<- From
Instead of simply limiting the number of wheels that the child has, we could allow her to have the wheels, but not allow her to use them to make cars. We can do this in a few ways.
First, we can sequester the wheels, perhaps by putting them all in a bag that she can’t open. Second, we can stick something to each of the wheels so that they won’t fit into the cars. Finally, we can stick something into the cars so that the wheels no longer fit. The body uses each of these methods as well.
Friday, November 26, 2010
The Lego® Model of Pharmacology
In understanding drugs and how they work, it can be helpful to think of the body and its atoms as a giant set of Lego® bricks[1]. A child can use Lego® bricks to make buildings, space ships, cars, etc; and the body can use its atoms to build muscles, bones, signaling molecules, etc. Moreover, just as the child can disassemble her building and then use the bricks to make a car, the body can disassemble its muscle and build bone. Of course, the car requires special bricks (e.g. wheels) which aren’t needed to make a building, and bone needs special atoms (e.g. calcium) which aren’t needed to make a muscle: the number of cars the child can make is limited by the number of wheels she has, and the amount of bone the body can make is limited by the amount of calcium available.
This last point is important. It means that if we want to regulate the number of cars that the child makes, we only need to regulate the number of wheels we allow her to use. We might do this because we have too many cars, and don’t want any more, or we might do so because we don’t have enough buildings (or space ships, or bridges) and want to conserve our bricks to make those instead of cars.
In the body, if we want to regulate the amount of bone we make, we can regulate the amount of calcium there is to make it with. We might do this because we have too much bone, and don’t want any more, or we might do so because we don’t have enough of something else, and want to conserve building materials to make, say, muscle.
Pharmacology (the science of drugs) manipulates the body by interfering with the way it uses its atoms. Continuing with the Lego analogy, drugs are the equivalent of another person adding or removing bricks to the buildings, cars, space ships, etc as they’re being built or after they’re finished; or adding or removing bricks from the box of unused bricks.
[1] Lego® is a registered trademark of the LEGO® Group of companies, which does not sponsor, authorise, or endorse this site
This last point is important. It means that if we want to regulate the number of cars that the child makes, we only need to regulate the number of wheels we allow her to use. We might do this because we have too many cars, and don’t want any more, or we might do so because we don’t have enough buildings (or space ships, or bridges) and want to conserve our bricks to make those instead of cars.
In the body, if we want to regulate the amount of bone we make, we can regulate the amount of calcium there is to make it with. We might do this because we have too much bone, and don’t want any more, or we might do so because we don’t have enough of something else, and want to conserve building materials to make, say, muscle.
Pharmacology (the science of drugs) manipulates the body by interfering with the way it uses its atoms. Continuing with the Lego analogy, drugs are the equivalent of another person adding or removing bricks to the buildings, cars, space ships, etc as they’re being built or after they’re finished; or adding or removing bricks from the box of unused bricks.
[1] Lego® is a registered trademark of the LEGO® Group of companies, which does not sponsor, authorise, or endorse this site
Monday, September 13, 2010
Monday, May 10, 2010
Quentin Tarantino
Overheard: "It was like a Quentin Tarantino for teenagers."
Does this mean that Tarantino is high-end art?
Does this mean that Tarantino is high-end art?
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Professional driver, closed course
Just about any car ad on TV these days features the disclaimer that the car is being driven by a professional driver on a closed course. The point of this, as I understand it, is that we non-professional drivers, driving on roads with other vehicles also present, shouldn't attempt to get the car to do what is being shown on TV. And in cases where the car is spinning through snow and sleet, or slaloming through pools, this makes sense. Skidding conditions are by their nature unpredictable, and the risk of an accident is real.
But the other day I saw that disclaimer on an ad where a car merely drives down the street. Does this mean that their car is so unsafe that a lay driver can't safely drive it down the street? That being so, why are they bothering to sell it in the first place?
But the other day I saw that disclaimer on an ad where a car merely drives down the street. Does this mean that their car is so unsafe that a lay driver can't safely drive it down the street? That being so, why are they bothering to sell it in the first place?
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Selected work-order problems and solutions
Below are the stated problems and solutions for several work orders filed on our ambulances and facility over the years.
Problem: [Ambulance] 56-B2 left inside rear tire almost needs replacement.
Solution: Almost replaced 56-B2 left inside rear tire.
P: Ambulance 3: Something loose in patient compartment.
S: A 3: Something tightened in patient compt.
P: Mouse in driver’s-side outside cabinet ([ambulance] 56-B2).
S: Cat installed.
P: [Ambulance] 56-B2's engine is missing.
S: 56B2 - engine found under hood after brief search.
P: Ambulance 2 (56B1): Lots of dead bugs on windshield.
S: Amb2: Ordered live bugs for windshield.
P: 56-B1: Evidence of brake fluid leak near front right wheel.
S: 56-B1: Evidence removed.
P: Building’s front door lock causes door to stick closed.
S: That's what it’s for.
P: Amb. 2 siren volume unbelievably loud.
S: Ambulance 2 siren volume set to more believable level.
P: Ambulance 2 handles funny.
S: Ambulance 2 warned to straighten up, drive right, and be serious.
P: Abnormal seepage near cylinder 3 glow plug (Ambulance 3)
S: Amb3 - seepage is normal. Cylinders 1,2,4,5,6,7 and 8 lack proper seepage.
P: Stairs to landing by rear building door rusted – I think they may fall.
S: I think you're right.
P: 56-B2 - Cat found in left outside compartment (behind driver’s door).
S: Dog installed.
P: Building lights hum.
S: Taught building lights the lyrics.
P: Ambulance 3: Noise coming from behind suction unit when on - sounds like a midget pounding on something with a hammer.
S: A3 - Took hammer away from midget.
Problem: [Ambulance] 56-B2 left inside rear tire almost needs replacement.
Solution: Almost replaced 56-B2 left inside rear tire.
P: Ambulance 3: Something loose in patient compartment.
S: A 3: Something tightened in patient compt.
P: Mouse in driver’s-side outside cabinet ([ambulance] 56-B2).
S: Cat installed.
P: [Ambulance] 56-B2's engine is missing.
S: 56B2 - engine found under hood after brief search.
P: Ambulance 2 (56B1): Lots of dead bugs on windshield.
S: Amb2: Ordered live bugs for windshield.
P: 56-B1: Evidence of brake fluid leak near front right wheel.
S: 56-B1: Evidence removed.
P: Building’s front door lock causes door to stick closed.
S: That's what it’s for.
P: Amb. 2 siren volume unbelievably loud.
S: Ambulance 2 siren volume set to more believable level.
P: Ambulance 2 handles funny.
S: Ambulance 2 warned to straighten up, drive right, and be serious.
P: Abnormal seepage near cylinder 3 glow plug (Ambulance 3)
S: Amb3 - seepage is normal. Cylinders 1,2,4,5,6,7 and 8 lack proper seepage.
P: Stairs to landing by rear building door rusted – I think they may fall.
S: I think you're right.
P: 56-B2 - Cat found in left outside compartment (behind driver’s door).
S: Dog installed.
P: Building lights hum.
S: Taught building lights the lyrics.
P: Ambulance 3: Noise coming from behind suction unit when on - sounds like a midget pounding on something with a hammer.
S: A3 - Took hammer away from midget.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Sneakers
Overheard, while I was building today:
Never before has my wearing sneakers excited comment.
Middle Schooler: Someone's backstage!
Teacher: Yes. That's Mr Badger. He's building the set.
Middle Schooler: He's wearing sneakers!
Never before has my wearing sneakers excited comment.
Top men
I've actually wondered why, at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, God allows the US to keep the Ark. You'll recall that earlier in the movie, while the Nazis have the Ark, it, or God, burn off the Nazi symbol on the packing crate. But nothing happens once the US gets their hands on it.
One explanation is that the US is Good, whereas the Nazis are Bad. These days, the distinction is less obvious, perhaps, but the movie is set back in the thirties.
But another explanation occurred to me today: God wants the US to have the Ark because of exactly what happens in the last scene. The US buries it so deep that no one will ever find it again.
I prefer the second explanation.
One explanation is that the US is Good, whereas the Nazis are Bad. These days, the distinction is less obvious, perhaps, but the movie is set back in the thirties.
But another explanation occurred to me today: God wants the US to have the Ark because of exactly what happens in the last scene. The US buries it so deep that no one will ever find it again.
I prefer the second explanation.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Two pieces of advice
When I was a kid, my father gave my brother and I two pieces of advice:
* To have a friend, you have to be a friend
* Never bring a knife to a gunfight
* To have a friend, you have to be a friend
* Never bring a knife to a gunfight
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
X-ray Chapter 7, part 12
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Back on the platform, Andy dragged Jeremy up the stairs to the daylight with an iron grip. Marcus sent One-nine Adam and Lieutenant Squadron, who had an inclination to vanish once extrication was complete, with Jeremy and Andy, then hopped in himself with Three-five Carlie and Ian. In the ride to the hospital Ian had Maria pull the ambulance to the side and he decompressed the patient's right chest: clean the site quickly by pouring iodine over it, find the second intercostal space midaxilary, sneak over the third rib with the IV catheter until a rush of air, remove the needle, recheck lung sounds and compliance, and attach a flutter valve.
At the hospital, they dropped their patient off and reconnoitered with Three-three Zebra, while Lieutenant Squadron caught a lift back to his car with Three-five Charlie, the Williamsburg Rocket. The other basic bus was immediately dispatched out for a twisted ankle. The four paramedics sat on the hoods of their ambulances and watched the rain fall together; there was nothing better to do.
[END CHAPTER]
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Back on the platform, Andy dragged Jeremy up the stairs to the daylight with an iron grip. Marcus sent One-nine Adam and Lieutenant Squadron, who had an inclination to vanish once extrication was complete, with Jeremy and Andy, then hopped in himself with Three-five Carlie and Ian. In the ride to the hospital Ian had Maria pull the ambulance to the side and he decompressed the patient's right chest: clean the site quickly by pouring iodine over it, find the second intercostal space midaxilary, sneak over the third rib with the IV catheter until a rush of air, remove the needle, recheck lung sounds and compliance, and attach a flutter valve.
At the hospital, they dropped their patient off and reconnoitered with Three-three Zebra, while Lieutenant Squadron caught a lift back to his car with Three-five Charlie, the Williamsburg Rocket. The other basic bus was immediately dispatched out for a twisted ankle. The four paramedics sat on the hoods of their ambulances and watched the rain fall together; there was nothing better to do.
[END CHAPTER]
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Tuesday, April 13, 2010
X-ray Chapter 7, part 11
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Twelve feet away Andy's patient was giving up on his side of the Mets-Yankees debate. Andy squeezed his patient's hand - Marc, it had turned out his name was. This was not the time Andy was interested in winning this debate. "Marc," he called, "Marc."
Halfway between the two patients Rescue Three had completed their cribbing and placed their air bags. You guys wanna pull out?" the fire lieutenant asked.
"Oh," Marcus indicated their patients, "we'll go when they go."
"I'm not leaving without my date." Andy said.
"It's cold." Marc replied.
The whoosh of air and the creak and groan as the car stirred, shifted, and rose. Rescue Three braced and cribbed the car at its new height, then Lieutenant Squadron, the two medic units, and the newly arrived Three-five Charlie and One-Nine Adam pulled both now-unresponsive patients free from the train.
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Twelve feet away Andy's patient was giving up on his side of the Mets-Yankees debate. Andy squeezed his patient's hand - Marc, it had turned out his name was. This was not the time Andy was interested in winning this debate. "Marc," he called, "Marc."
Halfway between the two patients Rescue Three had completed their cribbing and placed their air bags. You guys wanna pull out?" the fire lieutenant asked.
"Oh," Marcus indicated their patients, "we'll go when they go."
"I'm not leaving without my date." Andy said.
"It's cold." Marc replied.
The whoosh of air and the creak and groan as the car stirred, shifted, and rose. Rescue Three braced and cribbed the car at its new height, then Lieutenant Squadron, the two medic units, and the newly arrived Three-five Charlie and One-Nine Adam pulled both now-unresponsive patients free from the train.
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Saturday, April 10, 2010
Sam Black
It was the usual bunch of photographs, the scene, the body, the wound, and even the weapon, still there in his hand. Several photos of each, from different angles, probably shot by Hoffmann, since Laretz doesn't work nights anymore. Too old for it, he says, and I guess I don't blame him. He is 72.
But it was the usual bunch of photographs, and as I sat there with them I wasn't feeling motivated. I had been woken up at about 3 AM by the phone, had been at the scene until 10, and had completed a few interviews after that, all over town. Everyone agreed that Eugene Waters would never have killed himself, but there was the gun in his right hand, spattered with blood, and there was the hole in what was left of his head. And for those of you thinking murder, no one could think of anyone who wanted him dead.
I certainly wasn't thinking of murder, not yet. All I could think of was my bed. I flipped through the photographs again, stopping at one that showed the whole scene. Waters lay there on the floor, face up, between his chair and his desk. But I couldn't see straight, couldn't even read the clock on the wall in the photo. I slid the photographs into the case folder, dropped the folder into the file cabinet, got my hat, and went home.
I guess I should introduce myself here. I won't give you my real name, 'cause if it got back to the department they'd have my badge, but I've always kind of liked the name Sam Black, so let's go with that instead. I've got about ten years on the job, the last three in homicide. That makes me not quite the most junior detective in our station house. My wife left me last year, too many hours on the job, I guess, so I moved out and now I live alone in a fifth floor walk-up. It's not a happy home, no pictures on the walls, rented furniture, but when I got home that night I didn't care. I fell right into bed, still dressed, and fell right asleep.
Next
GLOSSARY
But it was the usual bunch of photographs, and as I sat there with them I wasn't feeling motivated. I had been woken up at about 3 AM by the phone, had been at the scene until 10, and had completed a few interviews after that, all over town. Everyone agreed that Eugene Waters would never have killed himself, but there was the gun in his right hand, spattered with blood, and there was the hole in what was left of his head. And for those of you thinking murder, no one could think of anyone who wanted him dead.
I certainly wasn't thinking of murder, not yet. All I could think of was my bed. I flipped through the photographs again, stopping at one that showed the whole scene. Waters lay there on the floor, face up, between his chair and his desk. But I couldn't see straight, couldn't even read the clock on the wall in the photo. I slid the photographs into the case folder, dropped the folder into the file cabinet, got my hat, and went home.
I guess I should introduce myself here. I won't give you my real name, 'cause if it got back to the department they'd have my badge, but I've always kind of liked the name Sam Black, so let's go with that instead. I've got about ten years on the job, the last three in homicide. That makes me not quite the most junior detective in our station house. My wife left me last year, too many hours on the job, I guess, so I moved out and now I live alone in a fifth floor walk-up. It's not a happy home, no pictures on the walls, rented furniture, but when I got home that night I didn't care. I fell right into bed, still dressed, and fell right asleep.
Next
GLOSSARY
Thursday, April 8, 2010
X-ray Chapter 7, part 10
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Two minutes behind Louis came improved lighting and coffee, courtesy of the MTA engineers. Jeremy reappeared with another cylinder of oxygen and an umbilical cord of IV lies and extension sets that stretched 25 feet over and up to a Liter bag he had tied to a straphanger's pole. In the glare of the halogen light his face shone ashen and drawn. His breath came fast and hard and he fumbled with clumsy fingers. He was hyperventilating.
"Jeremy, you're hyperventilating," Marcus said.
"I'll, I'll be okay."
"Slow your breathing down, Jeremy. Deep breaths."
"I'll, be okay"
"Jeremy- sing, Jeremy," Marcus counseled.
"What?"
"Sing. You can't hyperventilate if you sing."
All Jeremy could come up with was to chant The Four Questions. He started in a low mumble.
"Sing, Jeremy," Marcus admonished him. "Let Andy hear you."
Drew and his patient heard the singing and broke off their baseball debate.
Up on the platform, Lieutenant Squadron looked up from his clipboard.
The MTA engineers crossed the platform and gazed down beneath the train. The train's two conductors followed them.
Jeremy's clear tenor interrupted Rescue Three in their cribbing construction.
The rookie policeman broke off his report to dispatch, then joined in for the last line. In the half silence that followed, Ian though he could make out the hiss of Andy's jazz cassette. Then Andy and his patient reiterated their arguments, Lieutenant Squadron bent over his clipboard, the engineers and conductors returned to their contemplation of lunch, Rescue Three redoubled their building speed, the cop recontacted his dispatcher.
"Rats," Ian said as Jeremy retreated.
"Ian," Marcus scolded.
"No, rats. Rodents. On the Lifepack."
No joke. Ian was closer to the monitor, but his hands were full with ventilating the patient; Marcus couldn't reach the bag valve. But Marcus could reach the prefilled syringes. Streams of lidocaine, then epinephrine shot at the interlopers. They retreated.
The monitor, which was waterproof, started showing PVC's again.
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GLOSSARY
Two minutes behind Louis came improved lighting and coffee, courtesy of the MTA engineers. Jeremy reappeared with another cylinder of oxygen and an umbilical cord of IV lies and extension sets that stretched 25 feet over and up to a Liter bag he had tied to a straphanger's pole. In the glare of the halogen light his face shone ashen and drawn. His breath came fast and hard and he fumbled with clumsy fingers. He was hyperventilating.
"Jeremy, you're hyperventilating," Marcus said.
"I'll, I'll be okay."
"Slow your breathing down, Jeremy. Deep breaths."
"I'll, be okay"
"Jeremy- sing, Jeremy," Marcus counseled.
"What?"
"Sing. You can't hyperventilate if you sing."
All Jeremy could come up with was to chant The Four Questions. He started in a low mumble.
"Sing, Jeremy," Marcus admonished him. "Let Andy hear you."
Drew and his patient heard the singing and broke off their baseball debate.
Up on the platform, Lieutenant Squadron looked up from his clipboard.
The MTA engineers crossed the platform and gazed down beneath the train. The train's two conductors followed them.
Jeremy's clear tenor interrupted Rescue Three in their cribbing construction.
The rookie policeman broke off his report to dispatch, then joined in for the last line. In the half silence that followed, Ian though he could make out the hiss of Andy's jazz cassette. Then Andy and his patient reiterated their arguments, Lieutenant Squadron bent over his clipboard, the engineers and conductors returned to their contemplation of lunch, Rescue Three redoubled their building speed, the cop recontacted his dispatcher.
"Rats," Ian said as Jeremy retreated.
"Ian," Marcus scolded.
"No, rats. Rodents. On the Lifepack."
No joke. Ian was closer to the monitor, but his hands were full with ventilating the patient; Marcus couldn't reach the bag valve. But Marcus could reach the prefilled syringes. Streams of lidocaine, then epinephrine shot at the interlopers. They retreated.
The monitor, which was waterproof, started showing PVC's again.
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Wednesday, April 7, 2010
X-ray Chapter 7, part 9
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Ian and Marcus had their hands full, too. PVC's had started to show up on the monitor. And although Ian had a line, it wasn't going to run because he couldn't raise the bag. Red blood had already started to streak back up the tubing. "Jeremy," he called.
Jeremy stuck his pale head down between the cars like an inverted jack-in-the-box, took in the situation with a quick glance, nodded, and disappeared again.
"Can you reach the lido?" Ian asked. "I think it's time."
"One hundred of lidocaine," Marcus pushed the prefilled syringe.
Ian squeezed the bag to flush the line. He reached for a pulse and wondered what he would do if he couldn't find one. "One hundred," he announced. "PVCs perfusing." Things could be worse.
Ian looked up when he heard the music. He had heard the exchange between Andy and the cop, but had already forgotten it. Louis Armstrong was drifting heartily beneath the train. "Thank you!" Andy shouted up to the unseen police officer. "I don't see why we can't be civilized just because we're under a subway train."
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Ian and Marcus had their hands full, too. PVC's had started to show up on the monitor. And although Ian had a line, it wasn't going to run because he couldn't raise the bag. Red blood had already started to streak back up the tubing. "Jeremy," he called.
Jeremy stuck his pale head down between the cars like an inverted jack-in-the-box, took in the situation with a quick glance, nodded, and disappeared again.
"Can you reach the lido?" Ian asked. "I think it's time."
"One hundred of lidocaine," Marcus pushed the prefilled syringe.
Ian squeezed the bag to flush the line. He reached for a pulse and wondered what he would do if he couldn't find one. "One hundred," he announced. "PVCs perfusing." Things could be worse.
Ian looked up when he heard the music. He had heard the exchange between Andy and the cop, but had already forgotten it. Louis Armstrong was drifting heartily beneath the train. "Thank you!" Andy shouted up to the unseen police officer. "I don't see why we can't be civilized just because we're under a subway train."
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Tuesday, April 6, 2010
X-ray Chapter 7, part 8
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Ian, another twelve feet further under the train with the second patient, grinned quietly as he struggled with the laryngoscope. "I'm in," he told Marcus, inflating the balloon and attatching the bag valve.
Marcus listened to the patient's lungs with his stethoscope. "Equal," he said a moment later.
Ian secured his tube, noted the lip line at 22, and slipped an OPA in beside it. Marcus tapped an ETCO2 detector across the patient's chest, but Ian shook his head. "I don't think I can fit it without kinking the tube. What's the oxygen at?"
Marcus glanced at the regulator. "About 900."
Ian glanced at the monitor, still sinus, then his watch. Ten minutes they'd been here already.
Andy was also facing problems with his patient, though of a different nature. He was alone with his patient because he had learned almost too late that Jeremy was claustrophobic. "Your knuckles are white, Jer," he told him, "Jer, you're crushing, Jer - Jer!"
"I'm fine. Fine, I'm fine."
"You're claustrophobic."
"No I'm not."
"What do you mean you aren't. Go away, away!" he pulled a liter of saline from his ALS bag and threw it at Jeremy, who retreated a few feet but sat there, looking uncertain.
"Go." Andy said. "Go." He chased Jeremy from under the train, "Go. And don't come back. Sorry about that," he said to his patient, "What were we talking about?"
The jaywalking laws. Which led to traffic, busses, back to the subway. Oops.
"I don't want to die." Andy's patient said. This was definitely a problem.
"I won't let you die," Andy said. "I will not let you die."
"I'm cold."
"We're lying on wet cement beneath a subway. It's normal to be cold. You think I'm not cold?" he smiled.
His patient smiled, too, then shivered once. Andy reached out to the one hand he could see and took it.
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Ian, another twelve feet further under the train with the second patient, grinned quietly as he struggled with the laryngoscope. "I'm in," he told Marcus, inflating the balloon and attatching the bag valve.
Marcus listened to the patient's lungs with his stethoscope. "Equal," he said a moment later.
Ian secured his tube, noted the lip line at 22, and slipped an OPA in beside it. Marcus tapped an ETCO2 detector across the patient's chest, but Ian shook his head. "I don't think I can fit it without kinking the tube. What's the oxygen at?"
Marcus glanced at the regulator. "About 900."
Ian glanced at the monitor, still sinus, then his watch. Ten minutes they'd been here already.
Andy was also facing problems with his patient, though of a different nature. He was alone with his patient because he had learned almost too late that Jeremy was claustrophobic. "Your knuckles are white, Jer," he told him, "Jer, you're crushing, Jer - Jer!"
"I'm fine. Fine, I'm fine."
"You're claustrophobic."
"No I'm not."
"What do you mean you aren't. Go away, away!" he pulled a liter of saline from his ALS bag and threw it at Jeremy, who retreated a few feet but sat there, looking uncertain.
"Go." Andy said. "Go." He chased Jeremy from under the train, "Go. And don't come back. Sorry about that," he said to his patient, "What were we talking about?"
The jaywalking laws. Which led to traffic, busses, back to the subway. Oops.
"I don't want to die." Andy's patient said. This was definitely a problem.
"I won't let you die," Andy said. "I will not let you die."
"I'm cold."
"We're lying on wet cement beneath a subway. It's normal to be cold. You think I'm not cold?" he smiled.
His patient smiled, too, then shivered once. Andy reached out to the one hand he could see and took it.
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Monday, April 5, 2010
X-ray Chapter 7, part 7
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* * *
The two days off passed in a blur. Ian returned to work with the feeling that if Sam hadn't been in there would have been open battle. He leaned his forehead against the glass of the driver's door and closed his eyes to block out his headache. Then he opened the door and climbed in.
Marcus had the paper spread open on the dashboard. Almost all of the dashboard - certainly more than just his half of it. Ian pulled his door shut and started the ambulance.
On the way down to coffee Ian opened his window for fresh air. Marcus would soon be after him to close it or shut of the A/C; Marcus would have to deal. Ian turned the stereo on, flipped through the presets, turned it off. He pulled back the wiper-washer lever and cleaned the windshield. He pushed in the cigarette lighter and power locked the doors. The clock on the dashboard was a minute slow; Ian reset it.
Traffic was at a near standstill due to utility work at the intersection. Ian fought off the urge to lean on the horn, and turned on the stereo instead, tuning in to a weather report. He drummed his hands on the steering wheel.
It would have taken a far less observant man than Marcus to not have picked up on Ian's mood. Marcus quietly reassembled and folded his newspaper, holding it in both hands and looking complacently out of the windshield.
Ian breathed in and out deeply a few times then shook his head as if clearing cobwebs. "Supposed to be nice all week," he commented on the weather broadcast.
"That's what they say," Marcus replied. Traffic inched forward. What Ian wouldn't give for a Diff Breather now. Anything to turn on the lights and siren and hop onto the sidewalk. The radio and MDT, however, remained stubbornly silent.
Overhead a pigeon circled, landing on the sidewalk beside the ambulance. Ian considered the bird, losing himself in the complexities of its shading, the way its feathers flashed pink and green in the sunlight, the fact that it absolutely had to bob its head to walk. How had they figured that out, he wondered, picturing a scientist squatting over a pigeon, holding its body and neck in rigid formation. No, that wouldn't work, he reasoned, the pigeon would peck at him. Perhaps a neck and body cast? Perhaps a Stiff-neck C-collar? He smiled.
Traffic had pulled up a car length or two, so Ian released the brake and let the bus roll forward. "Anything in the paper?" he asked Marcus.
"Oh, the usual. Now the mayor's cracking down on jaywalkers."
"Really? This is New Gotham. Who does he think he is?"
"He thinks he's the mayor."
Finally, the corner. Ian twisted the steering around until it hissed, slipping the bus onto the cross street and bumping one of the rear wheels over the curb. Somewhere he had read that some off road vehicles had artificial horizons on their dashboards. He wondered what it would cost to install one in the bus.
They took their time climbing out of the ambulance, but eventually made it into the deli. "Mister Marcus, your coffee," Abraham called as they walked in. "Fresh and hot, not milk."
"You look good, Abraham," Marcus replied.
"Not my time yet it was, not yet, but one of these days. Come to it we all do," he handed the coffee across the counter, "Every one, yes."
"I don't think it's your time yet, Abraham. And consider Elijah."
"A chariot of fire, yes, but only he proves the rule. With milk?" he asked Ian.
"Please," Ian answered, not wanting to be rude and still being in too much of a mood to be able to politely decline.
"Here, for you," Abraham handed the cup across.
They paid, they insisted, and Ian bought a newspaper off the rack, then they turned to go. "The Lord bless you and keep you," Marcus called from the door.
"The same may he do for you," Abraham called back. "The same may he do for you."
Outside, the earlier half mist had grown into a thin, drifting rain, the type Erin had called an Irish rain. "He looks good," Ian called across the bus's hood as they unlocked their doors.
Inside Marcus set his coffee on the console to buckle his seatbelt. "He does. The doctors told him very little damage. They t-PA'd him within five minutes of our arrival."
"Wow."
Ian found jazz comforting, as a general rule, and once they were parked again, he dialed up the jazz station on the stereo, flipped through the paper to the crossword, and leaned back into his seat. Andy found jazz comforting, too, and held to the philosophy that if he was going to be stuck somewhere he might as well have it to accompany him. "What do you mean, you can't get jazz down here?" he asked the pale-faced police officer who had climbed down below the R train to reach him and deliver his message. "Get me jazz."
The officer, a rookie, didn't know how to reply. "Get me a CD player, a tape player, I don't care. Jazz. Not blues," he cautioned as the officer crawled backwards from under the subway car, "jazz." He turned back to his patient in mock exasperation, "Some people."
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The two days off passed in a blur. Ian returned to work with the feeling that if Sam hadn't been in there would have been open battle. He leaned his forehead against the glass of the driver's door and closed his eyes to block out his headache. Then he opened the door and climbed in.
Marcus had the paper spread open on the dashboard. Almost all of the dashboard - certainly more than just his half of it. Ian pulled his door shut and started the ambulance.
On the way down to coffee Ian opened his window for fresh air. Marcus would soon be after him to close it or shut of the A/C; Marcus would have to deal. Ian turned the stereo on, flipped through the presets, turned it off. He pulled back the wiper-washer lever and cleaned the windshield. He pushed in the cigarette lighter and power locked the doors. The clock on the dashboard was a minute slow; Ian reset it.
Traffic was at a near standstill due to utility work at the intersection. Ian fought off the urge to lean on the horn, and turned on the stereo instead, tuning in to a weather report. He drummed his hands on the steering wheel.
It would have taken a far less observant man than Marcus to not have picked up on Ian's mood. Marcus quietly reassembled and folded his newspaper, holding it in both hands and looking complacently out of the windshield.
Ian breathed in and out deeply a few times then shook his head as if clearing cobwebs. "Supposed to be nice all week," he commented on the weather broadcast.
"That's what they say," Marcus replied. Traffic inched forward. What Ian wouldn't give for a Diff Breather now. Anything to turn on the lights and siren and hop onto the sidewalk. The radio and MDT, however, remained stubbornly silent.
Overhead a pigeon circled, landing on the sidewalk beside the ambulance. Ian considered the bird, losing himself in the complexities of its shading, the way its feathers flashed pink and green in the sunlight, the fact that it absolutely had to bob its head to walk. How had they figured that out, he wondered, picturing a scientist squatting over a pigeon, holding its body and neck in rigid formation. No, that wouldn't work, he reasoned, the pigeon would peck at him. Perhaps a neck and body cast? Perhaps a Stiff-neck C-collar? He smiled.
Traffic had pulled up a car length or two, so Ian released the brake and let the bus roll forward. "Anything in the paper?" he asked Marcus.
"Oh, the usual. Now the mayor's cracking down on jaywalkers."
"Really? This is New Gotham. Who does he think he is?"
"He thinks he's the mayor."
Finally, the corner. Ian twisted the steering around until it hissed, slipping the bus onto the cross street and bumping one of the rear wheels over the curb. Somewhere he had read that some off road vehicles had artificial horizons on their dashboards. He wondered what it would cost to install one in the bus.
They took their time climbing out of the ambulance, but eventually made it into the deli. "Mister Marcus, your coffee," Abraham called as they walked in. "Fresh and hot, not milk."
"You look good, Abraham," Marcus replied.
"Not my time yet it was, not yet, but one of these days. Come to it we all do," he handed the coffee across the counter, "Every one, yes."
"I don't think it's your time yet, Abraham. And consider Elijah."
"A chariot of fire, yes, but only he proves the rule. With milk?" he asked Ian.
"Please," Ian answered, not wanting to be rude and still being in too much of a mood to be able to politely decline.
"Here, for you," Abraham handed the cup across.
They paid, they insisted, and Ian bought a newspaper off the rack, then they turned to go. "The Lord bless you and keep you," Marcus called from the door.
"The same may he do for you," Abraham called back. "The same may he do for you."
Outside, the earlier half mist had grown into a thin, drifting rain, the type Erin had called an Irish rain. "He looks good," Ian called across the bus's hood as they unlocked their doors.
Inside Marcus set his coffee on the console to buckle his seatbelt. "He does. The doctors told him very little damage. They t-PA'd him within five minutes of our arrival."
"Wow."
Ian found jazz comforting, as a general rule, and once they were parked again, he dialed up the jazz station on the stereo, flipped through the paper to the crossword, and leaned back into his seat. Andy found jazz comforting, too, and held to the philosophy that if he was going to be stuck somewhere he might as well have it to accompany him. "What do you mean, you can't get jazz down here?" he asked the pale-faced police officer who had climbed down below the R train to reach him and deliver his message. "Get me jazz."
The officer, a rookie, didn't know how to reply. "Get me a CD player, a tape player, I don't care. Jazz. Not blues," he cautioned as the officer crawled backwards from under the subway car, "jazz." He turned back to his patient in mock exasperation, "Some people."
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GLOSSARY
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Smoke Assassin Customer Service Phone Number
Since I commented on the Smoke Assassin in a previous post, I've gotten several visitors looking for the phone number for their customer service. So, here it is:
Smoke Assassin Customer Service
Unfortunately, the reports I read on the quality and caring of their customer service are uniformly bad. Be prepared for long waits, and expect to have to speak with a manager.
Good luck!
- B
1-800-604-9575
Unfortunately, the reports I read on the quality and caring of their customer service are uniformly bad. Be prepared for long waits, and expect to have to speak with a manager.
Good luck!
- B
Saturday, April 3, 2010
X-ray Chapter 7, part 6
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Ian slept. He dreamed. He awoke. It was still raining. The radio was crackling: "Woman Acting Strange."
A note stuck to the steering wheel said that Erin had gone ahead with the Williamsburg Rocket, Three-five Charlie. Ian climbed over the console, catching his stethoscope on the radio mic., and slid into the driver's seat, fumbling for the ignition keys as he did so. The engine wouldn't start. He cranked, and cranked, and cranked until it caught, hesitated, and settled into a stumbling rumble. Ian shifted into gear and turned the wheel, shocked at the resistance he met. The power steering was on vacation. Once he had wrenched the wheel sufficiently around, he tried to pull out.
But the bus was stuck in the mud. Deep mud, Ian learned, promptly sinking to his ankles as he climbed down from the driver's seat. The rear wheels were buried to the rims, on both sides, it turned out. He threw his weight against the back of the bus and pushed.
All of the bags were still in the bus because Erin hadn't taken them. All she had was Three-five Charlie's oxygen and their HeartStart. "Ian," she called on the radio, "Ian, Ian."
Ian jumped as he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he opened his eyes. "Ian, the shift is over," Erin told him, "It's time to go home."
Ian had slept through the ride back to the station. Sara was waiting for him, leaning against the cab of her navy blue truck; Ian's car was in for an oil change and she had dropped him off to work. Ian pulled his bags from the bus and handed off his narcotics in the station office. In the locker room he changed quickly, then met Sara in the parking lot, tossed his bags in the back seat of her Yukon and climbed in shotgun. He reclined the seat, breathed in and out a few times, and settled down for the ride to the airport, where they were picking up Sam. "Never take it home," he told himself, shrinking from Sara's touch as she placed her hand over his.
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GLOSSARY
Ian slept. He dreamed. He awoke. It was still raining. The radio was crackling: "Woman Acting Strange."
A note stuck to the steering wheel said that Erin had gone ahead with the Williamsburg Rocket, Three-five Charlie. Ian climbed over the console, catching his stethoscope on the radio mic., and slid into the driver's seat, fumbling for the ignition keys as he did so. The engine wouldn't start. He cranked, and cranked, and cranked until it caught, hesitated, and settled into a stumbling rumble. Ian shifted into gear and turned the wheel, shocked at the resistance he met. The power steering was on vacation. Once he had wrenched the wheel sufficiently around, he tried to pull out.
But the bus was stuck in the mud. Deep mud, Ian learned, promptly sinking to his ankles as he climbed down from the driver's seat. The rear wheels were buried to the rims, on both sides, it turned out. He threw his weight against the back of the bus and pushed.
All of the bags were still in the bus because Erin hadn't taken them. All she had was Three-five Charlie's oxygen and their HeartStart. "Ian," she called on the radio, "Ian, Ian."
Ian jumped as he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he opened his eyes. "Ian, the shift is over," Erin told him, "It's time to go home."
Ian had slept through the ride back to the station. Sara was waiting for him, leaning against the cab of her navy blue truck; Ian's car was in for an oil change and she had dropped him off to work. Ian pulled his bags from the bus and handed off his narcotics in the station office. In the locker room he changed quickly, then met Sara in the parking lot, tossed his bags in the back seat of her Yukon and climbed in shotgun. He reclined the seat, breathed in and out a few times, and settled down for the ride to the airport, where they were picking up Sam. "Never take it home," he told himself, shrinking from Sara's touch as she placed her hand over his.
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Friday, April 2, 2010
X-ray Chapter 7, part 5
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Ian drove while Erin sat in the back and completed her SAMPLE history. At the hospital she gave the report, then, "She has a full bottle of Prednisone filled two weeks ago next to a half full one filled a month and a half ago. Toast was buring in the toaster when we arrived, the smoke detector didn't go off, and it took her close to five minutes to find the coat closet when we went to leave. Lives alone, apparently a son drops by to deliver meds, including an OTC epi inhaler. I've had her three or four times since New Year's."
"I'll tell the social worker," Anne signed the run report
"That's all in the report. Thanks," she said as Anne handed back the report. Erin left behind the pink hospital copy and joined Ian in the Truck.
"I didn't offend you giving the report?"
"No. You knew her."
"Laura always flips if I get involved with patient care when its her day to tech. Ready for lunch?"
"Yeah." Ian punched up their numbers from the MDT and filled in the rest of the ACR, but his thoughts drifted back to the essence of the call. Erin had done a good job of trying to lay it all out in the report. A nursing home would just add to her confusion, but clearly she was no longer able to take care of herself. "You haven't seen any live in care around here, have you?" he asked Erin.
Erin paused to squeeze past a double parked 18-wheeler before answering. "Live in care? No. Not unless its a family member. Mrs Leonardowitz . . ." she trailed off. "They're closed."
Closed for good. The Top Hill Diner sat cold and empty with two new signs posted next to the advertised specials. "Death in Family," one read, "Closing our Doors." "For Rent," read the other, with a local phone number.
"Not even a thank you for years of customer support," Ian was suddenly very angry. He hadn't realised how much he had wanted his number two special until it was denied him. They crisped their bacon without shrivelling it. Done right every time. "Why can't one thing go right today? Why can't we just get a decent two egg special with toast, home fries, and bacon? For Chris' sake, it's not that complicated," he tossed the clipboard onto the dash. "Let's see what else is open," he said tiredly. Then he closed his eyes and fell asleep.
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Ian drove while Erin sat in the back and completed her SAMPLE history. At the hospital she gave the report, then, "She has a full bottle of Prednisone filled two weeks ago next to a half full one filled a month and a half ago. Toast was buring in the toaster when we arrived, the smoke detector didn't go off, and it took her close to five minutes to find the coat closet when we went to leave. Lives alone, apparently a son drops by to deliver meds, including an OTC epi inhaler. I've had her three or four times since New Year's."
"I'll tell the social worker," Anne signed the run report
"That's all in the report. Thanks," she said as Anne handed back the report. Erin left behind the pink hospital copy and joined Ian in the Truck.
"I didn't offend you giving the report?"
"No. You knew her."
"Laura always flips if I get involved with patient care when its her day to tech. Ready for lunch?"
"Yeah." Ian punched up their numbers from the MDT and filled in the rest of the ACR, but his thoughts drifted back to the essence of the call. Erin had done a good job of trying to lay it all out in the report. A nursing home would just add to her confusion, but clearly she was no longer able to take care of herself. "You haven't seen any live in care around here, have you?" he asked Erin.
Erin paused to squeeze past a double parked 18-wheeler before answering. "Live in care? No. Not unless its a family member. Mrs Leonardowitz . . ." she trailed off. "They're closed."
Closed for good. The Top Hill Diner sat cold and empty with two new signs posted next to the advertised specials. "Death in Family," one read, "Closing our Doors." "For Rent," read the other, with a local phone number.
"Not even a thank you for years of customer support," Ian was suddenly very angry. He hadn't realised how much he had wanted his number two special until it was denied him. They crisped their bacon without shrivelling it. Done right every time. "Why can't one thing go right today? Why can't we just get a decent two egg special with toast, home fries, and bacon? For Chris' sake, it's not that complicated," he tossed the clipboard onto the dash. "Let's see what else is open," he said tiredly. Then he closed his eyes and fell asleep.
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To be a pet, or not.
I often wonder/worry about my cats' happiness as pets. I worry more about this with Christian, since he was a stray into his adult life and so has some perspective on this - he knows what he has lost, and what he has gained, in the transition from stray to pet. Shadow, of course, has been with me since she was three month old, and so never had a chance to experience the outside world on her own.
The tally, as I understand it, is this:
Pros of being a pet:
- food is provided twice a day
- clean water is always available
- no predators
- no bad weather, aside from occasional thunder (which may be scary but can't hurt them)
- no cars
I don't add things like veterinary care, since I doubt that they understand its significance.
Cons of being a pet:
- severely constrained roaming area, with
- little to chase
- only one other cat to interact with
- no sex (though they're both neutered/spayed/fixed)
- sometimes a little too much interaction with the resident human (I'm happy to pick them up, pet them, etc a bit more than they're happy to be picked up, petted, etc. But I'm learning to read them and there haven't been any altercations.)
I think there was one other thing, but I forget what it was for the moment. And in any case, the real point of this post is this: when I open the door to enter or exit the apartment, even though they often look out the door (which leads directly into the outside world), they never try to escape. I realized the significance of this only this week, when it occurred to me that that was their vote: to stay as a pet. Which makes me happy.
The tally, as I understand it, is this:
Pros of being a pet:
- food is provided twice a day
- clean water is always available
- no predators
- no bad weather, aside from occasional thunder (which may be scary but can't hurt them)
- no cars
I don't add things like veterinary care, since I doubt that they understand its significance.
Cons of being a pet:
- severely constrained roaming area, with
- little to chase
- only one other cat to interact with
- no sex (though they're both neutered/spayed/fixed)
- sometimes a little too much interaction with the resident human (I'm happy to pick them up, pet them, etc a bit more than they're happy to be picked up, petted, etc. But I'm learning to read them and there haven't been any altercations.)
I think there was one other thing, but I forget what it was for the moment. And in any case, the real point of this post is this: when I open the door to enter or exit the apartment, even though they often look out the door (which leads directly into the outside world), they never try to escape. I realized the significance of this only this week, when it occurred to me that that was their vote: to stay as a pet. Which makes me happy.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Richmond Rail Heist #2-9
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NOTE: This entry follows entry #8
The two Southerners disappeared into the church, leaving the three Northerners alone to continue east toward Chattanooga. Some minutes later the road turned into a wood, sheltering them from the sun, and soon after they heard a horse coming up behind them. They turned to face the rider, who was hidden in the trees.
“You remember seeing a horse in that village?” Rufus asked.
“No,” said Will. “But that doesn’t mean there weren’t any.”
Jones said that there might have one in the barn, and for a minute or two conversation devolved into a discussion of whether there had been a barn at all, with Jones swearing that there had been, Rufus sure that there had only been houses and the church, and Will unable to remember. “Well, here he comes, whoever he is,” he said as the rider began to appear through the trees.
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GLOSSARY
NOTE: This entry follows entry #8
The two Southerners disappeared into the church, leaving the three Northerners alone to continue east toward Chattanooga. Some minutes later the road turned into a wood, sheltering them from the sun, and soon after they heard a horse coming up behind them. They turned to face the rider, who was hidden in the trees.
“You remember seeing a horse in that village?” Rufus asked.
“No,” said Will. “But that doesn’t mean there weren’t any.”
Jones said that there might have one in the barn, and for a minute or two conversation devolved into a discussion of whether there had been a barn at all, with Jones swearing that there had been, Rufus sure that there had only been houses and the church, and Will unable to remember. “Well, here he comes, whoever he is,” he said as the rider began to appear through the trees.
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Tuesday, March 30, 2010
STO'B 4-14 Dr M'Mullen
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last episode with Captain Fitton
GLOSSARY
He held onto the crate and considered. The Spanish frigate continued to trade shots with the English brigs, and it was apparent even to him that both sides had scored some important shots. One of Badger’s upper masts leaned drunkenly; a horizontal mast, or spar, or yard aboard the other English brig hung crookedly; and turning to his left he saw that the Spaniard’s sails, peeking above clouds of white smoke, now contained several holes. None of the ships were particularly close.
Behind him and to his right lay the ruined mole, with the beach a bit further on. Some crumbling steps led from the water up to the mole. A low hum and a sudden splash not many yards away brought him back to the present: whatever the solution was, staying here was not it. “Si Dios quiere,” he told the cat, following that observation with some of the choicer oaths of his teenaged years when a cannonball smashed into the water behind him, sending up a geyser that collapsed onto his head.
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
last episode with Captain Fitton
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last episode with Captain Fitton
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He held onto the crate and considered. The Spanish frigate continued to trade shots with the English brigs, and it was apparent even to him that both sides had scored some important shots. One of Badger’s upper masts leaned drunkenly; a horizontal mast, or spar, or yard aboard the other English brig hung crookedly; and turning to his left he saw that the Spaniard’s sails, peeking above clouds of white smoke, now contained several holes. None of the ships were particularly close.
Behind him and to his right lay the ruined mole, with the beach a bit further on. Some crumbling steps led from the water up to the mole. A low hum and a sudden splash not many yards away brought him back to the present: whatever the solution was, staying here was not it. “Si Dios quiere,” he told the cat, following that observation with some of the choicer oaths of his teenaged years when a cannonball smashed into the water behind him, sending up a geyser that collapsed onto his head.
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
last episode with Captain Fitton
GLOSSARY
Monday, March 29, 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
STO'B 4-13 Dr M'Mullen
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
last episode with Captain Fitton
GLOSSARY
As soon as he hit the water, Patrick realised that this might not be such as good idea. The Badger, which had looked small from on deck (and positively diminutive alongside the Viceroy) now loomed over him, looking unnaturally large and shrouded in smoke. The Spaniard, now only a few dozen yard away, looked if anything bigger. She was also wreathed in smoke, and as Patrick looked at her something blinked orange and stirred in the heart of the grey-white cloud, raced across the water and vanished over Patrick’s head.
He kicked powerfully, flapping his arms and heaving himself out of the water as he looked around. The cat stood on a crate perhaps 40 yards away, scrambling to stay dry as the box pitched and heaved. “I’ll be lucky not to get a face full of claws,” Patrick said as he swam over, stopping perhaps a yard from the animal, whose increasingly panicked movements were causing the box to rock with increasing violence. “Perhaps if I simply push the crate over to the ship, or the shore,” he said. “Who could I possibly be talking to?”
He reached out and touched the box, then grasped it more firmly, steadying it. The cat, no longer threatened with falling into the water and instant dissolution, sat at the far end of the crate and stared at him. It was solid black, its pupils were wide open, making its eyes black as well, and its tail thrashed from side to side. It would have nothing to do with an offered finger, merely shuffling further away from Patrick, who gave up after one attempt. “Well,” he said, looking around and finding the Badger at last, “I suppose I’ll have to get you aboard, though I confess I have no idea how to do so.”
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
last episode with Captain Fitton
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last episode with Captain Fitton
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As soon as he hit the water, Patrick realised that this might not be such as good idea. The Badger, which had looked small from on deck (and positively diminutive alongside the Viceroy) now loomed over him, looking unnaturally large and shrouded in smoke. The Spaniard, now only a few dozen yard away, looked if anything bigger. She was also wreathed in smoke, and as Patrick looked at her something blinked orange and stirred in the heart of the grey-white cloud, raced across the water and vanished over Patrick’s head.
He kicked powerfully, flapping his arms and heaving himself out of the water as he looked around. The cat stood on a crate perhaps 40 yards away, scrambling to stay dry as the box pitched and heaved. “I’ll be lucky not to get a face full of claws,” Patrick said as he swam over, stopping perhaps a yard from the animal, whose increasingly panicked movements were causing the box to rock with increasing violence. “Perhaps if I simply push the crate over to the ship, or the shore,” he said. “Who could I possibly be talking to?”
He reached out and touched the box, then grasped it more firmly, steadying it. The cat, no longer threatened with falling into the water and instant dissolution, sat at the far end of the crate and stared at him. It was solid black, its pupils were wide open, making its eyes black as well, and its tail thrashed from side to side. It would have nothing to do with an offered finger, merely shuffling further away from Patrick, who gave up after one attempt. “Well,” he said, looking around and finding the Badger at last, “I suppose I’ll have to get you aboard, though I confess I have no idea how to do so.”
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last episode with Captain Fitton
GLOSSARY
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
The parts of a rotating light
top: the fully assembled light, showing the light, its power cord, and a mirror to be used when the light is mounted in the windshield or rear window.
middle: the light with the mirror removed and set aside.
bottom: the light with the green dome removed, revealing the electric motor in the front, the incandescent lamp in the center, and the rotating reflector toward the back. The incandescent lamp remains fixed in place while the reflector revolves around it, creating a rotating beam of light.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
STO'B 4-11
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next (Captain Fitton) or (Dr M’Mullen)
GLOSSARY
The frigate yawed, fired a bow chaser at the Chasseur (who fired a ragged, ineffective broadside in return), yawed the other way and fired the other chaser at Badger, the shot humming low over the deck, and now in his glass Philip could see the crew gathering about the pin rails, looking back to quarterdeck for the command. “Gun crews ready!” Philip called. For a moment he wished he had thought to load grape, but then the Spanish captain lifted his speaking trumpet and it was time. “Fire!” shouted Philip, and the Badger’s guns went off together, shaking her from truck to keel.
Follow Captain Fitton, or
Follow Dr M’Mullen
Author's Note|First Post|Previous
GLOSSARY
GLOSSARY
The frigate yawed, fired a bow chaser at the Chasseur (who fired a ragged, ineffective broadside in return), yawed the other way and fired the other chaser at Badger, the shot humming low over the deck, and now in his glass Philip could see the crew gathering about the pin rails, looking back to quarterdeck for the command. “Gun crews ready!” Philip called. For a moment he wished he had thought to load grape, but then the Spanish captain lifted his speaking trumpet and it was time. “Fire!” shouted Philip, and the Badger’s guns went off together, shaking her from truck to keel.
Follow Captain Fitton, or
Follow Dr M’Mullen
Author's Note|First Post|Previous
GLOSSARY
STO'B 4-12 Captain Fitton
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
last episode with Dr M’Mullen
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Philip grabbed the main shrouds, hoisting himself clear of the Badger’s gunsmoke. Her shot did no great execution. No yards came crashing down, nor did they hole the frigate disastrously beneath the waterline, but though most of the shots went wide, one punched a hole in the fore course, and another passed over the deck, raking her at head height, throwing the crew into confusion. The smoke also hid the Badger partially, and though the Spaniard fired another gun or two neither of them hit the sloop.
“Run out!” cried Philip, “keep firing! Aim for the bows - an extra ration of grog for any crew that hits her in the bows!”
The Spaniard fired again, some of the shot coming aboard, and from the corner of his eye Philip saw something splash form the quarterdeck into the sea.
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
last episode with Dr M’Mullen
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last episode with Dr M’Mullen
GLOSSARY
Philip grabbed the main shrouds, hoisting himself clear of the Badger’s gunsmoke. Her shot did no great execution. No yards came crashing down, nor did they hole the frigate disastrously beneath the waterline, but though most of the shots went wide, one punched a hole in the fore course, and another passed over the deck, raking her at head height, throwing the crew into confusion. The smoke also hid the Badger partially, and though the Spaniard fired another gun or two neither of them hit the sloop.
“Run out!” cried Philip, “keep firing! Aim for the bows - an extra ration of grog for any crew that hits her in the bows!”
The Spaniard fired again, some of the shot coming aboard, and from the corner of his eye Philip saw something splash form the quarterdeck into the sea.
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
last episode with Dr M’Mullen
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STO'B 4-12 Dr M'Mullen
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
last episode with Captain Fitton
GLOSSARY
Badger’s deck filled with smoke following her broadside, and Captain Fitton pulled himself into the rigging to better see the enemy. Patrick put down his telescope and considered the various ropes. He pulled at one, and it seemed to yield, so he let it go. How they know which rope to pull is far beyond me, he said to himself. He pulled another rope, which seemed solid, then pulled himself up into the rigging and launched himself into the water.
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
last episode with Captain Fitton
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last episode with Captain Fitton
GLOSSARY
Badger’s deck filled with smoke following her broadside, and Captain Fitton pulled himself into the rigging to better see the enemy. Patrick put down his telescope and considered the various ropes. He pulled at one, and it seemed to yield, so he let it go. How they know which rope to pull is far beyond me, he said to himself. He pulled another rope, which seemed solid, then pulled himself up into the rigging and launched himself into the water.
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last episode with Captain Fitton
GLOSSARY
Thursday, February 25, 2010
STO'B 4-10
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
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Half an hour later the disorder was all cleared away, and Badger and her consort lay waiting for the strange frigate, their guns run out and primed, waiting for the word to fire. The Spaniard, and now Philip could see the Spanish flag streaming bravely from her masthead, swept toward the bay. Her captain had not yet stripped he down to her fighting sails, which was understandable enough, for reducing sail would mean reducing speed, and she was currently sailing straight into the broadsides of the two English sloops. Nevertheless … half-formed ideas danced in Philip’s head.
“They seem to be tossing a quantity of items overboard,” said Dr M’Mullen, standing beside Philip with a pocket glass in his hand. “I believe I see some barrels, and a washtub.”
Philip almost said that it was a shame that they had tossed the tub overboard, as Badger had broken hers last week, leaving her crew with nothing to wash in, but he realised that that was incredibly presumptuous, and likely to bring bad luck. Instead he merely said “the thing about fighting with the Spanish is not that they aren’t brave, for they are, but that they are never, ever ready. An admiral told me that - probably old Admiral Pullings - and I have always found it to be true.”
“Now they have tossed their boats overboard.”
“Yes. They make nasty spinters when they get hit with a cannonball, you know. We had a lieutentant in the old Intrepid - a splinter from the longboat struck him through the chest - clean through - and pinned him to the bulwark. Hedley was his name, George Hedley. That’s why I had our boats hauled up on the beach.” He peered through his telescope, watching the Spaniard’s crew for the first sign that her captain was preparing to swing to the side and give them a broadside. “If we were at sea we would set them off on a line, to trail behind us. Doctor, you will forgive me, but if you would like to have a bang at them there will be guns in the wardroom, and a sword, too, if it should come to that. But for the moment-”
A shot from the Spaniard’s bow chaser cut him off, and he watched intently: two splashes, each in line for the Badger’s quarterdeck, before the ball finally knocked harmlessly against her side. And even now the Spanish crew was throwing things over the side: another spar, some loose fabric, a crate, and on the crate what might have been a small black dog, or perhaps a cat. “Goths!” cried Dr M’Mullen. “Heathens!” Chasseur fired a single gun, the ball bouncing once before sinking into the sea. Badger held her fire.
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Half an hour later the disorder was all cleared away, and Badger and her consort lay waiting for the strange frigate, their guns run out and primed, waiting for the word to fire. The Spaniard, and now Philip could see the Spanish flag streaming bravely from her masthead, swept toward the bay. Her captain had not yet stripped he down to her fighting sails, which was understandable enough, for reducing sail would mean reducing speed, and she was currently sailing straight into the broadsides of the two English sloops. Nevertheless … half-formed ideas danced in Philip’s head.
“They seem to be tossing a quantity of items overboard,” said Dr M’Mullen, standing beside Philip with a pocket glass in his hand. “I believe I see some barrels, and a washtub.”
Philip almost said that it was a shame that they had tossed the tub overboard, as Badger had broken hers last week, leaving her crew with nothing to wash in, but he realised that that was incredibly presumptuous, and likely to bring bad luck. Instead he merely said “the thing about fighting with the Spanish is not that they aren’t brave, for they are, but that they are never, ever ready. An admiral told me that - probably old Admiral Pullings - and I have always found it to be true.”
“Now they have tossed their boats overboard.”
“Yes. They make nasty spinters when they get hit with a cannonball, you know. We had a lieutentant in the old Intrepid - a splinter from the longboat struck him through the chest - clean through - and pinned him to the bulwark. Hedley was his name, George Hedley. That’s why I had our boats hauled up on the beach.” He peered through his telescope, watching the Spaniard’s crew for the first sign that her captain was preparing to swing to the side and give them a broadside. “If we were at sea we would set them off on a line, to trail behind us. Doctor, you will forgive me, but if you would like to have a bang at them there will be guns in the wardroom, and a sword, too, if it should come to that. But for the moment-”
A shot from the Spaniard’s bow chaser cut him off, and he watched intently: two splashes, each in line for the Badger’s quarterdeck, before the ball finally knocked harmlessly against her side. And even now the Spanish crew was throwing things over the side: another spar, some loose fabric, a crate, and on the crate what might have been a small black dog, or perhaps a cat. “Goths!” cried Dr M’Mullen. “Heathens!” Chasseur fired a single gun, the ball bouncing once before sinking into the sea. Badger held her fire.
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Sunday, February 14, 2010
STO'B 4-9
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Chasseur sent up a cloud of black smoke as her donkey engine came to life. On the beach the last of the water barrels rolled down to the shore, guided by seamen. Another party clustered on the mole, ready to cast off the mooring line as the marines closed their perimeter inward in preparation for departure. Several fathoms below Philip the Badger’s crew scrambled into place hauling on the cable that bound her to the mole, bringing the messenger to the donkey and clapping nippers on. The bosun, supervising the operation, waved his hand, the engineer engaged the donkey, and the Badger paid out the cable to give the men on the mole slack to work with.
Out to sea the Spaniard settled on her new tack. Her new course would take her past the English brigs, probably within random shot. Philip held her in the glass, considering. Yes, it was better to fight from his current position: the Spaniard would have to sail into his fire if she was to attack. “On deck, there, Mr Horrace, belay that last order! Send the men to quarters and fire a gun to windward! On the mole! We will remain at anchor, return to the sloop! Chasseur! Prepare to fight at anchor!” He collapsed the telescope and slung it over his shoulder, took the speaking trumpet in his teeth, and grasped the backstay, wrapping his legs around it and shooting down to the quarterdeck.
Badger now resembled an upturned anthill, with some men fulfilling his new orders, others still recovering from his old orders, and three of the stupider landsmen trying to scrub the deck. Philip turned away from the chaos - it was for his officers to sort out - and came face to face with Dr M’Mullen, incongruously sipping tea from a china cup. “Doctor, how do you do?” asked Philip, but at the same time one of the Badger’s guns went off, and he had to repeat his question before Dr M’Mullen understood.
“Well enough, I thank you,” he said. “I imagine you’ve seen the ship that’s now approaching.”
“I have,” said Philip.
“Do you suppose she’s the enemy?”
“I think she is.”
“She appears quite large.”
“Even so, I mean to sink, take, burn, or destroy her. Mr Wilkins!” Philip broke off to hail the midshipman. “run out when ready!
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Cross-posted at http://hkitchen.wordpress.com/2010/02/14/stob-4-9/
GLOSSARY
Chasseur sent up a cloud of black smoke as her donkey engine came to life. On the beach the last of the water barrels rolled down to the shore, guided by seamen. Another party clustered on the mole, ready to cast off the mooring line as the marines closed their perimeter inward in preparation for departure. Several fathoms below Philip the Badger’s crew scrambled into place hauling on the cable that bound her to the mole, bringing the messenger to the donkey and clapping nippers on. The bosun, supervising the operation, waved his hand, the engineer engaged the donkey, and the Badger paid out the cable to give the men on the mole slack to work with.
Out to sea the Spaniard settled on her new tack. Her new course would take her past the English brigs, probably within random shot. Philip held her in the glass, considering. Yes, it was better to fight from his current position: the Spaniard would have to sail into his fire if she was to attack. “On deck, there, Mr Horrace, belay that last order! Send the men to quarters and fire a gun to windward! On the mole! We will remain at anchor, return to the sloop! Chasseur! Prepare to fight at anchor!” He collapsed the telescope and slung it over his shoulder, took the speaking trumpet in his teeth, and grasped the backstay, wrapping his legs around it and shooting down to the quarterdeck.
Badger now resembled an upturned anthill, with some men fulfilling his new orders, others still recovering from his old orders, and three of the stupider landsmen trying to scrub the deck. Philip turned away from the chaos - it was for his officers to sort out - and came face to face with Dr M’Mullen, incongruously sipping tea from a china cup. “Doctor, how do you do?” asked Philip, but at the same time one of the Badger’s guns went off, and he had to repeat his question before Dr M’Mullen understood.
“Well enough, I thank you,” he said. “I imagine you’ve seen the ship that’s now approaching.”
“I have,” said Philip.
“Do you suppose she’s the enemy?”
“I think she is.”
“She appears quite large.”
“Even so, I mean to sink, take, burn, or destroy her. Mr Wilkins!” Philip broke off to hail the midshipman. “run out when ready!
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Cross-posted at http://hkitchen.wordpress.com/2010/02/14/stob-4-9/
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
STO'B 48
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The strongest possibility, though, was that the sail was Spanish, Philip thought as he took a glass from the binnacle and climbed into the shrouds. “Where away,” he asked Higgins as he swung into the top.
“Just forward of that spit of land, sir,” said Higgins, pointing over the Badger’s side. “You should see her from there.”
Philip steadied the glass on a ratline and peered through it. A blurred ship came into view, and he cautiously twisted the barrel until it suddenly sprang into sharp focus. A frigate, he saw, under full sail on the larboard tack. No plume of smoke, so if she had an engine, steam wasn’t up. No tell-tale smoke stains on her sails, but he was really too far away to expect to see them. Spanish built, most likely, and the cut of her sails suggested Spanish ownership. “On deck,” he called, “stoke up the main engine and get those last casks aboard. Hoist the blue peter!”
He turned to look at the shore, where the sailors under Mr South were hammering the bungs into the last of the water casks. “On deck,” Philip called, “send up a speaking trumpet!” The Spaniard didn’t seem to have noticed him yet - firing a gun to alert the shore party would alert her as well.
On deck, hands stepped the funnel, and the engine gave a preliminary puff of smoke. Out to sea the Spaniard luffed up in preparation for changing tack, but the action was leisurely, and Philip suspected he still had not been seen. Badger cut a low figure, and the forest behind her would serve to camouflage her and her smoke from the Spaniard.
The rigging creaked, and a moment later one of the ship’s boys appeared over the edge of the top, touching his curly blond hair with his knuckles and solemnly offering a speaking trumpet. “Thank you, Mr Blakey,” said Philip, and once the trumpet was to his mouth, “Mr South!”
On the shore, the master turned, cupping one hand behind his ear, then to his mouth. “Sir!”
“Those will be the last barrels. Collect the marines and return to the sloop!”
“Yes, sir!” Mr South saluted.
“On deck, prepare to weigh once the last of the water is aboard!”
“Yes, sir!” shouted the gunner, turning and issuing the appropriate orders.
“Chasseur!” Philip hailed, “There is an enemy in the offing! prepare to weigh!”
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The strongest possibility, though, was that the sail was Spanish, Philip thought as he took a glass from the binnacle and climbed into the shrouds. “Where away,” he asked Higgins as he swung into the top.
“Just forward of that spit of land, sir,” said Higgins, pointing over the Badger’s side. “You should see her from there.”
Philip steadied the glass on a ratline and peered through it. A blurred ship came into view, and he cautiously twisted the barrel until it suddenly sprang into sharp focus. A frigate, he saw, under full sail on the larboard tack. No plume of smoke, so if she had an engine, steam wasn’t up. No tell-tale smoke stains on her sails, but he was really too far away to expect to see them. Spanish built, most likely, and the cut of her sails suggested Spanish ownership. “On deck,” he called, “stoke up the main engine and get those last casks aboard. Hoist the blue peter!”
He turned to look at the shore, where the sailors under Mr South were hammering the bungs into the last of the water casks. “On deck,” Philip called, “send up a speaking trumpet!” The Spaniard didn’t seem to have noticed him yet - firing a gun to alert the shore party would alert her as well.
On deck, hands stepped the funnel, and the engine gave a preliminary puff of smoke. Out to sea the Spaniard luffed up in preparation for changing tack, but the action was leisurely, and Philip suspected he still had not been seen. Badger cut a low figure, and the forest behind her would serve to camouflage her and her smoke from the Spaniard.
The rigging creaked, and a moment later one of the ship’s boys appeared over the edge of the top, touching his curly blond hair with his knuckles and solemnly offering a speaking trumpet. “Thank you, Mr Blakey,” said Philip, and once the trumpet was to his mouth, “Mr South!”
On the shore, the master turned, cupping one hand behind his ear, then to his mouth. “Sir!”
“Those will be the last barrels. Collect the marines and return to the sloop!”
“Yes, sir!” Mr South saluted.
“On deck, prepare to weigh once the last of the water is aboard!”
“Yes, sir!” shouted the gunner, turning and issuing the appropriate orders.
“Chasseur!” Philip hailed, “There is an enemy in the offing! prepare to weigh!”
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Saturday, February 6, 2010
Richmond Rail Heist #8
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“His cousin is in the Georgia 63rd,” Will gestured to Rufus, “a sergeant, and we’re headed down there."
“Georgia 63rd’s with Crittenden, in Kentucky,” said the first Southerner.
“Zollicoffer,” said the second Southerner, speaking around his clay pipe.
“Crittenden. Well, maybe Zollicoffer. But they ain’t in Georgia. You’re goin’ the wrong way. Maybe you best stay with us.”
“Zollicoffer?” asked Will. “I thought he - I thought the Federals got him.”
“Don’t you believe it. He’s in Kentucky, and holding the Gap. You boys got a long way to go if you want to join him. Why not join with us?”
“Who are you?” asked Will
“Georgia 101st,” said the shorter Southerner, standing up straight and taking his pipe out of his mouth for the first time, “finest unit this side of the Mississippi. You’re much better with us. We’ll be joining Lee, to help him with Mitchel. We’ve got artillery,” he gestured at a small, blue-painted cannon sitting in front of the church.
Rufus walked over to the cannon, followed by Jones. It was an old-fashioned piece, probably bronze, probably dating to the War for Independence. The blue paint had been sloppily applied and both trunnions were gone. “When was the last time you fired this?” Rufus asked.
“Yesterday,” said the first Southerner. "Mitchel tried to takin’ the town and we beat him off. Shot his horse out form under him.”
“Impossible,” said Jones, speaking for the first time.
“What?” asked the second Southerner.
“The whole touch hole is…”
“Jones means that that’s impressive for two men and a cannon to turn Mitchel away,” Will said quickly.
“Damn right,” said the second Southerner. “Sent him packin' and we’ll do it again. You should join us.”
“I don’t think we could join you - we’re not that good. We’d only be getting in your way,” said Will.
“Oh,” said the first Southerner. “Well, yes you would. Come on, Jem,” he said to the second Southerner, “we got to get ready for Mitchel.”
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“His cousin is in the Georgia 63rd,” Will gestured to Rufus, “a sergeant, and we’re headed down there."
“Georgia 63rd’s with Crittenden, in Kentucky,” said the first Southerner.
“Zollicoffer,” said the second Southerner, speaking around his clay pipe.
“Crittenden. Well, maybe Zollicoffer. But they ain’t in Georgia. You’re goin’ the wrong way. Maybe you best stay with us.”
“Zollicoffer?” asked Will. “I thought he - I thought the Federals got him.”
“Don’t you believe it. He’s in Kentucky, and holding the Gap. You boys got a long way to go if you want to join him. Why not join with us?”
“Who are you?” asked Will
“Georgia 101st,” said the shorter Southerner, standing up straight and taking his pipe out of his mouth for the first time, “finest unit this side of the Mississippi. You’re much better with us. We’ll be joining Lee, to help him with Mitchel. We’ve got artillery,” he gestured at a small, blue-painted cannon sitting in front of the church.
Rufus walked over to the cannon, followed by Jones. It was an old-fashioned piece, probably bronze, probably dating to the War for Independence. The blue paint had been sloppily applied and both trunnions were gone. “When was the last time you fired this?” Rufus asked.
“Yesterday,” said the first Southerner. "Mitchel tried to takin’ the town and we beat him off. Shot his horse out form under him.”
“Impossible,” said Jones, speaking for the first time.
“What?” asked the second Southerner.
“The whole touch hole is…”
“Jones means that that’s impressive for two men and a cannon to turn Mitchel away,” Will said quickly.
“Damn right,” said the second Southerner. “Sent him packin' and we’ll do it again. You should join us.”
“I don’t think we could join you - we’re not that good. We’d only be getting in your way,” said Will.
“Oh,” said the first Southerner. “Well, yes you would. Come on, Jem,” he said to the second Southerner, “we got to get ready for Mitchel.”
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Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Richmond Rail Heist #7
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Just as Jones said this, an unseen church began to strike the hour - eight solitary bongs. "Eight o'clock, just like I said," said Jones, pulling opff his spectacles and polishing their lenses when Rufus and Will looked at him.
They walked on, climbing a small rise in silence, and below them lay a few houses, too few to be a village, really, and the church they had heard earlier. The church was stone, the houses sun-bleached wood. Two men stood in the road, in front of the church, each holding a rifle.
"Do they look like greybacks to you?" Will asked Rufus.
"Oh, yes," said Jones. "Without a doubt."
Rufus peered down the hill, squinting in the sunlight. “Yes,” he said, “I think so.”
“Well,” said Will, “it had to happen eventually. We’re escaping Federal the forces, who overran our homes in Lone Pine, and are looking for Rufus’s cousin, who is a sergeant in the Georgia 63rd. Your cousin’s name is David Porter, right?”
“Yes,” said Jones.
“Yes,” said Rufus.
“Then that’s our story,” said Will. “David Porter, Georgia 63rd.”
By now the men with the guns had noticed the northerners. They stood with their guns in hand, watching the three descend the hill. “Hello,” called the stranger on the left, a tall men with blue eyes and grey hair. He wore faded, home made shirt and pants. His companion, similarly dressed but several inches shorter and several pounds heavier, also with blue eyes but with brownish hair, said nothing, merely fingering a grizzled beard.
“Hello,” called Will. Rufus waved his hat in greeting. Jones said nothing, but licked his lips before pulling off his spectacles to polish them.
“Where you all from?” asked the first southerner.
“Lone Pine,” said Will. They were close enough to talk without shouting now and the northerners came to a stop a few strides before the two men of the South.
“That’s up North,” said the second southerner.
“Yep,” said Will. “Damn’ Federals overran us, tried to make us serve in their army.”
“You need to fight back,” said the second southerner. “Show them they can’t push you around.”
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Just as Jones said this, an unseen church began to strike the hour - eight solitary bongs. "Eight o'clock, just like I said," said Jones, pulling opff his spectacles and polishing their lenses when Rufus and Will looked at him.
They walked on, climbing a small rise in silence, and below them lay a few houses, too few to be a village, really, and the church they had heard earlier. The church was stone, the houses sun-bleached wood. Two men stood in the road, in front of the church, each holding a rifle.
"Do they look like greybacks to you?" Will asked Rufus.
"Oh, yes," said Jones. "Without a doubt."
Rufus peered down the hill, squinting in the sunlight. “Yes,” he said, “I think so.”
“Well,” said Will, “it had to happen eventually. We’re escaping Federal the forces, who overran our homes in Lone Pine, and are looking for Rufus’s cousin, who is a sergeant in the Georgia 63rd. Your cousin’s name is David Porter, right?”
“Yes,” said Jones.
“Yes,” said Rufus.
“Then that’s our story,” said Will. “David Porter, Georgia 63rd.”
By now the men with the guns had noticed the northerners. They stood with their guns in hand, watching the three descend the hill. “Hello,” called the stranger on the left, a tall men with blue eyes and grey hair. He wore faded, home made shirt and pants. His companion, similarly dressed but several inches shorter and several pounds heavier, also with blue eyes but with brownish hair, said nothing, merely fingering a grizzled beard.
“Hello,” called Will. Rufus waved his hat in greeting. Jones said nothing, but licked his lips before pulling off his spectacles to polish them.
“Where you all from?” asked the first southerner.
“Lone Pine,” said Will. They were close enough to talk without shouting now and the northerners came to a stop a few strides before the two men of the South.
“That’s up North,” said the second southerner.
“Yep,” said Will. “Damn’ Federals overran us, tried to make us serve in their army.”
“You need to fight back,” said the second southerner. “Show them they can’t push you around.”
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Thursday, January 14, 2010
STO'B 47
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* * *
The donkey engine coughed and clanked as the engineer, a small, wiry man, ran around it, reaching into its crevasses with a can of oil. “Should have been overhauled,” he muttered to himself, “last time we was in dock.” He put the oil can on the engine and pulled a rag from his pocket, using it to wipe his hands before he ran them through his thinning sandy hair. “Steam is up, sir,” he said at last.
“Very good, Mr Stevens,” said the Captain. Badger was moored in a small bay, with a line running out of her stern gallery to a ruined mole, and another running from her bow to an anchor near the middle of the bay. Chasseur lay between her and the far side of the small bay, with the brigs’ guns commanding the entire seaward approach. Sergeant Harris and his marines guarded the single landward approach to the spring, an overgrown path up some crumbling stone steps, found by the brigs’ boys as they explored the ruined buildings on the small beach. A high stone palisade ringed in the spring and its beach, and apart from the two brigs and their men, cursing and sweating with their barrels of water, the only sound was the cry of several birds, and the occasional ‘ploop’ of a fish breaking the water’s surface.
“On deck,” cried the mainmast lookout.
“Deck, here,” replied the captain.
“Sail in the offing, sir. Looks like a ship.”
“Who is the mainmast lookout?” Philip asked the Master.
“Higgins, sir, able.”
To an able seaman, ship meant a three-masted vessel, with her masts in threes: lower mast, topmast, and topgallant. Some merchentmen sailed ships, though most preferred other rigs, and chances were that the ship was a war ship. The question was, whose?
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The donkey engine coughed and clanked as the engineer, a small, wiry man, ran around it, reaching into its crevasses with a can of oil. “Should have been overhauled,” he muttered to himself, “last time we was in dock.” He put the oil can on the engine and pulled a rag from his pocket, using it to wipe his hands before he ran them through his thinning sandy hair. “Steam is up, sir,” he said at last.
“Very good, Mr Stevens,” said the Captain. Badger was moored in a small bay, with a line running out of her stern gallery to a ruined mole, and another running from her bow to an anchor near the middle of the bay. Chasseur lay between her and the far side of the small bay, with the brigs’ guns commanding the entire seaward approach. Sergeant Harris and his marines guarded the single landward approach to the spring, an overgrown path up some crumbling stone steps, found by the brigs’ boys as they explored the ruined buildings on the small beach. A high stone palisade ringed in the spring and its beach, and apart from the two brigs and their men, cursing and sweating with their barrels of water, the only sound was the cry of several birds, and the occasional ‘ploop’ of a fish breaking the water’s surface.
“On deck,” cried the mainmast lookout.
“Deck, here,” replied the captain.
“Sail in the offing, sir. Looks like a ship.”
“Who is the mainmast lookout?” Philip asked the Master.
“Higgins, sir, able.”
To an able seaman, ship meant a three-masted vessel, with her masts in threes: lower mast, topmast, and topgallant. Some merchentmen sailed ships, though most preferred other rigs, and chances were that the ship was a war ship. The question was, whose?
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Friday, January 8, 2010
STO'B 46
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Some hours later, Dr M’Mullen sat down with Philip for dinner. “Would you consider that to be a bad battle?”
“Oh, no,” said Philip. “Three, no, four dead. Would you care for some wine?”
“Actually, I’d prefer some water if you don’t mind. I’m rather parched after today’s work and the dipper at the scuttlebutt was missing”
Philip put down his glass. “I’m sorry, Doctor, but we’re rationing water in order to reach Gideon’s Bay. I had Wilkins secure the dipper until then.”
“Why not refill at the Roman spring?”
“What Roman Spring?”
“At the old bath, perhaps twelve miles west from the village where we fought.”
“There’s water here? Isn’t it defended?”
“Occasionally the Spanish stop by for water, but not on a permanent basis.”
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Some hours later, Dr M’Mullen sat down with Philip for dinner. “Would you consider that to be a bad battle?”
“Oh, no,” said Philip. “Three, no, four dead. Would you care for some wine?”
“Actually, I’d prefer some water if you don’t mind. I’m rather parched after today’s work and the dipper at the scuttlebutt was missing”
Philip put down his glass. “I’m sorry, Doctor, but we’re rationing water in order to reach Gideon’s Bay. I had Wilkins secure the dipper until then.”
“Why not refill at the Roman spring?”
“What Roman Spring?”
“At the old bath, perhaps twelve miles west from the village where we fought.”
“There’s water here? Isn’t it defended?”
“Occasionally the Spanish stop by for water, but not on a permanent basis.”
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