* No badgers were harmed in the creation of this blog *

** Not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent any disease
**

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

1 comment:

Ethan said...

"Stephen, did you not hear the bosun piping the hands to dinner?" Stephen looked up from his laptop with a start, blinking his pale eyes, to see Captain Aubrey's great ruddy face wearing an expression of bemusement. He closed his Macbook's lid apologetically. "I meant no offense, Jack," he replied. "But I was so engrossed by Mr Bender I quite lost track of the time."

"Ah, yes, the Steampunk O'Brian fellow," cried Jack, for while he was no great reader of web-logs, he always enjoyed stories of the future Navy. "How is it coming along?"

"Tolerably well. He writes with a fluent command of period language, very much in the style of O'Brian, and the excerpts show promise of a compelling tale." Jack nodded in agreement. "But for all love," continued Stephen, "at times I think his style hews too closely to O'Brian's. Sometimes I wish to hear more of this Mr Bender's distinctive voice, an able student of his eminent forebear though he may be."

"Yes, quite right," replied Jack, stroking his battle-scarred chin thoughtfully. "And I am in a fever of eagerness to hear more about this coal-engine driving the vessel, for while its specific workings are perhaps more suited for your philosophical mind, I have no doubt that its impact on tactics in a battle would suit my own tastes wonderfully."

"For my own part," said Stephen, "I look forward to greater specificity of times, dates and places, for this is the sort of texture that makes O'Brian so compelling. Also, I would be most intrigued by the inclusion of further character background - this Philip's romantic entanglements, parentage and such."

Killick's scowling visage appeared in the doorframe. "Which the Doctor's nice chops will be stone-cold in a moment, sir" he growled.