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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
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Saturday, February 27, 2010
STO'B 4-12 Captain Fitton
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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
GLOSSARY
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.
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last episode with Dr M’Mullen
GLOSSARY
STO'B 4-12 Dr M'Mullen
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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
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
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Thursday, February 25, 2010
STO'B 4-10
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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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GLOSSARY
GLOSSARY
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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GLOSSARY
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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GLOSSARY
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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GLOSSARY
GLOSSARY
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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GLOSSARY
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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GLOSSARY
GLOSSARY
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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