French codebook, searching out the necessary signals and folding down one corner of the relevant pages for quick reference when the time came. As he reached for his coffee, he accidentally knocked it over onto the dispatches that he had moved to his desktop, which would have to be delivered before he could chase after the convoy. Could the Badger complete the entire trip before the French convoy left [its original port], bound for its still-undeciphered destination, he wondered as he called for his steward and frantically blotted at the oiled-sailcloth envelope. "And what if the admiral decides to send someone else," he said, suddenly "a protege', perhaps?"
A knock interrupted him, and turning Philip saw a midshipman, backlit in his otherwise empty doorway. "Yes?" The midshipman walked in, and as he moved into the cabin Philip made out his features, and saw that he was carrying a log book of sorts. "Yes, Mr Wilkins?"
"The master's compliments, sir, and he is bringing the Chasseur alongside, and these are the reports like you asked."
Philip handed the dispatch envelope to his steward, Simkin, and opened the book, looking carefully at the carefully-ruled pages with their calculations of supplies acquired, used, and remaining. "Three days of water, eight of beef and pork, eight of peas," he frowned, turing the page, "nine of rum, carpenter's stores almost exhausted - how is Mr Scott recording the carpenter's stores?"
"Oh, I'm sure I don't know, sir" said the midshipman, aghast at being faced with such a questions. Then, "Is he not supposed to, sir?"
"Well, I suppose there's nothing against it..." Philip trailed off as he continued to flip through the book, bosun's stores, engineer's, gunner's. "Meticulous," he said quietly, "everything's here."
"Sir?"
Philip flushed and handed the book back to Wilkins as a long, elastic groan announced the arrival of the Chasseur against the Badger's side. "My compliments to Mr South and you may retrn this to him," he said, raising his voice against the shouts and thumps that errupted on deck as the Badgers prepared to receive their coal.
* * *
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
GLOSSARY
While this was going forward, Philip flipped through the French codebook, searching out the necessary signals and folding down one corner of the relevant pages for quick reference when the time came. As he reached for his coffee, he accidentally knocked it over onto the dispatches that he had moved to his desktop, which would have to be delivered before he could chase after the convoy. Could the Badger complete the entire trip before the French convoy left [its original port], bound for its still-undeciphered destination, he wondered as he called for his steward and frantically blotted at the oiled-sailcloth envelope. "And what if the admiral decides to send someone else," he said, suddenly "a protege', perhaps?"
A knock interrupted him, and turning Philip saw a midshipman, backlit in his otherwise empty doorway. "Yes?" The midshipman walked in, and as he moved into the cabin Philip made out his features, and saw that he was carrying a log book of sorts. "Yes, Mr Wilkins?"
"The master's compliments, sir, and he is bringing the Chasseur alongside, and these are the reports like you asked."
Philip handed the dispatch envelope to his steward, Simkin, and opened the book, looking carefully at the carefully-ruled pages with their calculations of supplies acquired, used, and remaining. "Three days of water, eight of beef and pork, eight of peas," he frowned, turing the page, "nine of rum, carpenter's stores almost exhausted - how is Mr Scott recording the carpenter's stores?"
"Oh, I'm sure I don't know, sir" said the midshipman, aghast at being faced with such a questions. Then, "Is he not supposed to, sir?"
"Well, I suppose there's nothing against it..." Philip trailed off as he continued to flip through the book, bosun's stores, engineer's, gunner's. "Meticulous," he said quietly, "everything's here."
"Sir?"
Philip flushed and handed the book back to Wilkins as a long, elastic groan announced the arrival of the Chasseur against the Badger's side. "My compliments to Mr South and you may retrn this to him," he said, raising his voice against the shouts and thumps that errupted on deck as the Badgers prepared to receive their coal.
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
Thursday, May 21, 2009
X-ray vignette 3 - the delivery truck
[again, raw and unedited. Truck = bus]
GLOSSARY
"Five bucks on Difficulty Breathing.
"Ten on Pedestrian Struck."
Ian looked at Marcus quizically, then in shock as the
dispatch flashed up on the screen. Back up Three-one Boy for a
Pedestrian Struck.
Traffic was backed up for a block and a half approaching the
scene, so Marcus grabbed the ALS bag and the monitor and
proceeded on foot, leaving Ian to bring the Truck through as best
he could. Ian watched his bobbing form thread through the
stopped cars for a moment, then returned to the gridlock before
him. Solid cars up this block and an 18 wheeler stopped at the
intersection. It was impossible to tell what lay beyond it. On
the left, an unbroken row of parked cars; half a space up on the
right there was an open parking place, but a delivery van was
pareked on the right sidewalk near the corner. Traffic behind
the Truck was already three cars deep.
Marcus would have to take Three-one Boy's Truck. If he
needed Ian, he could sentd one of the Basics back to look after
X-ray's Truck and Ian could run up to the accident on foot.
"Three-five X-ray tech," he called on the radio.
"Go ahead," came Marcus's voice.
"You'll have to take Three-one Boy's Truck. We're blocked
in."
"Two patients. Need that Truck."
Ian acknowledged and checked his mirrors again. Five cars
now sat behind him. Clearly, the delivery van would have to go.
Ian laid on his horn and a low "waaap!" escaped the Truck.
Traffic nudged forward uneasily, herded by repeated blasts of the
horn. When Ian reached the open parking place, he squeezed
through and onto the curb.
The delivery van took less in the way of horn, more in hte
way of just-do-it. When 15 seconds of air horn produced no
driver or movement Ian jumped from his Truck and ran to the
driver's door of the idling van. With an absurd feeling of pride
he snapped off the radio antenna and used it to smash the window,
then opened the door and climbed in.
Only the Fire Department ever gets to break windows, he
thought, maybe I should change careers. He deposited the van in
a Bus stop half way up the block and retreived his Truck, pulling
up to Marcus a few minutes later.
Clearly, this accident was a cluster. Two State Troopers,
State Troopers, stood over Marcus and half of Three-one Boy, one
holding an oversized umbrella, the other two Maglites. Another
Trooper was helping two firefighters roll a rumpled squad car
away from the victim. Engine 157 stood by with a stretcher and
held IV bags. New Gotham Police interviewed witnesses and
maintained crown control.
"Three-three Zebra took the other patient," Marcus
explained. He nodded to the crumpled body on the pavement,
"Bicyclist struck, thrown ten feet into this parked van,
depressed skull frac, pelvic frac, intubated, clear and equal,
pulse 120, 96 over 72 up to 116 over 84 with one liter of saline,
unilaterally blown pupil. Three-one Boy is blocked in. Is
anybody not ready?" he asked the collection of people preparing
to log roll the patient onto a spineboard, "One, two, three."
Marcus, half of Three-one Boy, and FDNG loaded the patient
onto Three-One Boy's stretcher while Ian pulled X-ray's stretcher
out and abandoned it on the pavement. As he helped load the
patient into the Truck he suddenly burst out laughing. Marcus
shot him a look but Ian shook his head, "Later."
Oxygen. Hyper ventillation. N.S. wide open. Mannitol.
Call ahead to the hospitl, and lights and sirens to New Gotham
Trauma Center, with State Police close behind. Doctor Koffi met
them at he door, read their eyes. "OR 3," he drawled, following
them into the elevator. He got hte history on the way up and
disappeared with the patient and his staff when the elevator
doors opened onto the operating ward. Marcus, Ian, and the half
of Three-one Boy watched them recede down the hallway with their
former patient, the sound of the stretcher wheels ringing loudly
in their ears.
Station 13 shared a parking lot with the hospital. The
three angels trooped over for a replacement stretcher and marked
their old stretcher at the hospital OR. Already Ian could feel
the tentacles of the post-call blues.
The State Plice followed Three-Five X-ray to New Gotham Trauma
because their car had hit the bicyclist while going lights and
sirens. Witnesses described in confused but vivid detail how the
police car had sped down the steet at 20, 50, 40 miles per hour,
almost missing the bicyclist, hitting him squaely on the front
wheel, the rear wheel, the side, as he tried to turn away, as he
tried to lay the bike down. The bicyclist was run over, was
thrown into a moving, a parked van, a lamp post. He screamed, he
was silent, you couldn't mistake it, he uttered the Lord's
Prayer. they all agreed that the bicyclist had run a ed light,
except for thosewho knew it was green. "I remember it
distictly," one woman told the police, "the signal wasn;t working
at all." The trooped couldn't recall clearly but thought he had
the right of way. He did have his lights and siren on, or at
least he did when his car came to a rest over the victim.
In the end it turned out that the bicyclist had a helmet cam
on, transmitted live to the web. Hundreds of viewers watched,
enthralled, as they ran the red ligth, caught a flash of grille,
and cartwheeled, landing heavily on hte pavement with an audible
'crack'. The transmission was so clear that they could read the
badge number of the horrified trooper as he knelt over the dying
bicyclist and called for an ambulance. At sony, phones rang off
the hook with orders for that model of camera, which had been
diuscontinued last spring for poor sales.
Back in the Truck, Ian watched life pass him by as he and
Marcus idledat their corner. Trucks, busses, an occaisional
gypsy cab drifted by, hissing on the wet pavement. Overhead the
el rumbled and squeaked. A police car drove by, weaving and
struggling past the mid morning traffic, squaking its siren
relentlessly, fruitlessly. The wipers swished across Ian's
vision and fell silent again.
In the shotgun seat Marcus had already fallen asleep, his
head back, his mouth open. Jazz played softly on the stereo. In
the Operating room, Ian knew, a struggle against death was
unfolding for his patient. A fruitless struggle. Ian folded his
newspaper ans composed himself for sleep. Just before it came, a
small smile appeared on his lips. In retrospect, the door to the
delivery van had been unlocked.
GLOSSARY
GLOSSARY
"Five bucks on Difficulty Breathing.
"Ten on Pedestrian Struck."
Ian looked at Marcus quizically, then in shock as the
dispatch flashed up on the screen. Back up Three-one Boy for a
Pedestrian Struck.
Traffic was backed up for a block and a half approaching the
scene, so Marcus grabbed the ALS bag and the monitor and
proceeded on foot, leaving Ian to bring the Truck through as best
he could. Ian watched his bobbing form thread through the
stopped cars for a moment, then returned to the gridlock before
him. Solid cars up this block and an 18 wheeler stopped at the
intersection. It was impossible to tell what lay beyond it. On
the left, an unbroken row of parked cars; half a space up on the
right there was an open parking place, but a delivery van was
pareked on the right sidewalk near the corner. Traffic behind
the Truck was already three cars deep.
Marcus would have to take Three-one Boy's Truck. If he
needed Ian, he could sentd one of the Basics back to look after
X-ray's Truck and Ian could run up to the accident on foot.
"Three-five X-ray tech," he called on the radio.
"Go ahead," came Marcus's voice.
"You'll have to take Three-one Boy's Truck. We're blocked
in."
"Two patients. Need that Truck."
Ian acknowledged and checked his mirrors again. Five cars
now sat behind him. Clearly, the delivery van would have to go.
Ian laid on his horn and a low "waaap!" escaped the Truck.
Traffic nudged forward uneasily, herded by repeated blasts of the
horn. When Ian reached the open parking place, he squeezed
through and onto the curb.
The delivery van took less in the way of horn, more in hte
way of just-do-it. When 15 seconds of air horn produced no
driver or movement Ian jumped from his Truck and ran to the
driver's door of the idling van. With an absurd feeling of pride
he snapped off the radio antenna and used it to smash the window,
then opened the door and climbed in.
Only the Fire Department ever gets to break windows, he
thought, maybe I should change careers. He deposited the van in
a Bus stop half way up the block and retreived his Truck, pulling
up to Marcus a few minutes later.
Clearly, this accident was a cluster. Two State Troopers,
State Troopers, stood over Marcus and half of Three-one Boy, one
holding an oversized umbrella, the other two Maglites. Another
Trooper was helping two firefighters roll a rumpled squad car
away from the victim. Engine 157 stood by with a stretcher and
held IV bags. New Gotham Police interviewed witnesses and
maintained crown control.
"Three-three Zebra took the other patient," Marcus
explained. He nodded to the crumpled body on the pavement,
"Bicyclist struck, thrown ten feet into this parked van,
depressed skull frac, pelvic frac, intubated, clear and equal,
pulse 120, 96 over 72 up to 116 over 84 with one liter of saline,
unilaterally blown pupil. Three-one Boy is blocked in. Is
anybody not ready?" he asked the collection of people preparing
to log roll the patient onto a spineboard, "One, two, three."
Marcus, half of Three-one Boy, and FDNG loaded the patient
onto Three-One Boy's stretcher while Ian pulled X-ray's stretcher
out and abandoned it on the pavement. As he helped load the
patient into the Truck he suddenly burst out laughing. Marcus
shot him a look but Ian shook his head, "Later."
Oxygen. Hyper ventillation. N.S. wide open. Mannitol.
Call ahead to the hospitl, and lights and sirens to New Gotham
Trauma Center, with State Police close behind. Doctor Koffi met
them at he door, read their eyes. "OR 3," he drawled, following
them into the elevator. He got hte history on the way up and
disappeared with the patient and his staff when the elevator
doors opened onto the operating ward. Marcus, Ian, and the half
of Three-one Boy watched them recede down the hallway with their
former patient, the sound of the stretcher wheels ringing loudly
in their ears.
Station 13 shared a parking lot with the hospital. The
three angels trooped over for a replacement stretcher and marked
their old stretcher at the hospital OR. Already Ian could feel
the tentacles of the post-call blues.
The State Plice followed Three-Five X-ray to New Gotham Trauma
because their car had hit the bicyclist while going lights and
sirens. Witnesses described in confused but vivid detail how the
police car had sped down the steet at 20, 50, 40 miles per hour,
almost missing the bicyclist, hitting him squaely on the front
wheel, the rear wheel, the side, as he tried to turn away, as he
tried to lay the bike down. The bicyclist was run over, was
thrown into a moving, a parked van, a lamp post. He screamed, he
was silent, you couldn't mistake it, he uttered the Lord's
Prayer. they all agreed that the bicyclist had run a ed light,
except for thosewho knew it was green. "I remember it
distictly," one woman told the police, "the signal wasn;t working
at all." The trooped couldn't recall clearly but thought he had
the right of way. He did have his lights and siren on, or at
least he did when his car came to a rest over the victim.
In the end it turned out that the bicyclist had a helmet cam
on, transmitted live to the web. Hundreds of viewers watched,
enthralled, as they ran the red ligth, caught a flash of grille,
and cartwheeled, landing heavily on hte pavement with an audible
'crack'. The transmission was so clear that they could read the
badge number of the horrified trooper as he knelt over the dying
bicyclist and called for an ambulance. At sony, phones rang off
the hook with orders for that model of camera, which had been
diuscontinued last spring for poor sales.
Back in the Truck, Ian watched life pass him by as he and
Marcus idledat their corner. Trucks, busses, an occaisional
gypsy cab drifted by, hissing on the wet pavement. Overhead the
el rumbled and squeaked. A police car drove by, weaving and
struggling past the mid morning traffic, squaking its siren
relentlessly, fruitlessly. The wipers swished across Ian's
vision and fell silent again.
In the shotgun seat Marcus had already fallen asleep, his
head back, his mouth open. Jazz played softly on the stereo. In
the Operating room, Ian knew, a struggle against death was
unfolding for his patient. A fruitless struggle. Ian folded his
newspaper ans composed himself for sleep. Just before it came, a
small smile appeared on his lips. In retrospect, the door to the
delivery van had been unlocked.
GLOSSARY
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
X-ray vignette 2 - coffee should be fresh
[raw and unedited, more so than usual. Let Truck = bus]
GLOSSARY
"Barber's Adagio for Strings" he remembered Marcus saying
the last time he had played it, on a similarly wet morning as
they waited to relieve Tour I's crew. "Barber's Adagio for
Strings}" Marcus said, "he wrote that for medics. Why else would
he have written something so mournful?"
"There weren't any medics when he wrote that," said
Lieutenant Correia from the doorway, "What was that, seventeen or
eighteen-"
"There were medics in the time of the bible. Elijah was
one. 'And it came to pass that the son fell sick, and there was
no breath left in him, and Elijah took him and cried unto The
Lord, and stretched three times upon the boy,' that's rescue
breathing, they didn't have the BVM then, 'and The Lord did hear
Elijah's plea, and the soul of the child recame unto him, and so
he revived."
"Okay." Lieutenant Correia ducked back out to his office and
left Ian alone with Marcus.
"One Kings seventeen, Marcus continued. " And Barber only
died in '81, though he wrote his Adagio in, oh, 1936 or 37."
Ian refused to look up, refused to take the bait. He was
three quarters through his crossword puzzle and he knew that if
he didn't engage Marcus in conversation he would begin to play
again. Few things stimulated Ian's thinking more than-
"Mozart," Marcus gave in. He bent his head to his violin
again and the lounge filled with music. Happy music. Thought
provoking music. Ian continued with his puzzle.\par
}{\plain \par
He had four clues left when Three-five X-ray, their unit, pulled
in.
"Thirty-five minute extrication in the pouring rain," Smiley
said, and that said it all. Ian and Marcus took their keys and
narcotics from the soaked members of Tour I and set about their
Truck check: Lifepack present, with two charged batteries and a
spare, heartstart adapter, EKG electrodes and combination pacer-defib pads. O2 bag, portable oxygen at 1350psi: nebulizer, meds,
adult and pedi masks, nasal canula, O2 wrench present. Main, or
Truck oxygen at 1200. Big ALS bag with sealed drug bag, trauma
tubing, two bags of blood tubes, Moody tubes with IV kits and
solutions, stopcocks and extention sets. Intubation kit; all
bulbs bright white and tight, good supply of tubes and blades,
stylets, End Tidal CO2 detector, 10mL syringe, NG tuges, tape,
laryngoscope handle with spare batteries. In the bus was the
trauma bag, extra bandages, the telemetry unit - not that it ever
worked, the suction, the latex gloves, the OB kits (2), isolation
kits, extra oxygen masks. Packed into the outside compartments
were longboards and shordboards with their straps and collars,
and headblocks. Their personal SCBA gear rode in the compartment
behind the shotgun seat. Light extrication tools lived over the
right rear wheel (Rescue units handled the heavy extrication.)
Lights, siren, two-way radio and Mobile Data Terminal and
finally, fuel: front tank almost full, rear tank three-quarters
empty. It was time for coffee.
Coffee was available in just about every bakery, diner and
deli in the district, but Marcus was even more particular about
his coffee that Lieutenant Grey, the thin, tall, taciturn
lieutenant with steely hair and a steely gaze, was about his.
"If it's not fresh it might as well be yesterday's grounds and
bilge water," Marcus had told Ian their first day together with a
strength of stated opinion so unusual that Ian was struck dumb.
As he got to know Marcus better, he found the strength of his
opinion in this matter even more confouding, because Marcus, that
6'2" teddybear of a man, never expressed much of an opinion about
anything. "I don't know if he has opinions on anything besides
coffee," Frank had later told Ian, "I've been working with him
four and a half years and I've never seen one."
"Yesterday's grounds and bilge water." Marcus repeated. "The
Lord created coffee on the seventh day, and as He brewed and
drank it fresh, on His day of rest, so too should we, in
following His example. The sun riseth and the sun falleth, the
seventh day."
Marcus's opinion that coffee had to be fresh was so strong
that he asked for a fresh pot to be brewed whenever he ordered.
Actually, it was more of a confirmation because all of the delis
and shops in the area knew to put a fresh pot on as soon as they
saw Truck 006 glide to a halt outside their door.
"This isn't fresh," Marcus said in measured tones as he slid
the offending cup back over the counter.
"Yes it is," the astonished counter boy replied, "I brewed
it myself."
"Around ten o'clock? It's now almost eleven."
"Marcus, Marcus, Marcus my friend," the owner came running
up, "I brew a frew pot imidiately. Joseph, you brew a fresh pot
when Mr. Marcus come in, eh? Always a fresh pot for Mr. Marcus."
Joseph skulked off to brew a fresh pot for Mr. Marcus and
his boss, David, sat down to catch his breath. When he had done
so, he keeled over, catching Marcus and Ian unawares as they
browsed the magazine rack.
"Ian," said Marcus as he knelt down beside David, "Why don't
you get the bags while I look after David here. Three-five X-ray," he spoke to his radio as he checked for breathing and a
pulse, "10-36 at 131 Flushing for a syncopal."
"Three-five X-ray 10-36, 131 Flushing for a syncopal."
Ian tossed the bags on the stretcher and returned to the
deli. O2IVMonitor to reveal Mobitz 2 with a ventricular rate of
about 30.
"That just won't do, Ian," he said as he took the pacer pads
and pulled David's shirt back to place them on his chest.
Capture took place at 50 Joules and they ran David at 80 beats
per minute, with a return of consciousness.
"Ow," David cried 80 times per minute. Ian ran in the
Vailum as Marcus applied the 12-lead electrodes. Looking at the
ST-elevations in v1 and v2, he ran a right-sided set as Ian
listented in on David's lungs.
"Clear bilat." Ian said.
"Right sided ST-elevations." said Marcus, "How do you feel,
David?"
"Och, a bit like the no breath. What happened?"
"It looks like you may be having a heart attack." Marcus
told him, "Does anything hurt?"
"No. No hurt, no pain."
"Do you have any allergies?"
"To the strawberries."
"Any disconfort?" Ian asked.
"A pressing in my chest. I swallow?" he asked as Marcus
handed him two aspirin.
"First you want to chew them, then you can swallow."
Ian listened to the sound of the crunching aspirin as wraped
the blood pressure cuff around David's arm. Patients, on
discovering the horrid cherry chalk flavour of the aspirin, had a
tendency to swallow them whole regardless of being told
otherwise. "108 over 72," he announced, "now take this tablet
and put it under your tongue."
"Och. Burning."
"Absolutely normal." Marcus told him. "You might also get a
headache."
"Och."
They transfered David to the stretcher and wheeled him out
to the Truck. Ian grunted under the weight of the antiquated
two-man stretcher, but they loaded David in without incident.
Then Marcus went around front to drive while Ian hopped up behind
with the patient. "How are you feeling now?" he asked as the
Truck got underway.
"Still the pressing."
"Has it changed at all?"
"Not so bad as was before."\par
\tab "Good." Ian took another set of vitals, then called the
hospital to let them know they should expect a probable M, and to
consult on further meds. "He's 94 over 68 after one nitro, down
from 108 over 72. I'd like to titrate MSO4 to mental status or
pain relief."
"You've got an IV?" the doctor asked.
Who did this she think he was? "Yes."
"Alright, start with a half miligram and see where it goes."
"How much can I give if I need to?"
"No more than three miligrams, don't take any steps bigger
than a half miligram."
"Up to three miligrams of Morphine Sulfate at no greater
than a half miligram at a time, allowing time for each does to
have effect. Tirate to mental status first, pain management
second."
"Correct. See you in about six minutes. Trauma three."
One half miligram, pinch push flush, wait thirty seconds and
take another set of vitals. "How do you feel?"
"Still the pressing, but less it is."
Another half miligram, pinch push flush and new vitals and
assesment. A third half miligram, a fourth, and Ian felt the
Truck lurch. Looking out the rear windows he sat the faded red
brick of the Gantry and Shipworkers Medical and Mental Health
Center, the battered but respectable hospital that shared a
parking lot with Station 57, the equally battered but respectable
EMS station to which he and Marcus belonged. As the bus swung
around the driveway to pull up to the ED, Ian glimpsed Lieutenant
Squadron screaming out of the garage in his Caddy, lights and
sirens blazing. The city of New Gotham had provided Lieutenant
Squadron with one of its standard issue Battalion vehicles, a
tweaked GMC Suburban with leater upholstery. It was truly a
beautiful vehicle: fast, indestructible, solid handling, plenty
of cargo space for the oxygen, spineboards and other equipment,
and comfortable as all hell. The suburban sat proudly in bay
two, having been cleaned and waxed once a month by Larry, the
station janitor, who had fallen in love with its smooth, undented
lines; Jonny Squadron's suburban was the only Truck assigned to
station 57 without a dent of some sort. In five and a half years
as a lieutenant, Jonny had never driven it. The rumor was that
he was afraid to. He was afraid he might dent it.
Jonny Squad drove at work what he drove at home, a 1959
Cadilac Miller-Meteor he'd found at auction and carefully
updated, beefing up the brakes and transmission, replacing the
worn engine with a stroked and bored V-12 and supplanting the
Federal Sirenlight with front and rear lightbars, a Wheelen
siren, and highway riser lights. Ian watched the Cadilac list
heavily as Jonny took the corner out of the lot at high speed,
and then the car was gone. Two seconds later, the garage door
finished opening.
Ian turned back to his patient as the Truck lurched again
and came to a halt. A few seconds later, Marcus was opening the
rear doors and helping Ian pull out the stretcher, then they
swung the doors closed and rolled David into the hospital. Even
at a little before eight on a Tuesday, the Gantry was packed.
Patients lay on stretchers in the halls as they awaited
treatment. Doctors cruised from curtain to curtain, room to
room, occasionally looking into the hall to see how many patients
were still waiting. Nurses circulated with IV kits, used
bedpans, and medical records. The portable X-ray machine nosed
through the crowds like a sleepy, beeping, lumbering beast.
Overhead the building gurgled as the pneumatic tube system
delivered blood samples to the lab, blood products to the ED,
medical records to and from archives. "Trauma three," Ian told
Marcus, and as they wheeled David into the room Ian started to
give his report to Doctor Davis.
"This is the patient you called about?" she asked.
"Uh-huh, two miligrams of Morphine, then we arrived. Good
mentation, last vitals 92 over 60, 80 with good capture, 16 and
adequate. Chest pressure now three of ten."
"Okay. David, how are you today . . ."
Marcus tapped Ian on the shoulder, then drifted off to
collect clean sheets and restock the Truck. Ian waited with his
patient and filled out his ACR, finally grabing one of the nurses
long enough to obtain a signature and returning to the Truck and
his coffee, now too cold to consider drinking.
A brown puddle beside Truck 006's driver's door indicated
that Marcus had reached the same conclusion about his own coffee.
He silently waited for Ian to climb in shotgun, then pulled out
of the bay, into the street. The next order of business was
coffee again. Always assuming that they didn't get dispatched to
another call.
GLOSSARY
GLOSSARY
"Barber's Adagio for Strings" he remembered Marcus saying
the last time he had played it, on a similarly wet morning as
they waited to relieve Tour I's crew. "Barber's Adagio for
Strings}" Marcus said, "he wrote that for medics. Why else would
he have written something so mournful?"
"There weren't any medics when he wrote that," said
Lieutenant Correia from the doorway, "What was that, seventeen or
eighteen-"
"There were medics in the time of the bible. Elijah was
one. 'And it came to pass that the son fell sick, and there was
no breath left in him, and Elijah took him and cried unto The
Lord, and stretched three times upon the boy,' that's rescue
breathing, they didn't have the BVM then, 'and The Lord did hear
Elijah's plea, and the soul of the child recame unto him, and so
he revived."
"Okay." Lieutenant Correia ducked back out to his office and
left Ian alone with Marcus.
"One Kings seventeen, Marcus continued. " And Barber only
died in '81, though he wrote his Adagio in, oh, 1936 or 37."
Ian refused to look up, refused to take the bait. He was
three quarters through his crossword puzzle and he knew that if
he didn't engage Marcus in conversation he would begin to play
again. Few things stimulated Ian's thinking more than-
"Mozart," Marcus gave in. He bent his head to his violin
again and the lounge filled with music. Happy music. Thought
provoking music. Ian continued with his puzzle.\par
}{\plain \par
He had four clues left when Three-five X-ray, their unit, pulled
in.
"Thirty-five minute extrication in the pouring rain," Smiley
said, and that said it all. Ian and Marcus took their keys and
narcotics from the soaked members of Tour I and set about their
Truck check: Lifepack present, with two charged batteries and a
spare, heartstart adapter, EKG electrodes and combination pacer-defib pads. O2 bag, portable oxygen at 1350psi: nebulizer, meds,
adult and pedi masks, nasal canula, O2 wrench present. Main, or
Truck oxygen at 1200. Big ALS bag with sealed drug bag, trauma
tubing, two bags of blood tubes, Moody tubes with IV kits and
solutions, stopcocks and extention sets. Intubation kit; all
bulbs bright white and tight, good supply of tubes and blades,
stylets, End Tidal CO2 detector, 10mL syringe, NG tuges, tape,
laryngoscope handle with spare batteries. In the bus was the
trauma bag, extra bandages, the telemetry unit - not that it ever
worked, the suction, the latex gloves, the OB kits (2), isolation
kits, extra oxygen masks. Packed into the outside compartments
were longboards and shordboards with their straps and collars,
and headblocks. Their personal SCBA gear rode in the compartment
behind the shotgun seat. Light extrication tools lived over the
right rear wheel (Rescue units handled the heavy extrication.)
Lights, siren, two-way radio and Mobile Data Terminal and
finally, fuel: front tank almost full, rear tank three-quarters
empty. It was time for coffee.
Coffee was available in just about every bakery, diner and
deli in the district, but Marcus was even more particular about
his coffee that Lieutenant Grey, the thin, tall, taciturn
lieutenant with steely hair and a steely gaze, was about his.
"If it's not fresh it might as well be yesterday's grounds and
bilge water," Marcus had told Ian their first day together with a
strength of stated opinion so unusual that Ian was struck dumb.
As he got to know Marcus better, he found the strength of his
opinion in this matter even more confouding, because Marcus, that
6'2" teddybear of a man, never expressed much of an opinion about
anything. "I don't know if he has opinions on anything besides
coffee," Frank had later told Ian, "I've been working with him
four and a half years and I've never seen one."
"Yesterday's grounds and bilge water." Marcus repeated. "The
Lord created coffee on the seventh day, and as He brewed and
drank it fresh, on His day of rest, so too should we, in
following His example. The sun riseth and the sun falleth, the
seventh day."
Marcus's opinion that coffee had to be fresh was so strong
that he asked for a fresh pot to be brewed whenever he ordered.
Actually, it was more of a confirmation because all of the delis
and shops in the area knew to put a fresh pot on as soon as they
saw Truck 006 glide to a halt outside their door.
"This isn't fresh," Marcus said in measured tones as he slid
the offending cup back over the counter.
"Yes it is," the astonished counter boy replied, "I brewed
it myself."
"Around ten o'clock? It's now almost eleven."
"Marcus, Marcus, Marcus my friend," the owner came running
up, "I brew a frew pot imidiately. Joseph, you brew a fresh pot
when Mr. Marcus come in, eh? Always a fresh pot for Mr. Marcus."
Joseph skulked off to brew a fresh pot for Mr. Marcus and
his boss, David, sat down to catch his breath. When he had done
so, he keeled over, catching Marcus and Ian unawares as they
browsed the magazine rack.
"Ian," said Marcus as he knelt down beside David, "Why don't
you get the bags while I look after David here. Three-five X-ray," he spoke to his radio as he checked for breathing and a
pulse, "10-36 at 131 Flushing for a syncopal."
"Three-five X-ray 10-36, 131 Flushing for a syncopal."
Ian tossed the bags on the stretcher and returned to the
deli. O2IVMonitor to reveal Mobitz 2 with a ventricular rate of
about 30.
"That just won't do, Ian," he said as he took the pacer pads
and pulled David's shirt back to place them on his chest.
Capture took place at 50 Joules and they ran David at 80 beats
per minute, with a return of consciousness.
"Ow," David cried 80 times per minute. Ian ran in the
Vailum as Marcus applied the 12-lead electrodes. Looking at the
ST-elevations in v1 and v2, he ran a right-sided set as Ian
listented in on David's lungs.
"Clear bilat." Ian said.
"Right sided ST-elevations." said Marcus, "How do you feel,
David?"
"Och, a bit like the no breath. What happened?"
"It looks like you may be having a heart attack." Marcus
told him, "Does anything hurt?"
"No. No hurt, no pain."
"Do you have any allergies?"
"To the strawberries."
"Any disconfort?" Ian asked.
"A pressing in my chest. I swallow?" he asked as Marcus
handed him two aspirin.
"First you want to chew them, then you can swallow."
Ian listened to the sound of the crunching aspirin as wraped
the blood pressure cuff around David's arm. Patients, on
discovering the horrid cherry chalk flavour of the aspirin, had a
tendency to swallow them whole regardless of being told
otherwise. "108 over 72," he announced, "now take this tablet
and put it under your tongue."
"Och. Burning."
"Absolutely normal." Marcus told him. "You might also get a
headache."
"Och."
They transfered David to the stretcher and wheeled him out
to the Truck. Ian grunted under the weight of the antiquated
two-man stretcher, but they loaded David in without incident.
Then Marcus went around front to drive while Ian hopped up behind
with the patient. "How are you feeling now?" he asked as the
Truck got underway.
"Still the pressing."
"Has it changed at all?"
"Not so bad as was before."\par
\tab "Good." Ian took another set of vitals, then called the
hospital to let them know they should expect a probable M, and to
consult on further meds. "He's 94 over 68 after one nitro, down
from 108 over 72. I'd like to titrate MSO4 to mental status or
pain relief."
"You've got an IV?" the doctor asked.
Who did this she think he was? "Yes."
"Alright, start with a half miligram and see where it goes."
"How much can I give if I need to?"
"No more than three miligrams, don't take any steps bigger
than a half miligram."
"Up to three miligrams of Morphine Sulfate at no greater
than a half miligram at a time, allowing time for each does to
have effect. Tirate to mental status first, pain management
second."
"Correct. See you in about six minutes. Trauma three."
One half miligram, pinch push flush, wait thirty seconds and
take another set of vitals. "How do you feel?"
"Still the pressing, but less it is."
Another half miligram, pinch push flush and new vitals and
assesment. A third half miligram, a fourth, and Ian felt the
Truck lurch. Looking out the rear windows he sat the faded red
brick of the Gantry and Shipworkers Medical and Mental Health
Center, the battered but respectable hospital that shared a
parking lot with Station 57, the equally battered but respectable
EMS station to which he and Marcus belonged. As the bus swung
around the driveway to pull up to the ED, Ian glimpsed Lieutenant
Squadron screaming out of the garage in his Caddy, lights and
sirens blazing. The city of New Gotham had provided Lieutenant
Squadron with one of its standard issue Battalion vehicles, a
tweaked GMC Suburban with leater upholstery. It was truly a
beautiful vehicle: fast, indestructible, solid handling, plenty
of cargo space for the oxygen, spineboards and other equipment,
and comfortable as all hell. The suburban sat proudly in bay
two, having been cleaned and waxed once a month by Larry, the
station janitor, who had fallen in love with its smooth, undented
lines; Jonny Squadron's suburban was the only Truck assigned to
station 57 without a dent of some sort. In five and a half years
as a lieutenant, Jonny had never driven it. The rumor was that
he was afraid to. He was afraid he might dent it.
Jonny Squad drove at work what he drove at home, a 1959
Cadilac Miller-Meteor he'd found at auction and carefully
updated, beefing up the brakes and transmission, replacing the
worn engine with a stroked and bored V-12 and supplanting the
Federal Sirenlight with front and rear lightbars, a Wheelen
siren, and highway riser lights. Ian watched the Cadilac list
heavily as Jonny took the corner out of the lot at high speed,
and then the car was gone. Two seconds later, the garage door
finished opening.
Ian turned back to his patient as the Truck lurched again
and came to a halt. A few seconds later, Marcus was opening the
rear doors and helping Ian pull out the stretcher, then they
swung the doors closed and rolled David into the hospital. Even
at a little before eight on a Tuesday, the Gantry was packed.
Patients lay on stretchers in the halls as they awaited
treatment. Doctors cruised from curtain to curtain, room to
room, occasionally looking into the hall to see how many patients
were still waiting. Nurses circulated with IV kits, used
bedpans, and medical records. The portable X-ray machine nosed
through the crowds like a sleepy, beeping, lumbering beast.
Overhead the building gurgled as the pneumatic tube system
delivered blood samples to the lab, blood products to the ED,
medical records to and from archives. "Trauma three," Ian told
Marcus, and as they wheeled David into the room Ian started to
give his report to Doctor Davis.
"This is the patient you called about?" she asked.
"Uh-huh, two miligrams of Morphine, then we arrived. Good
mentation, last vitals 92 over 60, 80 with good capture, 16 and
adequate. Chest pressure now three of ten."
"Okay. David, how are you today . . ."
Marcus tapped Ian on the shoulder, then drifted off to
collect clean sheets and restock the Truck. Ian waited with his
patient and filled out his ACR, finally grabing one of the nurses
long enough to obtain a signature and returning to the Truck and
his coffee, now too cold to consider drinking.
A brown puddle beside Truck 006's driver's door indicated
that Marcus had reached the same conclusion about his own coffee.
He silently waited for Ian to climb in shotgun, then pulled out
of the bay, into the street. The next order of business was
coffee again. Always assuming that they didn't get dispatched to
another call.
GLOSSARY
X-ray vignette
GLOSSARY
SPOILER ALERT: depressing material follows
006 was old. It was a pre-merger bus that had seen an
incredible seven births and more deaths than anyone could
renmember. Iw was on its fourth transmission. Through its
fourth transmission. Motor Pool wasn't interested in discussions
of a fifth.
006 sat forlornly at Station 57's diesel island, marrooned,
as it were, with a full tank and no motivation. Frank and Ian
pulled their bags from its cabinets, crossing the wet pavement to
bus 439 and tossing the bags in there. Then they stood quietly
before 006, Frank gave a tire one last respectful kick, and they
climbed into 439. When they returned three hours later to bring
a patient to the Gantry, 006 was gone.
Motor Pool had a parking lot buried in far Queens for
retired busses. On the official city register the lot was
designated "Lot M," but Motor Pool called it the Decommision
Yard, a field of rumpled blacktop with a growning fleet of worn
out ambulances that leaned against each other for support, huddled
close for warmth. Together they watched the sunrises in the
east, unless they faced the other way, in which case they waited
for the sunsets in the west.
Row after rown of empty widshields gazed at the leaden sky,
waiting to donate doors, alternators, wheels to their brethren
still in service before they quietly rusted away. 006 was
dropped off unceremoniously by a flatbed wrecker beside the
crumpled wreck of 216, victim of a city transit bus. The wrecker clanked
off and the seagulls returned.
When Ian wanted to be depressed, this was where he went.
There was a gaurd shack near the locked gate, but Ian had never
seen itused, so he ignored it. He ducked through the fence at
the usual cut in the chain link, stepping into the ambulance
graveyard.
Ian had tried to count the busses at one time, but had given
up. He wandered through the rows, pausing from time to time,
running his eyes over the faded fenders, trying to imagine what
each of the busses had seen in their lives, trying to guess what
illness or injury had finally claimed them.
Stains littered the pavement: coolant, brake fluid, oil. A
pink puddle grew slowly grew beneath 006. Three busses over a
fresh graphiti tag gleamed on another bus's box. Ian considered it,
trying to decide what he felt about it as he walked over and
stood before it. Black spray had run down from the tag, dripping
over the stripes, into the HHC legend. Ian crossed his arms over
his chest.
When he looked up again the filtered light had started to
redden. He turned from the desecrated ambulance and started to walk
away, bending over suddenly to vomit, staggering over to a 006
to kneel before it and rest his head on its bumper. The cool
metal was comforting.
Breathe, he decided. In, out. In. And out. The heavy
twisting in his stomach slowly receded.
* * * Ian woke up with a stiff neck and stiff knees. He sat silently
for a few minutes before painfully rising and tracking back
through the lot to the cut in the fence. He slipped through,
found his car, and drove away.
GLOSSARY
SPOILER ALERT: depressing material follows
006 was old. It was a pre-merger bus that had seen an
incredible seven births and more deaths than anyone could
renmember. Iw was on its fourth transmission. Through its
fourth transmission. Motor Pool wasn't interested in discussions
of a fifth.
006 sat forlornly at Station 57's diesel island, marrooned,
as it were, with a full tank and no motivation. Frank and Ian
pulled their bags from its cabinets, crossing the wet pavement to
bus 439 and tossing the bags in there. Then they stood quietly
before 006, Frank gave a tire one last respectful kick, and they
climbed into 439. When they returned three hours later to bring
a patient to the Gantry, 006 was gone.
Motor Pool had a parking lot buried in far Queens for
retired busses. On the official city register the lot was
designated "Lot M," but Motor Pool called it the Decommision
Yard, a field of rumpled blacktop with a growning fleet of worn
out ambulances that leaned against each other for support, huddled
close for warmth. Together they watched the sunrises in the
east, unless they faced the other way, in which case they waited
for the sunsets in the west.
Row after rown of empty widshields gazed at the leaden sky,
waiting to donate doors, alternators, wheels to their brethren
still in service before they quietly rusted away. 006 was
dropped off unceremoniously by a flatbed wrecker beside the
crumpled wreck of 216, victim of a city transit bus. The wrecker clanked
off and the seagulls returned.
When Ian wanted to be depressed, this was where he went.
There was a gaurd shack near the locked gate, but Ian had never
seen itused, so he ignored it. He ducked through the fence at
the usual cut in the chain link, stepping into the ambulance
graveyard.
Ian had tried to count the busses at one time, but had given
up. He wandered through the rows, pausing from time to time,
running his eyes over the faded fenders, trying to imagine what
each of the busses had seen in their lives, trying to guess what
illness or injury had finally claimed them.
Stains littered the pavement: coolant, brake fluid, oil. A
pink puddle grew slowly grew beneath 006. Three busses over a
fresh graphiti tag gleamed on another bus's box. Ian considered it,
trying to decide what he felt about it as he walked over and
stood before it. Black spray had run down from the tag, dripping
over the stripes, into the HHC legend. Ian crossed his arms over
his chest.
When he looked up again the filtered light had started to
redden. He turned from the desecrated ambulance and started to walk
away, bending over suddenly to vomit, staggering over to a 006
to kneel before it and rest his head on its bumper. The cool
metal was comforting.
Breathe, he decided. In, out. In. And out. The heavy
twisting in his stomach slowly receded.
for a few minutes before painfully rising and tracking back
through the lot to the cut in the fence. He slipped through,
found his car, and drove away.
GLOSSARY
STOB 22
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
The coffee came in, Simkin placing the dented pot and a mug on Philip's table and then quietly withdrawing. Philip filled the mug and carried it to the stern windows, beyond which he could see the carpenter and his mates as they took measurements for the Badger's new gudgeons, and being thoroughly soaked in the process. Beyond them sailed the Chasseur, plowing along in the Badger's wake, one cable's length astern.
* * *
Philip was still working with the French orders when the carpenter knocked on the door - he begged pardon, but the armorer needed the hardware from Philip's doors for the new gudgeons in pintles.
By the time the carpenter retreated several minutes later, the latches and hinges of Philip's doors jingling in a small pouch he carried for that purpose, Philip had determined that the orders directed the Chasseur's captain to take charge of a convoy, originating at XXXXXX in three days, though he had yet to determine its destination. He sent for the master, meeting him in Mr South's day cabin.
"Mr South, what is our position?" he asked.
"Exact, sir, or within a few leagues, like?" the Master said, and seeing Philip's confusion, "I'd need the log board to determine our exact position, sir."
"Within a few leagues will do," Philip replied, and once South had pricked the chart, "Knowing the Badger as you do, how long will it take for us to reach 36° N, 14° E?"
"About two days, sir, under sail if this wind holds, like, which it should, sir."
"And under steam?"
"Perhaps ten hours, unless the wind heads us, sir, but we haven't got the coal, like."
"The Chasseur does. Rouse up the unengaged hands - rouse up the off-duty watch. Get the boats in the water. I want coal coming aboard in 15 minutes."
"Yes, sir." said the master. "If you'd prefer, we can tie up alongside the prize, the weather being fine enough, and just hoist the coal over in slings, like."
"As you think best, Mr South, but I want that coal coming aboard in fifteen minutes."
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
GLOSSARY
The coffee came in, Simkin placing the dented pot and a mug on Philip's table and then quietly withdrawing. Philip filled the mug and carried it to the stern windows, beyond which he could see the carpenter and his mates as they took measurements for the Badger's new gudgeons, and being thoroughly soaked in the process. Beyond them sailed the Chasseur, plowing along in the Badger's wake, one cable's length astern.
Philip was still working with the French orders when the carpenter knocked on the door - he begged pardon, but the armorer needed the hardware from Philip's doors for the new gudgeons in pintles.
By the time the carpenter retreated several minutes later, the latches and hinges of Philip's doors jingling in a small pouch he carried for that purpose, Philip had determined that the orders directed the Chasseur's captain to take charge of a convoy, originating at XXXXXX in three days, though he had yet to determine its destination. He sent for the master, meeting him in Mr South's day cabin.
"Mr South, what is our position?" he asked.
"Exact, sir, or within a few leagues, like?" the Master said, and seeing Philip's confusion, "I'd need the log board to determine our exact position, sir."
"Within a few leagues will do," Philip replied, and once South had pricked the chart, "Knowing the Badger as you do, how long will it take for us to reach 36° N, 14° E?"
"About two days, sir, under sail if this wind holds, like, which it should, sir."
"And under steam?"
"Perhaps ten hours, unless the wind heads us, sir, but we haven't got the coal, like."
"The Chasseur does. Rouse up the unengaged hands - rouse up the off-duty watch. Get the boats in the water. I want coal coming aboard in 15 minutes."
"Yes, sir." said the master. "If you'd prefer, we can tie up alongside the prize, the weather being fine enough, and just hoist the coal over in slings, like."
"As you think best, Mr South, but I want that coal coming aboard in fifteen minutes."
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
STO'B 21
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
He picked up the box, trying to determine how hard it would be to pick or force the lock, and to his surprise he found that the box was unlocked - the lid pulled open easily and there, in his hand, lay the French codebook and the French captain's orders. He flipped through the codebook - his knowledge of French was not great, but it was good enough to understand words relating to sailing, and in any event there were illustrations to go with the descriptions. How long were the signals good for? He flipped to the front of the book - "valid until the 3rd," he slowly read. "Well, that gives me almost a month to make use of it."
Next he turned to the orders. These were more difficult to decipher, and after several minutes he gave up, placing them on the desk's work surface and leaning back to rub his eyes. "Coffee," he said. "Coffee may be just the thing for it. Simpkin!" he raised his voice for his steward, "light along a pot of coffee, there."
A muffled reply came from the coach, and while the coffee prepared Philip turned to the two drawers that lay beneath the work surface and its retractable leaf. The upper drawer held several ledgers, one of which appeared to be the Chasseur's muster book, another seemed to reflect the brig's stores - Philip could make out the French words for beef, water, and spars, among other things. The lower drawer was evidently the storage for the late French captain's prize collection. Philip found three swords (one broken off several inches above the hilt), a collection of flags from various ships and other vessels, and a collection of perhaps a dozen silver spoons, each from a different port. Philip had a similar collection in his sea chest, back at the Crown; he sorted through the set in the drawer, separating out the spoons he had from those he didn't, and moving the doubles to the drawer with the French phrase book just as Simpkin appeared with his coffee.
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
GLOSSARY
He picked up the box, trying to determine how hard it would be to pick or force the lock, and to his surprise he found that the box was unlocked - the lid pulled open easily and there, in his hand, lay the French codebook and the French captain's orders. He flipped through the codebook - his knowledge of French was not great, but it was good enough to understand words relating to sailing, and in any event there were illustrations to go with the descriptions. How long were the signals good for? He flipped to the front of the book - "valid until the 3rd," he slowly read. "Well, that gives me almost a month to make use of it."
Next he turned to the orders. These were more difficult to decipher, and after several minutes he gave up, placing them on the desk's work surface and leaning back to rub his eyes. "Coffee," he said. "Coffee may be just the thing for it. Simpkin!" he raised his voice for his steward, "light along a pot of coffee, there."
A muffled reply came from the coach, and while the coffee prepared Philip turned to the two drawers that lay beneath the work surface and its retractable leaf. The upper drawer held several ledgers, one of which appeared to be the Chasseur's muster book, another seemed to reflect the brig's stores - Philip could make out the French words for beef, water, and spars, among other things. The lower drawer was evidently the storage for the late French captain's prize collection. Philip found three swords (one broken off several inches above the hilt), a collection of flags from various ships and other vessels, and a collection of perhaps a dozen silver spoons, each from a different port. Philip had a similar collection in his sea chest, back at the Crown; he sorted through the set in the drawer, separating out the spoons he had from those he didn't, and moving the doubles to the drawer with the French phrase book just as Simpkin appeared with his coffee.
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
STO'B 20
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
He started with the cylinder which, though it was locked, held its key in its keyhole. The lock turned smoothly, and he rolled the cylinder back to reveal an empty working surface backed by five small drawers and a cubby hole. A half-eaten piece of cake lay in the cubby-hole, no doubt where it had been thrown as the French ship had cleared for action; Philip opened one of the stern windows and tossed the cake into the Badger's wake.
The first drawer held a broken pocket watch, a bent key, a broken button and a small, rusted pen knife. These went into the wake, too. The second drawer held an English phrase book (written in French), the stub of a candle in a cheap candlestick, and a pair of reading glasses. Philip kept the book and tossed the candle and glasses. The middle drawer refused to open, and after a moment Philip realized that it was locked. In his mind's eye he saw the key he had found in the first drawer and he rushed to the window, as if he might see it bobbing in the sloop's wake, but of course he did not, and after a moment he sat down again. Perhaps the key from the cylinder would fit? No, it would not. He sat back.
The French codebook - the secret instructions on how to tell friend from foe - was unlikely to be in the drawer; the French captain had no doubt tossed it overboard at the last minute. The Badger's book was bound in lead, to insure that it would sink immediately, and Philip was obliged, under penalty of death, to toss it overboard or otherwise destroy it if the ship were in danger of being taken. No doubt the Chasseur's book was now at the bottom of the ocean. Nevertheless, the locked drawer vexed him, and he continued to fiddle with it, eventually succeeding in pulling off its knob.
"Damn," he said, staring at the knob as it lay in his hand. "Well, a fig for it, anyhow. No doubt the armorer can make a key," and he turned to the next drawer. This drawer held some loose coins and assorted lists from which most or all of the items had been crossed off. Philip separated out the coins (they would allow him to pay his lieutenant back for covering his boat fare, he reflected with satisfaction) and tossed the lists out the stern window.
The final drawer held an iron box that was pierced with several holes. A small book lay inside, along with a loose sheet of paper. The box was locked, but no small imagination was required to determine that inside that box lay the French codebook and the French captain's orders.
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
GLOSSARY
He started with the cylinder which, though it was locked, held its key in its keyhole. The lock turned smoothly, and he rolled the cylinder back to reveal an empty working surface backed by five small drawers and a cubby hole. A half-eaten piece of cake lay in the cubby-hole, no doubt where it had been thrown as the French ship had cleared for action; Philip opened one of the stern windows and tossed the cake into the Badger's wake.
The first drawer held a broken pocket watch, a bent key, a broken button and a small, rusted pen knife. These went into the wake, too. The second drawer held an English phrase book (written in French), the stub of a candle in a cheap candlestick, and a pair of reading glasses. Philip kept the book and tossed the candle and glasses. The middle drawer refused to open, and after a moment Philip realized that it was locked. In his mind's eye he saw the key he had found in the first drawer and he rushed to the window, as if he might see it bobbing in the sloop's wake, but of course he did not, and after a moment he sat down again. Perhaps the key from the cylinder would fit? No, it would not. He sat back.
The French codebook - the secret instructions on how to tell friend from foe - was unlikely to be in the drawer; the French captain had no doubt tossed it overboard at the last minute. The Badger's book was bound in lead, to insure that it would sink immediately, and Philip was obliged, under penalty of death, to toss it overboard or otherwise destroy it if the ship were in danger of being taken. No doubt the Chasseur's book was now at the bottom of the ocean. Nevertheless, the locked drawer vexed him, and he continued to fiddle with it, eventually succeeding in pulling off its knob.
"Damn," he said, staring at the knob as it lay in his hand. "Well, a fig for it, anyhow. No doubt the armorer can make a key," and he turned to the next drawer. This drawer held some loose coins and assorted lists from which most or all of the items had been crossed off. Philip separated out the coins (they would allow him to pay his lieutenant back for covering his boat fare, he reflected with satisfaction) and tossed the lists out the stern window.
The final drawer held an iron box that was pierced with several holes. A small book lay inside, along with a loose sheet of paper. The box was locked, but no small imagination was required to determine that inside that box lay the French codebook and the French captain's orders.
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
Monday, May 11, 2009
STO'B 19
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
Two Minutes later Philip mounted the crowded quarterdeck. The master was there, along with the gunner (he carried the lieutenant's watch while Mr Grey was aboard the Chasseur) and all of the midshipman who remained aboard. Philip noticed that the officers, along with one or two of the brighter midshipman, had their sextants already adjusted to something like the correct angle, and indeed, the master was already taking a preliminary sighting. Philip, having left his sextant at the Crown, with all of his other possessions, merely stood aloof, as if taking a sight were beneath a Captain's dignity. Or a Commander's dignity, he reminded himself. Only a Commander.
The minutes passed. The officers shot the sun with their sextants, bringing it down to the horizon to determine the Badger's longitude. "Noon and XXX degrees north, XXX degrees east, sir," reported the master.
"Very good, Mr South. Strike the bell." Philip replied, and the new day officially began. Philip started back down to his cabin to deal further with the furniture before he remembered the master's earlier request about running out the port guns. And, he noted, the port guns were in fact run out. The master, however, was on the port gangway, halfway to the bow, tugging on the standing rigging as he went, so instead Philip merely returned to the cabin.
Here he found the carpenter fixing his desk, and one of the mates fastening the table to the floor. "Almost done, sir," said the carpenter. "Bob, give me a hand when you're done with that table, like."
Three minutes later the carpenter and his mate finished, and Philip dragged one of his chairs over to his newly repaired desk to see what it might hold inside.
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
GLOSSARY
Two Minutes later Philip mounted the crowded quarterdeck. The master was there, along with the gunner (he carried the lieutenant's watch while Mr Grey was aboard the Chasseur) and all of the midshipman who remained aboard. Philip noticed that the officers, along with one or two of the brighter midshipman, had their sextants already adjusted to something like the correct angle, and indeed, the master was already taking a preliminary sighting. Philip, having left his sextant at the Crown, with all of his other possessions, merely stood aloof, as if taking a sight were beneath a Captain's dignity. Or a Commander's dignity, he reminded himself. Only a Commander.
The minutes passed. The officers shot the sun with their sextants, bringing it down to the horizon to determine the Badger's longitude. "Noon and XXX degrees north, XXX degrees east, sir," reported the master.
"Very good, Mr South. Strike the bell." Philip replied, and the new day officially began. Philip started back down to his cabin to deal further with the furniture before he remembered the master's earlier request about running out the port guns. And, he noted, the port guns were in fact run out. The master, however, was on the port gangway, halfway to the bow, tugging on the standing rigging as he went, so instead Philip merely returned to the cabin.
Here he found the carpenter fixing his desk, and one of the mates fastening the table to the floor. "Almost done, sir," said the carpenter. "Bob, give me a hand when you're done with that table, like."
Three minutes later the carpenter and his mate finished, and Philip dragged one of his chairs over to his newly repaired desk to see what it might hold inside.
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
Friday, May 8, 2009
STOB 18
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GLOSSARY
"Yes," he said, looking over his domain with satisfaction, "excellent."
But as soon as he said these words, and perhaps in answer to them, the Badger's list (which he now noticed had increased by several degrees) caused all of the furniture to slide over to the cabin's starboard side. he was in the act of disentangling it when a midshipman darted in.
"The Master's compliments, sir, and may he run the port guns out?" said the midshipman.
"The larboard guns?" cried Philip. "Yes, Mr, uh - yes, whatever he sees fit. And my compliments, of course. What the devil can he want with the larboard guns," he asked himself after the midshipmen left. "Steward," he cried, "Steward, pass the word from the carpenter."
The carpenter appeared, dripping wet from hanging over the stern with his mates. "I think we might be able to fadge something together with iron from the hinges and like, for new pintles and gudgeons," he began, but Philip cut him off.
"This desk needs a new leg," he said, "and I should like it and the table to fixed to the deck here, and here."
"Yes, sir, said the carpenter," shall I leave the rudder for the time being?"
"The rudder? Oh, yes, how is that coming? You said something about hinges?"
"Yes, sir. If we take the hinges and latches from all of the doors the armorer thinks he can make a new set of pintles and gudgeons."
"Then do that," said Philip, "but while he's busy with that you can see to this desk. Yes?" he said to a knock at the door.
The midshipman opened the door. "Mr. South's compliments, sir, and it wants only a few minutes of noon."
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
GLOSSARY
"Yes," he said, looking over his domain with satisfaction, "excellent."
But as soon as he said these words, and perhaps in answer to them, the Badger's list (which he now noticed had increased by several degrees) caused all of the furniture to slide over to the cabin's starboard side. he was in the act of disentangling it when a midshipman darted in.
"The Master's compliments, sir, and may he run the port guns out?" said the midshipman.
"The larboard guns?" cried Philip. "Yes, Mr, uh - yes, whatever he sees fit. And my compliments, of course. What the devil can he want with the larboard guns," he asked himself after the midshipmen left. "Steward," he cried, "Steward, pass the word from the carpenter."
The carpenter appeared, dripping wet from hanging over the stern with his mates. "I think we might be able to fadge something together with iron from the hinges and like, for new pintles and gudgeons," he began, but Philip cut him off.
"This desk needs a new leg," he said, "and I should like it and the table to fixed to the deck here, and here."
"Yes, sir, said the carpenter," shall I leave the rudder for the time being?"
"The rudder? Oh, yes, how is that coming? You said something about hinges?"
"Yes, sir. If we take the hinges and latches from all of the doors the armorer thinks he can make a new set of pintles and gudgeons."
"Then do that," said Philip, "but while he's busy with that you can see to this desk. Yes?" he said to a knock at the door.
The midshipman opened the door. "Mr. South's compliments, sir, and it wants only a few minutes of noon."
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
STOB 17
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
Early the next morning, Philip finally had time to attend to the personal possessions of the officers killed on the Chasseur. The possessions of the dead French sailors (and some of the living, Philip suspected) had already been dealt with in the usual fashion by the lower deck, with a little bit of fighting but not much, the pecking order being well established before Philip ever stepped on board.
But the officers' possessions had to go through the Captain, and they had been stashed in a corner of his cabin until he could deal with them. He did so now. Finally. Greedily.
Little of the clothing fitted him, though there were a good pair of boots, some shirts, and a torn jacket. He gave the jacket to his steward (a small, wiry man with an abundance of gold jewelry) to mend, tossed the boots and shirts on the chair he'd inherited from the Badger's previous commander, and sent everything else to the wardroom.
From the jumbled pile of furniture Philip pulled a cylinder top desk, complete except for a broken leg. Once the carpenter was able to fix it, it would enable him to finally clear his cot of the papers that had shared his sleeping space since the day he moved in. "Well," he said, arranging two sturdy but mismatched chairs around a shabby table, "it isn't Ablenn Hall, but it is better." He pulled his other chair - the one he had inherited from the Badger's previous commander, over to the desk and sat down to consider. Would the cabin look better with the desk over by the stern windows? Perhaps it would. He spent the next several hours moving his new possessions around, finally deciding that the desk was best opposite the door, as that would place him with his back to the light for anyone coming in. "Most imposing," he said. "Excellent."
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
GLOSSARY
Early the next morning, Philip finally had time to attend to the personal possessions of the officers killed on the Chasseur. The possessions of the dead French sailors (and some of the living, Philip suspected) had already been dealt with in the usual fashion by the lower deck, with a little bit of fighting but not much, the pecking order being well established before Philip ever stepped on board.
But the officers' possessions had to go through the Captain, and they had been stashed in a corner of his cabin until he could deal with them. He did so now. Finally. Greedily.
Little of the clothing fitted him, though there were a good pair of boots, some shirts, and a torn jacket. He gave the jacket to his steward (a small, wiry man with an abundance of gold jewelry) to mend, tossed the boots and shirts on the chair he'd inherited from the Badger's previous commander, and sent everything else to the wardroom.
From the jumbled pile of furniture Philip pulled a cylinder top desk, complete except for a broken leg. Once the carpenter was able to fix it, it would enable him to finally clear his cot of the papers that had shared his sleeping space since the day he moved in. "Well," he said, arranging two sturdy but mismatched chairs around a shabby table, "it isn't Ablenn Hall, but it is better." He pulled his other chair - the one he had inherited from the Badger's previous commander, over to the desk and sat down to consider. Would the cabin look better with the desk over by the stern windows? Perhaps it would. He spent the next several hours moving his new possessions around, finally deciding that the desk was best opposite the door, as that would place him with his back to the light for anyone coming in. "Most imposing," he said. "Excellent."
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
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