The Chapman

Billy thought Thomasse had been useless after the battle. He had been capable as captain, and sailing, and such, but so far as the fight, it had ruined him: his nerve was gone, and he drank. No-one held it against him; he wasn’t a coward, really, but his day was over. Thank the saints that was the last ship taken before the cut and run to Lascar. Billy watched the captain, wary. There was no real telling what he might do. He hadn’t shown any sign of double-dealing, or other possibilities, but there had been opportunity at sea. Now they were soon to be on land, and who knew? The gig was drawing near the dock, and Samuel’s voyage was at an end.

Byrd ran past the captain of the Samuel, that man’s face a pasty mask of ivory, eyes darting wildly, his chest heaving with effort. Byrd paused, just for a second, and considered killing Thomasse as useless, but continued on, firing the saved charge in his second pistol into the body of a big man before him. The three balls did for him and Byrd kept on, hacking now, fighting through the smoke and slipping on the deck, made now of poor footing by bodies and blood. He thought he’d never seen anything like it, this fierce, and from a merchantman. But it could end only one way. And with the damage and death the other crew had inflicted on the Samuel, that ending would not be fair or equable. He kept at it, at one point cribbing another, short sword from a hand, twirling one above the other, knowing it was dangerous and hoping the enemy crew concealed no real swordsmen within it. It ended, after far too long. And not until the remaining crew of the merchantman were cornered into the stern, with the Samuel’s crew standing before them with grenades ready, spare muskets ready with buck and ball. Then the decision-making began.

Thomasse saw the blast from the swivel catch poor Jack, the man who had not believed the elefant, square in the body. He was standing just down from Thomasse, and the big man flew to pieces, the center of him instantly vaporized in a puff of crimson dust. Jack’s left arm, upraised, flew completely off his body and flung with force into Thomasse’s breast, bowling him over. Thomasse splayed on the deck, stunned, the impact knocking the wind out of him, watching his crew oozing forward. His mind slowed and things moved around him as if underwater, slowly and smoothly: as if time itself had become mired and lethargic. After what seemed an eon he struggled to his feet, discovering he had lost both his pistol and his cutlass. He looked distractedly about, peering through the eerie sheets, until someone came up behind him and shoved him aside, against a mast he had not noticed. As he was trying to regain control of his thoughts, a sword sliced down and inflicted a minor cut on his left forearm. And that was all. It was then gone and over; but blood fought its way out of the gap, and dripped down his fingers. He felt he was dying, the air around him sucked away; he couldn’t breathe. Thomasse clamped his free hand onto the cut and clenched, but blood appeared through his fingers, and his breathing quickened and he felt faint. He tried to run but found he was trapped, his feet had grown roots, and he was unable to move: frozen, an icicle attached to the Thames in winter.

Thomasse was muttering to himself. It didn’t usually bother Billy, but insulting him was beyond the pale and the captain should know that. The man was done, and they all knew it. He had gone over at the last prize. It was apparent. Billy said, “All right yo, Thomasse?” There was no reply, the man merely started a bit and stared down at the inside hull. “’Ey, Thomasse, yo see all right, yes?” Nothing. Billy decided to resume ignoring him, humming under his breath again, and he could feel his death-charm rocking across his chest. Thomasse was most certainly not all right. The last prize had been bloody hell bad. They had almost broken off the fight and taken the Samuel off, the cost being too high; but it was already well on, and disengaging the two ships would likely prove impossible. There was nothing to do but keep at it. Directly after boarding Billy had seen at least as many men go down as he had fingers on his hands; and in the ensuing minutes had stopped taking notice. The merchant man, undergunned, had allowed them to close and then flung up swivel-gonnes from nowhere, blasting the first men over the rail into the sea in a violent, encompassing fog of choking smoke. Billy had not been touched, for which he thanked his neck-worn charm. But this could not go on for long, and if the mad opposers somehow fired their magazine, that would be the end of it. He crouched low and swung his long knife in chopping actions below the fog, slicing legs and bellies, to what greater effect he didn’t know. He thought of his hope not to collide with Byrd in the confusion, that with his penchant for going off his nut in fights. The smoke cleared around him, and he was standing starkly in front of a gaping muzzle: one of the swivels, with a saucer-eyed youth gripping the breech-end, a match in his white-knuckled hand. The hand lowered and Billy threw the only weapon he had left, the long blade, which struck cross-wise and split the boy’s face. The gun spun off and discharged, deafening, the concussion blowing Billy back a length. He kept his feet and turned sideways, running crablike back to the rail. He was now at a loss.

The gig moved smoothly through the water of the bay. Thomasse glowered at the man before him: Billy, who was ignoring the elected captain of the Samuel. The damned scoundrels. Damn. He was beginning to sober up, damn it. His mind flittered and fluttered, winged, from one thought to another. They had outvoted him. It had not been his idea. They had forced it on him. He had tried to talk sense, to resign as their captain, they wouldn’t listen, they refused, he had to do it, they’d have killed him… The merchant ships, the ENGLISH merchant ships… the last one, the bloody hell one, and that G—damn Byrd and his pistols… that bloody butcher, and they all stood there and let him do it, and pocketed their shares, saying nothing. Byrd. They were all bad, rascals, but Byrd was the worst. He tried to shake his head; it developed to be a poor plan, and he stopped the motion. How was he going to talk his way out of this? Bribery? How much would it cost to pay his way out? This thing his miserable crew of reprobate murthering Levellers had foisted off on him? Who had ever heard of an elected captain? It ground on him, he hated them all, and he feared them all, as well. Billy sang softly. Foun-gah a la feeyah… Ah shay! Ah shay! Foun-gah a la feeyah… Ah shay! Ah shay! Thomasse muttered, his voice partially returning, “How low is my station, that now I am serenaded by a Blackamoore?” Billy looked up from his rowing and spoke, his voice not melodic. “Watch yo, Thomasse. Yo no more big man than no body”. Thomasse glared, gave up. “Keep your rowing”, he said. “Let’s get this over with”. Their disagreement over, Billy continued his song, rowing rhythmically and welcoming himself to Lascars Bay: Couw-ah, eye la ba… Ah shay! Ah shay! Couw-ah, eye la ba… Ah shay, Ah shay.

Danish EIC visuals? The Danish West India Company had a separate flag with a dark blue field, but doesn't seem to have come into any real use until the late 18th century. The merchant ships of Danmark seem to have used the Danish flag. Since it's the oldest flag design still in use in the world, they seem pretty proud of it, and use the cross almost exclusively. The split-pennant flag may have been used on ships in the time period. For seals or merchant's marks I drew a total blank, and that's everything I have in the house. Good luck!

The French East India Company has their own museum, found here: http://www.lorient.fr/En_savoir_plus_sur_l...1609.0.html?&L= This is the emblem of La Compagnie de Indes. Merchant's marks, I don't know, but knowing antiques collectors, if you want examples of merchant or company marks your best bet is china dealers and stamp collectors. They know everything. You could e-mail English stamp collectors for some information, they might help. Possibly your library may have a book or guide on identifying imported china, Kovel's or another publisher, and these books often have guides to marks, usually found on imported china. I'm going to guess the marks stayed pretty consistent through the life of the companies. As far as individual merchants, the one mark of the period I was able to find (couldn't nab it for pdf reasons) was of a Huegenot refugee merchant in England, but it was French, and stays pretty close to the 'sign of four' design common in the Brit merchandise, and you might be reasonably safe designing a cross-shaped mark for period flavor, if not complete authenticity, if there is a total absence of visual references. Just a thought, don't take it too seriously.

Kind of off-topic, but these are just too pretty. They were on display at a gathering of the Utah Arms Collectors Association a few years ago. They are made by Felix Werder, Swiss maker, in 1648. This seems late for wheellocks; but the type was evidently made by gunsmiths in Europe well into the mid-17th century. Werder's specialty was brass work; this pair isn't gold plated or anything, that's brass. His genius was developing a cold-hammered process for the brass used in the barrels which resulted in a strong, somewhat lighter tube. You know, with my own very limited experience in handling pistols of this grip angle, which is very different than modern pistols, it's pretty amazing how well these things 'point'. At useful ranges sights really aren't that necessary.

Captain Thomasse of the Samuel stumbled onto the deck. Bleary-eyed, he lurched his head from side to side, searching. He had to stop his rotation to focus a time or three, finally fixing on Billy. “B-rillie”, he said. “Com’ere”. “Wha for this now, Thomasse?”, Billy asked. It was a democratic reply; he owed the captain no particular regard, outside of fighting quarters. The man had been elected, not ordained by any God. He added, “You b’drink”. The captain winced, clamped his eyes shut; bugged them out again, focussed, lost focus, stared into the distance, downcast, done. But no. Suddenly revitalized by the actual recollection of what he needed, he announced, “Y’mus’ takemeto…..SHORE…yes!” Billy folded his arms across his chest. He was about to answer ‘no’, his pride offended by the crude commands, when he realized this was what he wanted: shore. A house, a certain kind of house… “S’ur, Cap’n. I take you shore”, he said. Thomasse, having momentarily forgotten what they were talking about, answered, “Shore? Why? ….Oh, yes yes yes yes… Shore, the Governorgovernorgovernor yes”. That’s right, shore, and officials, he had business to attend to. Nothing was being done with their damnable cargo until he smoothed the way, greased the quay, popped off the hub and slapped a bit of beef tallow, down the hatch… What? Oh yes. Billy stared at the man and grinned widely. “Wha for we leeve, Thomasse? Wha for boat we take? We walk, yo? Walk on sea, no, like th’ Jesus man?” He knew the answer was the gig, he simply felt need of amusement, and Thomasse was filling his bill. He jumped at a voice behind him. Byrd said, “Giet the Captain the damn gig and get his drunken pot on land”. He added, “…and you and me have a deal to do, ‘member?” Billy nodded. “Yo, I ‘member”. Thomasse drew himself to his full height and emitted a thundering bellow: “BYRD! I sah’t ha’e this PERVERTED ROGUE LEWD SQUEAK”, and his voice gave out. “on my boat”. Byrd and Billy stared. They stared, dumbfounded, then helplessly burst out laughing, and found themselves unable to stop. Thomasse turned purple, then purpler. Eventually they were both able to calm themselves, and Byrd went to prepare the gig. Billy asked of him, “Yo come now?” Byrd shook his head. “We’ll address tha is’ue another morrow. Sit tight on tha fool and watch he don’t light tha match”. The captain, the noble, voiceless captain, swayed on the deck. Damnable swine, he needed rid of them all… Just one interview, ONE, and he’d be back speculating on property in London Town, shuck of it all… hang them. Hang them all.

The VOC is the Dutch one... The Danish one has an interesting history, found in part here: http://www.scholiast.org/history/tra-narr.html Most interesting is the part about Danish privateers. Huh. St. Thomas was originally part of the Danish West India Company. A bale stamp on a piece of clothing:

The flag is from 1685. It's changed over the years. There is a website with various time period flags on it, google BEIC flags. The various versions of the official seal are easily findable for decent, large images with sufficient detail for copying. The merchant's mark, or 'bale mark', is, believe it or not, featured on the modern website of the BEIC. It's still in use. The oldest reference image I found was 1793, when it turned up on proprietary coins, but on the other hand, why would it have been changed? Is the VOC the Dutch EIC? What about the Danish EIC? When was that?

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Merchant%27s_Mark

The word 'lascar' refers to sailors from East of the Cape of Good Hope, and typically from India or the East Indies. The number of Indians on British ships was so high that this 'problem' was addressed in Acts as early as 1660; there were evidently stipulations that crews of British ships be at least 75% 'British', or something like that, whatever 'British' means. I'll have to read through the Acts in my spare time. This is an interesting insight into staffing practices of the time. It's obvious that loss of crew was a serious issue, likely due to death, desertion, etc. It certainly explains the Navy's insistence on the right of impressment, and their habit of treating the world's seaways as a sort of floating union hall, occupied by workers who can't say 'no'. The 'lascars' also presented a problem in the Isles. Merchants filled their decimated crews through either convenience of hiring or financial reasons with Indians and other lascars, which, when they arrived at ports in the Isles, weren't hired back on due either to legal restriction or owner apathy. This left relatively large numbers of more or less penniless 'foreigners' wandering around, trying to sign on to crews or otherwise find their way back home. They fell through the wide cracks of the parish charity system, as they obviously didn't originate or live in any parish at all; and were reduced to beggary in a very short while. I'm still looking into how this was handled, but I'm sure the authorities dealt with it with their typical humanity and understanding.

Billy strolled the deck. He had been told the Bay was always bustling with activity, and he was not disappointed. It would be some time before they could unload what they had with them, and then, the other vessels waiting for the word… He was mildly surprised at the Samuel’s crew - altho’ likely not to be a crew for long, each of them deciding their separate way as soon as cargo unloaded – and at their unhurried, almost silent patience. A song echoed from below decks, faintly… a familiar tune, but someone else’s tune… ‘Pillycothe pillycothe sate oan a hille If he’s not gone He sittes thayre stille…’ The voice continued for some time, slurring words, missing phrases. In defense, Billy hummed, tapping his fingertips to his thumbs in rhythm, his own song he remembered from home, a lifetime ago. ‘Ay see say yango, Ay see say yango, eh…’ It was quiet enough that from some distance away he could hear the sound of a land walker losing their repast, and wondered how anyone could become ill while sitting in port; or if they had drunk that much so early into the day.

The sun was shining, and it was a beautiful day, with a clear blue sky and no visible clouds. Light danced on the Caribbean water. The only evidence of motion below the surface was small eddies of thinly spread foam, whirling briefly in bold isolation before vanishing, dissipating into the reflected beryl sea. The mass of buildings, some dirty, some gleaming with chalk coating, with the occasional flash of Muscovite or even genuine glass, laid inchoate along the shoreline. Tall boxes of rude grey wood and coarse block chunked in places, holding inside them the evidences of nations and peoples. Sneaking rambles of wood escaped the land to form platforms, capturing ships and extracting their guts. Figures moved objects: round, cubed, unshaped, misshapen, long, short. Crosses with lines attached, twirling crucifixes empty of grace, yanked twisted innards from holes trepanned in the ships. A tall, sloping hill, topped by parapets and walls, overlooked the racket. Shortish black stubs protruded from evenly spaced holes in the walls; they didn’t look at all like what they were. Among the ships at rest the light sloop crouched, waiting, seeming to think. With the sails furled it gave the appearance of delicate nudity, the masts and spars set as arms and legs, exposed to unaccustomed, and unwanted, view. The ship had no flag in the moment, unusual for a vessel with such a perfect collection of them: yellow, red, black, and many others. A few men stirred on deck, lazy, playing a game not really of indolence, but showing the behavior of men used to having a great deal of work to do, and presently finding none. On the bow of the sloop was inscribed the word ‘SAMUEL’; below that prophet’s name, and roughly painted, almost faded away, could just be discerned the scrape, ‘Speak Lord, thy servant hears thee’. A man leaned on the rail of the Samuel, pipe cradled in his hands. He was thinking, remembering. He was African by appearance, but wearing the Englishman’s clothing of a sailor. His skin was quite dark, his features well defined; he could pass for handsome, but perhaps too thin, wiry, and somewhat short. His hands were narrow, with long fingers and oval nails, almost womanly in the proportions; but they were calloused and scarred. They were working hands. The English and the others called him ‘Billy’, but that was not his name; their thick tongues could not wrap themselves around or into his true name, and at any rate, he did not want them sharing his selfhood. In the absence of activity, images flowed through his mind, washing over each other, fading, displacing, roiling. He studied his hands, gauged their firm steadiness, not like so many of the men on ships, ruined by rum and white men’s habits. He struck tinder, his last match flaring. It was fine to be on deck, smoking where he liked. It pleased him, a simple pleasure, but good none the less. The clay bowl warmed to the touch, the sun caressed him, and he puffed happily, well satisfied. “Hoy, Billy”, the white man called Byrd said quietly, in passing, nodding his head slightly, “How goes”. He moved on, to his spot. Billy did not respond. He was busy with his pipe, and was thinking again, now remembering the man’s first memorable action. He knew that white man wasn’t like others. Byrd could pronounce ‘Billy’s’ name as it really was, and for all he knew was the only other human in the world who knew it. The man was intelligent, true, but something about him was off. He wanted to say ‘cruel’, but that seemed not right, ‘specially in light of some of the others’ behaviors, himself no exception, and at the beginning… Three years prior, Billy had been sold from his home, and put on an English merchant ship for transport to their Colonies. The hull of the merchantman was jammed with Africans, side to side, back to front, dying in pieces at a steady rate; sharks followed the hulk, feasting on the bodies tossed over. About half way through their odyssey, the transporters allowed their cargo on the deck for inspection and air, and Billy rushed the dividing fence, bent on taking one of the guards. He had miraculously lived through the attempt, and they had not killed him nor thrown him overboard. But they beat him with a cudgel and a corded whip, not ceasing even when he stopped moving and lost consciousness. He was severely mauled, and could best be described as half alive; or maybe half dead. The pyrates, or whatever they were or called themselves, had overtaken the lumbering slaver in a sloop, their sails trimmed to run so fast they couldn’t be beat anyhow; they had been Billy’s salvation. They looted for what they could find, taking no niceties about questioning, then dragged their living spoils on deck for examination. They began throwing the sick over the side. When they got to Billy, he dragged himself to full height, his pain obvious, and pointed to the nearest man’s belt knife, then to the ship’s master. He both asked and demanded, in his own language, the only he knew, the right of an eye for an eye, or better. The pyrates regarded him with some curiosity and bemusement, and made to jettison him, but one of theirs had stepped in, a Black man, and knowing some of Billy’s talk, explained what he asked. After some discussion, and with laughing and gestures, they gave him the knife and let him go. When confronted the master put on a bold face, spit dramatically, contemptuous of his lesser, and steeled himself; but Billy had the dedication of a man making balances; and was more than equal to the challenge. He strung him up by one ankle and cut him to pieces, an inch at a time, discarding bits overboard for the sharks while the blood ran down like rain. The slaver passed into his Christian Hell screaming hideously, and no longer recognizable as a man. Billy did not find any sense of what the whites called ‘revenge’, really. He was simply evening out. If the slaver beat him, he would come back with same. It was only fair. But the pyrates found his actions most amusing, and diverted from their newly found merchandise, had gathered to watch, vastly entertained, cheering and waving their arms. They gathered coins and money and swopped it back and forth. At the end, exhausted from his efforts (which had taken some time), when he sat down to rest and ease his oozing wounds, the pyrates unmindfully pounded him enthusiastically and dragged him off, splashing fiery liquid in his mouth and on his face, and shouting in celebration. He had become a pyrate. Now he was on the ‘Samuel’, in Lascars Bay, watching activities unfold, hulks of ships unloading for some distance before him, and at the moment without much to do but figure a time to go ashore and find entertainments of satisfactory kind. He tapped the ash from his pipe into the water below and walked along the deck.

PROLOGUE THE INDIAN OCEAN, THREE YEARS EARLIER BYRD The Samuel drifted in the current, sails furled but with men ready to jump to work. It was night, and there was no moon; but the stars shone bright, it was clear, and it was simple to see. The men watched, and waited. The storm two days prior was bound to turn up damaged or limping ships; and it made perfect sense to lay in wait, near to the common lanes, lurking with guns loaded and ready. All lights and lanthorns were extinguished, and silence was imposed. Hatches were opened to see below deck, but the starlight filtering into the lower levels was meager, and movement was done by memory and feel. The prisms were useless; the starlight was too diffuse, and could not be focused through the port holes. There was no sleep; this was a time of concentration, of the hunt. Byrd watched his small quadrant of sea until he began to see things, then rested his eyes and deliberately blurred his vision, so as to use his peripheral eyesight, and not become obsessed with phantoms. Phantoms. He had not been prepared for the demons from the fever; when he had been burned by the sun, and cooked, the fiery torch had touched his brain, and the faces had come. Edmund, the gig, the white-bosomed slave… the others. They had been woodcuts on paper, thrown in the fire, never to be seen again and gone forever; but then they had come back. They stood before him, pouring lives: Edmund with his head a-dangle, the gig pegged to the door of the hovel, the merchant’s children, mooning, sightless, circling and mocking in a limitless field of pink lilac flowers, bloody and dead but walking and reaching for him… “Monster!” Byrd started, and the ache coated him on his still wounded skin. He heard the purl again, “Monster!” He looked around for the source of the accusation, half expecting to see some apparition flowing madder, arms outstretched for him, desiring his entrance into Cold Helle. He realized it was the boy on the second fore swivel gun, and he was unwrapping the canvas from the tube. Thomasse rushed forward and furiously hissed, “You touch match to that gun, lad, and I’ll cut off your ----!” The boy froze his actions, but with eyes like spectacles, pointed shaking: “M-monster!” And so it was. A lump of dark flesh, rolling just under the surface of the water, appeared huge, with white teeth and glistening fangs. A sinuous, snakelike appendage with an empty, pale eye at the end of it regarded them, waving menacingly, threatening. Men crowded the side, astonished. The large man called Jack crossed himself, and turned pale. Byrd approached. First the rising of the dead, tormenting his damaged senses, and now this, the appearance of this THING to savage them all, because of him. He stared at the fantastic beast for a long while, a small spark of memory rising, and finally said: “T’s an Elefant”. Jack turned and stared, rising larger (for he did not like Byrd), and eventually stated, “You’v springed SHYTE, Merchant Man”. Byrd answered him, “No, ‘ts an elefant. It’s swimming”. Thomasse walked over to them. “An Elefant? How in the – Jesu Wot? Cann’t be, we’re leagues from land! How in the ---- is this thing here?” Byrd said, “…I don’t know. But ‘ts an elefant and it’s swimming”. After a long, dumbfounded pause, the man Jack said, “Fetche Billy, he’ll knowe what this Thingge Is”. A scuffle ensued for men rushing to find the Billy man; Byrd waited, now hunching over the side, studying the animal, thinking of something. Thomasse watched him carefully, the Merchant Man Byrd and his convulsed and poisoned mind. Shortly Billy appeared, dragged bodily by Jack and two others, they demanding of him, “See thayre? See thet? Wot is Thatte Thingge? “. Billy studied, after his initial bewilderment, and then raised his arm, said “He-li, He-li”, and pantomimed… an unmistakable Elephant. Jack said, “G-- Damme us all!” and then, “well… how long… yah.. how far… can thes thingge swim, any waye?” Byrd answered him, “I don’t know, but it likely didn’t come from land”. Thomasse jumped on him, “What d’ye mean, not from land? Wheyre’d ‘t comme from, thenne, Fool? The ----- SKY?” Byrd felt dizzy. He turned and walked to a mast base and bent over painfully, then sat down like a sack. He waited to catch his breath, and said, “I shipped an elefant for the Companie, once ‘time. Thye put it on deck, rop’d in place, with its ryder. We shipped it on a Companie vessel”. He paused to let that information sink in, then continued, “The Creature was a gift, along with a hold full of others, and the Man who shipped it was very, very wealthy.” “If that Creature came off the deck of a Merchant Ship, that Ship is likelie in trouble or crippled; and the ryder may have freed the Creature to save it from harm. You maye be looking for a damaged Ship with much treasure aboard”. He stopped. He was done. Thomasse considered this new information, and the elefant now forgotten, turned to announce a redoubled effort for locating a prospective victim. As he opened his mouth to speak, the man in the Nest hoarsely whispered: “Ship, fifteen port”.

LASCARS BAY story thread

I've been drinking this evening. Beer, primarily. What am I like? I prefer Ex-Yugo brandies and home-made firewaters. It doesn't feel like home, because that's not what I am, but it feels oh so solid. With beer? One to three: staring into space. Uncommunicative. Four to twelve: Talkative, pleasant, informative, fun to be around, possibly some dancing given a co-operative female, singing, socialization, etc. More than twelve: Run. No joke, run. The demons come out and they want to play. Your best bet is to get away. And they are not your normal little DisneyLand demons. Get gone; you don't believe me, really. Run.

Actually, the Bald Eagle is not my favorite bird. It was just really cool to see one in such an unexpected place. My favorite bird is the bluejay. Why, you ask? Well, I can't think of a time I ever went out hunting when I didn't have some loudmouthed bluejay announcing my presence to everyone and their last removed cousin, and I respect people or things that aren't afraid of things bigger than them. Also, years ago myself and a crew (construction kind) got kind of attached to one particular bluejay. There was an enormous mulberry tree in the back forty of the subdivision, and since we were building some bazillion-dollar mansion we were there for a while. This bluejay would come by every day and eat fermented mulberries off the ground until he was too drunk to fly, and by around 2 PM he was usually too drunk to even hop. We'd seen some stray cats around, and since the general consensus was that getting eaten for overindulging was kind of a stiff form of DUI, we started taking care of him. This guy Bob built a box out of molding scraps and nailed it up in the tree, and for a couple weeks, one of us would go out every afternoon and check on Jay, and if he was too drunk to get up, we'd put him in his little box to sleep it off. The general (contractor) thought we were nuts, but we kind of liked Jay.

Oh, I gotta go to work and it's 35 F and freezing sleet. This should make for interesting driving today. I wonder how many wrecks I'll see. Anyway; I enjoy reading through broadsheets and letters of the time, and watching the phonetic pronunciations of words. From English publications, you get 'murther', etc. And some indications of what usual 'English' may have sounded like. The phonetic spelling is useful. 'Heere arre thee playtes", etc. I stopped by my local watering hole last week for a couple beers (well, four. Six. Okay, ten. Or twelve. Something like that) and was talking to a guy in his 60s, a retired millwright from somewhere in one of the Carolinas. The news came on the bar TV with a report on a local killing, and this guy shook his head, clucked his tongue, and said (phonetically): "Tha(y)t shurley is a te-rebb-ulle(h) MURTHER".

The gig moved smoothly through the water of the port. Thomasse glowered at the man before him: Billy, who was ignoring the elected captain of the Samuel. The damned scoundrels. Damn. He was beginning to sober up, damn it. His mind flittered and fluttered, winged, from one thought to another. They had outvoted him. It had not been his idea. They had forced it on him. He had tried to talk sense, to resign as their captain, they wouldn’t listen, they refused, he had to do it, they’d have killed him… The merchant ships, the ENGLISH merchant ships… the last one, the bloody richie one, and that G—damn Byrd and his G—damn pistols… that hellish butcher, and they all stood there and let him do it, and pocketed their shares, saying nothing. Byrd. They were all bad, rascals, but Byrd was the worst. He tried to shake his head; it developed to be a poor plan, and he stopped the motion. How was he going to talk his way out of this? Bribery? How much would it cost to pay his way out? This thing his miserable crew of reprobate murthering Levellers had foisted off on him? Who had ever heard of an elected captain? It ground on him, he hated them all, and he feared them all, as well. Billy sang softly. Fun-gah a la feeyah… Ah shay! Ah shay! Fun-gah a la feeyah… Ah shay! Ah shay! Thomasse muttered, his voice partially returning, “How low is my station, that now I am serenaded by a blackmoor?” Billy looked up from his rowing, his mood no longer melodic. “Watch yo, Thomasse. Yo no more big man than no body”. Thomasse glared, gave up. “Keep your rowing”, he said. “Let us get this over with”. Their disagreement over, Billy continued his song, rowing rhythmically and welcoming himself to Port Royal. Couw-ah, eye la ba… Ah shay! Ah shay! Couw-ah, eye la ba… Ah shay, Ah shay.

Captain Thomasse of the Samuel stumbled onto the deck. Bleary-eyed, he lurched his head from side to side, searching. He had to stop his rotation to focus a time or three, finally fixating on Billy. “B-rillie”, he said. “Com’ere”. “Wha for this now, Thomasse?”, Billy asked. It was a democratic reply; he owed the captain no particular regard, outside of fighting quarters. The man had been elected, not ordained by any God. He added, “You b’drink”. The captain winced, clamped his eyes shut; bugged them out again, focussed, lost focus, stared into the distance, downcast, done. But no. Suddenly revitalized by the actual recollection of what he needed, he announced, “Y’mus’ takemeto…..SHORE…yes!” Billy folded his arms across his chest. He was about to answer ‘no’, his pride offended by the crude commands, when he realized this was what he wanted: shore. A house, oh yes, a certain kind of house… “S’ur, Cap’n. I take you shore”, he said. ‘Women’, he thought. Thomasse, having momentarily forgotten what they were talking about, answered, “Shore? Why? ….Oh, yes yes yes yes… Shore, the Governorgovernorgovernor yes”. That’s right, shore, and officials, he had business to attend to. Nothing was being done with their damnable cargo until he smoothed the way, greased the quay, popped off the hub and slapped a bit of beef tallow, down the hatch… What? Oh yes. Billy stared at the man and grinned widely. “Wha for we leeve, Thomasse? Wha for boat we take? We walk, yo? Walk on sea, no, like th’ Jesus man?” He knew the answer was the gig, he simply felt need of amusement, and Thomasse was filling his bill. He jumped at a voice behind him. Byrd said, “Giet the Captain the G—damn gig and get his drunken pot on land”. He added, “…and you and me have a deal to do, ‘member?” Billy nodded. “Yo, I ‘member”. Thomasse drew himself to his full height and emitted a thundering bellow: “I sah’t ha’e this PERVERTED ROGUE LEWD SQUEAK”, and his voice gave out. “on my boat”. Byrd and Billy stared. They stared, dumbfounded, then quite helplessly burst out laughing, and found themselves unable to stop. Thomasse turned purple, then purpler. Eventually they were both able to calm themselves, and Byrd went to prepare the gig. Billy asked of him, “Yo come now?” Byrd shook his head. “We’ll address tha is’ue another morrow. Sit tight on tha fool and watch he don’t light tha match”. The captain, the noble, voiceless captain, swayed on the deck. Damnable swine, he needed rid of them all… Just one interview, ONE, and he’d be back speculating on property in London Town, shuck of it all… hang them. Hang them all.

When a friend's mother comes out in an Easter dress with purely decorative ribbons in the back, asks you to 'do them', and you instantly half squeeze the life out of her 'cinching her up'.

The 'naval' cats generally on display in museums are very late, usually late 1800s. The University of Edinburgh has a c. 1800 cat in their Museum of Anatomy, given to them by a ship's surgeon in c. 1825, but apparently have never put it on public display, leading me to believe it's the real deal and has been used. If the shipboard cat of the period was just a plain rope, it would explain the number of cords, and the use of the 'whipping' cord around the body of the 'handle'. Seems likely, but who knows? And yeah, I think you're right in the first post: practically nothing was standardised at the time. Which is why the RN in Nelson's time is such a different animal than the GAoP period; standards were being implemented where there had been none before. Too, 'punishments' were wildly disparate from ship to ship and captain to captain, a notorious problem for the entire time corporal punishments were used. CIVIL USAGE, more for Kass: There are images of cats in use in civil punishments, but surprisingly uncommon for the period, especially as routine an event as beatings were. There is a representative image of a whipping-post and bailiff in Hogarth's SOUTH SEA BUBBLE print. I was really surprised at the rarity of visual evidence. It's like Bigfoot; great interest, much speculation, but precious few pictures. And reproduction makers tend to be either Jesus freaks or BDSM fetishists, both of which groups have about as much interest in historical accuracy as... well, a lot of pirate reenactors. My theory? I think a relatively safe bet for a reasonably period-accurate 'cat' would be a round wood shaft approximately eighteen inches long, about 1" diameter, with 3 (three) cords of 1/4" - 1/2" diameter hemp cords, knotted on the ends definitely, knotted three times in the length of the cords maybe. The cords should be relatively short, 14-16", and attached to the shaft by wound cord, about 1/8" diameter. This seems to be a reasonable compromise based on illustrations of the period. If you want to see illustrations, PM me. I haven't figured out yet how to post pictures and after Photobucket, I'm sick of learning new things today. Now: IF, and this is a big IF, punishments on board ship were similar to land-based punishments, this tool would be about right. Now, something I'll go out on a limb here about is that IF! IF! the tool used shipboard is more or less identical with the land-based tool, the difference in severity of punishment would lie not in the nature of the 'cat' itself, but in the number of strokes administered. So far as I can see this is borne out by evidence. The men and boys killed tended to be due more to the extent of the flogging, not by the nature of the tool itself. Feedback? I'm not a professional historian, more of a social observer of the lower-echelon subculture. For instance, I spent part of yesterday talking on a loading dock with a recent parolee with tattoos of: teardrops in the corners of both eyes; spiderwebs on both elbows; a 4" diameter swastika on his upper right arm; a Nazi eagle on his left arm, which was rudely bisected by a really nasty shank scar; and last but not least, P U R E / H A T E on his knuckles. We stood around and talked about the weather. He seemed personable enough, but what would YOU do to 'discipline' this man if he did something 'wrong'? Particularly in an enclosed environment like a ship? Or prison? Take away his teddy bear? Holy ****, you first. A very late (1840s) pro-flogging treatise, but very enlightening as to the shipboard mindset leading to the acceptance and embracing of flogging in the first place. http://www.history.navy.mil/library/online...ne/flogging.htm

I was standing on a loading dock yesterday with a guy, and while we were talking a bald eagle flew overhead about forty feet up, fairly close. I think it was a younger one, wingspan probably less than four feet. The WI DNR has been reintroducing them in the area (central state), although they're pretty common on the Mississippi. It was cool to see, and they really are majestic birds (despite Ben Franklin's low opinion of them). It's nice to see that kind of natural beauty in the course of a day. Made me feel good.