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Amanda Ray had some teeth left, and as the klaxons blared throughout the ship, these came to life. Her HK-35 plasma cannon emerged from their wing pylons, her hull-mounted Browning EMP generator unfolded, and her remaining Vulcan ELA oscillator extended its antenna. Throughout the ship, blast doors closed, soldiers and crew rushed to their battle stations, and the medical staff, wiping sleep from their eyes, assembled in the surgical suite. Lighting in residential and other non-martial areas dimmed to divert energy to shields and weapons. In less than two minutes, Amanda Ray went from the near-silence of third-shift sleepiness to a bristling wakefulness.
On the bridge the surround to the main view screen pulsed red, as did all of the other viewscreens - a red alert was not to be accidentally overlooked. Captian Leigh took up her usual position in the center of the room near the back, where she could see all of the other officers without having to turn around. “All stations reporting,” said the sublieutenant, “crew is at full alert.”
A moment later the comm off broke in, “receiving on all channels, ma’am, heliocartographic, medical science, military, BIOS update, communications. It’s a fucking da,” he coughed, “it’s a data dump. I think it’s everything that’s happened in the last thirty years.”
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Thursday, July 30, 2009
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Space-3
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“Why is there no video?” asked the captain, brushing her hair from her eyes. She had been asleep when the hail had come through and had not taken the time to put on a uniform or tie back her long, deeply greyed hair.
The comm-off tapped away at his console again. He was a thin, pale man with a habit of coughing when he was nervous. “Audio-only signal, ma’am,” he reported at last.
“Greetings Amanda Ray. Please Respond,” said the speakers again - the same voice, timbre, speed, and inflection as the first time, just softer now that the comm-off had lowered the volume.
“How do they know our name?” asked the first lieutenant.
The sublieutenant refrained from stating that their name was etched and painted on their hull, contenting himself with a small sniff instead, but the captain had no such scruple. “It’s written on our hull in block capitals. Even the Sasquinaw can read it,” she said, taking her seat.
“Greetings Amanda Ray. Please Respond,” said the ship’s speakers again. No new inflection, no irritation at not being answered, just the same message, again. “Put me through,” said the Captain.
The comm-off tapped once at his console, then nodded at his captain.
“This is the Amanda Ray,” said the captain. “Who are you?”
“Voice metric accepted, Captain Leigh,” said the voice. “Stand by.”
“We are being scanned, ma’am,” said Hockley, the weapons officer, and indeed the displays all flickered as the mystery ship’s sensors probed the Amanda Ray, searching out her capabilities, and her limitations.
“Crew to quarters,” ordered the captain. The Amanda Ray, with no mobility and limited energy reserves, could not hope to put up much of a fight, but she would no peacefully roll over and play dead, either.
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“Why is there no video?” asked the captain, brushing her hair from her eyes. She had been asleep when the hail had come through and had not taken the time to put on a uniform or tie back her long, deeply greyed hair.
The comm-off tapped away at his console again. He was a thin, pale man with a habit of coughing when he was nervous. “Audio-only signal, ma’am,” he reported at last.
“Greetings Amanda Ray. Please Respond,” said the speakers again - the same voice, timbre, speed, and inflection as the first time, just softer now that the comm-off had lowered the volume.
“How do they know our name?” asked the first lieutenant.
The sublieutenant refrained from stating that their name was etched and painted on their hull, contenting himself with a small sniff instead, but the captain had no such scruple. “It’s written on our hull in block capitals. Even the Sasquinaw can read it,” she said, taking her seat.
“Greetings Amanda Ray. Please Respond,” said the ship’s speakers again. No new inflection, no irritation at not being answered, just the same message, again. “Put me through,” said the Captain.
The comm-off tapped once at his console, then nodded at his captain.
“This is the Amanda Ray,” said the captain. “Who are you?”
“Voice metric accepted, Captain Leigh,” said the voice. “Stand by.”
“We are being scanned, ma’am,” said Hockley, the weapons officer, and indeed the displays all flickered as the mystery ship’s sensors probed the Amanda Ray, searching out her capabilities, and her limitations.
“Crew to quarters,” ordered the captain. The Amanda Ray, with no mobility and limited energy reserves, could not hope to put up much of a fight, but she would no peacefully roll over and play dead, either.
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Saturday, July 25, 2009
STO'B 34
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Chasseur fired her signal guns again, and through his telescope Philip could see the green and tan brig’s crew standing about in confusion. One man was pointing at their flogging sails, and then at the English brigs, while another vehemently gestured to the fort, which fired again, and again with a second gun. Aboard the snow someone, presumably the master, was climbing into the mainmast’s weather shrouds with a speaking trumpet. “Mr Wilkins, lower the cutter,” Philip called to his midshipman.
A fountain of water erupted between the Badger and the Chassuer, followed some moments later by a second fountain only ten yards from the Badger’s side, a fountain that collapsed onto and soaked the quarterdeck. And now that the French guns had found the range, the rest of the battery opened up, five guns at once, followed by a sixth. Philip watched one of the shells, watching it fly high, high, almost out of sight before passing the top of its arc and plummeting down toward him, and finally exploding some yards off to starboard, perhaps a foot above the water. Iron shell fragments slammed into Badger’s hull, and the starboard fore shrouds collapsed, but nothing carried away yet. The cutter was in the water now, with its crew (most of them marines wearing seamen’s slops, on this occasion) in place around some poorly folded canvas, but before Philip climbed down into it he turned to Wilkins, “the moment we hook on to the snow, strike the French colors - not a moment before or after.”
Into the cutter he went, and the boat’s crew pulling hard across the lane of water separating them from the snow, ducking as the shells exploded around them, for now the fort had shifted from the brigs to the cutter, hoping to cut them off before they reached the merchantman. Philip glanced back at the Badger. Wilkins stood at the rail, watching them intently through a glass, waiting to order one of the Badgers to strike the colors. A hail from the snow, asking what in hell was going on, what were they about; but Philip ignored it, said nothing, folding his telescope and nodding at the bowman, who picked up his boat hook.
The snow was still uncertain, not sure if Philip and his men were friend or foe, and although she had not dropped any manropes or ladders for them, neither had she rigged boarding netting. “Lower a rope,” Philip called in French, but either he wasn’t heard or he was ignored, or perhaps he had mis-spoken - in any event no rope appeared.
The bow man hooked on. Philip swiveled in his seat and saw the French colors flutter down from the Badger’s top. Over on the Chasseur the English colors raced aloft to appear over the French naval flag. “Grapnels,” Philip ordered, and the marines stripped the folded canvas aside to reveal three grapnels with ropes bent to them, along with several muskets, cutlasses, and collection of boarding axes as a back-up for the grapnels.
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Chasseur fired her signal guns again, and through his telescope Philip could see the green and tan brig’s crew standing about in confusion. One man was pointing at their flogging sails, and then at the English brigs, while another vehemently gestured to the fort, which fired again, and again with a second gun. Aboard the snow someone, presumably the master, was climbing into the mainmast’s weather shrouds with a speaking trumpet. “Mr Wilkins, lower the cutter,” Philip called to his midshipman.
A fountain of water erupted between the Badger and the Chassuer, followed some moments later by a second fountain only ten yards from the Badger’s side, a fountain that collapsed onto and soaked the quarterdeck. And now that the French guns had found the range, the rest of the battery opened up, five guns at once, followed by a sixth. Philip watched one of the shells, watching it fly high, high, almost out of sight before passing the top of its arc and plummeting down toward him, and finally exploding some yards off to starboard, perhaps a foot above the water. Iron shell fragments slammed into Badger’s hull, and the starboard fore shrouds collapsed, but nothing carried away yet. The cutter was in the water now, with its crew (most of them marines wearing seamen’s slops, on this occasion) in place around some poorly folded canvas, but before Philip climbed down into it he turned to Wilkins, “the moment we hook on to the snow, strike the French colors - not a moment before or after.”
Into the cutter he went, and the boat’s crew pulling hard across the lane of water separating them from the snow, ducking as the shells exploded around them, for now the fort had shifted from the brigs to the cutter, hoping to cut them off before they reached the merchantman. Philip glanced back at the Badger. Wilkins stood at the rail, watching them intently through a glass, waiting to order one of the Badgers to strike the colors. A hail from the snow, asking what in hell was going on, what were they about; but Philip ignored it, said nothing, folding his telescope and nodding at the bowman, who picked up his boat hook.
The snow was still uncertain, not sure if Philip and his men were friend or foe, and although she had not dropped any manropes or ladders for them, neither had she rigged boarding netting. “Lower a rope,” Philip called in French, but either he wasn’t heard or he was ignored, or perhaps he had mis-spoken - in any event no rope appeared.
The bow man hooked on. Philip swiveled in his seat and saw the French colors flutter down from the Badger’s top. Over on the Chasseur the English colors raced aloft to appear over the French naval flag. “Grapnels,” Philip ordered, and the marines stripped the folded canvas aside to reveal three grapnels with ropes bent to them, along with several muskets, cutlasses, and collection of boarding axes as a back-up for the grapnels.
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Thursday, July 23, 2009
STO'B 33
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There might still be time to confuse the issue, Philip thought as he waited to the fall of the shot. Theoretically, there might be captured British sailors on a French brig, and they would wear their own uniforms, of course. Ideas flitted through his mind, none particularly plausible. He cursed his lieutenant for unwittingly blowing their cover, and himself for not issuing orders prohibiting the wearing of uniforms and hoisting of signals.
A fountain of water splashed up beyond the two English brigs, followed a moment later by an explosion of froth as the French shell detonated underwater, and as the bubbles died away they revealed several fish on the surface, floating on their sides. Far down in the harbor the snow was clearly making her way out to join the two naval brings, while one of the merchant brigs - the green and tan one, which had responded to his signal by shipping her capstan bars - had dropped her maincourse and was catting her anchor.
Philip walked forward to the Badger’s bows, collecting a speaking trumpet from the binnacle as he went. “Lieutenant Grey,” he called over to the Chasseur, as loudly as he dared. The French would be watching very carefully, and though he knew that their telescopes could not amplify sound, he worried that they might do so anyway. He did not want the French to know that the allegedly-captured Badger was actually giving the orders. “Lieutenant Grey, signal the fort,” he said, “and make the private signal again.”
The fort fired again, this time firing short, but not by very much, and the Chasseur fired a leeward and a windward gun. “Mr Grey, lead us in to meet the snow,” said Philip, “but not too fast. We don’t want to spook her. Mr South, follow the Chasseur in, half a cable’s-length astern.” The green and tan brig was coming up into the wind, but the snow did not seem to have recognized the danger, and if he could get nothing else he wanted to be certain of her.
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There might still be time to confuse the issue, Philip thought as he waited to the fall of the shot. Theoretically, there might be captured British sailors on a French brig, and they would wear their own uniforms, of course. Ideas flitted through his mind, none particularly plausible. He cursed his lieutenant for unwittingly blowing their cover, and himself for not issuing orders prohibiting the wearing of uniforms and hoisting of signals.
A fountain of water splashed up beyond the two English brigs, followed a moment later by an explosion of froth as the French shell detonated underwater, and as the bubbles died away they revealed several fish on the surface, floating on their sides. Far down in the harbor the snow was clearly making her way out to join the two naval brings, while one of the merchant brigs - the green and tan one, which had responded to his signal by shipping her capstan bars - had dropped her maincourse and was catting her anchor.
Philip walked forward to the Badger’s bows, collecting a speaking trumpet from the binnacle as he went. “Lieutenant Grey,” he called over to the Chasseur, as loudly as he dared. The French would be watching very carefully, and though he knew that their telescopes could not amplify sound, he worried that they might do so anyway. He did not want the French to know that the allegedly-captured Badger was actually giving the orders. “Lieutenant Grey, signal the fort,” he said, “and make the private signal again.”
The fort fired again, this time firing short, but not by very much, and the Chasseur fired a leeward and a windward gun. “Mr Grey, lead us in to meet the snow,” said Philip, “but not too fast. We don’t want to spook her. Mr South, follow the Chasseur in, half a cable’s-length astern.” The green and tan brig was coming up into the wind, but the snow did not seem to have recognized the danger, and if he could get nothing else he wanted to be certain of her.
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Saturday, July 18, 2009
Space-2
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* * *
“Ma’am, R and S may have something,” reported the sublieutenant, referring to the division that oversaw long and medium range monitoring, and whose official name was not RADAR and SONAR, nor Rocks and Ships, but Reconnaissance and Surveillance.
“Ah?” said the first lieutenant, still a fool 30 years later.
“Yes, ma’am. Something built, though they can’t identify it. Communications is standing by to hail.”
“Are there life signs?”
“R and S says ‘no,’ but acknowledges that their equipment is insufficient to be sure. There are several readings that they can’t interpret. Strong energy readings, though.
Before the lieutenant could respond, or before he did respond, at any rate, an electronic chime sounded and the surround to the bridge’s main view screen began to pulse purple. The lieutenant stared at the pulsing light, trying to remember what it meant. “We are being hailed, ma’am,” said the sublieutenant.
The lieutenant was absorbed in the meaning of the pulsing purple light, however, and did not reply. “We are being hailed,” the sublieutenant repeated. “Shall I put them through?”
“Put them through, receive-only” said the captain, whose arrival had passed unnoticed amidst the novelty of the foreign ship, or thing, or whatever it was.
“Put them through, receive-only” said the sublieutenant to the comm(unications) off(icer).
“Receive only, aye,” said the comm-off, tapping at his console, bringing up the hail and canceling the hail-waiting signal.
A moment later a sightly garbled, though perfectly understandable and extremely loud voice filled the bridge: “GREETINGS AMANDA RAY. PLEASE RESPOND.”
“Sorry,” said the comm-off, tapping his console to bring the volume down. In the presence of the captain the first lieutenant did not respond.
Silence filled the bridge. They had been found at last. But who had found them? They were still deep in Sasquinaw space, in spite of towing with the shuttle craft for three hours a day (the most the craft could pull the Ray’s bulk for with out losing control). At least, according to their 30-year-old charts they were.
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“Ma’am, R and S may have something,” reported the sublieutenant, referring to the division that oversaw long and medium range monitoring, and whose official name was not RADAR and SONAR, nor Rocks and Ships, but Reconnaissance and Surveillance.
“Ah?” said the first lieutenant, still a fool 30 years later.
“Yes, ma’am. Something built, though they can’t identify it. Communications is standing by to hail.”
“Are there life signs?”
“R and S says ‘no,’ but acknowledges that their equipment is insufficient to be sure. There are several readings that they can’t interpret. Strong energy readings, though.
Before the lieutenant could respond, or before he did respond, at any rate, an electronic chime sounded and the surround to the bridge’s main view screen began to pulse purple. The lieutenant stared at the pulsing light, trying to remember what it meant. “We are being hailed, ma’am,” said the sublieutenant.
The lieutenant was absorbed in the meaning of the pulsing purple light, however, and did not reply. “We are being hailed,” the sublieutenant repeated. “Shall I put them through?”
“Put them through, receive-only” said the captain, whose arrival had passed unnoticed amidst the novelty of the foreign ship, or thing, or whatever it was.
“Put them through, receive-only” said the sublieutenant to the comm(unications) off(icer).
“Receive only, aye,” said the comm-off, tapping at his console, bringing up the hail and canceling the hail-waiting signal.
A moment later a sightly garbled, though perfectly understandable and extremely loud voice filled the bridge: “GREETINGS AMANDA RAY. PLEASE RESPOND.”
“Sorry,” said the comm-off, tapping his console to bring the volume down. In the presence of the captain the first lieutenant did not respond.
Silence filled the bridge. They had been found at last. But who had found them? They were still deep in Sasquinaw space, in spite of towing with the shuttle craft for three hours a day (the most the craft could pull the Ray’s bulk for with out losing control). At least, according to their 30-year-old charts they were.
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Wednesday, July 15, 2009
STO'B 32
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But the French gunnery officer did not fire, though by Philip’s estimation the Badger and Chasseur were within long shot of his guns. Even better than long shot, he reflected, thinking of the wicked peppering he and the rest of the crew of the Intrepid had received from the pair of French long guns of the Le Corbosie battery as they attempted to take that tower in 1837. The memory remained strong: 36 pound shot hulling the poor Intrepid again and again, smashing the main mast and its attendant rigging, taking off Captain Lawrence’s head at the shoulders so that one moment that kind man was talking to him, calming his fears (it was Philip’s first time under fire); and the next moment his head was gone, replaced by a spurting red fountain that soaked Philip as the captain collapsed at his feet. “I beg your pardon, Mr Wilkins?” he said.
“Chasseur is signaling sir, asking for direction,” repeated the midshipman.
Theoretically, Chasseur was the senior vessel, she having apparently captured the Badger, but now was not the time to deal with that - not in front of the enemy, with the blue peter flying on one - he swung his glass back to the clustered merchantmen - two vessels. And as he watched the snow’s anchor broke free of the water, and water started to cream along her bow. Might the snow lead the others out?
The Chasseur fired a gun, attempting to draw Philip’s attention to her signal, but Philip took the captain’s prerogative and ignored it. Perhaps the shore might think that the signal was for them, though Philip saw no navy vessels in the harbor. He shifted his glass back to the fortress, the other potential source of orders, and with dismay he noted that the gunnery officer still had his telescope raised, though now he appeared to be looking at the Chasseur.
Philip turned his own glass to the Chasseur, bringing her startlingly close. He could make out the weave of the rigging, count the stripes on the helmsman’s shirt as he stood by the wheel, make out the bright gold braiding on Lieutenant Grey’s epaulettes; he could almost make out the lettering on the brig’s bell. He swung his glass back to the lieutenant’s epaulettes. To his English lieutenant’s epaulettes. That was what the gunnery officer was staring at, and now the fort was firing a gun.
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But the French gunnery officer did not fire, though by Philip’s estimation the Badger and Chasseur were within long shot of his guns. Even better than long shot, he reflected, thinking of the wicked peppering he and the rest of the crew of the Intrepid had received from the pair of French long guns of the Le Corbosie battery as they attempted to take that tower in 1837. The memory remained strong: 36 pound shot hulling the poor Intrepid again and again, smashing the main mast and its attendant rigging, taking off Captain Lawrence’s head at the shoulders so that one moment that kind man was talking to him, calming his fears (it was Philip’s first time under fire); and the next moment his head was gone, replaced by a spurting red fountain that soaked Philip as the captain collapsed at his feet. “I beg your pardon, Mr Wilkins?” he said.
“Chasseur is signaling sir, asking for direction,” repeated the midshipman.
Theoretically, Chasseur was the senior vessel, she having apparently captured the Badger, but now was not the time to deal with that - not in front of the enemy, with the blue peter flying on one - he swung his glass back to the clustered merchantmen - two vessels. And as he watched the snow’s anchor broke free of the water, and water started to cream along her bow. Might the snow lead the others out?
The Chasseur fired a gun, attempting to draw Philip’s attention to her signal, but Philip took the captain’s prerogative and ignored it. Perhaps the shore might think that the signal was for them, though Philip saw no navy vessels in the harbor. He shifted his glass back to the fortress, the other potential source of orders, and with dismay he noted that the gunnery officer still had his telescope raised, though now he appeared to be looking at the Chasseur.
Philip turned his own glass to the Chasseur, bringing her startlingly close. He could make out the weave of the rigging, count the stripes on the helmsman’s shirt as he stood by the wheel, make out the bright gold braiding on Lieutenant Grey’s epaulettes; he could almost make out the lettering on the brig’s bell. He swung his glass back to the lieutenant’s epaulettes. To his English lieutenant’s epaulettes. That was what the gunnery officer was staring at, and now the fort was firing a gun.
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Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Yesterday's New York Times
Yesterday's Times had a front page story on Sarah Palin's slow collapse from popular governor to retiring, less popular governor. Ooh, I said to myself, this should be interesting, and after reading about the manner in which George Bush, Jr's presidency may have damaged the current administration's ability to turn things around for the US, and how civil unrest continues in Iran, I began the Palin article with real eagerness.
I should have known better, because what happened was not at all new. The Sarah Palin story, it quickly became evident, is the same story as everyone else has - a human being trying to do the right thing (based on her understanding of 'right'), and not always succeeding. And running into the real life that happened while she was off making other plans. the press, always eager to leap at the shallowest of controversies, didn't help; though it isn't their job to help. Her daughter's personal relations didn't help, though again, catering to her mother's political career shouldn't be the at the top of Bristol Palin's list of priorities - Bristol Palin should live her life for Bristol, not Sarah, Palin. Many people seem to have forgotten that.
But the point of all of this is that, much as I am relieved that Sarah Palin is not our Vice President, and as much as I suspect that she had more to do with John McCain's losing the election than Joe Biden did with Barack Obama's wining the election, she is a human being, and as long as I'm able to keep that perspective, it's hard to wish her ill. Nor do I want to wish her ill. Though I do wish her out of the spotlight.
And out of politics.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
STOB 31
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* * *
Thirty-six hours later Philip found himself intimately concerned with the line between acceptable and unacceptable behavior in warfare. The Badger had met the Chasseur in the early morning fog off of Arcades, on the Sicilian coast, and now the two brigs stood across the mouth of that long harbor, the Chasseur under French colors, the Badger wearing the French colors over the English ensign, as if she were a prize of the French brig rather then the other way around. Philip had placed the two flags on different lines, so that although from even as close as a dozen yards away they appeared to be flying together, he could strike the French colors without lowering the English ones; but the question of when to strike them troubled him: strike them too early and the convoy would scatter before he had a chance to snap them up, strike them too late and his captures would be illegal.
For the moment, though, the convoy still rode at anchor: three brigs, two sloops (one ship-rigged, the other brig-), and a snow, all of them deeply laden and no doubt undermanned, as merchantmen so often were. The Chasseur and the Badger hove to just outside the bar, and the Chasseur raised the blue peter and fired two guns - one to windward, the other to leeward: the signal for the convoy to get under way, according to the code book Philip had captured with the French brig.
But not one of the merchantmen responded. Philip trained his glass on them, clustered together at the end of the harbor. The crew of one of the brigs had actually gathered around her capstan, and as he watched the capstan gave a preparatory turn, pulling in some of the anchor cable’s slack. Behind the brig Philip made out a puff of smoke, and refocussing he saw that the snow had fired up its donkey engine in preparation for winning its anchor. But the other vessels, with the exception of one of the other brigs, who raised the blue peter and fired a gun, lay motionless. Philip had participated in convoys who were only able to get under way at last with much harrying from their escorts, by shouted threat and unshotted gun, and he feared that this convoy might prove the same.
Philip shifted his gaze to the fort that guarded the harbor, high on Franciscan Hill. Half a dozen cannon peered from its embrasures, and several men clustered around each of them. An officer, his telescope to his eye, focussed on the Chasseur. Why was he focussed on the Chasseur? Had he smoked the cheat? The six cannon under his command would be more than enough to smash the Badger and Chasseur into kindling.
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Thirty-six hours later Philip found himself intimately concerned with the line between acceptable and unacceptable behavior in warfare. The Badger had met the Chasseur in the early morning fog off of Arcades, on the Sicilian coast, and now the two brigs stood across the mouth of that long harbor, the Chasseur under French colors, the Badger wearing the French colors over the English ensign, as if she were a prize of the French brig rather then the other way around. Philip had placed the two flags on different lines, so that although from even as close as a dozen yards away they appeared to be flying together, he could strike the French colors without lowering the English ones; but the question of when to strike them troubled him: strike them too early and the convoy would scatter before he had a chance to snap them up, strike them too late and his captures would be illegal.
For the moment, though, the convoy still rode at anchor: three brigs, two sloops (one ship-rigged, the other brig-), and a snow, all of them deeply laden and no doubt undermanned, as merchantmen so often were. The Chasseur and the Badger hove to just outside the bar, and the Chasseur raised the blue peter and fired two guns - one to windward, the other to leeward: the signal for the convoy to get under way, according to the code book Philip had captured with the French brig.
But not one of the merchantmen responded. Philip trained his glass on them, clustered together at the end of the harbor. The crew of one of the brigs had actually gathered around her capstan, and as he watched the capstan gave a preparatory turn, pulling in some of the anchor cable’s slack. Behind the brig Philip made out a puff of smoke, and refocussing he saw that the snow had fired up its donkey engine in preparation for winning its anchor. But the other vessels, with the exception of one of the other brigs, who raised the blue peter and fired a gun, lay motionless. Philip had participated in convoys who were only able to get under way at last with much harrying from their escorts, by shouted threat and unshotted gun, and he feared that this convoy might prove the same.
Philip shifted his gaze to the fort that guarded the harbor, high on Franciscan Hill. Half a dozen cannon peered from its embrasures, and several men clustered around each of them. An officer, his telescope to his eye, focussed on the Chasseur. Why was he focussed on the Chasseur? Had he smoked the cheat? The six cannon under his command would be more than enough to smash the Badger and Chasseur into kindling.
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Monday, July 6, 2009
STO'B 30
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“And, of course, there is the coal torpedo,” said the master. “Though that won’t go until you tosses it in the firebox, like.”
“A coal torpedo?” asked Captain Fitton, who had never heard of such a thing.
“Why, yes, sir. It is a torpedo but what looks like coal, and is filled with powder - with gunpowder, Doctor,” the master said to Dr M’Mullen, in case a landsman might not understand powder. “You tosses it in the firebox and it goes off, right in the firebox, or so I’ve heard.”
“But would not that merely make the ship go faster,” asked Dr M’Mullen, “it being, as I understand, the fire in the box that makes the steam, and makes the engine go?”
“Yes, Doctor,” said the master, “but the explosion overwhelms the firebox, opening it to the water above, and at the least the water puts out your fire, like. But more commonly the whole boiler goes once any part of it is ruptured - the engineer could explain it better than I - but I’ve heard tell of French locomotives well nigh destroyed by such a device.”
“Why would anyone want to toss that into their fire?” asked the surgeon, his mind now worked on by enough grog to overcome his reserve.
“It’s planted by spies, like, in the enemy’s coal bunker, and you throws it in unawares,” said the master.
“So before you know, it’s too late,” observed Philip. “What a damned cowardly thing to do.”
“That is the nature of war, however,” said Dr M’Mullen.
“Oh, come Doctor,” said Philip. “War is quite honorable. There are certain rules we all abide by, like not striking our colors and then fighting again, or raising flags of distress to lure in the enemy; or not fighting under false colors, or no colors at all. Everyone knows what the limits are, and none of us step beyond them.”
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“And, of course, there is the coal torpedo,” said the master. “Though that won’t go until you tosses it in the firebox, like.”
“A coal torpedo?” asked Captain Fitton, who had never heard of such a thing.
“Why, yes, sir. It is a torpedo but what looks like coal, and is filled with powder - with gunpowder, Doctor,” the master said to Dr M’Mullen, in case a landsman might not understand powder. “You tosses it in the firebox and it goes off, right in the firebox, or so I’ve heard.”
“But would not that merely make the ship go faster,” asked Dr M’Mullen, “it being, as I understand, the fire in the box that makes the steam, and makes the engine go?”
“Yes, Doctor,” said the master, “but the explosion overwhelms the firebox, opening it to the water above, and at the least the water puts out your fire, like. But more commonly the whole boiler goes once any part of it is ruptured - the engineer could explain it better than I - but I’ve heard tell of French locomotives well nigh destroyed by such a device.”
“Why would anyone want to toss that into their fire?” asked the surgeon, his mind now worked on by enough grog to overcome his reserve.
“It’s planted by spies, like, in the enemy’s coal bunker, and you throws it in unawares,” said the master.
“So before you know, it’s too late,” observed Philip. “What a damned cowardly thing to do.”
“That is the nature of war, however,” said Dr M’Mullen.
“Oh, come Doctor,” said Philip. “War is quite honorable. There are certain rules we all abide by, like not striking our colors and then fighting again, or raising flags of distress to lure in the enemy; or not fighting under false colors, or no colors at all. Everyone knows what the limits are, and none of us step beyond them.”
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Sunday, July 5, 2009
STO'B 29
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The presence of the master and surgeon relieved some of the awkwardness, nevertheless the meal was not a success. Or not at first, anyway. Convention dictated that no one beneath the captain’s rank should speak at his table without having first been spoken to - it was an extension of the court etiquette, the captain representing the king - and though Dr M’Mullen was either ignorant or uncaring of this custom, the surgeon and master were properly mute. Further, Philip had not yet had time to acquire any wine on board, nor any personal stores of any kind, and he was forced therefor to feed his guests the same salt horse eaten by the crew, wetted by nothing more than rum, grog, and coffee.
Nor did he know his guests terribly well. Dr M’Mullen, of course, he knew only through having crashed into him. The master he knew to be a good seaman, if perhaps somewhat lax in discipline, though the men did jump for him just as they did for Lt Grey. The surgeon he knew not at all, save for observing his generally shabby appearance. The man had shaved and put on a creased, clean uniform coat for this invitation to the cabin, however, and the creases in his rarely-worn coat gave him an even frailer, more bent look than he usually displayed. “Dr Foster,” Philip called across the table, “a glass of grog with you, sir.”
Philip also had a glass of grog with Mr South and another with Dr M’Mullen, and so fortified he began to relax. “Dr M’Mullen will be accompanying us as far as Gideon’s Bay,” he said, passing the grog around again as Simkin brought in their simple meal. “I trust you have found your accommodations to your liking, Doctor?”
“Yes,” replied Dr M’Mullen. My books are spread out on the desk, by the windows, and I expect that most of them will recover.”
“Your books, sir?” asked Philip
“Yes, sir. I accidentally dropped several of them as I climbed down to the boat. The crew were good enough to fish them out again, however.”
“I remember when I was a midshipman in the London,” said Philip, “74, Captain West, the Valkerie, Captain Corbell, was taking aboard gunpowder and they dropped one of the casks. It must have stove and hit a lantern - they were working at night so as to sail before sunrise - or perhaps someone was smoking, but the powder caught and the whole brig went up - vanished. London was a quarter mile away but we were rocked at our moorings, and we all talked in a roar for days afterward. Several of the men were looking at her when she went and they couldn’t see right for many hours.”
“Did anyone survive?” asked Dr M’Mullen.
“No,” said Philip. “The largest piece we found of anyone was a head, and that was too badly burned to recognize.”
Ship explosions were rare, but they were common enough for everyone to have a story about them, and the dinner wound its course through explosions due to accident and enemy fire, those due to igniting magazines and boiler failures, the need for dowsing all lights when bringing powder aboard, and some captains’ insistence that all lights be dowsed for loading coal as well.
“Why is that?” asked Patrick.
“The coal dust can explode.” Philip said.
“Oh, indeed?”
“Yes. But it needs a shock, like, to get it going, as well as a light,” explained the master.
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GLOSSARY
The presence of the master and surgeon relieved some of the awkwardness, nevertheless the meal was not a success. Or not at first, anyway. Convention dictated that no one beneath the captain’s rank should speak at his table without having first been spoken to - it was an extension of the court etiquette, the captain representing the king - and though Dr M’Mullen was either ignorant or uncaring of this custom, the surgeon and master were properly mute. Further, Philip had not yet had time to acquire any wine on board, nor any personal stores of any kind, and he was forced therefor to feed his guests the same salt horse eaten by the crew, wetted by nothing more than rum, grog, and coffee.
Nor did he know his guests terribly well. Dr M’Mullen, of course, he knew only through having crashed into him. The master he knew to be a good seaman, if perhaps somewhat lax in discipline, though the men did jump for him just as they did for Lt Grey. The surgeon he knew not at all, save for observing his generally shabby appearance. The man had shaved and put on a creased, clean uniform coat for this invitation to the cabin, however, and the creases in his rarely-worn coat gave him an even frailer, more bent look than he usually displayed. “Dr Foster,” Philip called across the table, “a glass of grog with you, sir.”
Philip also had a glass of grog with Mr South and another with Dr M’Mullen, and so fortified he began to relax. “Dr M’Mullen will be accompanying us as far as Gideon’s Bay,” he said, passing the grog around again as Simkin brought in their simple meal. “I trust you have found your accommodations to your liking, Doctor?”
“Yes,” replied Dr M’Mullen. My books are spread out on the desk, by the windows, and I expect that most of them will recover.”
“Your books, sir?” asked Philip
“Yes, sir. I accidentally dropped several of them as I climbed down to the boat. The crew were good enough to fish them out again, however.”
“I remember when I was a midshipman in the London,” said Philip, “74, Captain West, the Valkerie, Captain Corbell, was taking aboard gunpowder and they dropped one of the casks. It must have stove and hit a lantern - they were working at night so as to sail before sunrise - or perhaps someone was smoking, but the powder caught and the whole brig went up - vanished. London was a quarter mile away but we were rocked at our moorings, and we all talked in a roar for days afterward. Several of the men were looking at her when she went and they couldn’t see right for many hours.”
“Did anyone survive?” asked Dr M’Mullen.
“No,” said Philip. “The largest piece we found of anyone was a head, and that was too badly burned to recognize.”
Ship explosions were rare, but they were common enough for everyone to have a story about them, and the dinner wound its course through explosions due to accident and enemy fire, those due to igniting magazines and boiler failures, the need for dowsing all lights when bringing powder aboard, and some captains’ insistence that all lights be dowsed for loading coal as well.
“Why is that?” asked Patrick.
“The coal dust can explode.” Philip said.
“Oh, indeed?”
“Yes. But it needs a shock, like, to get it going, as well as a light,” explained the master.
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Saturday, July 4, 2009
Richmond Rail Heist #5
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The meeting was over. Some of the men drifted off immediately, eager to start the long journey south, and James shook each man’s hand, providing him with fifty Confederate dollars - a substantial sum - to help him on his way. William was one of the last to leave, helping James scratch out his earthen map and then joining the tall man with the cousin in Georgia, and leaving James with only the bespectacled man. Perhaps fifteen seconds later William and his companion turned at the sound of chasing footsteps and a flash of lightning showed the bespectacled man running after them. It also showed James, looking attentively after them. And as the bright light faded, the long-promised rain began to fall.
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GLOSSARY
The meeting was over. Some of the men drifted off immediately, eager to start the long journey south, and James shook each man’s hand, providing him with fifty Confederate dollars - a substantial sum - to help him on his way. William was one of the last to leave, helping James scratch out his earthen map and then joining the tall man with the cousin in Georgia, and leaving James with only the bespectacled man. Perhaps fifteen seconds later William and his companion turned at the sound of chasing footsteps and a flash of lightning showed the bespectacled man running after them. It also showed James, looking attentively after them. And as the bright light faded, the long-promised rain began to fall.
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